He stared at Jack. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Cameras."
He looked skyward. "Didn't even think about that."
"No worry. You're a legit citizen."
"Yeah, but…" He shook his head. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."
"Yeah, well. I don't suppose it's a skill set that's called for much in your line of work. Or is it?"
"First time for me." He looked all antsy and twitchy.
"Nervous?" Jack said.
"Of course I'm nervous. Aren't you?"
"Not my boss, not my money. And speaking of which, where's mine?"
Rasmus pulled a white legal envelope out of the inner pocket of his suit jacket and handed it over. "Half now and the rest when we're done, right?"
"Right." Jack fanned through the stack of hundreds but didn't count. The number looked about right. And if Rasmus stiffed him, Jack knew where he lived.
"Where's the payoff?"
Rasmus hefted the padded manila envelope. "Right here."
"That's not big enough to hold the kind of cash he must have asked for."
"It's not cash."
"Diamonds?"
"How'd you know?"
The best answer to that was Duh! but Jack resisted.
"Logical. Let's see."
He snatched the envelope back. "No!"
What was going on here? Pulling a fast one?
"Show me or I walk – with the advance."
Rasmus hesitated, then leaned Jack's way and, without relinquishing his hold, opened the top of the envelope. Jack peeked inside…
"Is that–?" He reached for it but Rasmus snatched it away. "The Titanic necklace?"
Rasmus nodded. "You recognized it."
"But it's a prop…paste."
"Not this. The mayor had two of them made for his daughters, using real diamonds."
Jack couldn't put his money in a bank or buy stocks and bonds, so he'd investigated gold, silver, and diamonds. He knew what a good quality karat was going for these days.
"That's gotta be worth…"
"Millions, yes."
"But how…?"
"The daughter in question was wearing this during her video. In fact it was all she was wearing. The blackmailer wants it as payment. Probably thinks he's being ironic, but he's just being a creep."
"Will he know the real thing from glass?"
Rasmus shrugged. "He says he'll be able to tell. I don't suppose it's hard."
Jack had heard a diamond could scratch glass; beyond that he was pretty sure he could be fooled. He rose.
"All right. Let's get this done."
"What are you carrying?"
"Glock nine. Let's hope I don't have to use it."
"Amen to that. Someone has left a rear door open for us. Let's go."
Jack followed him across the jogging path and the drive to the rear of the building, down a short set of stairs tucked into a corner. The door at the bottom stood ajar.
As they stepped through it, the words of the dog-walking woman came back to him.
She trusted the wrong people…
Such a weird thing to say. But Jack couldn't help but feel that somehow her message was meant for him.
Chandler
I got to the museum twenty minutes before the meet was supposed to happen. The Met was a big, sprawling, neoclassical structure, concrete stairs leading to a façade done up with double columns alternating with huge half-moon windows. In the summer, the steps would be swarming with loiterers, eating and smoking and basking in the architecture. But it was cold today, and the steps were empty. I took them two at a time, stuck my head inside the front doors. There were several cameras inside, and I kept my face averted, wishing I'd remembered to pick up another hat. The line to the ticket counter and coat check was short, but at the end of it, security guards were going through bags and over bodies with metal-detecting wands.
That wouldn't work. I wasn't about to attend this soirée without party favors.
I eyed another security guard standing at the entrance. "Excuse me? Do you have a map or something with the exhibits listed?"
He gave me a smile, a good-looking guy, and handed me a brochure. "There's a map inside. And you can purchase tickets next to the coat check."
"Thanks." I opened the multi-fold and pretended to look it over.
"No food or drink. No flash photography or video cameras. All backpacks and packages must be checked. No suitcases, carry-on bags, oversize backpacks, or musical instruments are allowed in the building."
"Okay, thanks. I'll be sure to drop off my cello at home before I return."
Not waiting for his reaction, I left the building. While the map did an excellent job of pointing out the location of the Arms and Armor exhibit, the only door marked was the front entrance.
I looked over the building, noting a few cameras and studying the front for egress points. Off to either side were windows. Most definitely security glass, and I'd neglected to bring along my sledgehammer. They were probably foiled as well. If I wanted to set off a burglar alarm and alert the guards I might as well just run through the metal detector armed.
My best shot of getting in would be in the rear of the building. Taking a jog around the Met was not a quick task. While there were plenty of paved paths, the building stretched for blocks.
I passed plenty of steel fire exit doors, all keyed from the inside. With no doorknob or lock, the only way in was with a breaker bar, but unfortunately I'd left that home with my sledgehammer.
The best bet would be the café in the American Wing, but right in the midst of lunch hour was not the most discreet time to break in, and with the temperature more March than April today, the doors weren't open to provide air. Exacerbating the problem, I spotted two security guards inside near the doors.
I needed to find another way.
Returning to the front of the building, I studied its face, noting the positions of all cameras. On either side of the columns, as part of the design, were horizontal concrete ridges spaced evenly apart and extending all the way to the roof. Though the overhanging cornice near the top would pose problems, it was scalable.
Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that.
