The Sapphire Thief
Prologue

Published April 25, 2009 in The New York Times

Dog Eat Dog
By Weekly Columnist Amanda Noble

In these times, it’s impossible to achieve the American Dream without dishonesty. The rich are getting richer, and of course the poor are getting even poorer. There is no way to claw your way out of the slums by sheer perseverance alone, no loans to get you back on your feet. No government will swoop into action and save America from crushing dept and depression. They may wear the colors of red, white, and blue, but they are no heroes. The sad truth is they are the villains. If you do not have a million dollars in your bank account then the only career you can get ahead in is crime. Morals are for times when we have enough money to pay our heating bills and feed our family. Sometimes we must abandon the hope the government tries to instill in us and take these matters into our own hands. We must fight for our lives in this dog eat dog world.

“You have two minutes and fifty three seconds. Target must be in view at one minute twenty two seconds. Diversion at one minute. That means you’ve got fifty three seconds of blackout. Can you do it?”

“What do you think I am, an amateur?” The Sapphire Thief grinned for a fraction as she spoke quietly into the headset, hidden behind a cascade of dark hair. With a slow, purposeful stride, her leather boots clicking on the wood floor under foot, she advanced on the target. She was just another tourist at one of the most famous spots on earth.

She heard a crunching sound in her ear, coming from her earpiece and sighed. “What are you eating? And could you distract me anymore, Mark?”

He laughed loudly on the other end of the line. “Cheetos, if you’re wondering.”

“Those things are disgusting. I refuse to eat anything that looks like it could glow in the dark.”

“I knew you’d say that, but yes I could distract you more. I could sing bad country songs about ghosts and alcohol and cowboys or whatever country songs are about. I’m honestly not sure. I don’t like country music. Or, you know what? I could just take off this headset and ignore you for the rest of the job. How would you like that?”

“That would be very nice actually,” she replied with a smirk. Mark shutting up might be a good thing every once in a while. “I might finally get some work done. You make it impossible to concentrate.”

“Work?” he laughed. “This is what I call vacation.”

Dria heard a familiar beep through her ear piece. There was the signal.

The banter between them had to come to an end, and the both knew it. She frowned slightly, but she was not nervous, in fact, she was exactly the opposite. As she walked, her speed increased with her confidence. This was nothing but a routine job, not the first and most certainly not the last.  Reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes, she asked, “What’s the time?”

“Um,” he said, “one minute fifty eight. Eyes on the target yet, Dria?”

“Not yet, but I’ll be in her room in about three seconds, give or take.” Quickly she rounded the corner from the main hallway into the smaller room, positive that she was still on time as she counted slowly in her head. There were people all around, completely oblivious to the carefully laid plan in action at the very moment. It was a odd feeling of importance, knowing that she was the only person in the room who knew what was about to happen.

“Is she as beautiful as they say?” Mark asked, his childish glee leaking through the headphone, the crunching having stopped momentarily. Dria already had her eyes on the target. There she was, on the other side of the room, barley visible behind the mass of people. She could just spot her through the crowd as she stood on her toes.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Bullet proof glass doesn’t really enhance her beauty, but I’m no art critic. She’s smaller then I thought she’d be.”

“Never as good in real life, eh?” he chimed, as the familiar sound of Mark’s fingers gliding across his keyboard traveled to her ear, “But, I just want to spend ten minutes with her. Ten minutes. This is like, a lifetime opportunity. Ah, to be so close to history.”

“You can look all you want tonight, just be sure to wash all that stupid orange cheese of your fingers,” she said as she counted in her head; the diversion was in ten seconds. She prepared herself. Her gloves were on, though they would not stand out in the chilly weather outside. The messenger bag slung around her shoulders was heavy, but the weight felt comforting against her hip. She could feel the square bulk of the canvas inside. It was almost time. Pacing herself, she worked her way across the room as smoothly as she could, pushing toward what was probably the most famous painting in the world. As screaming erupted from down the main gallery, she found herself staring straight into the eyes of Da Vinci’s most well known painting, the Mona Lisa, and she really was quite beautiful.

