Portrait of a thief, p.20
Portrait of a Thief, page 20
Will examined Min for a long moment. Irene did not say anything, waited. This was her brother. He would know exactly what to do. “One month ago,” Will said, his voice thoughtful, “Sweden’s Drottningholm Palace was robbed.”
Min raised a brow. “That was you?”
“It was,” Will said, and he looked so at ease like this, talking about art and how it was taken. How it was returned, perhaps. “We took the bronze snake head, but we also took more. All items stolen from the Old Summer Palace. We’ll give you those in exchange for the rooster bronze.”
They looked at each other.
“Why are you doing this?” Siqi asked. Her gaze swept over the four of them, curious. “You’re Americans. You have nothing to gain from this.”
“I’m not,” Daniel said. Irene knew it wasn’t quite true. He had given up his Chinese citizenship last year. Still, he was Chinese, more than the rest of them, more than anything else. He switched to Mandarin, that lovely Beijing accent of his crisp and perfect.
“I’m doing this for the same reason you are,” he said, and despite the months Irene had spent in China, she knew she could never speak like this, like this language was home. “Because the Old Summer Palace means something to me. Because I know what was taken, and what is owed. China remembers, and so do I.”
Siqi touched his shoulder, and for a moment, it was just the two of them, dark heads bowed together, a grief that Irene could never understand. “And the rest of you?” Siqi asked.
Will looked at Min. He’s an artist, Irene wanted to tell him, like that might help, like that might give Will the right words to say. But perhaps her brother knew that already, could tell in the way Min’s hands moved, in the care in his voice. Like might recognize like. “Art belongs to the creator,” Will said, his voice soft, “not the conqueror. No matter what the law says, or what treaties are signed. For too long, museums have held on to art that isn’t theirs to keep, bought more because they know they can.”
“That’s an accusation,” Siqi said.
“It is,” Will said. He looked at Min. “Am I wrong?”
In another life, Irene thought, they could have been friends. Maybe in this one too. Min leaned against the base of the pyramid, swept his gaze over their crew. “If we could buy this art back, we would,” he said. “But museums see it as theirs by right, by conquest or colonialism.”
“Would we?” Siqi asked. “Why should we be spending our money to buy back what was once ours? These pieces—they were stolen from us first.”
In the daylight, this place was all open air and reflected glass. Irene thought about art, about power, about all the ways it might change hands. And she thought, too, of museums that didn’t care about where an object came from, only that it could be theirs. “We’re on the same side,” Irene said. “But I think you knew that from the start.”
Min and Siqi exchanged glances, and then Min turned back to them, inclined his head. “We are,” he said.
Irene waited.
Min’s gaze swept over them, rested on Lily. His smile was quick. “You took my car, and I took your heist. We could call it even. But if we do this for your crew—”
Lily’s smile mirrored his. “A rematch,” she said.
“A rematch,” Min said. “If you win, you get the zodiac head in exchange for Drottningholm’s other art.”
“And if I lose?” Lily asked.
“I thought you said you never lose.”
If it had been Irene, she would have said no. She never would have wagered their future on a race in the dark, no matter how certain Lily was. But Lily did not hesitate as she stretched out her hand, as Zhao Min clasped it. “I don’t.”
36
Lily
In the darkness, the lights of Paris glittered like an unfamiliar sea. Lily rolled down her window, met Min’s eye. He was smiling. “Still sure about your win?” he asked.
“Always.”
He laughed. “Don’t get too confident,” he said. “Last time, we were in different cars.” It was true. Lily ran her hands over her Bugatti, all clean lines and darkness. Still, she couldn’t imagine losing. On the other side of the car, she could see the rest of her crew, mingling. Daniel and Siqi were talking, and Irene and Alex were in different conversations with two members of Siqi’s crew who Lily didn’t know. Only Will was alone. He met her gaze, smiled at her, and she remembered Durham at night, the two of them against the hood of her car. Had she known then how her life would change? She must have. Beijing awash in red light, the Old Summer Palace in the morning sun. This language, this country, that she might someday call hers. What it might feel like to run toward something instead of away. These weeks, planning and dreaming and having all of it made real. She was so close to everything she could ever want.
Lily turned back to her steering wheel, to her car, to all the possibilities of this Paris night. Next to her, Min’s Lamborghini rumbled.
She smiled. In this moment, nothing else mattered. There was just this: the feel of the night air on her skin, the sound of her car beneath her palms. The smell of smoke and gasoline and possibility. They might pull this off yet.
“Ready?” Min called.
“Of course,” Lily said. Whatever else happened, she would have this.
And then the light changed, and they were off.
* * *
If Lily were asked how it began, her answers might have changed with the tides. Will Chen and an August evening, the chance to choose her future. A plane touching down in China for the first time; the way the sun rose, shattered, against the Beijing skyline. This country that she had never known.
When Lily thought of her past, she thought of Galveston, the waves that broke against the rocks, sunsets that bled red and heavy gold. A house by the Gulf of Mexico, those long summer days spent in her neighbor’s auto shop as she learned how to take a car apart and put it back together. She thought of those years she had spent trying to leave it behind. Hers was the story of every small town, every immigrant family trying to hold on to the American Dream. She had spent her whole life getting asked where she was from and trying to make sense of the answer. She did not know what was true. She only knew that, growing up, neither China nor America felt like it was hers.
