Hanging the Devil, page 28
His original plan was to make this an elegant robbery. An incendiary distraction near Fisherman’s Wharf would draw police away from the museum just long enough for the ghost to secure the paintings. In and out with style, just like Norway.
But Freddie’s ego demanded he mark his territory. He clearly didn’t believe the ghost answered to Beijing or the Triads, and he wanted to send them a signal. He wanted to play games.
Freddie failed to realize the ghost was very good at playing games.
Now that the heist had lost any subtlety, it made no difference if one brother was smarter. Both were expendable. Not only that, explosions could occur anywhere. Once things started to go boom, fire trucks would be dispatched. Police would come running but keep their distance until special units could be deployed. Minutes lost. Whether terrorists or gas leaks, explosions slowed things down just long enough for a thief to vanish in the night.
Freddie wanted the ghost to leave his city, fine. He would leave it in ruins. But first he had to deal with the problem of the Little Dragon.
The ghost had brought Grace to the museum and held her now, not indelicately, in his arms. She regained consciousness once during the trip over, but pressure on the nerve cluster at the base of her neck put her down again. Hard to gauge with adolescents, but he estimated another fifteen to thirty minutes before she opened her eyes.
He looked at the three boxed forgeries on the ground to his left. They were light enough to hoist up to the balcony after he’d climbed the balustrade. He was originally going to enlist one of the brothers to help steal the real paintings, but now he didn’t trust them at all.
Guĭ shifted Grace’s inert body and hoisted her over his shoulder, then pulled the strap of the cloth bag slung over his back. He reached inside and removed three hockey pucks, then handed them to the twin on the left. The ghost grabbed three more, which went to the other brother.
Fang and Feng turned the disks over in their hands.
The hockey pucks had been hollowed out, the centers packed with C-4 plastic explosives. The side of each disk had a small red button connected to a fuse on a five-second delay. The blast that had turned the private detective’s car into a flying hibachi was triggered by remote detonator, a much more sophisticated device. By contrast, these disks were makeshift grenades which demanded a delicate sense of timing and an ability to run very fast in the opposite direction.
The ghost smiled at the simplicity of his new plan.
Guĭ raised a cadaverous arm and gestured down the steps of the museum. With a dramatic flourish he extended a pallid finger across the square, over the heads of the homeless. He pointed directly toward San Francisco City Hall.
Fang and Feng followed his line of sight to the crimson dome.
“You see that building?” asked the ghost.
The two brothers nodded, wide-eyed, but didn’t say anything.
The ghost pointed at the brother on his left. “I want you to blow it up.” The other twin opened his mouth, but the ghost held up a pale palm. “You…will carry the forgeries and come with me.”
“To do what?”
“You’re going to blow up the museum,” said the ghost. “From the inside.”
60
From inside the museum, it was obvious to Sally why the helicopter thieves had thought it would be smart to break through the skylight.
She counted at least nine points of entry across various sections of glass at the Asian Art Museum. Windows made the building more welcoming and displayed the art in a natural light, but they introduced several vulnerabilities.
The helicopter had been brazen but unnecessary. Sally managed to climb onto the roof using a grappling hook and knotted rope. It wasn’t easy but wasn’t particularly hard, either.
The masterminds who recommended a helicopter clearly watched too many action movies or simply didn’t know the city. Sally suspected the plan was to transport the stolen art quickly, and loading paintings into a van would leave them exposed on the street. That might be problematic in a town with routine police patrols, but San Francisco’s budget cuts had led to a shortage of uniformed cops that kept the downtown streets deserted after dark.
Stores had been looted so incessantly that plywood covering the windows was installed permanently. Half the storefronts were empty and had been for over a year. The few businesses still operating downtown cut their hours so their staff could leave before sunset. The only people on the streets were those who had already lost more than anyone could take.
The city by the bay had become a ghost town.
Now all we need is a ghost.
Sally walked across the first floor of the museum, past the gift shop, until she came to the Wilbur Grand Staircase, a marble marvel of craftsmanship regularly featured in society pages and countless wedding photos. The staircase was broad enough for six people to walk abreast, each step shallow, so climbing to the second floor took much longer than taking the escalator on the other side of the museum.
