Free Library of Gold by Gayle Lynds Page B

fence, it filled a full city block, dominating the narrow, quaint streets of the Bloomsbury neighborhood of London. Rain fell lightly. Nearby traffic had eased except on Great Russell Street, where it would thunder all night. There were no pedestrians in sight.
    Four men in single file ran alongside the museum on Montague Place. They wore black nylon face masks and were dressed in black body suits, with large black waterproof backpacks snug against their shoulders. As they approached the iron gate, Doug Preston touched the electronic communicator on his belt. The click of the gate’s lock was audible. He slipped swiftly inside, followed by the others.
    The team hurried past grassy plots and open space until they reached a side door in the North Wing. It swung open, pushed by a man in a museum guard’s dark blue uniform. They stepped inside, the door closed with a clang, and in unison all four pulled out towels from one another’s backpacks.
    “Hurry, Preston,” the guard, Mark Allen Robert, said as they dried themselves. “I’ve bloody well got to get back.”
    “Is everything handled?” Preston demanded.
    Robert peered nervously at his watch. “They’ll be starting up rounds again through this wing in about twenty-five minutes. They’ll be checking the floors and galleries for an hour. To be on the safe side you need to be back here in twenty minutes. No more. I’ll control the security apparatus from downstairs.” He rushed away, his flashlight beam preceding him through macabre shadows created by dim amber lamps installed high on the walls.
    Silently the men changed into crepe-soled shoes. They mopped rainwater from the floor.
    “We’ve got seventeen minutes,” Preston told them quietly.
    They raced off through the gloom without the benefit of flashlights. The museum’s security lamps were enough, and each man had memorized the route.
    But at the top of the north stairs, Preston smelled an acrid whiff of cigarette smoke. He gave a brusque hand signal that told his people to stand back. Besides being the chief of security at the Library of Gold, he was a highly regarded expert in both break-ins and wet work, and this could be a minor interruption. He hoped like hell it was minor. His orders were to go in, grab, and get out without leaving any hint that intruders had breached the museum stronghold.
    Crouching, he found his nightscope, bent the neck, and aimed it around the corner until he could see. A guard, smoking languidly, was sauntering along the shadowy hallway toward them. Smoking was not allowed in the museum, so Preston thought the man likely had come up here to escape the rain, hoping no one would notice.
    Preston frowned and settled back on his heels, warily watching as the guard closed in on the stairwell. He was about to signal his men to retreat to the next floor when the guard put out the cigarette, lit another, and ambled around in a semicircle to retrace his path.
    Preston shook his shoulders to relieve tension. Beneath his mask, sweat greased his face. He hated not being able to take out the guard.
    Another five minutes passed while the man strolled the corridor. At last he extinguished the second cigarette, punched the button for the elevator, boarded it, and vanished.
    “Ten minutes left.” Preston saw his men stiffen. “We can do it.”
    With a snap of his wrist, he signaled, and they sprinted to the events hall where the Rosenwald collection was being exhibited. As expected, the security gate was lowered, but the light on the electronic lock was green, signaling it had been deactivated. Preston liked that—it increased the chances that the motion sensors inside the gallery had also been turned off.
    Together they raised the gate three feet, slid under, and sped toward The Book of Spies, peeling off their backpacks. No alarms went off.
    “Nine minutes,” Preston said, relieved.
    The high-security display cabinet had a frame of titanium without corner joints that could leak air. The