People were starting to stare, so Hale placed his arm around her shoulder and tried to stop her—to calm her.
“I know,” he whispered. “But maybe it’s a good thing.”
“Maybe it’s what? Taccone’s after my dad, Hale. Taccone—”
“Maybe it means we’ve found them. And if they can be found . . .”
It seemed to Katarina Bishop as if all the moments in her family’s very long, very dubious past had been preparing her to say, “They can be stolen.”
Chapter 16
As Kat watched the city roll by from the back of a long black car, she was acutely aware of the fact that she had three— maybe four—options.
Option one: she could call Arturo Taccone and tell him to meet her at the Henley. How he got the paintings off the wall and out the door was his problem. This, of course, was the option that made the most sense, incurred the least amount of risk, and, given what Mr. Stein had told them, was most likely to get her thrown into Arturo Taccone’s moat. Therefore, it was an option she didn’t consider for long.
If they had been any other kind of paintings—or if Arturo Taccone had been any other kind of man—then option number two would have been the clear winner. All it required was a five minute phone call to the Henley’s director and the suggestion that a business card might not have been all Visily Romani left behind. But there was no way Kat could be certain that Taccone’s hold over the paintings was legal enough to see them returned, or illegal enough to see him arrested. The only thing Kat knew for certain was that if she caused Taccone to lose the things he loved, then eventually, he would return the favor.
The third option was still forming vaguely in the back of her mind, but she knew it would almost certainly involve a lecture from her father and a general call to arms of every lock man, pyro geek, wheeler, and/or inside player in the business. Given recent events, it would probably also involve a lot of Kat being looked at and talked to like someone’s daughter and niece. It would most certainly include the very real risk that Arturo Taccone’s paintings would not be the only ones liberated from the Henley collection. That is, if Uncle Eddie said so.
But Uncle Eddie had said it was over. Uncle Eddie had said it was sacred, and if he didn’t think Kat could (or should) undo what Visily Romani had done, then there was no thief in the world who would attempt it. Still, Kat’s mind kept coming back to option three.
Maybe because that was the best of the options. Or maybe, she feared, because it was the option that was in her blood.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Hale was saying. “For a target the size of the Henley, we’ll have to—”
“This is nuts.” Kat blurted more for her own benefit than for Hale’s. “Stealing from this Visily Romani guy—whoever he is—that’s one thing. But stealing”—she stopped, glanced at the back of Marcus’s head, and lowered her voice—“from THE HENLEY ?”
When the car stopped, Kat and Hale got out. Kat walked quickly, crunching gravel beneath her feet, and ran her hand through her hair—the very gesture she’d seen her father make a thousand times. . . .
Right before he agreed to do something stupid.
“I mean, even if we did,” she said, glancing up at Hale as he kept pace beside her, “it’s the Henley.”
“Yeah,” Hale said, his voice cool.
“No one has ever stolen a painting from the Henley.”
“Yeah,” Hale said again, his excitement rising.
Kat stopped. “We’d be stealing five.”
“Well, technically, we’d be re-stealing them,” he said dryly. “It’s kind of like a double negative.”
She turned from him again and started across a wide stretch of grass, going nowhere in particular. Just going. “Assuming we could do it, it’d take a big crew.”
“Yeah, and no one really likes you,” Hale added. He didn’t smile.
The wind was cold beneath the gray sky. Leaves blew across the ground at their feet. “We’d need gear—the good stuff. The really expensive stuff.”
“Too bad I’m only good for my looks,” Hale said. “And my better-than-average singing voice.”
Kat rolled her eyes. “Seven days, Hale.”
This time he had no response, no solution. If there was one thing Kat learned from losing her mother, it was that even the best thief in the world can’t steal time.
Kat looked over the rolling hills, the stone fences that crisscrossed the horizon. London felt a million miles away. “Where are we?”
Hale pointed behind her. “Country house,” he said, but of course, by house, he meant mansion.