Entrapment. Kylie Brant

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      The prospect was delicious.

      The slim steel cable glinted in the shadows of the darkened exhibit room in Copenhagen’s famed Gallery of Art. The floor’s guard had passed by two minutes earlier. If he stuck to his schedule he wouldn’t be back for another eight minutes. The display case in the middle of the room would be empty in six.

      The black-clad figure set the vent cover aside silently and snapped the buckle from the cable to the body harness. With quick movements, the body crawled to the edge of the vent and poised on the edge, hand outstretched.

      The red light on the palm-size remote winked rapidly as it was aimed at first one security camera, then the other. Within seconds the cameras’ power lights faded. The remote was clipped back on a belt, and with a quick tug, the strength of the cable was tested. A tiny whir was heard as the pulley mechanism activated and the figure was carried, legs curled upward, toward the center of the ceiling.

      The red laser beams of the security system crisscrossed the space below in a random patchwork pattern. With the room rigged to be heat sensitive as well, it was thought by most to be impenetrable. They would soon be proven wrong. Every system was vulnerable. It was just a matter of research and ingenuity.

      The Mylar suit the figure wore was stifling. It would successfully retain the body temperature, emitting a steady sixty degrees that wouldn’t trip the alarms. Form-fitting, it allowed for maximum flexibility, a necessity for this job.

      The body bowed and twisted to avoid the slim beams. As one was evaded, another loomed. The technique was reminiscent of a strange ballet, fluid streams of movement, flexible arching and seemingly impossible contortions. Until finally, the body hung upside down, suspended between two beams, within arm’s reach of the glass case in the center of the room. The position would have to be held nearly motionless for the entire operation, taxing both muscles and nerves. If something was going to go wrong, it would likely be now.

      A suction cup was taken from a pouch at the waist and affixed to the glass top. Next a vial was extracted, and dark gray powder shaken out in an outline atop the case, roughly the size of a basketball. That accomplished, one deep breath could be taken, but only one. There was far more to be done.

      The first vial was exchanged for another. The cap was carefully removed and tucked away. Acid was poured with excruciating care. It raced around the circle, devouring the tiny grains with rapid greed. In the process the glass would be weakened, while the chemical reaction with the ingredients in the powder would deactivate any alarm on the market.

      A cramp stabbed viciously, a blade between the ribs. A quick glance at an illuminated wrist watch showed five minutes remaining. So far so good. A slim glass cutter was taken from the pouch. The figure shifted a fraction. Both arms would be needed now. One was positioned with teeth-gritting caution between two red beams to grasp the knob on the suction cup. The other slid beneath a laser beam closer to the case. The cutter traced easily around the weakened circle in the glass, loosening it to be lifted and placed aside.

      Anticipation thrummed. Time suspended. In the near darkness, everything else faded to insignificance. This was the moment that never failed to thrill. With near awe, a hand was slipped into the opening, carefully freeing the necklace from its bed of black velvet.

      The perfectly matched pearls shimmered like moon glow in the shadows, but it was the square-cut twenty-carat ruby hanging from the center that commanded attention. With hypnotizing brilliance it speared the darkness with shards of crimson. The Moonfire necklace. In the past five centuries, countless women had coveted it. An untold number of lives had been sacrificed for it. And now one man would be denied it.

      That knowledge brought the greatest satisfaction of all.

      Unhurriedly, the necklace was tucked away into the pouch. The cramping pain increased, and a feeling of urgency rose. Two minutes left.

      A moment was taken, and then another. Then with slow, methodical movements, the black-clad body was unbent, twisted, sinuous grace and fierce concentration evident as the pulley was reactivated, inch by excruciating inch. It wasn’t until the figure was curled up against the cable that another deep breath was taken.

      Forty-five seconds.

      With a near silent hum, the mechanism carried its burden across the ceiling to the cold-air vent. As the hole grew closer, a feeling of relief was allowed. The whole operation would take less than the allotted six minutes. By the time the guard noted what had transpired, escape would already be well underway.

      Thirty seconds.

      The vent opening was within reach. The taste of impending success was sweet. A feeling of unnatural calm settled over the adrenaline. Hands braced against the wall on either side of the opening, muscles bunched.

      And then a light snapped on in the hallway outside the room, spotlighting the figure, freezing it in shock and dismay.

      “Impressive.” A slow solitary clapping accompanied the admiring statement. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. You’re every bit as good as I’ve been led to believe.”

      The words, their meaning, didn’t register. The man’s presence did. The figure dove forward in one streak of motion, entering the narrow vent like an arrow fired from a crossbow. Panic licked at nerve endings, was beaten back. Cool logic was called on now. Near misses had happened before. They’d been infrequent, long, long ago, but they had occurred. Precautions were always taken. Alternate escape routes planned.

      But never had this eventuality been considered.

      There would be time later for second-guessing and self-recriminations. With the ease of long practice, everything but the primary goal was pushed aside. Escape.

      The ventilation system was narrow. Movement was accomplished by wiggling forward while pushing off with the toes. Thirty feet ahead the pipes branched off into a maze of joints and tubes traveling to opposite corners of the gallery. When the time came, the figure bent an elbow, squeezed to the left. Another several feet, and a palm went up, felt along the top of the tubing for the hole that had been cut to allow entry.

      At that point a body could stand, head and torso through the hole, a sense of freedom that should have relieved. But there was no time for relief. Once free of the ventilation pipe the figure could run, stooped but surprisingly rapid, along the crisscrossing tubing, moving from memory alone. Two rights then a left and a flying leap to the wall ladder. A speedy ascent and then a shoulder applied to the utility door with enough force that the figure stumbled out onto the gallery roof. The night sky had never looked so welcoming.

      There was no time to enjoy it. It was one hundred yards to the edge of the roof. The time spent crossing it seemed interminable, but the thought of escape gave impetus. A cable was waiting on the east side, allowing descent to the alley between the gallery and the neighboring building. With the cable grasped in two hands, a body could rappel down the side of the building like a spider leaving its web.

      The edge was reached. The figure leaned over, reached for the cable.

      And found it missing.

      “Looking for this?”

      That dreaded voice came again, unbearably smug. Unbearably amused. Whirling, the black-clad figure faced the man, similarly dressed, who was already nearer than expected. The cable—that precious symbol of freedom—was looped around his wrist.

      With his free СКАЧАТЬ