I checked the steps for civilians, saw a group of kids filing out of a bus on 5th avenue. I jogged down and approached a teacher, one with a smiling face for every child.
"Are you P.S. 98?" I asked, figuring my odds were good that they weren't.
"We're P.S. 17," she smiled at me.
I frowned and quickly checked my wrist, even though I didn't wear a watch. "I'm supposed to do a free climb demonstration for 98, and they're twenty minutes late."
"Free climbing?"
"I'm scaling the front of the museum. No safety ropes or pinions or beaners. I've already got a group waiting for me up top. Do you think your students would like to watch?"
Her bright face glowed even brighter. "Well, I'm certain they would. Let me ask." She turned to the kids. "Would you children like to watch this nice lady climb up the museum?"
"Yes, Miss Nikola!" they said in unison.
"It's called free climbing," Miss Nikola told them. Then she smiled at me. "Do you need them to be quiet?"
"No need. Thank you."
"You're most welcome."
As she called all of her students to form a line and watch, I jogged to the side of the building. Chandler Group Psychology 101; if you tell a crowd you have permission to do something, they'll likely believe you, even as they witness you doing something illegal. It's much easier to fool a group than it is an individual, because the group always looks to one another to gage reactions. And if anyone else came by, they'd behave the same way.
The side of the building, as expected, was ninety degrees. Sheer isn't easy to climb. The toe and finger holds weren't substantial, so I couldn't distribute my center of gravity like I could on steps or a ladder. This meant I needed to have very little space between my body and the wall. The more s
pace I allowed, the more the building would push me away.
I took off my boots and socks, and shoved my phone in my bra. My socks and purse went into the boots, I clenched my boots in my teeth, and I began to ascend. Climbing with my lower body, balancing with my upper. Focusing on balance. Becoming one with the wall.
The stone was cold, but it didn't stop my hands from sweating. Thirteen steps up—about halfway—I paused to let the cool air wick away the moisture from my palms. I kept the weight on my legs, where it should be, and was mindful not to grip too hard. Crimping fingers wasted energy and caused cramps. No matter how strong my grip was, my thighs and calves were stronger.
During my breather, I glanced over my shoulder at the children. A few other spectators had gathered as well.
So far, so good.
I went up another five steps then focused on the overhang above me. There were ornate concrete moldings jutting out at about thirty degrees. Above that, a ledge with a cornice, which hung horizontally above me by perhaps a meter. The lip of the roof. I didn't see any secure handholds, but in order to get to the top of the building, I'd somehow have to go over it.
As I neared the ledge, my feet were becoming slippery with sweat. I was ten meters up, and a fall would cripple or kill me, so once again I took a rest to dry off. The wind was considerably stronger up there, and I hugged the façade, pressing my cheek to it, controlling my breathing, slowing my heart rate.
Another glance back at the kids, and their eyes were glued to me. So were a cop's, who'd joined them in watching.
The cop was talking into his radio.
I stared above, focusing on the overhang, like a ceiling above my head. I didn't see any way to get past.
This may have been a bad idea.
A glance back, and another cop had joined the first. Then the wind hit.
Because I'd been turning my head, the gust got between me and the wall, pushing us apart. As my body bowed, I knew I was going to lose a point of contact with the stone, so I allowed it to be my feet, letting them fall into open air as I secured my grip.
Screams from the kiddies. I hung there for a second, the wind continuing to tug, flapping me like a flag, and then gravity won and my body slammed back into the building with enough force to make me lose one of my handholds. But my toes found purchase, and once again I hugged the façade.
Focus, Chandler. You need to get off of this wall before you're blown off or the police call for fire trucks to pluck you off.
After lamenting my lack of climbing chalk to dry my hands and feet, I once again studied the overhang. The molding details were large and protruded significantly, but I didn't think I could hang by them, let alone go hand over hand while dangling without lower body support.
I reached a smaller ledge and got a knee on it, weighing my options. Beneath me, I heard a police whistle, then authoritative shouting for me to get down immediately.
Chandler Group Psychology 101 apparently didn't extend to New York City cops.
To my left, the tiny ledge I balanced on turned a corner, leading to a flat wall with no potential. To my right, the building's façade extended farther, the architrave above the dual columns. Above that was the same issues I faced; an overhang with unclimbable molding. But it was at a right angle to me.
I couldn't reach the roof directly above my head, but maybe I could jump to the one to my right.
I'd have to aim for the corner so I didn't smack into the overhang. Difficult, but doable.
I inched back on the ledge, getting ready to get my feet under me in a crouch. As soon as I did, I'd lose my balance, but if I jumped away from the building before I began to fall, I had a shot at grabbing the lip of the roof.
Another whistle. The wind began to kick up, against me.
I brought up one foot, began to teeter, and then pulled up the other and sprang out into open air.
For a moment I was flying.
I focused on the corner of the building, zeroing in until it became gigantic, filling my entire world. My trajectory was good, my height was good, all I had to do was grab and hold.
I grabbed.
I didn't hold.
One sweaty hand slipped, falling free.
