Yet suddenly they had dropped out of school and headed for Europe. There was a small item in a Boston paper about a fuel truck and a school bus and a possible attempted kidnapping. It was the lack of detail that bothered him. Small article, then nothing. Schoolchildren had been endangered. Usually, Americans went crazy over things like that.
And within a few days these two kids had stolen a priceless painting from the Uffizi. A theft so cool and daring it must have been done by professionals.
But it had been done by children.
Then there was the strange accusation from an American student that Dan and Amy Cahill had stolen the first edition of Marco Polo’s manuscript … a manuscript that didn’t even exist. The accusation had been buried in a file, but Vanek had found it, because he didn’t sleep much and he had a seed in his tooth.
They’d been on the Zurich train, he was sure of it. That’s why he had the train stopped at the border. Somewhere between there and Lucerne, they had gotten off. But where did they get off? And how did they get off?
Kids could disappear more easily than adults. People didn’t notice kids. And these kids were so … neutral. So bland in that American way.
His partner came out of the ladies’ room. Most women when they exited a bathroom appeared with newly brushed hair, a fresh swipe of lipstick. Not Luna Amato. She went in looking like a slightly rumpled Italian grandmother and came out looking like a slightly rumpled Italian grandmother. Gray hair curling around her face. Black dress, flat shoes, unfashionable jacket with a coffee stain on the sleeve. Sharp brown eyes that could look vacant, kind, or merciless, depending on the situation.
He’d never worked with her before, but he needed someone who could blend in. Someone who could approach the kids and not scare them. He knew they’d been close to their grandmother, Grace Cahill. He’d been betting that they’d be suckers for someone her age.
Amato sat down and fished an ice cube out of her water glass. She plopped it in her coffee. He’d worked with her for three days now and the only thing he knew about her was that coffee was always too hot for her taste.
She took a sip. “Zurich,” she said. “I think they went on to Zurich. They could have taken any number of trains from the station. The city is bigger. More places to fence the artwork. I say we head there.”
Vanek nodded. She could be right. It was logical, a good deduction. And yet …
The seed in his tooth. The nagging feeling that they were close.
“You could be right,” he said. “But first, let’s see what we can find in Lucerne.”
“I can’t do this,” Dan said.
Amy and Dan stood on an exclusive shopping street in Lucerne. Steps ahead they saw the stone front of the expensive boutique Ian had told them about. One item hung on a skeletal hanger in the window, something black and tiny that appeared to be a dress or a tunic, or maybe a shirt?
If she couldn’t even identify the clothing, how could she pass herself off as a fashionista?
“We just stole a painting and smuggled ourselves off a train,” Amy said, trying to sound confident. “And we can’t shop?”
“Don’t make me.” Dan gave her a mute look of appeal. “Can’t you do it?”
“No.” Amy felt her phone vibrate. She held it up. It was from Ian.
DON’T ASK THE PRICE OF ANYTHING. DON’T SMILE. DON’T SAY “DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING CHEAPER?” DON’T
Amy shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Just pretend to be Ian,” she told Dan. “Come on, the auction is in an hour.”
They pushed open the frosted glass door. There appeared to be about ten garments in the whole store, each separated by a foot of polished stainless steel rod. Amy stopped, confused. She was used to the cheerful jumble of fabrics and colors at the stores at the mall. But mostly she shopped on the Internet, finding one sweater she liked and ordering it in a couple of colors – usually navy, black, or gray. Last Christmas, when the Kabras had visited, Natalie’s eyes had flicked over her sweater and skirt and said, “Is this a holiday, Amy, or did somebody die?”
When they had been enemies, Natalie would have punctuated the remark with a cruel smirk, but this time, she’d just shaken her head and laughed. And given Amy a beautiful wool scarf in a heathery blue for the holiday that Amy had worn every day.
Of course, a month later Amy had received the bill.
Dan was doing his best Ian Kabra impersonation, looking around the store as though inspecting it for cockroaches. Amy tried to turn her snort of laughter into a cough.
“Espresso?” The saleswoman materialized seemingly out of nowhere. Amy realized that the full-length mirror on the wall was actually a door.
If she were Amy Cahill, she would blush and shake her head no, just because she didn’t want to cause any bother. She imagined what Natalie Kabra would do.
“Tea. Darjeeling,” she said in a curt tone.
“Oh, not Darjeeling, sis,” Dan said. “That’s just so middle class.”
“Lapsang souchong?” the saleswoman asked.
“I just adored his last collection,” Dan said.
The woman’s tight smile dimmed. “That’s a tea,” she said through pursed lips. For the first time, her icy gaze traveled over their bulging backpacks and settled on their hiking shoes.
“Of course it is,” Amy said. “My brother and I are on holiday,” she added carelessly. “We came straight from boarding school and we’re heading to our chalet, but Mummy has arranged some parties, and we thought we’d pick up a few things.”
The woman appraised them coolly. It was clear that she didn’t believe Amy at all. “Perhaps you’ll be more comfortable in a department store.”
Amy didn’t reply. She remembered that about Ian and Natalie – they never reacted to something they didn’t want to acknowledge. They just pretended the person hadn’t said it at all. She handed the saleswoman a credit card. “Why don’t you take this? We don’t want to waste time. Just set up an account.”
The saleswoman bit her lip. “I’ll only be a moment,” she said curtly. When she returned, she must have checked out the credit limit of the card, because she was wearing a wide smile.
“Please follow me,” she said graciously. “My name is Greta.”
Greta led them into a private room with plush sofas and a wall of mirrors. An empty rack lined the other wall. She disappeared again, then reappeared with an armload of clothes. Amy gulped. So this was how rich people shopped. They didn’t even have to lift a hanger. They just had things brought to them.
For the next half hour, Amy and Dan almost drowned in silks, featherweight cashmeres, and supple leather shoes. Amy was overwhelmed, but she knew she needed to be efficient. Within thirty minutes they walked out of the store in new, impeccably tailored cashmere jackets, Dan in black and Amy in camel. Underneath she wore a green dress with heeled boots. Dan balked at the ties but chose a black sweater that Amy deemed Ian-worthy. The last thing Amy asked of Greta, now their best friend, was to call up a private car and driver.
“Do you know how much this purse cost?” she whispered to Dan as they sat in the backseat on the way to the auction house. She pointed to the large leather satchel on the floor. “More than a year at a fancy private school!”
“‘Everyone needs a statement bag,’” Dan said, mimicking the saleswoman’s accent.
Amy directed the driver to pull the limo up in front of the auction house. It was a white building that looked like a large manor house.
“It’s too bad we couldn’t get any images of the interior,” Dan said.
The people going inside the heavy brass doors looked so … important. So self-assured.