Prologue
Twenty-Five Years Ago
Paris, France
Once a month, the moon lined up with the sun and bared its dark side. Astronomers called this the new moon. Diana called tonight’s black sky their only chance. In la Ville-Lumière, the City of Light, they’d take every advantage.
New wave music pulsed from the Citroen’s speakers, and Diana wished Nancy were driving tonight. Everything would remain as they’d planned, including the usual David Bowie and Iggy Pop mixtape.
Osman veered right, and the car rumbled over the Pont de la Concord.
The road noise on the arch bridge reverberated louder than during their practice run.
Perhaps the now-empty lanes amplified sounds, or perhaps Osman drove differently than Nancy.
Diana didn’t care for last-minute changes, but they had no choice.
It wasn’t as if they could have expected their usual driver to suddenly turn off-color and be relegated to a dodgy hostel bed.
They crossed the Seine. Osman turned onto Voie Expresse Rive Gauche. He made the turn too fast, and she gritted her teeth, glancing at James, who sat next to her in the backseat. “It’s weird, just the three of us.”
Osman looked at the empty passenger seat, then over his shoulder. “Feels like I’m your driver.”
Her brows arched. “You are our driver.”
“Alright,” Osman chortled. “Just a bit of banter.”
Diana smiled thinly.
“It’s fine.” James patted her leg.
They merged onto Rond-Point du Bleuet de France. Osman checked the rearview mirror before changing lanes, caught Diana’s eye, and shrugged apologetically. “Just lightening the mood.”
James squeezed her leg, a reminder that all would run smoothly. After all, it was far from their first heist, and they’d weathered worse than speeding and a stomach bug.
The road opened to a broad boulevard lined with picturesque, canopied trees.
She couldn’t see them as well as earlier, but their branches blanketed the night, quieting the final few minutes of their journey.
Osman navigated from the thoroughfare. He crisscrossed a labyrinth of cobblestoned avenues and paved alleyways and then slowed next to the park square where they’d had a picnic lunch that day.
Osman parked and turned off the headlamps.
A familiar silence settled over the dark car.
As always, it gave her a moment to wholeheartedly appreciate their mission.
She grinned. Butterflies swirled in her stomach.
“Alright,” Osman said.
Nerves be damned—it was time to begin. Diana opened the back door and stepped into the darkest edge of the park.
Dark corners in the City of Light weren’t easy to pin down. She and Nancy had scouted dim streets for several nights. They had passed the time with French history trivia, wondering whether their niche knowledge would land them on a daytime television game show.
How many people actually knew the Eiffel Tower wasn’t why Paris was called the City of Light? Not many, they’d wager, and no one would see the paradox in what they were doing tonight.
Two hundred-plus years before the wrought iron lattice tower was built, Louis XIV commanded the lieutenant-general of the police to make Paris safer.
Lanterns were placed throughout the city.
Parisians illuminated their windows with glowing candles.
Ironic—they were using the shadows to retake a piece of stolen history that formed the basis for modern-day police.
James slid out of the Citroen, checked his watch, and ducked his head inside the car. “One hour.”
“I’ll be next to the telephone box on the corner,” Osman said and waved through the window. “Keep your wits about you.”
A nervous premonition tightened in her neck. She wished David Bowie were singing instead of Osman’s warnings. Diana turned for the park. Adrenaline rushed in her ears as the Citroen pulled away.
James jogged to her side. “Alright?”
“Of course.” Nerves were to be expected. She rolled her shoulders and shook them away.
“Everything will be fine.” He touched her elbow. “We work faster when it’s only the two of us.”
“True.” An adrenaline high was quickly replacing her jitters.
They walked into the park and avoided lampposts and illuminated phone boxes. The far side abutted their target, the H?tel de Alarie, the Parisian residence of Duke Mael Gaspard Alarie.
As a matter of legal privilege, the French nobility did not exist anymore. Their elitist rights had been stripped, but as with hereditary titles like Duke Alarie, la noblesse had remained. Alarie represented a nobility that inherited obscene wealth and ungovernable privilege.