The other caught, and I hung there, one-handed, as my body torqued and my grip threatened to break. For a moment I swung wildly, about to be thrown from the building, a cautionary lesson to a busload of students that climbing public buildings was unwise. But I used the momentum, swinging up a heel over the lip of the roof, stopping all of my forward movement and sticking there like a spider.
At least, I did for a moment. Spiders didn't have moist hands and feet.
I had two seconds, three at most, before my grip failed and I fell to my death.
Rasmus
He touched the .380 in his pocket – the fourth time in as many minutes. Rasmus's inside man, the guard who had left the rear entrance open for them, the guard who made sure the security cameras in this part of the museum were off, had also opened up the closed Arms and Armor exhibit for him and Jack.
Jack then insisted on locking the doors.
"How will the blackmailer get in?"
"He can knock. We've got two entryways here, and I don't know which he's taking. I want to be able to see him coming."
That made no sense to Rasmus. "He's here to get the necklace. You think he'll try something?"
"That's what I'm here for, remember? To make sure he doesn't."
Rasmus touched the butt of his gun again, reassured by its weight.
"We should also hide the necklace."
"Excuse me?"
"It's unlikely the blackmailer will have the videotape on him. Too easy to pull a gun and take it."
Rasmus quickly pulled his hand from his pocket. "Yes. Right."
"So we hide the necklace. Someplace nearby. Once we're sure he's got what you want, you can make the exchange."
"Okay. Where?"
Jack looked around. His eyes locked onto a display of a Tibetan warrior astride a horse.
"Saddlebags," Jack said, pointing. "Hide it in there."
Rasmus obeyed, tucking the million dollar necklace into a fold in the ancient leather. "Now what?"
"Now we wait."
Rasmus nodded. He hated waiting.
"So why did you pick the Met?" Jack asked after a moment of silence.
"I didn't. The man I'm supposed to meet – the blackmailer – he picked it."
"You have an inside man here."
"Yes."
"Who?"
Rasmus didn't want to reveal who he'd paid off, but figured at this point it didn't matter. "A security guard."
"And the blackmailer picked this exhibit?"
"Yes."
Jack rubbed his chin. "If he can get into a closed exhibit, he's also got an inside man."
"What does that mean?"
"It means stay on your toes. He may not knock after all."
A minute slunk past. To Rasmus, it felt like half an hour. He checked his cell phone to see if he'd missed any calls, and looked at the time.
"The blackmailer is late."
"Making you sweat. Getting you anxious so you'll be eager to pay."
"You sure?"
"I think it's a good guess. My bet is…"
"Yes?"
"My bet is the person we're supposed to meet is already at the museum someplace. Probably just hanging around."
Chandler
As I hung there, my fingers began to slide off the roof. I used my free hand to dig into my boot, freeing my clutch. Sewn into the modified strap was a carbon fiber garrote, strong enough to saw through a person's trachea.
I was about to see if it was strong enough to support my weight.
Just as my grip failed with one hand, I lassoed the corner of the roof with the other.
My upper body dropped the length of my strap, my heel slid off, and then I swung there, hanging by Coach.
More screams from below. I dangled for a moment and carefully looked
up. My strap had only caught a few centimeters of roof corner. Any major swinging, and it would come right off.
I focused on keeping my body very still. The swaying slowed, then stopped. I did a careful, easy chin-up, getting my right arm over my purse, tucking it into my armpit. I reached my other hand up.
I could barely graze the cornice with my fingertips. But I couldn't get a purchase on it.
The wind kicked up again, making me sway. I began to swing back and forth, and back…
On the next forth my strap slipped a tiny bit, and I dropped a tiny bit more.
Bending at my waist, I piked my legs up over my head. Straining to lift them while also keeping still, my ab muscles flexed until I was almost upside down. My heels got up over the lip of the roof, but that wasn't enough. I continued to strain, my core beginning to spasm and shake.
My calves brushed the top edge. Just… a bit… more…
The biggest gust of wind yet pounded my body, threatening to topple my legs over. I pushed against my clutch, my legs folding onto the roof just as my strap came off and my clutch fell from my grip, spinning to the ground, taking with it the package I'd gotten from Jacob and Farquart's cell phone.
I hung there, off the side of the museum, upside down by my knees. The boots in my teeth were flopping over my eyes and blocking my vision. I let them fall out of my mouth, and they plummeted to the ground below. I splayed my fingers, letting the cold, spring air cool my palms. When they were dry I reached up, gripped the edge, and let my legs down. With both hands dry, I was able to swing up my heel and pull my whole body onto the roof as the crowd below cheered.
Note to self: Avoid clinging to the sides of buildings in the future.
Time to move.
Sprinting barefoot across the gradual slope of the roof, I looked for an entry point. I found one near a bank of industrial size air conditioners. The service door was steel and the lock was good, but I was better. I fingered a seam in the lining of my jacket. Just as I sewed extra cash in all my clothing, I did the same with two sturdy pins. With these, I could pick most locks, one acting as a pick and the other a tension wrench. It wasn't hard, just touchy and time consuming. The good thing was that here on the roof, I had all the time in the world.