The museum director blinked. He felt somehow as if he too were still trapped in the oxygen deprivation chamber while a fire raged outside the door. Amelia Bennett stood to her full height and gestured for her son to join her.
“I’m sure a man like you must already know that my son is as much a victim of Visily Romani as you are.”
And with that, the final child who had been locked in the Henley that day turned and walked out the door—vanished without a trace.
And Gregory Wainwright was able to go about his nervous breakdown in peace.
Day Of The Deadline
Chapter 36
Twenty-four hours after the robbery at the Henley, it was raining in Paris. Arturo Taccone’s French driver pulled his limo (a classic Mercedes, this time in dark blue) to the side of the road and allowed the man to stare out at the narrow street lined with small shops. He was not prepared for the tap on the foggy window or the sight of a girl who was too small and too tired for her age crawling into the backseat beside him.
She shook her short hair slightly, and water splashed across the tan leather seats, but Arturo Taccone did not mind. He had too many other emotions right then, and the largest of which— he scarcely dared to admit—was regret that it was over.
“I have heard that cats don’t like the rain,” he said, gesturing to her frizzy hair and drenched raincoat. “I can see that it is so.”
“I’ve been in worse,” she said, and somehow he didn’t doubt it.
“I’m very glad to see you, Katarina. Alive and well.”
“Because you were afraid I had been burned alive at the Henley, or because you were afraid I might get caught and use our arrangement as a bargaining chip?”
“Both,” the man conceded.
“Or were you most concerned that I might take your paintings and disappear myself? That they might go underground for another half century or so?”
He studied her anew. It was rare to find someone who was both so young and so wise, both so fresh and so jaded. “I admit I have been hoping that you might have brought me, shall we say, a bonus? I would pay handsomely for the Angel. She would fit in my collection very nicely.”
“I didn’t take the da Vinci,” she said flatly. Taccone laughed.
“And your father did not take my paintings,” he said, indulging her, still unwilling to believe. “You do, indeed, have a most interesting family. And you, Katarina, are a most exceptional girl.”
She felt it was her turn to return the compliment, but there were some lies that even Uncle Eddie’s great-niece couldn’t tell. So instead she just asked, “My father?”
Taccone shrugged. “His debt to me is forgiven. It has been most”—he considered his words—“enjoyable. Perhaps he will steal something from me again sometime.”
“He didn’t—” Kat started, but then thought better of it.
Taccone nodded. “Yes, Katarina, let us not leave things with a lie.”
Kat looked at him as if to measure what amount of truth might lie in the soul of a man like Arturo Taccone, if any soul at all remained.
“The paintings are in pristine condition. Not even a fleck of paint is out of order.”
Taccone adjusted his leather gloves. “I expected nothing less of you.”
“They are ready to go home.” Her voice cracked, and Taccone knew somehow that she wasn’t lying—there was a sincere longing in her words. “They’re across the street,” she told him. “An abandoned apartment.” She pointed through the foggy windows. “There,” she said. “The one next to that gallery.”
Taccone followed her gaze. “I see.”
“We’re finished,” she reminded him.
He studied her. “We don’t have to be. As I said before, a man in my position could make a young woman like yourself richer than her wildest dreams.”
Kat eased toward the door. “I know rich, Mr. Taccone. I think I’ll just aim for happy.”
He chuckled and watched her go. She was already out of the car when he said, “Good-bye, Katarina. Until we meet again.”