The stairs were flanked by walls of amber marble. Overhead was an arched, coffered ceiling of illuminated hexagons. At the top of the stairs a golden chandelier overhung the second-floor landing.
A stone balustrade surrounded the staircase on three sides, low enough for anyone to peer over the edge. Sally held the ancient calvary sword at her left side and scanned the gaps between the banister’s pillars as she climbed.
Cape was waiting at the top of the stairs.
“You’re late,” said Sally. “What happened?”
“There was a bonfire at the beach,” said Cape. “I volunteered to be one of the s’mores.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Yep.” Cape glanced down the empty staircase, then back the way he had come.
“Where’s Maria?” asked Sally.
“Finishing up in the security room, making sure the code also disabled the cameras from recording.”
“This plan of yours—”
“—isn’t going to work,” said Cape. “I know.”
“We’re out of time,” said Sally. “And you’re hurt.” She waited until Cape wheezed his next breath. “Badly.”
“There’s no downside to trying,” said Cape.
“There’s a downside to dying.”
Cape ignored the jibe. “The plan had three parts—distract, delay, and capture.”
“The capture part involved police cooperation,” said Sally. “Which you don’t have.”
“I have a new plan,” said Cape. “Distract, delay, and—”
“—kill.”
Cape frowned. “I was going to say ‘chaos.’”
“I like my plan better,” said Sally.
“Let’s focus on the first two parts of the plan, okay?”
“Let’s check the gallery.”
As they moved away from the staircase, Cape asked, “What’s the big deal with these paintings again?”
“I thought Maria explained it already.” Sally half-smiled. “Using little words.”
“She did,” said Cape, “but I might have been distracted.”
“By her, or by the case?”
“No comment.”
“Going to pay attention this time?”
“You can quiz me later.”
“Nineteenth century,” said Sally, “toward the end of the second Opium War. The Summer Palace is already being looted by foreign soldiers when a British contingent arrives in Beijing, thinking they are going to negotiate China’s surrender. But things don’t go as planned, and the emissaries are imprisoned and tortured.”
“Ouch.”
“Needless to say, the British don’t take the news well.”
“So they attack the palace.”
“Not just attack,” said Sally. “British and French troops ransack the palace grounds, which were considered the pinnacle of Chinese culture at the time. Countless pieces of art, sculpture, jade, and silks looted or destroyed. The palace was so extensive it took four thousand men three days to trash the place.”
“Maria said the art is scattered across more than fifty museums today.”
“That’s why it’s such a big deal,” said Sally. “Anything taken during the ‘century of humiliation’ is considered by the government to be the rightful property of China.”
“Maria said the same thing, but why does a communist government give two hoots about artwork from an imperial dynasty?”
“They didn’t—until they realized the people did.”
“Portable patriotism.”
“Yup.” Sally nodded. “These paintings depict China when it was the envy of the world. Interest in traditional art was soaring when I lived in Hong Kong, and that was a long time ago.”
At the mention of Hong Kong, Cape asked, “How’s Grace?”
“At the loft.”
“I said how, not where.” Cape studied Sally’s expression. “Not like you to second guess.”
“My instinct was to keep her close,” said Sally, “but if we’re outnumbered—”
“—which is likely—”
“—and they bring guns—”
“—almost a certainty—”
“—then I don’t want her out in the open.”
“No one could break into your loft,” said Cape.
“I could,” said Sally.
“Not on the first try.”
“Maybe.”
“Besides,” said Cape. “He’d come here first.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Sally. “Now I’m not so sure.”
61
Fang was not so sure that blowing up the city hall building was the best use of his time.
His brother was inside the museum with the ghost, a man who would not hesitate to abandon or kill either one of them to effect his own escape. Fang didn’t work for the ghost. He worked for Freddie Wang, and his instructions were clear—appear cooperative but undermine the ghost at every turn. Come back to Freddie bearing gifts or don’t come back at all.
Fang reached the bottom of the steps and crossed the street to the park that lay between the museum and city hall. He debated whether to stay on the street and walk half a block north around the grass, until he noticed a path which ran straight through the center of the square. Ribbons of fog disintegrated when they hit the stone. The grass was crowded with sleeping bags and bonfires, but the cement trail was unobstructed.