The manicured grounds were split down the center by a stone drive that ended in a large forecourt. Two symmetrical wings jutted from the chateau and flanked the receiving courtyard. The duke was out of the city for the season, and accordingly, the full staff was not maintained.
Nancy had obtained partial blueprints of the interior.
Diana, James, and Osman had committed them to memory.
They didn’t need to know as much as they’d learned.
Osman had mapped their route from a broken window latch to Alarie’s library.
In it, he had hung the original plans for the lampposts sketched by Gabriel Nicolas de la Reynie, the lieutenant-general of the police appointed by Louis XIV.
The drawings were last seen in public in 1940 and were assumed to have been looted by the Nazis.
Diana could guess how the duke got his hands on them.
If society knew, they didn’t care. People like Alarie acted above the law because law enforcement gave them that right.
Tonight, she and James would do their part to make things right.
The sketches would be returned anonymously to their rightful caretakers.
Perhaps more people would learn about the City of Light and give her and Nancy a challenge on trivia night.
Other than the main entrance, few lights were on.
They skirted the perimeter of the east wing and counted windows.
At the seventeenth, they ducked behind the hedge.
James took a knee. Diana used his leg as a stepstool and reached for the frame.
James lifted and braced her. Her sweaty palms slid over the glass.
She found purchase on a pane and leveraged her lofted position. The heavy window rose.
“Alright,” she said.
James boosted her inside. Her landing wasn’t graceful; bumps and bruises didn’t matter.
She bounded to her feet and peeked out the window.
James had backed into the hedge to give himself a single stride before his jump.
One foot smacked the wall. Momentum boosted him higher.
His hands grasped the window ledge, and with more determination than strength, he pulled himself in.
“Nicely done,” she commended.
He laughed and dusted himself off. “Wouldn’t want to do that again.”
They had entered a storage closet that smelled of chlorine and cleaner. Its layout matched the blueprints and was attached to a service area and laundry room. The connecting door was where they had expected. A good omen for an easy night. Diana grinned. “I told Osman we need a name.”
James tried the knob. It easily twisted, and the door opened. “What, like the Three Musketeers?”
She rolled her eyes. “Except there’s four of us. I suggested Robin Hood.”
“Sure. I like it.” He walked through. The floor covering crinkled. James slipped and nearly lost his footing. “What the—careful.”
The room had no windows, lit only by a slender sliver of light from under the hallway door. Diana took a hesitant, rustling step. “It’s plastic sheeting. The kind laid out for renovations.”
“Good guess,” a man said.
Her heart jumped. She tripped and stumbled. James grabbed her waist and dragged her back. A dull light flicked on, and the door behind them closed. A man with a gun sat on a metal stool. Tarps covered the room.
“James,” she whispered and clung to his hand.
“Do you know what happened to Robin Hood?” The man stood up and pointed the gun. “I’ve heard it doesn’t end well.”
Ten Years Ago
Stockholm, Sweden
Robin Hood flicked the Zippo lighter, and the flame jumped at her command. Its soft orange glow was the calm before the storm—and it made her think about the phrase that dominated so much of her life.
Were pseudonyms only applicable to writers? She wasn’t sure. Robin Hood wasn’t an alias nor a stage name, but when she stepped into this role, it was who she was. A loner working in the shadows, retaking what power and money had stolen and returning ill-gotten gains to their rightful owners.
No matter what she called herself, now wasn’t the time for philosophical questions.
She brought the flame to the rag and extinguished the heavy metal lighter.
Its metallic clap was as distinctive as a burgeoning flame consuming distressed fabric.
She pampered and fanned fractals of glowing embers as the bite of December’s sleet-peppered wind spackled the Volvo.
Delicate smoke tendrils curled inside the car. The smoldering bits spread at the same pace as her earlier blaze. Fire was an interesting tool, and it was simply beautiful. Flames danced as they destroyed, and on a day like today, that seemed exceptionally spot-on.
She checked her timing and found herself on schedule.
Robin Hood tucked the burning fabric into the tinder nest of dryer lint and dead grass that sat in the passenger seat.
The kindling caught. Once she was certain it would burn, she checked the Volvo’s mirrors and drove into the melee of bad weather and evening rush hour traffic.
