Thieves

it scrapes across the stone tile. I creep backward, out of view as he passes the door, and hold my breath. Papers rustle as his frantic hands rummage through something I can’t see.
I creep back to the door for another look. The duke crouches over the bags on the floor, his body positioned so that his face, with its hooked nose and deep-set eyes, are in profile. He retrieves a small, square leather box with a looped closure from the bag.
He opens the case and I glimpse its contents: an enormous, yellow-tinted stone. Gently removing it from the case, he holds it up for inspection. The jewel sparkles, refracting the candlelight at dozens of interesting angles. It’s so breathtaking, my palms itch at the thought of holding it.
This is it. The Florentine Diamond. The jewel worth more than all the other jobs I’ve ever done combined. This is the payday I’ve waited for.
This legendary stone, so coveted by royalty and thieves alike for nearly five hundred years, disappeared in the mid-twentieth century. For this part of its long and storied journey, in the year of our Lord Sixteen Hundred and Fifteen, the de Medici duke has reclaimed it from the stone cutter hired to finish it.
It looks odd, this lemon-shaped thing with its 126 facets in a double-rose cut. The stories say it’s at least 137 carats of unrivaled worth. I breathe a little prayer that the seams of my small pouch can hold its eight-pound weight.
There’s a knock at the door. Startled, the duke tucks the diamond into its case, and slips it into the top draw of his desk and locks it. He drops the key, threaded with a black silk cord, around his neck.
“What do you want?” the duke says through the bedroom door, not bothering to open it.
“Your wife. She calls you,” a man answers.
“I am busy.”
“She is most insistent, Your Grace. She says you must come at once.”
The duke sucks air through his teeth. “Anon. I come, anon.”
He strides over to the desk and, though he locked the drawer moments ago, tugs on the handle. Satisfied the drawer is secure, he throws a robe over his nightshirt and rushes from the room, pulling the bedchamber door closed behind him.
I listen for the last echoes of his footsteps to fade at the far end of the corridor and I am at the desk in a wink. I drop to my knees and retrieve the lock pick tools tucked inside my waistband. The lock is intricate, with three ornately scrolled openings, two of which are likely false keyholes.
Choosing the center keyhole in the cluster, I slip the pick into the top of the hole. Two pins move when I poke them, but the sound isn’t right, which means the lock mechanism isn’t released. I move to the keyhole on the right and slip the pick inside. This is the one. I feel and hear the difference as the pick slides over the pins, moving them in sequence to release the lock.
Just another few seconds.
Almost there.
Almost.
There is the sound of heavy footsteps moving up the corridor at a fast clip. It could be the duke.
Scrambling back to the water closet, I barely make it into hiding before the duke bursts through the door and closes it behind him. He tugs on the drawer handle and sighs, relieved. Still locked.
I tick off the time that has passed since the final warning from Carter. Twelve minutes left. Maybe thirteen.
A quick review of my options doesn’t produce any perfect solutions for escape. I could wait for him to fall asleep, but time isn’t on my side. Any distraction I create would only draw him closer to where I’m hiding.
I could feign an overpowering sexual desire for him — one so strong that I had no choice but to disguise myself as a boy and hide until the opportune moment to seduce him — but it would be hard to explain my presence to his satisfaction.
I curse myself for not bringing tranquilizers with me. It would’ve been easy to add a sedative to the glass of brandy on his desk and be fairly certain he’d drink it. The duke loves his brandy.
I met the duke at a dinner party hosted by a rich Marchesa; her family’s jewels were the deepest desire of a disinherited progeny living in 2533. The duke undressed me with his eyes more than once during the evening and, since I flirted back, I could make seduction believable, then knock him unconscious the moment his back is turned.
I’m out of time. If I don’t get out now, I’ll be left behind. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself to make an impassioned entrance into the bedchamber and profess an unquenchable fire in my loins for this scrawny, chicken-legged man.
There is a groan followed by a heavy thud.
I sneak into the room and see the lower half of the duke’s motionless body sprawled on the floor, his upper half obscured by the canopy bed. Moving carefully to peer around the foot of the bed, I nudge the duke’s foot with my toe.
Is he breathing? A loud snore, then a snort, answers the question.
The duke must be deeply inebriated because he doesn’t stir when I remove the desk drawer key from his neck. This is awesome. Now, I don’t have to seduce this scrawny bag of bones.
Within moments, I have the desk unlocked and the diamond out of its case. It’s as heavy as I thought it would be. Into my small bag it goes. I slip the cord around my neck, tuck the pouch into my shirt, and sneak into the hallway.
Just as I did during dozens of hologram rehearsals, I walk on tiptoe to avoid clacking the heels of my shoes against the tiles in the marble hallway. As I move through the darkened corridor, I pause to ensure the small sitting room between me and the North staircase leading down to the first floor is empty.
Every landmark along my escape