There was a particular office block just off Trafalgar Square which was notable for two reasons. First, its facade was undergoing refurbishment that required scaffolds all the way up to the roof. Second, it was directly across a very narrow street from the Portrait Gallery of London. The two neighbouring roofs were both a mess of skylights, air conditioning units, antennas, and—as of a few minutes ago—a zip-line across the narrow gap between them.
John Clay had elected to run this job lean. Erin Baird was handling transportation; she and her car awaited his return on the street below. To deal with the gallery’s security system, he’d hired Jay Moriarty—presently eyeing the zip-line with a dubious air.
“You said you weren’t afraid of heights,” Clay reminded him.
“I’m not,” Moriarty replied. “I’m afraid of falling to my death from a dodgy zip-line.”
“Dodgy?” Clay protested. “I’ll have you know this is top-of-the-line equipment.”
He resisted the urge to step back as Moriarty turned that critical gaze on him. The weird little bastard had an unnerving way of studying everything around him, as if filing it all away for later.
The roof was their only way in, as the gallery had just wrapped up a three-year renovation which included a full upgrade of its security measures. There were perimeter sensors on all the doors and windows, and rolling steel shutters over every potential point of access—except one.
“I’ll go first,” Clay offered, and hooked his harness onto the line.
It held his weight as he took a running leap from the roof; the line was more or less horizontal, and momentum only took him halfway across the gap before he had to pull himself the rest of the way. He landed lightly on the other side, and moments later Moriarty joined him with a less graceful landing and a soft grunt.
Mounted on a wall nearby was a nondescript grey box with a keypad: a relay for the gallery’s alarm system, which received signals from sensors and cameras and forwarded them to an off-site monitoring centre. A small cylinder lock held the front panel closed.
Moriarty produced a can of air duster from his bag and held it upside-down as he sprayed the lock. The liquid inside froze on contact with the metal, rendering it brittle enough to shatter under the hammer Moriarty had, evidently, also brought.
Inside the box was a motherboard attached to a bird’s nest of cables and wires. Moriarty examined the board, taking particular interest in a metal slot soldered to one edge. “Looks like a maintenance port. Give me a sec.” He pulled a tablet from the bag and ran a cable into the port. A few seconds of screen-tapping later, he reported, “I’ve got access.”
“Can you shut the system down?”
Moriarty shook his head. “An outage would alert the monitoring centre.” He scrolled through something on the tablet, reading quickly. “Looks like the system is set up with redundancies to avoid false alarms. At least two separate sensors need to signal within a certain time limit before an alarm can be triggered—so long as I keep clearing the cache, it’ll never go off.”
“What about the cameras?”
“I’m recording footage now. I can loop it and use that to override the feed from the cameras—we should have some time before the loop is noticed.”
Satisfied, Clay turned his attention to the roof access door. It was secured with the kind of mechanical keypad lock usually found in buildings like this; it couldn’t be picked because there was no keyhole to pick, and couldn’t be overridden because there were no internal electronics to override. In fact, it only had one flaw: the internal coupling mechanism was made of metal and could be tripped with a magnet.
Like the one Clay had in his pocket, for instance.
While the gallery had a full complement of guards during the day, only a handful were on-site after hours. Patrols were limited to the external perimeter, as anyone moving around inside the gallery would set off the motion sensors. Clay was therefore the only living thing in the building as he hustled down the stairs to the ground floor.
The gallery was, at the moment, hosting a temporary exhibition of portraits by Jean-Baptiste Greuze. Clay scanned the monotonous array of 18th-century aristocrats’ wives and angelic-looking children until he found what he was looking for. It was a portrait of a young woman, chin propped up on both hands as she regarded the viewer from the corner of her eye: Study of a Young Shepherdess, on loan from the private collection of Kira Konovalova, valued at nearly two million pounds.
Ms. Konovalova—Russian ex-pat, entrepreneur, and philanthropist—had attracted some attention lately, albeit indirectly; her father, Stepan Konovalov, had notoriously failed a coup against the Russian government. Perhaps that was why Clay’s client had hired him to steal her Greuze. Konovalova cut all ties with her father years ago—largely to avoid sanctions—but her father had collected quite a few enemies before he went on the run. All that ire had to go somewhere.
With the security system under control, Clay paid no mind to the weight trigger in the frame’s support wire as he lifted it off the wall. Study of a Young Shepherdess wasn’t a large piece—maybe eighteen inches tall—and it fit easily into the carefully-reinforced backpack he’d brought with him.
The lifts were locked down after hours, leaving Clay to trudge all the way back up the stairs to the roof. Moriarty acknowledged him with a small nod before disconnecting his equipment from the relay and joining Clay on the trip back across the zip-line.