Somewhere overhead was a full moon, but it was a diffuse gleam behind the downy fog. Fang imagined God pressing a pillow over the face of the city, a mercy killing before a fresh start.
A muffled voice called from the shadows as Fang passed the first bench on the right. Fang was startled but unafraid since he was holding three bombs. He paused mid-stride to scan both sides of the path. A pile of clothes on the nearest bench shuffled with a low moan.
A man more gray than pale sat up, rubbed his scraggly beard, and stared at Fang.
“Whatcha doin’?”
The voice was hollow, as if the lungs couldn’t be bothered to send enough air past the vocal cords. The figure was so non-threatening that Fang ignored any instinct to brush off the stranger or walk away. Instead, he answered truthfully.
“I’m going to blow up the city hall building.”
“Got a name?” The man swayed as if caught in a breeze that Fang couldn’t feel.
“Fang—”
“—m’name’s Frank.”
“I’m in kind of a hurry, Frank.”
Frank scratched his beard, then raised both hands and ran his nails back and forth across his scalp. “Need any help?”
Fang glanced over his shoulder at the museum and wondered what his brother was doing. He looked across the square and tried to guess how long it would take to walk there, climb the steps, then find a way inside. Security was always lax in these old granite buildings, and city officials never worked nights or weekends, but that didn’t mean a back door was left open for his convenience. He could lob a hockey puck through one of the windows, then run back to the museum to help his brother.
Then again, anyone could throw a hockey puck through a window.
Fang gave Frank an appraising look before saying, “Sure, that would be great.”
Frank scratched his beard again and stood. Half the rags fell away onto the bench; the others were draped over his shoulders like memories he couldn’t quite shake. “Let’s go.”
The two walked along the path a few feet before Frank tapped Fang on the shoulder and disappeared into the shadows. He returned a moment later accompanied by a younger man whose rust-colored hair peeked from under a gray hoodie.
“Who’s this?”
“Billy wants to help, too.”
Fang shrugged and kept walking. Twenty feet later a similar scene played out. Frank faded into the gloom, whispers and murmurs followed, then he reappeared with a friend in tow.
By the time Fang had gone halfway across the park, he led a nomadic band of two dozen discarded souls, their eyes locked on the blind, closed windows of city hall. Fang didn’t know how they ended up here, whether through some failure in the system or some fault of their own, but he could hear in the rhythm of their steps a dogged determination to confront the building ahead, even if it was empty.
Fang stopped and turned to face the group. He had gone far enough.
Frank stood closest, his eyes bright. Fang handed him the hockey pucks and explained how the buttons worked. He pointed out the plastic explosive and made it clear that dropping or throwing the disks before you were ready was a bad idea. He ran through it a second time to make sure nothing went boom before he could return to the museum.
Frank passed the second bomb to a small woman standing on his left.
“This is Maggie, she used to be a softball pitcher.”
“That’s great.” Fang smiled awkwardly at Maggie, who gave him a thumbs-up.
Fang felt like he should say something—make a speech, inspire the troops—but the threadbare throng looked to Frank, not him.
“Well, thanks for the help,” said Fang.
“Thanks for the opportunity,” said Maggie brightly.
A murmur of assent swept through the ranks.
“Thanks for the plastic explosives.” Frank held out his hand. “See you on the other side.”
“Yes,” said Fang as he shook hands. “See you on the other side.”
62
Grace swam to the other side of consciousness with a sudden rush of adrenaline.
Her eyes shot open, and her nostrils flared as her lungs sucked in as much oxygen as they could. She had a sense of being fully awake with no recollection of how, why, or when she’d fallen asleep.
Then she remembered.
Grace heard blood rushing in her ears and a rhythmic tattoo against her skull as her pulse quickened. She took another deep breath and told herself not to panic, but the room started spinning. Then the room started swinging back and forth, and Grace realized why she was so disoriented.
She was hanging upside down.
A rope had been tied around her right ankle. Grace was suspended ten feet off the floor. Her arms were akimbo, her long hair pointed at the floor, her left leg dangled at an awkward angle. Her right leg was numb where the rope encircled her ankle, and her arms felt thick from gravity’s pull on her blood.
She closed her eyes and took two more deep breaths, then opened them and twisted her neck slowly, trying to get a glimpse of her surroundings without swaying.