Smoke filled the Volvo. She lifted her neck scarf and covered her nose and mouth. Traffic inched forward. Burning plastic overwhelmed the air. Sweat tickled her cheeks, her neck. Blistering and melting, the fire outgrew its nest.
Just as with her first fire less than half an hour ago, and right on time, the heat and smoke became too much. She couldn’t breathe and parked in the middle of the road, throwing herself from the car.
The whipping, icy rain and wind soothed like a balm. The evening traffic demanded that her Volvo continue moving. She gasped for fresh air. Horns honked, but after a minute, the angry honks would transition to the silence of drivers placing emergency calls to fire and rescue.
She ran toward the shoulder and driving lanes, dropping tacks in her wake. Mass tire blowouts were the least Robin-Hood-esque part of her plan, but all would even out in the end.
Traffic snarled behind her. Cars tried to move around the Volvo, eliciting a new round of honks.
She would be halfway down the block before they intensified, announcing a fleet of flat tires, further entangling the traffic knot.
The turnabout that served ?stermalm’s shopping district would grind to a halt, with two car fires and too many flat tires to blame.
Sleet bit her cheeks and washed the crime clean as she ran to a nondescript, waterproofed shopping bag that awaited her near a trash can.
Only seconds passed as she stripped her long trench coat and scarf, disposed of the layer of smoke-stained clothes, and donned the fresh, dry jacket and hat.
The smoke scent would stay with her. No matter—any visible clues were gone.
With that, she hurried down the boulevard as stores gave way to hotels and high-end apartments.
The weight of small hand tools pulled at her outermost jacket pockets.
She slid her hands inside the dry warmth and wrapped her fingers around the electronic key programmer and the wire cutters.
The balance of luxury residential buildings and commercial stores continued to skew in favor of the former.
She crossed the street and sighted her target: the most opulent enclave of apartment buildings in ?stermalm.
A brutal burst of wind chapped her cheeks. Pricks of ice caught on her eyelashes. Her steadfast calm remained changeless. The weather battled for her attention, but she waited for the right moment.
It came seconds later. A harried man rushed toward the building’s main doors, head tucked and electronic key fob extended in his hand.
She pressed her programming key and held it as one might program a garage door opener.
The technology allowed her to leap over the encrypted networks and protective layers, snagging the code as easily as if she had swiped a toy from a toddler.
The man entered the building, and she gave him ample time to shake off the cold and scurry away before she glided to the front doors like a cat on the prowl.
Smooth and sangfroid, she swiped her electronic key and strutted into a lobby that could have doubled as an entryway to Sweden’s most famous museums. Less than a minute later, she’d overridden a state-of-the-art security system and accessed the penthouse apartment.
White walls reached for the stars. Breathtaking picture windows turned the poor weather into works of art.
She checked her watch and walked toward the window with the best view of the surrounding neighborhood.
Red taillights outlined the streets and traffic circle.
Her first car fire still burned, though it had passed its theatrical zenith.
The second fire wouldn’t peak for several minutes.
As she had planned, emergency services struggled against the flow of traffic. Police had arrived. Several more, plus the fire trucks, remained stuck outside the traffic circle. No one could get in or out.
Exactly what she wanted. She turned and eyed the expansive penthouse.
Very Scandinavian in its design, yet the space didn’t feel as though it fit the spirit of the Swedes.
This country was too green, too kind, too good a place for the inhabitants of this home.
A sense of aristocratic ritz resonated in the air, sweating from the expansive white walls whose mere existence highlighted the priceless works of art that hung as though they belonged there.
With the wire cutters in hand, she no longer cared about the alarms she might trigger.
She clipped the Monet and Rembrandt free as easily as if their impenetrable shackles were brittle fingernails.
In the bedroom, she inspected the bookshelf and removed a leather-bound manuscript that had been missing from the Bodleian Libraries at Oxford for a century.
Carefully, she secured each piece in a transport satchel and walked out of the penthouse as if she owned the place.
Once in the building lobby, she snagged an abandoned wet umbrella left to dry and walked into the rain.
She didn’t have far to go. The stroll to the nearby canal was quite nice, and once there, she stepped onto the waiting boat and left ?stermalm behind.