Part 62 (2/2)
”You let your guard down.”
”Yeah,” I pant, suddenly aware of how freaking tired I am. I bend to pick up the dropped bokken.
”You groan like an old man.”
”Sorry.”
”Never relax until it's over. Keep your head in the moment. What have I been trying to teach you?”
”Mindfulness.”
”That's right. You must live completely in the present moment. People make mistakes, they do things they don't intend to do, because they let their own thoughts distract them. You were thinking about something else.”
It's not a statement. He just knows.
”Yeah.”
He leans his weapon on his shoulder. ”You met the girl?”
The two are connected, and he knows it.
”Yes. Just a quick feeler, like we usually do.”
”First impressions?”
”Smart, bold, good looking and doesn't know it.”
From his expression I may as well have just read him the weather report.
He sits on the back steps and finally looks winded. ”Remember, this is a job. When it's over we're leaving. Don't let yourself get too attached. I know how you are.”
I've been hearing that for almost three years now, ever since Leanne. It's a sore spot between us, and he knows it. It was the first time I ever stood up to him, even if it was only temporarily.
”Forms, for an hour. Then get in here. We need to go over the job.”
That means solo practice. Slowly, at first, I step through the formalized motions, like a pre-recorded series of dance moves. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast. By the time I finish I'm swinging the thing around so fast it blurs, practicing attacks I wonder if I'll ever be good enough to use. Kendo, j.a.panese fencing, is like a game of chess where both sides are always in check. One mistake and it's over.
Somewhere Dad has a vault where he keeps physical prizes he's kept from some of the jobs he's done, and in that vault is a real life samurai sword, over four hundred years old, and he knows how to use it. There isn't one for me, but he expects me to know how to do this anyway. Later in the day we'll work on Aikdo, a similar art. It was devised by a j.a.panese master and resembles sword fighting without a sword, if that makes any sense. I can arm myself with a bokken and take a swing at Dad and he'll lay me out, almost without touching me.
I'm not that good. Maybe one day I will be, but I have more of an urge to brawl, to get my hands on an opponent. It would get me in trouble, except I don't get the chance very often. A gentleman thief that ends up in fistfights isn't a very good gentleman thief, now is he?
Soaked with sweat and winded, I trudge up to the house and leave both practice swords leaning up against the back wall. When I get in the shower and let the hot water sluice down my back, all I have to do is close my eyes and Diana's face floats in front of my eyes.
Get a grip, Apollo.
That's exactly what I do. My imagination fills in the details, as in my mind's eye she emerges from the ocean sopping wet and glittering in the dusk, and casually undoes the knot behind her neck that holds up her bikini and lets it fall wet to the sand.
It doesn't take long. I end up panting, leaning against the shower wall, unsatisfied but tired. My legs feel like overstretched rubber bands.
Everything is set up in the attic. By everything I mean a cheap folding desk, a laptop, a work table, and some other equipment in cases. In movies people in our trade always have all these fancy gadgets and magical gla.s.s cutting tools. What I wouldn't give for a pair of gloves that let me climb up walls. The truth is, if the only way to physically get at something is to dangle from the roof and grab it, there are probably other, easier ways.
I mean, I could have rappelled from the top floor of the hotel into Vivienne's room and nicked the necklace, then exited via the stairwells, but it would be dangerous and difficult when I could just talk my way into having a lonely, desperate woman let me into the service corridors. I hope Brittany is okay and gets her life turned around. It was Brittany, right? Brenda? Something like that.
Dad's got it all laid out.
”We'd have an easier time getting into the Smithsonian, or the Louvre,” he announces as soon as I step up into the attic. ”This place is built like a fortress. NORAD doesn't have security like this.”
”So we're going to have to get in another way.
”We're going to have to get in another way.”
”What is it we're trying to move?”
”Nothing big or heavy. It's called 'Man was.h.i.+ng his hands'. A lost Vermeer. There's supposed to be a dozen more floating around out there, and some of Vermeer's paintings are actually the work of other artists. They found this one last year in the wall of a house, if you can believe that. The owners are putting it on display at this museum by arrangement with the foundation that runs it.”
”What foundation?”
”Started by Ellicot Montclaire.”
”Never heard of him.”
”Guy started the Ace Chemical Company. Did gunpowder, then invented a bunch of synthetic fibers. Ellicot III runs the show now. He's got more money than G.o.d and this museum is a family tradition, which is why it's out here in the middle of nowhere.”
”Not really the middle of nowhere. We're what, a half hour from Philly?”
He nods. ”I suppose. Usually these things are more centrally located. That makes the proposition of moving it both easier and difficult. In a city there's traffic, construction, all sorts of problems we have to work around that keep us from moving the goods before somebody notices they're missing.”
”Yeah, but out here we just drive away. So?”
”So that's it. Less traffic, fewer cars, higher chances of being waylaid or searched. This painting is basically priceless.”
”Everything we steal is basically priceless. How much?”
”It's not really a matter of how much.”
He stands up and looks at me, and he looks old. Maybe it's just the light in the attic catching all the lines and puffs in his face.
”What do you mean, it's not really an offer of how much?”
He sighs and leans forward, staring into the schematics on the table in front of him. He doesn't usually avoid looking at me like this. I can feel a nervous edge in his voice.
”The last job was sort of an audition. We're working on a contract, here. Think of it that way. I deliver the goods and the contract is fulfilled.”
”Audition?”
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