He sat up, wiping grit from his eyes. There was a strange heaviness pressing down on his neck. A traffic cone had wedged itself firmly around the top of his head. No sign of Harry or Kingdom or the Rolls-Royce. But a group of well-dressed people now stood outside the opera house along the road, staring at him openmouthed. Many clutched wineglasses and cigarettes. It must have been intermission. Some started coming toward him.

More footsteps were sounding from his side, closer. Police were running, almost on him. No one seemed to notice Beckman watching, crouched like a shadowy gargoyle atop the museum.

Alex grabbed at a broom lying amid the debris and, with a desperate yell, swung it wildly to ward off the nearest policeman, then crouched and jumped hard, passing over the operagoers. Dumbfounded faces swung up to watch him go.

When he touched down, he instantly sprang back up, leap-frogging along the dark street until a blast of wind threw him off course. His ankle twisted as he hit the ground. The traffic cone dropped from his head. Rain lashed down.

Alex gingerly tried a step and gasped at the pain. Not far ahead, he spotted a narrow alleyway between buildings. He still held the broom. Ramming it under his arm for support, he made a hopping run for cover.

Stumbling into the alley, he cursed as the edge of the painting cracked against the wall. Beckman couldn’t be too far behind. The picture frame scraped the brickwork again. It was hampering his movements, both on the ground and when he tried to leap.

Shrugging out of the harness, he dug from his pocket the nail scissors Zia had thrown him in the well. The little blades were honed to wicked sharpness. He looked at the painting. If he could remove it, it wouldn’t catch the wind. He paused for just a moment, then stabbed the blade into the canvas, cutting it from the frame.

He thought he heard a hiss in the street, not far away. Several inches of painting remained attached. Alex ripped it out. He left the painting rolled against the wall, tucked the frame under his arm, then ran for the far end of the alley.

He came out onto a tree-lined street. A few people hurried along, hunched in hoods or hidden behind umbrellas. Cars swished past. Alex limped fast, head down, forcing his thoughts into order.

He’d left his phone in the car, where they had been keeping the line open to Metz on lookout. Why hadn’t they spotted Beckman on the roof? They had planned to meet in a nearby park after the robbery. He tried to recall the map he’d been shown and work out where he was. Maybe he could use the flier, if it wasn’t too badly damaged. But when he tried, he couldn’t feel anything from it.