name?”
“Harold. No, Harry. That’s it, Harry.” He scratched his head. “Didn’t get a last name for certain, though I remember it was a color. Black, brown, gray. Should’ve paid more attention. Sorry. He was a scruffy fellow. Dropped it off an hour ago. I gave him two hundred for it. I wasn’t going to give him that much, but he kept dickering. Just an ugly piece of wood, but he wouldn’t take less. Said there was more Egyptian—”
“Find this Harry Black, Brown, or Gray for me. Now. I want the address of the apartment.”
Perhaps some of the other items stolen from the museum in Minya were also in the Eighty-Fifth apartment that Harry had plundered. Perhaps there were more ancient treasures to be had.
She loved very old things.
***
Eight
Bridget selected the darkest spot in the alley and scaled the wall. She used titanium hand claws, similar to Shiobi Spikes or what lumberjacks favored, but sharp enough to bite into the mortar between the bricks and give her purchase. The building was one of several prewar apartment complexes in the area. Its front had been given a serious and elegant facelift. The side in this alley had been left to deteriorate.
She knew other ways into this building, but tonight she craved the physical activity and the heady danger of the climb. Her skin itched with the anticipation of what she might find—another shabti, a piece of jewelry, a bowl, or maybe a death mask … anything that might have been taken from the Malawi National Museum or Yuya’s tomb, something valuable because of its age and significance, but more because of the images she would read from it.
Dear God, let it be another shabti. Let Egypt’s misfortune from all those riots be my gain.
Bridget’s target was on the tenth. There were only two apartments to a floor, and Bridget knew she had the correct side. The Internet was a marvelous thing, and a quick search on it had yielded various blueprints, notes about security, floor plans, a listing of tenants, and even pictures of the views from many of the windows. The Internet had also provided a little bit about the apartment occupant: Elijah Stone, forty-six, independent investment consultant. Born in Connecticut, Stone previously worked as a stock broker, operations manager for a NYC securities firm, and served as public relations director for a Manhattan medical device research corporation.
The sounds of the city came muted to her as she climbed, deadened by the cocoon of stone and the hour. Always there was traffic, but not a lot on the street at the moment. From her perch she spotted a New York Times van pass by, followed by a Greyhound bus. The scent of the belched exhaust was cut here, and the air did not smell too tainted. She breathed deep.
Scaling ten floors was not a terribly daunting task; even with her bruised ribs she could do this in her sleep. Bridget kept herself in shape by an unorthodox exercise routine that included regular hikes to the eighty-sixth floor observation deck of the Empire State Building. She even competed in the annual Run-Up, and held back just enough so she wasn’t one of the fastest times; she didn’t want her picture in the paper. One thousand five hundred and seventy-six steps, the lower third taken two at a time. Occasionally she would also jog up to the observation deck on the one hundred and second floor at the very top, but that stairwell wasn’t always open, and she wasn’t about to pick the lock in such a public place for the two hundred and eighty-four additional steps.
Ten floors by scaling the wall tonight? It was not so onerous, and yet it held a shade of risk to keep it interesting.
Her muscles bunched as she pulled herself up. She used her arms, letting her legs hang free. Bridget relished the burn she started to feel. She seldom burglarized apartments anymore; she’d done that often enough in her youth. Now, more the businesswoman, she made arrangements for illicit shipments and orchestrated
“Harold. No, Harry. That’s it, Harry.” He scratched his head. “Didn’t get a last name for certain, though I remember it was a color. Black, brown, gray. Should’ve paid more attention. Sorry. He was a scruffy fellow. Dropped it off an hour ago. I gave him two hundred for it. I wasn’t going to give him that much, but he kept dickering. Just an ugly piece of wood, but he wouldn’t take less. Said there was more Egyptian—”
“Find this Harry Black, Brown, or Gray for me. Now. I want the address of the apartment.”
Perhaps some of the other items stolen from the museum in Minya were also in the Eighty-Fifth apartment that Harry had plundered. Perhaps there were more ancient treasures to be had.
She loved very old things.
***
Eight
Bridget selected the darkest spot in the alley and scaled the wall. She used titanium hand claws, similar to Shiobi Spikes or what lumberjacks favored, but sharp enough to bite into the mortar between the bricks and give her purchase. The building was one of several prewar apartment complexes in the area. Its front had been given a serious and elegant facelift. The side in this alley had been left to deteriorate.
She knew other ways into this building, but tonight she craved the physical activity and the heady danger of the climb. Her skin itched with the anticipation of what she might find—another shabti, a piece of jewelry, a bowl, or maybe a death mask … anything that might have been taken from the Malawi National Museum or Yuya’s tomb, something valuable because of its age and significance, but more because of the images she would read from it.
Dear God, let it be another shabti. Let Egypt’s misfortune from all those riots be my gain.
Bridget’s target was on the tenth. There were only two apartments to a floor, and Bridget knew she had the correct side. The Internet was a marvelous thing, and a quick search on it had yielded various blueprints, notes about security, floor plans, a listing of tenants, and even pictures of the views from many of the windows. The Internet had also provided a little bit about the apartment occupant: Elijah Stone, forty-six, independent investment consultant. Born in Connecticut, Stone previously worked as a stock broker, operations manager for a NYC securities firm, and served as public relations director for a Manhattan medical device research corporation.
The sounds of the city came muted to her as she climbed, deadened by the cocoon of stone and the hour. Always there was traffic, but not a lot on the street at the moment. From her perch she spotted a New York Times van pass by, followed by a Greyhound bus. The scent of the belched exhaust was cut here, and the air did not smell too tainted. She breathed deep.
Scaling ten floors was not a terribly daunting task; even with her bruised ribs she could do this in her sleep. Bridget kept herself in shape by an unorthodox exercise routine that included regular hikes to the eighty-sixth floor observation deck of the Empire State Building. She even competed in the annual Run-Up, and held back just enough so she wasn’t one of the fastest times; she didn’t want her picture in the paper. One thousand five hundred and seventy-six steps, the lower third taken two at a time. Occasionally she would also jog up to the observation deck on the one hundred and second floor at the very top, but that stairwell wasn’t always open, and she wasn’t about to pick the lock in such a public place for the two hundred and eighty-four additional steps.
Ten floors by scaling the wall tonight? It was not so onerous, and yet it held a shade of risk to keep it interesting.
Her muscles bunched as she pulled herself up. She used her arms, letting her legs hang free. Bridget relished the burn she started to feel. She seldom burglarized apartments anymore; she’d done that often enough in her youth. Now, more the businesswoman, she made arrangements for illicit shipments and orchestrated
Similar Books