Baird already had the car running. “All right?” she asked, as Clay and Moriarty climbed in.
“Easy job,” Clay replied with a breezy air.
“Too easy,” Moriarty added.
“Relax,” Clay assured him. “All we need to do now is meet the client and get paid. It’s clear sailing from here on out.”
A fist impacted with Clay’s cheek, and blood flooded his mouth.
He slumped against the zip ties keeping him bound to the chair as he coughed and spat, thoroughly staining the front of what had once been a £1,500 cashmere turtleneck. Now it was destined for the rag bag—if he happened to live that long. Everything since the hand-off went south was a blur of panic and pain; he couldn’t be quite sure where he was or how much time had passed.
The man who’d hit him crouched in front of the chair. He met Clay’s watering eyes with the glare of a man whose enthusiasm for violence had quickly waned into frustration and boredom. “Where’s the painting?”
Clay, to be quite frank, had no fucking idea. But the men holding him didn’t know that. And so long as they thought he was holding out on them, they’d keep him alive.
“Come on, lads,” he groaned. “You’ll have to work harder than that.”
Weary rage flashed in the man’s eyes as he stood. There was a hand in Clay’s hair, dragging him upright once more.
“Where’s the fucking painting?” the man snarled, and hit him again—this time in the solar plexus.
A commotion from above caught his captors’ attention. They turned just in time to see the fourth of their number come tumbling down the stairs, landing in a heap at their feet.
Clay didn’t recognise the man who followed the rolling body at a careful, almost malevolent pace; he was on the tall side, rangy and broad-shouldered, with three long, thin scars across one side of his face. His eyes flicked around the room, evaluating Clay’s three captors with cool precision before settling on Clay himself with a look of obvious confusion.
He had a huge fucking knife in his hand, flipped so the blade was held tight against his forearm.
The other men in the room were equally as confused, but recovered first. One of them rushed the stranger, who neatly sidestepped the attack and twisted his opponent around into a hold as the other two joined the fight. The stranger tossed his captive into their path, tripping up one; the two colliding bodies toppled to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
By then, the remainder of the three had closed with the stranger. They traded quick, brutal blows; the stranger kept the knife in its reverse grip, blocking but not striking out with the blade. Then his opponent took a hit to the temple and dropped, receiving a kick in the head for good measure.
The other two, meanwhile, had managed to haul themselves to their feet. One grabbed the stranger from behind, while the other scored a cheap shot to his face. The stranger grunted and slammed his head into the nose of the man holding him, who staggered and released his grip. Throwing his elbow back into the man’s jaw, the stranger knocked him to the ground.
The last of Clay’s captors backed away as the stranger advanced on him. The knife flipped into a forward grip.
“Now,” said the stranger with strained patience, “you’re going to tell me—”
His opponent wasn’t watching where he was going. He tripped over the legs of his unconscious compatriot and fell, cracking his head on the floor.
The stranger went still, staring at the unconscious body in blank disbelief.
Despite his best judgement, Clay cleared his throat. “I’m not ungrateful for the help,” he said, “but what the fuck are you doing here?”
He couldn’t help but flinch as the stranger’s attention focused on him, assessing him with an edge of suspicion. The knife was still in his hand.
After a second or so, the stranger said, “Looking for someone.”
Clay wasn’t sure about the etiquette of a situation like this, but his options were a bit limited at the moment. He twisted his wrists against the zip-ties binding him to the chair. “I, er … don’t suppose you could help with this.”
He successfully suppressed his flinch this time as the stranger stalked closer, kneeling to carefully slide the blade of his knife between Clay’s right wrist and the plastic of the zip-tie. “Why were they holding you?”
The zip-tie snapped open, and Clay flexed his fingers as full circulation started to return. “A little disagreement over some art I procured for them.”
The stranger had a calculating look. “You were working with Jay.”
“Moriarty?” There wasn’t much point lying about it, especially while the stranger was moving to cut the tie on Clay’s remaining wrist. “Yes, I was—until our clients double-crossed us at the hand-off and he disappeared. With the merchandise, I might add.”
He nearly missed the tremor that passed through the stranger’s frame—like something wound tight slipping loose for just a moment. Then both Clay’s hands were free; he settled them in his lap, rubbing at the welts on his wrists.
Best to endear himself to the violent lunatic as quickly as possible. “I’m worried about him, too,” Clay lied, and quickly determined a pat on the shoulder would be a bridge too far.
The stranger had a wary look, but beneath that was quiet desperation.
Clay offered his hand. “John Clay.”
