don’t know it,” Kat said, sensing his disappointment.
“It is called Girl Praying to Saint Nicholas ,” Mr. Stein said, gazing at the picture again and then at Kat. “It is a long, long way from home.”
Mr. Stein studied Kat closely.
“Your mother used to sit in that very chair and listen to this old man rant about the lines on maps and laws in books that, even decades later, can stand between right and wrong. Countries with their laws of provenance,” he scoffed. “Museums with fake bills of sale.”
Mr. Stein’s sadness turned to fervor. “And that is why your mother came to this room. . . . She told me that sometimes it takes a thief to catch a thief.” His eyes shone. “You’re going to steal these paintings, aren’t you, Katarina?”
Kat wanted to explain everything, but right then the truth seemed like the cruelest thing of all.
“Mr. Stein.” Hale’s voice was calm and even. “I’m afraid it’s a very long story.”
The man nodded. “I see.” He looked at Kat in the way of a man who had long since given up trying to right all the wrongs of the world himself.
“The men who took Dancer Waiting in the Wings from the Schulhoffs’ dining room wall were evil, my dear. The men those men gave it to were evil. These paintings were traded for terrible favors in terrible times.” Mr. Stein took a deep breath. “No one good could have that group of paintings, Katarina.” Kat nodded. “So wherever you have to go”—he stood—“whatever you have to do—”
He reached out his hand. And when Kat’s small hand was wrapped in his own, he looked into her eyes and said, “Be careful.”
Standing on Abiram Stein’s front steps, facing the street, Kat felt very different from when she’d stood in that same spot forty minutes earlier, facing the door. Suspicions were facts. Fears were real. And ghosts were alive as she stood where her mother had once stood, unsure how to follow in her footsteps.
“It was good to see you again, Katarina,” Mr. Stein called from the doorway. “When I realized who you were . . .”
“Yes?” she asked, and Mr. Stein smiled.
“I thought perhaps you were here because of what happened at the Henley.”
Hale was already at the car, but mention of the best museum in the world caught his attention. “What happened at the Henley?”
Mr. Stein laughed a quick, throaty laugh. “You two should know better than I. It was robbed .” He whispered that last word. “Or so they say,” he added with a shrug, and despite everything, Kat managed to smile.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Stein. I’m afraid I’ve been in no position to rob the Henley.”
“Oh.” The older man nodded. “I know. The police, they are looking for someone already—a man named Visily Romani.”
There are two dozen truly great museums in the world. Maybe two dozen and one if you don’t mind the crowds at the Louvre, Kat’s father always said. But, of course, even great museums are not created equal. Some are nothing but old houses with high ceilings and gorgeous moldings, a few security cameras, and minimum-wage guards. Some hire consultants and get their equipment from the CIA.
And then there is the Henley.
“So this is the Henley,” Hale said as they strolled through the great glass hall. His hands were in his pockets, and his hair was still damp from a shower. “It’s smaller than I expected.”
Kat had to stop. “You’ve never been to the Henley?”
He cocked his head. “Should alcoholics go to liquor stores?”
Kat kept walking. “Point taken.”
There were nine official entrances to the Henley, and Kat was actually a little bit proud of herself for choosing the main doors (or any door, truth be told). Maybe she was maturing. Or maybe she was lazy. Or maybe she just loved the Henley foyer.
Two stories of glass cut at dozens of angles framed the entrance. It was part solarium, part grand hall. Part sauna. The sun beat down, and despite the chilly wind that blew outside,
“It is called Girl Praying to Saint Nicholas ,” Mr. Stein said, gazing at the picture again and then at Kat. “It is a long, long way from home.”
Mr. Stein studied Kat closely.
“Your mother used to sit in that very chair and listen to this old man rant about the lines on maps and laws in books that, even decades later, can stand between right and wrong. Countries with their laws of provenance,” he scoffed. “Museums with fake bills of sale.”
Mr. Stein’s sadness turned to fervor. “And that is why your mother came to this room. . . . She told me that sometimes it takes a thief to catch a thief.” His eyes shone. “You’re going to steal these paintings, aren’t you, Katarina?”
Kat wanted to explain everything, but right then the truth seemed like the cruelest thing of all.
“Mr. Stein.” Hale’s voice was calm and even. “I’m afraid it’s a very long story.”
The man nodded. “I see.” He looked at Kat in the way of a man who had long since given up trying to right all the wrongs of the world himself.
“The men who took Dancer Waiting in the Wings from the Schulhoffs’ dining room wall were evil, my dear. The men those men gave it to were evil. These paintings were traded for terrible favors in terrible times.” Mr. Stein took a deep breath. “No one good could have that group of paintings, Katarina.” Kat nodded. “So wherever you have to go”—he stood—“whatever you have to do—”
He reached out his hand. And when Kat’s small hand was wrapped in his own, he looked into her eyes and said, “Be careful.”
Standing on Abiram Stein’s front steps, facing the street, Kat felt very different from when she’d stood in that same spot forty minutes earlier, facing the door. Suspicions were facts. Fears were real. And ghosts were alive as she stood where her mother had once stood, unsure how to follow in her footsteps.
“It was good to see you again, Katarina,” Mr. Stein called from the doorway. “When I realized who you were . . .”
“Yes?” she asked, and Mr. Stein smiled.
“I thought perhaps you were here because of what happened at the Henley.”
Hale was already at the car, but mention of the best museum in the world caught his attention. “What happened at the Henley?”
Mr. Stein laughed a quick, throaty laugh. “You two should know better than I. It was robbed .” He whispered that last word. “Or so they say,” he added with a shrug, and despite everything, Kat managed to smile.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Stein. I’m afraid I’ve been in no position to rob the Henley.”
“Oh.” The older man nodded. “I know. The police, they are looking for someone already—a man named Visily Romani.”
There are two dozen truly great museums in the world. Maybe two dozen and one if you don’t mind the crowds at the Louvre, Kat’s father always said. But, of course, even great museums are not created equal. Some are nothing but old houses with high ceilings and gorgeous moldings, a few security cameras, and minimum-wage guards. Some hire consultants and get their equipment from the CIA.
And then there is the Henley.
“So this is the Henley,” Hale said as they strolled through the great glass hall. His hands were in his pockets, and his hair was still damp from a shower. “It’s smaller than I expected.”
Kat had to stop. “You’ve never been to the Henley?”
He cocked his head. “Should alcoholics go to liquor stores?”
Kat kept walking. “Point taken.”
There were nine official entrances to the Henley, and Kat was actually a little bit proud of herself for choosing the main doors (or any door, truth be told). Maybe she was maturing. Or maybe she was lazy. Or maybe she just loved the Henley foyer.
Two stories of glass cut at dozens of angles framed the entrance. It was part solarium, part grand hall. Part sauna. The sun beat down, and despite the chilly wind that blew outside,
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