More screams and fire alarms blared through the formerly calm air. Well, she thought to herself,  Mark certainly does know how to cause a distraction. It was a fire, though it was certainly not dangerous. She could smell the smoke a gallery away, but Mark could never bring himself to risk any damage any of the paintings in the museum. “Human lives were expendable”, he would say, “art is not.” People practically stampeded out of the gallery, all over reacting in the way only tourists could, one knocking into Dria’s shoulder, the other one stepping on her foot (which was quite painful) and scuffing her boot. Like any mob, when one panicked, they all panicked. With a grimace of distaste, Dria straightened her back and began the final countdown in her head, taking a deep breath. She smiled.

Three.

Two.

One.

The lights flickered out. Darkness.

Fifty-three seconds later the lights tuned back on. The security cameras showed nothing but an empty room. There was no thief. No dark haired girl. The Mona Lisa still hung in her gallery, safe and sound.

“And that’s exactly what happened three days ago, on August twenty-second,” the Planner said with an uncharacteristic smile, pausing the security tape. “A technical malfunction started a small electrical fire and shut down a few cameras.” He strolled over to the wall and flipped the light switch. The two men other men stared at him with their mouths gaped open in sheer bewilderment.

“What?” the Rebel uttered in confusion as the lights flickered on, the first one to react. As soon as his eyes readjusted to the light his brows furrowed with anger and his jaw clenched. “You just had us watch a security tape from the Louvre that showed people admiring a painting,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. It failed. “Well it looks like you’ve really outdone yourself with this one. Wow! A fifty-three second blackout! A small electrical fire! I can’t believe you found this.” He rolled his eyes and glared at the man standing in front of him. “I know you’re a genius, but come on. We’ve got better things to do then watch USELESS SECURITY TAPES!”

“I’m sure our friend here has something to show us,” the mustachio Russian reassured, his voice deep and gravely from years of smoking fancy Cuban cigars. He spoke an accent appropriate of his name sake. “Am I right Right?” he asked, turning to the Planner.

“Of course,” he reassured with a condescending smile, wagging his finger the way a parent would to a naughty child.  “Now, Curran, I would appreciate if you didn’t doubt my methods.”

“Don’t call me by my real name,” he warned, the anger having left his voice as quickly as it had arrived. “This is very sensitive information. Or I hope you have some sensitive information for us. But, seriously. We don’t know who could be listening.”

The Planner rolled his eyes. As true as it was, he did not like being corrected. The three men were standing in a hotel room in one of Miami’s many skyscrapers, a location chosen at random by the Planner himself, since flying into the Soviet Union was not something he particularly felt like doing, even for something as big as this. The code names, as annoying and childish as the Planner saw them, were necessary to retain their anonymity. The curtains were drawn and the Planner’s laptop was set on the desk in the small room. There was one bed and a television, but none of the three men had any plans to make use of them. They all had better places to stay then this chain hotel room in a city far away from their own worlds.

“Fine. Back to business,” the Planner said. He closed the window on the laptop and clicked open another file. “Could someone get the lights?” He asked, as if addressing an audience much larger then the two criminals in the room with him. The Russian obliged, and once again the room was dark, the only brightness was from the sunlight seeping though the gap between the curtains.

He pressed play. As soon as he did, he leaned in between the two men and gave them their instructions. “Look for the girl with the black hair on the left hand corner of the camera.”

The Rebel was already intrigued, more intrigued than he would like to admit. He hated being wrong. But the video captured his attention, as his eyes darted to the place where the Planner was pointing. There was no girl in the first video. He spied the woman with the blond hair and the man in the sweat shirt he had seen on the first camera, but this girl had appeared out of nowhere. She carried a black canvas messenger bag and had an unassuming grace to her. The girl walked smoothly, the cat-like movements that reminded him of a dancer, as she wove her way though the crowd. The Planner zoomed in. The picture quality was pristine, as opposed to that of the first camera. She looked younger as the camera showed her face in higher resolution, with bright, alert eyes and pursed lips, probably only in her mid-teens. “Her lips are moving,” he noted as the picture centered on her.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” the Planner murmured to no one in particular.

In the video, the screen split. Once side showed the girl, the other side showed a small fire near an outlet in a large art gallery. There was no sound, but people could be seen panicking on both screens. The camera with the fire showed smoke as officials tried to extinguish the flames before they could spread. On the other screen the men and women in the gallery quickly streamed out, all except for the young, dark haired girl. She stood still, fighting slightly against the mass exodus of the gallery. One man accidentally bumped her shoulder as he hurried out.