Lily’s hands did not tremble as she turned the steering wheel, as Zhao Min took the turn at the same time. In these cars, in any cars, they might be as evenly matched as anything, and she remembered the beginning, the true beginning, how her life had changed. Galveston in the rising dark, a high school parking lot, and cars that gleamed silver as the moon against water. She had looked around at a race that had not yet begun and thought, for the first time in her life, This doesn’t look too hard.
Lily didn’t know what her future would be, how she could be the daughter her parents needed. She didn’t know how to be Chinese and American both, how to leave Galveston behind. But she knew the feel of a steering wheel beneath her palms and the press of her foot against the gas, how streetlights and highway rails blurred as she pushed this car faster and faster, the impossible drawing closer with every passing breath.
37
Will
Will Chen leaned over the Pont des Arts, the wind whistling over the steel beams. This late, Paris was all darkness and wavering lamplight, and he took in the darkness of the Seine below, the distant glow of the Eiffel Tower. Had it been just this morning when they had broken into the Fontainebleau?
“Chen Jiatao,” a voice said, and Will looked up at this name he seldom used. Zhao Min, in his tailored suit, his wristwatch glinting in the evening light, looked like he had stepped out of a Parisian party. Maybe he had. If anyone walked past, they would see two young men facing opposite directions on a familiar bridge. Strangers, nothing more.
“Zhao Min,” Will said, inclining his head. Locks dangled off the bridge railing, carved with names and inscriptions. For all that Will did not think of himself as a romantic, this meeting location had felt appropriate. A place for promises to be made.
“My end of our deal,” Min said. He rolled a small black suitcase toward Will, and Will caught it. He didn’t need to open it to know that the zodiac head would be there, the bronze smooth and perfect.
“Thank you,” Will said. From his bag, he took out a folder. Photos, descriptions, all the information on the art they had stolen from Stockholm. He passed it to Min. “I’ll get the art to you when I’m back in Boston.”
“I know,” Min said. He looked through the papers, his gaze sharp and discerning. Will had looked him up when he got back to the hotel. Min had gone to art school with Yuling, might have pursued a career in art if it hadn’t been for his family name. “I don’t recognize some of these.”
“Neither did I,” Will said.
“False provenance?” Min asked.
“It has to be,” Will said. He sighed, thinking of that Stockholm hotel room, searching for where these pieces were from. He had spent all of Harvard studying provenance—the history of objects, how easily they changed hands. Fifty years ago, the UN had passed a treaty barring the sale of cultural property. It didn’t matter. “Theft is theft, whatever they call it.”
Min slid the papers into his coat. “Then we’ll steal it back,” he said.
“You’re not worried about getting caught?” Tonight Will and his crew would leave, but Min, Siqi, and their crew were staying in Paris. They were suited to it, Will could admit. Paris and its decadence would be familiar to those who had grown up in the heart of Beijing, and there was more left to take. Still, it didn’t seem wise to linger.
Min shrugged. “They’ll suspect us, sure. But they don’t have the power to make any real accusations, and they can’t stop us from leaving on our own plane. Once we’re in China, well, no one will dare touch us there. Besides,” Min said, and his smile was wide, unbothered, “why would we steal art when we could just buy it?”
Like that, Will could almost believe him. “Is that what you tell the authorities?”
“You’ll be amazed at what you can get away with when you’re unbelievably wealthy,” Min said, tilting his head up to take in the Paris night, and Will wondered what it felt like to rob museums just because you could, because you knew that even if you were caught, there would not be the same consequences. “How will you leave? The authorities will be watching us, but if you need a ride—”
Will set his backpack down, took out his own rooster sculpture. It was just the two of them here, the rest of Paris caught up in their own revelries, and the bronze gleamed dully in the evening light. Even if he hadn’t been meeting Min here, he would have come anyway to tip this sculpture into the water. “A forgery,” Min said, and Will wasn’t surprised he caught on instantly. “How long did it take?”
Will ran his hands over the bronze. Imperfect, still, but—getting better. “A couple weeks.”
“You won’t be sad to lose it?”
Even if he was, it wouldn’t have mattered. “It’s temporary,” he said. “As is everything.”
“Art is never temporary,” Min said. He leaned against the bridge, lacing his hands together. “And neither is this, no matter how fleeting it seems.”
Will leaned over the railing. A breath, and he let go of the zodiac head, of these weeks spent working on it. The wind carried away the sound of the impact, but Will could see the rise of white foam, the vanishing of bronze into dark water. It felt like an ending. Tomorrow they would leave Paris. They had their documents prepared, but he suspected they wouldn’t need them. This city—it was large enough to disappear in. “Where will you go next?” he asked.
Min shrugged. “We haven’t decided yet. And you?”
“There are three more zodiac heads left. Maybe the UK.”