She was in a gallery at the museum. Grace recognized it instantly from the late nights with her uncle. This was where all the special exhibitions were held, artwork on loan from other museums or private collections.
It was a large room, a square twenty meters wide on each side. Paintings were hung in curated groupings on each of the walls. The floor was a choreographed maze of pedestals, false walls, and tables adorned by pottery, sculptures, and religious artifacts made by people long dead for cultures lost to time.
Grace bent at the waist and tried an inverted sit-up to reach her ankle, but she could see how elaborately the knot had been tied. She wished she had a pocketknife or sword from Sally’s dojo. She patted her pants pocket and realized she did have something. The button Sally had given her was still there. It hadn’t worked at the loft, but maybe she hadn’t pressed hard enough. She worried nothing could hurt a ghost, but it gave her a sense of satisfaction to not have lost it.
Grace swiveled her shoulders to rotate clockwise, craning her neck in all directions.
Empty space…paintings…marble floor…teapot…rhinoceros…vase…more paintings.
Grace was nearest the east wall, mere feet away from four paintings she recognized from a history lesson at school. Views of the Old Summer Palace. She wracked her memory for the name of the closest painting. Something about the past and present. She stretched her arms toward the painting, wondering if she could swing closer to the wall.
Her center of gravity shifted as she started to spin. Panicked, Grace flapped her arms like wings, hoping to counter the rotation. She froze when she heard footsteps. Someone was coming, but she couldn’t tell from which direction.
All Grace could do was swing back and forth, a solitary pendulum with nowhere to hide.
63
There was nowhere to hide beyond the shadow of city hall, so Ely and Pasha felt relieved when Freddie Wang’s soldier stopped in the middle of the park to confer with his homeless allies. When he turned and headed back to the museum, the Russian brothers bumped fists in the dark.
“Prevoskhodno,” said Ely. “All clear.”
Pasha gestured at the threadbare throng headed toward the building.
“What about them?”
“Not our problem,” said Ely.
Pasha peered across the park at their receding nemesis as he climbed the steps of the museum. “Let’s wait till he goes inside, then count to ten and follow.”
But Ely was already walking briskly along the perimeter of the park.
Pasha jogged to catch up. “Pritormozi brat.”
“We don’t want to miss any of the fun,” said Ely.
But Freddie’s ego demanded he mark his territory. He clearly didn’t believe the ghost answered to Beijing or the Triads, and he wanted to send them a signal. He wanted to play games.
Freddie failed to realize the ghost was very good at playing games.
Now that the heist had lost any subtlety, it made no difference if one brother was smarter. Both were expendable. Not only that, explosions could occur anywhere. Once things started to go boom, fire trucks would be dispatched. Police would come running but keep their distance until special units could be deployed. Minutes lost. Whether terrorists or gas leaks, explosions slowed things down just long enough for a thief to vanish in the night.
Freddie wanted the ghost to leave his city, fine. He would leave it in ruins. But first he had to deal with the problem of the Little Dragon.
The ghost had brought Grace to the museum and held her now, not indelicately, in his arms. She regained consciousness once during the trip over, but pressure on the nerve cluster at the base of her neck put her down again. Hard to gauge with adolescents, but he estimated another fifteen to thirty minutes before she opened her eyes.
He looked at the three boxed forgeries on the ground to his left. They were light enough to hoist up to the balcony after he’d climbed the balustrade. He was originally going to enlist one of the brothers to help steal the real paintings, but now he didn’t trust them at all.
Guĭ shifted Grace’s inert body and hoisted her over his shoulder, then pulled the strap of the cloth bag slung over his back. He reached inside and removed three hockey pucks, then handed them to the twin on the left. The ghost grabbed three more, which went to the other brother.
Fang and Feng turned the disks over in their hands.
The hockey pucks had been hollowed out, the centers packed with C-4 plastic explosives. The side of each disk had a small red button connected to a fuse on a five-second delay. The blast that had turned the private detective’s car into a flying hibachi was triggered by remote detonator, a much more sophisticated device. By contrast, these disks were makeshift grenades which demanded a delicate sense of timing and an ability to run very fast in the opposite direction.
The ghost smiled at the simplicity of his new plan.
