“Definitely.”
“But you're still in.”
“I'm in.” I gestured toward the door. “Now are we going to this museum, or are you going to keep testing me?”
Cal grabbed his coat. “Museum. We need to move. Event starts in thirty-five.”
We left the pub and stepped out into a grey London evening, rain threatening but not yet falling. Cal set a quick pace toward the Underground.
“What's the plan?” I asked.
“Harrow will be in the private galleries. A donor event means light security, mostly watching the art.” Cal's eyes had already gone distant, running scenarios. “We go in through the service entrance, blend with catering, observe. If an opening for closer approach presents itself, we take it.”
“And if we're caught?”
“We improvise.” He glanced at me. “You any good at that?”
“Good enough.”
“That's not reassuring.”
“Wasn't meant to be. It was meant to be honest.”
Cal laughed despite himself. “Fair.”
The British Museumrose from the evening like a temple, its stone columns pale against a darkening sky. We approachedfrom the service entrance, Cal producing credentials that got us past the security guard with minimal friction. Inside, the museum was a different place after hours — quieter, the shadows deeper and the echoing silence of the public galleries replaced by the muffled sounds of an event somewhere in the building.
“Stay close,” Cal murmured. “Service corridors ahead. We need the one that leads to the Greek galleries.”
We moved through passages marked Staff Only, Cal navigating the way through. The sounds of the event grew louder as we went — voices, laughter, the high ring of champagne glasses — and Cal stopped at a door and opened it carefully, a fraction at a time.
We emerged behind a display of pottery, hidden by its strategic placement. And there he was.
Harrow stood at the centre of the room holding court. A distinguished man in an expensive suit, explaining something about Athenian democracy to a cluster of admirers who hung on every word. Two bodyguards were positioned at angles that covered both entrances, scanning the room continuously, assessing threats and mapping exits.
Cal's hand touched my arm. A warning. Stay controlled.
“We need to get closer,” he whispered. “See who else is here. Document the connections.”
He started moving, using the display cases as cover, and I followed, matching his movements and keeping him in my peripheral vision while I watched the room.
Then one of the admirers dropped her champagne. It shattered across the marble floor with a sound like a gunshot and everyone turned toward it, including the bodyguards, including Harrow, whose eyes swept the room as he turned and landed directly on Cal.
Recognition flashed across Harrow's face, followed immediately by something considerably colder. He said something to the nearest bodyguard and pointed.
The bodyguards moved.
“Run,” Cal said.
We ran, back through the doorway and into the service corridors, Cal calling directions over his shoulder as we went. Left, then right, then through a heavy door that opened into a loading area with a concrete floor, high ceilings, and metal shelving stacked against the walls. No other exits visible.
The bodyguards came through behind us. Three of them now.
Cal spun to face them, already reaching for something concealed at his side. A knife appeared in his hand, short and practical. “Back off.”
The lead bodyguard smiled with the ease of someone who'd done this before. “Mr Harrow would like a word. Come quietly or we make this messy.”
“I vote messy,” Cal said, and moved before anyone could respond.
