nearby outlet. He switched on his headlamp and climbed into the duct, pushing the knapsack with the saw on top of it ahead of them. Kate followed, pulling the grate back into place, crawling along behind Nick.
“How do you know where you’re going?” Kate asked Nick.
“I did some research, and I’ve got a sketch. It’s pretty straightforward.”
They went a few yards farther and reached a junction with another duct that went up to the vent in the plaza, four stories above their heads.
“X marks the spot,” Nick said.
He unzipped the knapsack, removed two respirator masks, goggles, and ear protectors, and handed one set to Kate. He took the saw, lifted it into the duct above his head, and stood. He checked his watch. Two minutes until showtime.
Willie Owens drove along the Cartagena waterfront on Paseo Alfonso XII in a rented Opel Corsa hatchback with the windows rolled down and the music on the radio cranked up as loud it could go.
She headed into the underground garage at the port plaza, stopped at the automated kiosk, and punched the button for a ticket. The gate arm went up. She made sure her seat belt was securely latched and then lifted her foot off the brake and let the car pick up speed as it went down the steep ramp.
The car sped on pure momentum across the first floor of the parking garage and rocketed onto the ramp down to the second level. As she rounded the tight curve without using her brakes, she purposely scraped the car along the wall, shearing off her driver’s side mirror and setting off a spray of sparks. The car continued to pick up speed, helped by a tap on the gas pedal.
She shot off the ramp like a batted pinball and grazed a row of parked cars on her driver’s side, ripping off fenders and shattering taillights. Car alarms shrieked in her destructive wake.
Willie wrenched the wheel sharply to the right to avoid the next ramp and drove down the next aisle, sideswiping another row of cars along her passenger side. She sheared off her remaining mirror and triggered more alarms before she finally turned the wheel hard to the left and intentionally slammed into the rear of an Audi. She clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the impact. The airbag in her steering wheel burst in her face. She quickly pushed it away and decided that the little car she’d thought might be a hunk of junk was really a lot of fun to drive.
Willie was still extricating herself from the airbag when a security guard wrenched the driver’s door open and helped her out of the car. Two more guards arrived, all asking questions, shouting to be heard over the alarms and the music. They were able to turn off the radio, but the car alarms continued to blare, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.
One of the guards helped Willie walk up the ramp to the plaza, where an ambulance was pulling up, siren wailing.
“I’m okay,” Willie said, waving the ambulance attendants away. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“What happened?” the guard asked in halting English, holding her arm to keep her steady.
“The brakes on my rental car went out as I was going down the ramp. I tried to slow myself down by grazing the wall, but it didn’t do much good. It’s a good thing I signed up for the insurance.”
Nick began cutting into the duct the instant he heard the first car alarm. Over the next ten minutes, he cut an opening through the four inches of sheet metal and concrete that was large enough for him and Kate to climb through.
By the time the alarms were extinguished and the chaos in the garage had subsided, Nick and Kate had climbed into an adjoining duct, dropped into a cross duct, and were crawling over the museum ceiling. It was an antiquated system with larger ducts than would be used now, but even at that it was tight.
Nick stopped when he reached the air grate above the conservation room that contained the treasure from the
Nuestra Señora de Santa Maria.
He looked down through the vent,
“How do you know where you’re going?” Kate asked Nick.
“I did some research, and I’ve got a sketch. It’s pretty straightforward.”
They went a few yards farther and reached a junction with another duct that went up to the vent in the plaza, four stories above their heads.
“X marks the spot,” Nick said.
He unzipped the knapsack, removed two respirator masks, goggles, and ear protectors, and handed one set to Kate. He took the saw, lifted it into the duct above his head, and stood. He checked his watch. Two minutes until showtime.
Willie Owens drove along the Cartagena waterfront on Paseo Alfonso XII in a rented Opel Corsa hatchback with the windows rolled down and the music on the radio cranked up as loud it could go.
She headed into the underground garage at the port plaza, stopped at the automated kiosk, and punched the button for a ticket. The gate arm went up. She made sure her seat belt was securely latched and then lifted her foot off the brake and let the car pick up speed as it went down the steep ramp.
The car sped on pure momentum across the first floor of the parking garage and rocketed onto the ramp down to the second level. As she rounded the tight curve without using her brakes, she purposely scraped the car along the wall, shearing off her driver’s side mirror and setting off a spray of sparks. The car continued to pick up speed, helped by a tap on the gas pedal.
She shot off the ramp like a batted pinball and grazed a row of parked cars on her driver’s side, ripping off fenders and shattering taillights. Car alarms shrieked in her destructive wake.
Willie wrenched the wheel sharply to the right to avoid the next ramp and drove down the next aisle, sideswiping another row of cars along her passenger side. She sheared off her remaining mirror and triggered more alarms before she finally turned the wheel hard to the left and intentionally slammed into the rear of an Audi. She clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, anticipating the impact. The airbag in her steering wheel burst in her face. She quickly pushed it away and decided that the little car she’d thought might be a hunk of junk was really a lot of fun to drive.
Willie was still extricating herself from the airbag when a security guard wrenched the driver’s door open and helped her out of the car. Two more guards arrived, all asking questions, shouting to be heard over the alarms and the music. They were able to turn off the radio, but the car alarms continued to blare, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.
One of the guards helped Willie walk up the ramp to the plaza, where an ambulance was pulling up, siren wailing.
“I’m okay,” Willie said, waving the ambulance attendants away. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“What happened?” the guard asked in halting English, holding her arm to keep her steady.
“The brakes on my rental car went out as I was going down the ramp. I tried to slow myself down by grazing the wall, but it didn’t do much good. It’s a good thing I signed up for the insurance.”
Nick began cutting into the duct the instant he heard the first car alarm. Over the next ten minutes, he cut an opening through the four inches of sheet metal and concrete that was large enough for him and Kate to climb through.
By the time the alarms were extinguished and the chaos in the garage had subsided, Nick and Kate had climbed into an adjoining duct, dropped into a cross duct, and were crawling over the museum ceiling. It was an antiquated system with larger ducts than would be used now, but even at that it was tight.
Nick stopped when he reached the air grate above the conservation room that contained the treasure from the
Nuestra Señora de Santa Maria.
He looked down through the vent,
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