Guĭ raised a cadaverous arm and gestured down the steps of the museum. With a dramatic flourish he extended a pallid finger across the square, over the heads of the homeless. He pointed directly toward San Francisco City Hall.
Fang and Feng followed his line of sight to the crimson dome.
“You see that building?” asked the ghost.
The two brothers nodded, wide-eyed, but didn’t say anything.
The ghost pointed at the brother on his left. “I want you to blow it up.” The other twin opened his mouth, but the ghost held up a pale palm. “You…will carry the forgeries and come with me.”
“To do what?”
“You’re going to blow up the museum,” said the ghost. “From the inside.”
60
From inside the museum, it was obvious to Sally why the helicopter thieves had thought it would be smart to break through the skylight.
She counted at least nine points of entry across various sections of glass at the Asian Art Museum. Windows made the building more welcoming and displayed the art in a natural light, but they introduced several vulnerabilities.
The helicopter had been brazen but unnecessary. Sally managed to climb onto the roof using a grappling hook and knotted rope. It wasn’t easy but wasn’t particularly hard, either.
The masterminds who recommended a helicopter clearly watched too many action movies or simply didn’t know the city. Sally suspected the plan was to transport the stolen art quickly, and loading paintings into a van would leave them exposed on the street. That might be problematic in a town with routine police patrols, but San Francisco’s budget cuts had led to a shortage of uniformed cops that kept the downtown streets deserted after dark.
Stores had been looted so incessantly that plywood covering the windows was installed permanently. Half the storefronts were empty and had been for over a year. The few businesses still operating downtown cut their hours so their staff could leave before sunset. The only people on the streets were those who had already lost more than anyone could take.
The city by the bay had become a ghost town.
Now all we need is a ghost.
Sally walked across the first floor of the museum, past the gift shop, until she came to the Wilbur Grand Staircase, a marble marvel of craftsmanship regularly featured in society pages and countless wedding photos. The staircase was broad enough for six people to walk abreast, each step shallow, so climbing to the second floor took much longer than taking the escalator on the other side of the museum.
The stairs were flanked by walls of amber marble. Overhead was an arched, coffered ceiling of illuminated hexagons. At the top of the stairs a golden chandelier overhung the second-floor landing.
A stone balustrade surrounded the staircase on three sides, low enough for anyone to peer over the edge. Sally held the ancient calvary sword at her left side and scanned the gaps between the banister’s pillars as she climbed.
Cape was waiting at the top of the stairs.
“You’re late,” said Sally. “What happened?”
“There was a bonfire at the beach,” said Cape. “I volunteered to be one of the s’mores.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Yep.” Cape glanced down the empty staircase, then back the way he had come.
“Where’s Maria?” asked Sally.
“Finishing up in the security room, making sure the code also disabled the cameras from recording.”
“This plan of yours—”
“—isn’t going to work,” said Cape. “I know.”
“We’re out of time,” said Sally. “And you’re hurt.” She waited until Cape wheezed his next breath. “Badly.”
“There’s no downside to trying,” said Cape.
“There’s a downside to dying.”
Cape ignored the jibe. “The plan had three parts—distract, delay, and capture.”
“The capture part involved police cooperation,” said Sally. “Which you don’t have.”
“I have a new plan,” said Cape. “Distract, delay, and—”
“—kill.”
Cape frowned. “I was going to say ‘chaos.’”
“I like my plan better,” said Sally.
“Let’s focus on the first two parts of the plan, okay?”
“Let’s check the gallery.”
As they moved away from the staircase, Cape asked, “What’s the big deal with these paintings again?”
“I thought Maria explained it already.” Sally half-smiled. “Using little words.”
“She did,” said Cape, “but I might have been distracted.”
“By her, or by the case?”
“No comment.”
“Going to pay attention this time?”
“You can quiz me later.”
“Nineteenth century,” said Sally, “toward the end of the second Opium War. The Summer Palace is already being looted by foreign soldiers when a British contingent arrives in Beijing, thinking they are going to negotiate China’s surrender. But things don’t go as planned, and the emissaries are imprisoned and tortured.”
“Ouch.”
“Needless to say, the British don’t take the news well.”
“So they attack the palace.”
“Not just attack,” said Sally. “British and French troops ransack the palace grounds, which were considered the pinnacle of Chinese culture at the time. Countless pieces of art, sculpture, jade, and silks looted or destroyed. The palace was so extensive it took four thousand men three days to trash the place.”