Hesitating briefly, the stranger shook it. “Sebastian Moran.”
Clay knew the name, although up until now he couldn’t have put a face to it. Son of Sir Augustus, who’d once been ambassador to Iran; career soldier right up until a hushed-up incident that precipitated his departure from the military. He was supposed to be a consultant or something these days, which put this sort of thing a little outside his usual bailiwick.
There’d also been a rumour about Moran getting into a knife fight with a literal actual tiger, which would at least explain the scars.
Moran moved to search Clay’s three fallen captors; he paused, lifting one man’s arm to reveal the tattoo on his wrist. “These aren’t professional,” he observed. “Might’ve been done in prison.”
Clay shrugged, then stood to finally stretch his legs. “I figured they were Russian mob.”
Moran shook his head. “They’ve got military training.” He sat back on his heels. “Colossus recruited most of its troops out of Russian prisons—freedom in exchange for service.”
“Colossus?” Clay clarified. “Stepan Konovalov’s mercenary company?”
Moran’s gaze fixed on Clay, who flinched again. “That’s right,” he said slowly.
“Konovalov’s daughter owns the painting they wanted.”
Moran’s eyes narrowed. “You think he hired you to steal from her.”
“Makes sense, if he needs cash for a quick getaway.”
“Which explains why he’s so desperate to get it back,” Moran said, thinking aloud. “He needs to fence it and disappear before the FSB catches up with him.” He stood, closing in on Clay once more. “You’re sure Jay got away?”
Clay wrestled with the urge to step back. “I doubt they’d have bothered interrogating me, if he hadn’t.” Then, without his permission, his mouth continued, “Devious little bastard could be anywhere by now.”
If Moran took the insult personally, it didn’t show on his face. “Jay called me for help. Wherever he is, it must be somewhere I’d know to look.”
Then he blinked. Clay knew an epiphany when he saw one.
As they exited the club, Clay briefly contemplated the merits of running and hiding until this all blew over—but for the moment, revenge held much more appeal. That meant finding the painting, however, and therefore finding Moriarty. Moran was his best option on that front.
And so, as Moran strode down the block toward the car parked there, Clay followed. He settled into the passenger seat, and Moran started the car without a word—which hopefully meant he considered Clay an ally. Or at least not a threat.
They were headed into Soho; it wasn’t long before Moran turned the car down a side street and stepped out, walking away in a manner that suggested the car had officially been dumped. Clay followed him as the nightlife around them finally began to wind down for the night and their destination became clear.
The Marigold Cinema had burned down late last year, only to rapidly change hands to new ownership and announce an expensive reconstruction effort. Said reconstruction looked to be coming along quickly, although the front doors to the building had yet to be replaced. Instead the entrance was blocked off by a simple plywood door with a padlock. The wood was flimsy, and so were the screws holding the hasp in place; it came right off once Moran gave it a few firm tugs.
Beyond lay the lobby. Most of the structural restoration was complete, leaving bare walls and floors awaiting redecoration.
“So what now?” Clay kept his voice low, but it still echoed in the empty space. “We search the whole building?”
“Jay would’ve left a signal. Something that stands out from the background …” Moran trailed off, gaze drifting toward the door to the screening room.
There was a can of paint by the door. Every other can in the room was stacked up by the bar.
Moran paused just inside the screening room to turn on one of the working lights, illuminating the pitch-black space. He paced slowly down to the end of the aisle, scanning every seat and light fixture—but, so far as Clay could tell, there was nothing to see.
At the bottom of the aisle, in front of the screen, Moran hesitated. “It’s smaller.”
“Pardon?”
“The screening room.” Moran turned, eyeing up the whole length of the space. “It’s shorter than it used to be.”
There was an emergency exit next to the screen, leading out into the alley behind the cinema. A little way down, on the far side of the bins, was another door. A quick try at the handle confirmed it was locked.
It was a bit of surprise to see Moran slip a set of lock-picks from his jacket and go to work; so far, he’d struck Clay as more of a kicking-down-doors type. But Moran clearly knew what he was doing, manipulating the lock with patience and practice; after only a minute or so, it opened with a soft click.
The screening room of the Marigold had indeed been shortened by about five meters, leaving an enclosed space along the rear wall of the building. That space now contained a small kitchen, a cheap-looking futon, and a curtained-off area that likely contained the bathroom facilities.
There was also a computer desk, and Jay Moriarty.
All the wound-up tension in Moran’s frame snapped at once; he stumbled a little, like a sleepwalker who had just woken up.
Moriarty leapt to his feet, hurrying across the room to where Moran stood. With a noise of abject relief, Moran reached out and dragged him into a crushing embrace.
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