Page 40 of Homeport

He crossed the street at the light, a law-abiding citizen who wouldn’t dream of jaywalking. At least not when he was in possession of burglary tools.

He saw the Institute up ahead, a majestic silhouette of good Yankee granite. It pleased him that his last job would be to break into such a proud and dignified old building.

The windows were dark but for the glow of security lights in the lobby. He thought it was odd, and really rather sweet, that people left on lights to keep thieves at bay. A good one could steal in broad daylight as easily as under the cover of dark.

And he was very good.

His gaze swept up and down the street before he checked his watch. His stakeouts had given him the pattern of police cruisers in the area. Unless there was a call for one, he had a good fifteen minutes before a black-and-white would pass this way.

He crossed to the south side of the building, keeping his gait brisk but unhurried. His long coat gave him the illusion of bulk, the snappy fedora shadowed his face, and the hair beneath it was now a dignified and rather dapper steel gray.

Anyone taking notice of him would see a middle-aged businessman, slightly overweight.

He was still two yards from the door, and out of range of the camera, when he took his jammer out of his pocket and aimed it. He saw the red light blink off, and moved quickly.

His forged key card took some finesse, but the slot accepted and read it on the third try. Recalling the code from memory, he logged it in, and was inside the anteroom within forty-five seconds. He reset the camera—there was no use having some gung-ho guard come out to check—then closed the door, relocked it.

He took off his coat and hung it neatly beside the staff’s soft-drink and snack machines. His black doeskin gloves went into the pocket. Beneath them he wore thin surgical gloves any honest man could buy by the box from a medical supply store. He covered his silver hair with a black cap.

Efficiently, he checked his tools one last time.

It was only then that he let himself pause, just for a moment, and enjoy.

He stood in the dark listening to the silence that wasn’t really silence at all. Buildings had their language, and this one hummed and creaked. He could hear the whirl of the heat through the vents, the sighs of the wind pressing at the door behind him.

The guard and security rooms were a level above, and the floors were thick. He heard nothing from them, and they, he knew, heard nothing from him. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, he moved to the next door. It had a good police lock that required his picks, his penlight, which he clamped between his teeth, and approximately thirty seconds of his time to deal with.

He smiled at the music of tumblers clicking, then slipped through and into the hallway.

The first camera was at the end of the corridor where it split left and right. It didn’t overly concern him. He was a shadow among shadows here, and the camera was aimed toward the gallery. He slid along the wall beneath it, out of range, and took the left fork.

Aladdin’s Cave, he thought when he crouched just outside the South Gallery. The Tower of London, Blackbeard’s Treasure, Wonderland. Such a place was all the fairy tales he’d read and been read as a child.

Glorious anticipation shimmered along his skin, tightened his muscles, churned like desire in his gut. His for the taking. It made him think how easily a professional could succumb to greed—and disaster.

Once more he checked his watch. The Yankee sensibility in such a place would mean guards still did rounds, though the cameras and sensors should have sufficed. Of course, he was proof they didn’t, and if he was in charge of security, he’d have employed twice as many guards and doubled their rounds.

But that wasn’t his job.

He didn’t use his light now, and didn’t need it. Even the pinhole glow would set off the sensors. Using his measurements and excellent night vision, he moved to the corner of the gallery, aimed his jammer, and shut down the bothersome camera.

In one part of his brain he counted off seconds. The rest of him moved fast. By the time he crouched in front of the display, his glass cutter was in hand. He made a neat circle, slightly larger than his fist, suctioned it off with barely a tickle of sound, and set it neatly on the top of the cabinet.

He worked quickly, but with a smooth economy of motion that was as innate as the color of his eyes. He wasted no time in admiring his take, or considering the delight of taking more than what he’d come for. That was for amateurs. He simply reached in, picked up the bronze, and tucked it into the pouch on his belt.

Because he appreciated order, and irony, he fitted the circle of glass back into place, then cat-footed it back to the corner. He turned the camera on again, and started back the way he came.

By his count it had taken him seventy-five seconds.

When he reached the anteroom, he transferred the bronze to the briefcase, snuggling it between two thick slabs of foam. He switched hats, stripped off the surgical gloves and rolled them neatly into his pocket.

He bundled into his coat, keyed himself out, locked up tidily behind him, and was a block away in less than ten minutes from the time he’d entered the building.

Smooth, slick, and neat, he thought. A good way to end a career. He eyed the bar again, nearly went inside. At the last minute he decided he’d go back to the hotel and order up a bottle of champagne instead.

Some toasts were private matters.

At six A.M., after a sleepless night, Miranda was shocked out of her first real doze by the ringing of the phone. Headachy, disoriented, she fumbled for the receiver.

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