“Maria said the art is scattered across more than fifty museums today.”
“That’s why it’s such a big deal,” said Sally. “Anything taken during the ‘century of humiliation’ is considered by the government to be the rightful property of China.”
“Maria said the same thing, but why does a communist government give two hoots about artwork from an imperial dynasty?”
“They didn’t—until they realized the people did.”
“Portable patriotism.”
“Yup.” Sally nodded. “These paintings depict China when it was the envy of the world. Interest in traditional art was soaring when I lived in Hong Kong, and that was a long time ago.”
At the mention of Hong Kong, Cape asked, “How’s Grace?”
“At the loft.”
“I said how, not where.” Cape studied Sally’s expression. “Not like you to second guess.”
“My instinct was to keep her close,” said Sally, “but if we’re outnumbered—”
“—which is likely—”
“—and they bring guns—”
“—almost a certainty—”
“—then I don’t want her out in the open.”
“No one could break into your loft,” said Cape.
“I could,” said Sally.
“Not on the first try.”
“Maybe.”
“Besides,” said Cape. “He’d come here first.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Sally. “Now I’m not so sure.”
61
Fang was not so sure that blowing up the city hall building was the best use of his time.
His brother was inside the museum with the ghost, a man who would not hesitate to abandon or kill either one of them to effect his own escape. Fang didn’t work for the ghost. He worked for Freddie Wang, and his instructions were clear—appear cooperative but undermine the ghost at every turn. Come back to Freddie bearing gifts or don’t come back at all.
Fang reached the bottom of the steps and crossed the street to the park that lay between the museum and city hall. He debated whether to stay on the street and walk half a block north around the grass, until he noticed a path which ran straight through the center of the square. Ribbons of fog disintegrated when they hit the stone. The grass was crowded with sleeping bags and bonfires, but the cement trail was unobstructed.
Somewhere overhead was a full moon, but it was a diffuse gleam behind the downy fog. Fang imagined God pressing a pillow over the face of the city, a mercy killing before a fresh start.
A muffled voice called from the shadows as Fang passed the first bench on the right. Fang was startled but unafraid since he was holding three bombs. He paused mid-stride to scan both sides of the path. A pile of clothes on the nearest bench shuffled with a low moan.
A man more gray than pale sat up, rubbed his scraggly beard, and stared at Fang.
“Whatcha doin’?”
The voice was hollow, as if the lungs couldn’t be bothered to send enough air past the vocal cords. The figure was so non-threatening that Fang ignored any instinct to brush off the stranger or walk away. Instead, he answered truthfully.
“I’m going to blow up the city hall building.”
“Got a name?” The man swayed as if caught in a breeze that Fang couldn’t feel.
“Fang—”
“—m’name’s Frank.”
“I’m in kind of a hurry, Frank.”
Frank scratched his beard, then raised both hands and ran his nails back and forth across his scalp. “Need any help?”
Fang glanced over his shoulder at the museum and wondered what his brother was doing. He looked across the square and tried to guess how long it would take to walk there, climb the steps, then find a way inside. Security was always lax in these old granite buildings, and city officials never worked nights or weekends, but that didn’t mean a back door was left open for his convenience. He could lob a hockey puck through one of the windows, then run back to the museum to help his brother.
Then again, anyone could throw a hockey puck through a window.
Fang gave Frank an appraising look before saying, “Sure, that would be great.”
Frank scratched his beard again and stood. Half the rags fell away onto the bench; the others were draped over his shoulders like memories he couldn’t quite shake. “Let’s go.”
The two walked along the path a few feet before Frank tapped Fang on the shoulder and disappeared into the shadows. He returned a moment later accompanied by a younger man whose rust-colored hair peeked from under a gray hoodie.
“Who’s this?”
“Billy wants to help, too.”
Fang shrugged and kept walking. Twenty feet later a similar scene played out. Frank faded into the gloom, whispers and murmurs followed, then he reappeared with a friend in tow.
By the time Fang had gone halfway across the park, he led a nomadic band of two dozen discarded souls, their eyes locked on the blind, closed windows of city hall. Fang didn’t know how they ended up here, whether through some failure in the system or some fault of their own, but he could hear in the rhythm of their steps a dogged determination to confront the building ahead, even if it was empty.
