“Much,” Metz said, taking in a deep, satisfied breath. “There is some pain in the leg, but it just takes a little mind over matter to ignore it. It feels good to be up and moving around again.”

Eventually, they arrived in a dimmer, more traditional gallery room and gathered before a painting hanging on a burgundy wall.

“Bohemian Landscape, by Caspar David Friedrich,” Morgenstar said fussily. “And with that, my job is done.” He turned to Kingdom. “You will be receiving a bill for the umbrella. Good day.”

They watched him stalk off, then turned back to the painting, except Harry, who seemed more absorbed in studying the ceiling and walls.

A landscape indeed, roughly three feet wide by two feet high. Empty green fields rolled toward a range of mountain peaks that rose in a glorious light on the horizon beneath an enormous, hazy sky. Near the center of the image, two tall trees stood side by side alone in a meadow. Darker woods lurked beyond, on the way to the distant mountains. Just a simple, silent country scene.

“‘The deeper meaning of this work lies in its composition,’” Alex’s grandfather said, reading from a card on the wall. “‘The two old oaks in the middle distance seem to form a gateway—’ Yes. Very droll.”

They stared closely at the frame. It looked old but, beyond a faint impression of scratches beneath the thick varnish, there was nothing notable.

“What do you think?” Kingdom said, scanning the gallery.

“Harry’s the man for that. So, Harry?”

“Oh.” Harry brightened. “Yeah. Easy peasy. Smash ’n’ grab’ll do it. Can we risk waiting until the place is closed?”

“It’s beginning to look that way,” the old man said, frowning. “Maybe they didn’t know about this picture after all.” He looked around, then knocked a knuckle at his forehead in frustration. “I’m constantly plagued by the feeling I’m missing something obvious.”

“Smash and grab?” Alex asked.

XXX.

SMASH AND GRAB

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Alex asked for the third time.

Rain bounced off the Rolls-Royce. Alex sat inside with his grandfather and Harry. They were parked across the street from the Staatsgalerie, in a space behind a grand building Alex’s grandfather had pointed out as an opera house. A four-lane road cut between them and the now-dark museum. Little traffic moved. It was now past nine o’clock. Night was deepening. Walpurgisnacht, Alex thought.

“Absolutely,” the old man said. He bent forward, fastening the spring-heels around his boots.