He jerked backward, gasping, hands grabbing at his throat. “What the—”

Dorothy used that second of surprise to spin him around, wrenching both arms behind his back. He twisted, all red-faced and wide-eyed, trying to see her face.

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she saw him take in the scar. The white hair.

“Jesus,” he choked out. “You’re not a—”

Before he could finish, she’d jerked his arm upward so it would hurt.

“Watch it!” the guard shouted, but he didn’t fight as she slapped the cuffs over his wrists. “You’re not even a cop, are you?”

“Not remotely,” said Dorothy. She shoved the guard up against the wall, beside his partner. Now that they were both cuffed, they were no longer a threat. “This is a robbery. You don’t know it yet, but it will go down in history as the greatest robbery ever performed.”

Dorothy and Roman led the guards to the basement, handcuffed them to pipes, and wrapped duct tape around their hands, feet, and heads. Then they headed upstairs to the Dutch Room.

Dorothy had practically memorized the Dutch Room. She’d spent hours poring over photographs, wondering if the tile floor would cause her to trip in her oversize boots, if their voices would carry through the high, arched windows and into the courtyard below, if they’d be able to see in the near-perfect dark.

Her flashlight’s beam bounced off green brocade walls and gilded gold frames holding the most famous artwork in the history of the world. Chairs and heavy wooden furniture had been pushed up against the walls, almost like someone had cleared the center of the room for a dance. Dorothy grinned a little at the thought. It was the 1990s. The kind of dancing she was thinking of hadn’t been popular for a hundred years and the nonsense that had taken its place . . .

Well. It seemed more like convulsing than dancing, to her.

“We have a little over an hour,” she said as Roman headed for a framed Vermeer.

“You’re the boss.” Roman pulled a box cutter out of his pocket and began cutting the painting from its frame.

Isabella Stewart Gardner had bought that Vermeer in 1892, for 29,000 francs, Dorothy thought, remembering her research. Now it was worth millions.

She tilted her head to the side, studying it. It was smaller than she’d expected it to be. Why was everything so much smaller in real life?

They packed up paintings by Vermeer, Rembrandt, Degas, and Manet, along with an ancient Chinese gu vase and a bronze eagle finial that had sat atop a framed Napoleonic flag (the flag stayed stubbornly attached to the wall, no matter how hard they tried to remove it).

Finally, Roman checked his watch. “It’s been seventy-nine minutes.”

“Fine,” Dorothy said, stowing the final painting away in her bag. “Let’s go.”

His eyes narrowed. “And the guards?”

“The police will be here in six hours. I’m sure they’ll let them out.”