The Russian smiled. “I saw that in the other video. I had wondered what had happened to him.”

Just as in the first video, the camera went dark in the Mona Lisa’s gallery. The second camera in the other gallery went dark a second later. The Planner reached between the Rebel and the Russian and paused the video.

“The power went out in seven galleries, all on the same floor and in the same general area. All connected to the same circuit.” He walked over and turned the lights back on himself. “Both cameras in the room with the Mona Lisa did not stop recording, neither functioned in the darkness, though. I believe the footage was looped to the original security camera, but the second camera was my personal camera, and had not been tampered with. I believe she has someone who can loop without contact with the camera.”

“Why?” The Rebel asked. “Why do you think she would go though all this trouble to hide herself if all she did was stand there. And for that matter, why is this so important to our mission?”

“I’d have to agree,” the Russian replied. “The Rebel makes a good point. Unless…” His dark, weary eyes lit up. “She isn’t…?”

The Planner smiled again, but this time with a hint of smug arrogance. The Rebel finally understood the videos and the Planner’s uncharacteristically friendly demeanor. “The Sapphire Thief,” he finished, the Planner’s good mood was now more infectious then annoying. “You caught the Sapphire Thief in action? I can’t believe you fucking did that!”

“Of course,” the Planner said. “I told you that I would find exactly the thief we need for our little project, and here she is.”

“But,” the Rebel interjected, “she didn’t steal anything, so how could she be The Sapphire Thief?”

“Oh, but she did,” he announced. Gliding over to the bed, he picked up a square parcel wrapped in brown paper. With caution, he slid the object out of the paper. It was obvious that it was a canvas, but when the paper was completely off, both the Russian and the Rebel were astounded to see Da Vinci’s greatest masterpiece lying on the bed in front of them.

“How did you get that?” The Rebel asked, peering with almost disbelief at the painting. It was impossible that the Planner could have this. Impossible.

“I just called in a favor from a colleague in Paris. He got this from the Louvre for me. It wasn’t all that hard to obtain, especially when the real one had already been stolen.” He picked up the paining. “It’s a fake. The real one was in its bullet proof casing the morning that video you just saw was filmed. This was in the case in the afternoon.”

“How did we not hear about this?” The Russian asked.

“They didn’t tell anyone. Only the curator and a few other people know about this. I got my hands on the forgery before the French authorities managed to get a hold of it. I’m assuming that the Louvre simply replaced the forgery with another one, since no one really needs to know that it’s missing. No one wants to admit they’ve been duped by The Sapphire Thief. Just look on the back.”

The Rebel bent down and flipped the canvas over. On the back, written in flowing script was the letters “ST”, the trademark calling card of the Sapphire Thief. “So, that girl was the Sapphire Thief. She stole the Mona Lisa in fifty-three seconds and you just happened to catch it on tape?” the Rebel asked with his eyebrows raised.

“Well,” the Planner said, sitting down on the end of the bed, “I was aware that stealing the Mona Lisa was one thing The Sapphire Thief would indubitably attempt. Without a doubt, it’s the most well-known painting in existence, so of course someone would hire her to steal it. And so I set up my own camera system in that area of the Louvre. Not myself, if you were wondering, I don’t have time to fly to Paris and set up cameras.  It was easy. After that I just had to wait for our little pet to appear.”

“And you’re sure she’ll do what we need?” The Rebel asked as he examined the fake painting. The brush strokes were even visible. It was a high quality forgery.

“With out a doubt,” the Planner answered smugly.

The Russian nodded. “Good. My only question is: how did she disappear on the footage?”

“As I’ve mentioned before, she must be or must have a talented hacker working with her. Beyond that, I’m not positive on the details,” the Planner admitted. “But, I will tell you this, gentlemen. She is going to join us in our little event, weather she likes it or not. With her there is no doubt in my mind that my plan will succeed where both of yours have failed.” He stood up, straightened his coat before closing his laptop and slipping it into his briefcase. Turning around, he plucked the forgery from the Rebel’s hands and placed it inside. He locked the black leather case and turned to face the two other men.

“Well,” he said, “it seems that I have a flight to catch. If you don’t mind I’ll leave you two to your own business.” Without a goodbye, he stepped out the hotel room into the bright hallway. His clothes were dark against the peaches and crème of the walls. Briefcase in hand, the Planner set off. There were a lot of things that needed to be destroyed.