Fang stopped and turned to face the group. He had gone far enough.
Frank stood closest, his eyes bright. Fang handed him the hockey pucks and explained how the buttons worked. He pointed out the plastic explosive and made it clear that dropping or throwing the disks before you were ready was a bad idea. He ran through it a second time to make sure nothing went boom before he could return to the museum.
Frank passed the second bomb to a small woman standing on his left.
“This is Maggie, she used to be a softball pitcher.”
“That’s great.” Fang smiled awkwardly at Maggie, who gave him a thumbs-up.
Fang felt like he should say something—make a speech, inspire the troops—but the threadbare throng looked to Frank, not him.
“Well, thanks for the help,” said Fang.
“Thanks for the opportunity,” said Maggie brightly.
A murmur of assent swept through the ranks.
“Thanks for the plastic explosives.” Frank held out his hand. “See you on the other side.”
“Yes,” said Fang as he shook hands. “See you on the other side.”
62
Grace swam to the other side of consciousness with a sudden rush of adrenaline.
Her eyes shot open, and her nostrils flared as her lungs sucked in as much oxygen as they could. She had a sense of being fully awake with no recollection of how, why, or when she’d fallen asleep.
Then she remembered.
Grace heard blood rushing in her ears and a rhythmic tattoo against her skull as her pulse quickened. She took another deep breath and told herself not to panic, but the room started spinning. Then the room started swinging back and forth, and Grace realized why she was so disoriented.
She was hanging upside down.
A rope had been tied around her right ankle. Grace was suspended ten feet off the floor. Her arms were akimbo, her long hair pointed at the floor, her left leg dangled at an awkward angle. Her right leg was numb where the rope encircled her ankle, and her arms felt thick from gravity’s pull on her blood.
She closed her eyes and took two more deep breaths, then opened them and twisted her neck slowly, trying to get a glimpse of her surroundings without swaying.
She was in a gallery at the museum. Grace recognized it instantly from the late nights with her uncle. This was where all the special exhibitions were held, artwork on loan from other museums or private collections.
It was a large room, a square twenty meters wide on each side. Paintings were hung in curated groupings on each of the walls. The floor was a choreographed maze of pedestals, false walls, and tables adorned by pottery, sculptures, and religious artifacts made by people long dead for cultures lost to time.
Grace bent at the waist and tried an inverted sit-up to reach her ankle, but she could see how elaborately the knot had been tied. She wished she had a pocketknife or sword from Sally’s dojo. She patted her pants pocket and realized she did have something. The button Sally had given her was still there. It hadn’t worked at the loft, but maybe she hadn’t pressed hard enough. She worried nothing could hurt a ghost, but it gave her a sense of satisfaction to not have lost it.
Grace swiveled her shoulders to rotate clockwise, craning her neck in all directions.
Empty space…paintings…marble floor…teapot…rhinoceros…vase…more paintings.
Grace was nearest the east wall, mere feet away from four paintings she recognized from a history lesson at school. Views of the Old Summer Palace. She wracked her memory for the name of the closest painting. Something about the past and present. She stretched her arms toward the painting, wondering if she could swing closer to the wall.
Her center of gravity shifted as she started to spin. Panicked, Grace flapped her arms like wings, hoping to counter the rotation. She froze when she heard footsteps. Someone was coming, but she couldn’t tell from which direction.
All Grace could do was swing back and forth, a solitary pendulum with nowhere to hide.
63
There was nowhere to hide beyond the shadow of city hall, so Ely and Pasha felt relieved when Freddie Wang’s soldier stopped in the middle of the park to confer with his homeless allies. When he turned and headed back to the museum, the Russian brothers bumped fists in the dark.
“Prevoskhodno,” said Ely. “All clear.”
Pasha gestured at the threadbare throng headed toward the building.
“What about them?”
“Not our problem,” said Ely.
Pasha peered across the park at their receding nemesis as he climbed the steps of the museum. “Let’s wait till he goes inside, then count to ten and follow.”
But Ely was already walking briskly along the perimeter of the park.
Pasha jogged to catch up. “Pritormozi brat.”
“We don’t want to miss any of the fun,” said Ely.