It was strange, to be standing in Paris on a cold night, talking to another thief. Min’s smile said he knew it. “I’m glad we were able to come to a compromise. This could have ended differently.”
Will thought of hours ago, the Louvre in the morning light. At first, he had been in shock. Irene, her boot against the pavement, the sound of their flash drive shattering. But she had always been one step ahead of him and everyone else.
“No,” Will said. “I don’t think it would have.” It would have always come to this. Part of him thought this might be the last of it, that he might never see Min again. The rest of him thought of Siqi’s clever gaze, Min and Lily racing in the dark. It might not be the worst thing in the world to know there were others out there, playing this same game.
“Send Yuling my best,” Min said. He looked at Will, thoughtful. “I told her she was foolish, you know. When we robbed the Sackler and she left you her card.”
Will blinked. For a moment, he was at the Sackler again, watching the thieves smash open glass, fill backpacks with Chinese art. The wail of the museum alarms, the detective and his questions. “It was you?”
“Yuling, Siqi, and I,” Min said. “And some professionals, of course. I always wondered what Yuling would do next. I will admit, though—I am surprised that she chose your crew for the zodiac heads. I thought she would want those who knew the loss of the Old Summer Palace.”
Will thought of China. He thought of Stockholm. The five of them—they were searching for a way home. He didn’t know if Min would understand. The Old Summer Palace, to him, might have just been flames and righteous anger. But Will had looked at the ruins, thought of what was left behind.
Why had Yuling chosen them?
He hadn’t had an answer then, but he might have now. “We’re children of the diaspora,” Will said. He had grown up in the US, knew that no matter how much he wanted it to be, China would never be home to him. “All we’ve ever known is loss.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Min said. He reached out a hand, and Will took it. In a different life, this could have been an oil painting, the two of them and the heavy dark, wind that swept over the Seine. “Best of luck, Chen Jiatao. I hope—” He hesitated, thought for a moment. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
And then Will was alone on the bridge. Tomorrow he would go home. Back to California, to sunshine, to the start of Thanksgiving break at last. It felt so far removed from this Paris night. He lingered, taking in the faraway lights, the feel of the wind on his skin, and thought of all that his parents had left behind when they came to America, all the dreams they had built on a foreign land. With this job, he might have been doing the same. In this strange, impossible year, there was so much to be lost, so much to be found.
38
Daniel
Daniel Liang was dreaming of China. This past weekend had been one impossibility after another—races in the Paris night, a museum broken open, a crew of Chinese thieves. He leaned against the uncomfortable back of the airport seat, watching planes take off and land in the distance. He still remembered the grief he had felt when they had broken into the Château de Fontainebleau and found it empty. He had joined this crew because Irene had called, because Will had asked, because he couldn’t bear for his friends to do this alone. He had joined because, however unlikely this was, ten million dollars was too much to turn down.
At some point, that had changed. Daniel had grown up hearing stories of the Old Summer Palace, how it burned. During that first theft, as he held the zodiac head in his gloved hands, he hadn’t been thinking of museum security or distant sirens, but of all the years Beijing had been waiting. Outside the Louvre, facing Zhao Min and Liu Siqi, he had realized—at last—what the return of this lost art meant to China. What it meant for him. Even Will, who loved art so fiercely, might not understand this. No matter how many years Daniel spent away from Beijing, when he closed his eyes, he still dreamed in Chinese, saw red turrets and crowded streets, the squares and palaces and skyscrapers that made up his city. How could he ever leave it behind?
They had fifteen minutes until their flight boarded. Daniel checked his phone, the clock face glowing pale and blue. It was morning in Paris, almost evening in California. He had one unread text, and he opened it.
Safe travels.
Who is this? he asked.
I thought you were smarter than that.
He thought to the past few days, tracing his movements back to the Louvre and an unfamiliar crew. Liu Siqi, he said. I never gave you my phone number.
You didn’t have to.
Daniel wasn’t sure if he should be amused or concerned. In that moment, though, a call from his dad came through, the screen lighting up. Daniel sent the call to voicemail. He did not want to talk to his father now, to be reminded of all the ways he was failing him still. He opened his phone again, the message Liu Siqi had sent him. A penthouse in Beijing, the knife of Wang Yuling’s smile. These people—they were China and its power, and no matter how much he loved China, he was not foolish enough to get comfortable. What do you want?
Just saying hello.
Three dots typing.
Next time you’re in Beijing, let me know.
A voicemail appeared on his phone. Daniel examined Siqi’s text one last time, considering, before rising from his seat.
“Where are you going?” Will asked.
Will would have understood. Daniel knew he would, and yet he still shrugged, tilting his head at the rest of the airport, bright lights and an unfamiliar language. “Just getting a snack,” he said. He hesitated, just for a moment, before pressing voicemail, held his phone up to his ear as he walked through the airport.
“Son,” his dad said. The background was loud. He may have been at an airport too. “I won’t be home for Thanksgiving. I just got the call, I’m needed in Europe for the next few days. Another investigation.”
Daniel purchased a croissant from a kiosk, handed the cashier five euros. Airport food was always overpriced. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised his father was coming. They had brought this upon themselves.
