Free The Art of Stealing Forever by Stella London

we’re
here in Paris, it’s
feeling more real: what we’re
about to do.
    Am
I making a mistake?
     
    The
gallery is an old building in a fancy area, understated yet
luxurious. It’s
closed, but we’re
shown inside, past the construction and all the preparations for the
upcoming exhibition. I look around, noticing the artwork already
hanging on the walls. Part of me wishes I could just enjoy the art at
the opening like a normal attendee.
    “Mr.
St. Clair,”
a
woman says with French accent, coming to greet us. “How
wonderful to meet you at last. Marie Villenueve.”
She
steps forward and shakes his hand.
    St.
Clair says,
“Enchantee,”
and
then something else in French, and Marie beams. Then he says, “This
is Grace, my art consultant.”
    “Nice
to meet you,”
she
says to me. “We
are just so thrilled that you have loaned us such an important
painting for our opening. We can’t
thank you enough.”
    “It’s
my pleasure.”
St. Clair looks around. “Did
it arrive safely?”
    “But
of course. We have it in the back, and you’re
more than welcome to check the condition yourself.”
Marie
smiles, and gives me a look. “I
know how possessive these art lovers can be. They like to know their
infants are safe. Come.”
    We
follow her through a ‘staff
only’
door,
into the back of the gallery. Here, behind the scenes, it’s
a lot like the auction house in San Francisco: there are offices and
several rooms filled with artwork in various stages of unpacking or
restoration, and people are bustling around getting everything ready.
    Marie
leads us to a large room in the back, which opens up to a loading
dock for deliveries. This space is the most chaotic of all: packing
crates are stacked against the walls, tables are loaded with
supplies, and worker are busy unloading a pallet with large crates
stamped ‘handle
with care’.
    I
look around, trying to see the scene not as a new consultant or
intern, but as St. Clair would see it: as a thief would see it. First
I notice that St. Clair was right—there
is definitely less security here. I see a couple of guys in guard
uniforms, but they’re
bustling around, talking to people, not posted on watch. Lots of
people are coming and going—workers,
maintenance men, gallery docents, curators like Marie, art restorers,
and all types of other employees. And there are multiple entrance and
exit points for sneaking in and escaping.
    Compared
to the vaults, this is a breeze.
    Another
storage crate is being unloaded from a truck onto the dock.
‘Crawford’
is printed on a label on the side. Marie sees me looking at the
crate. “And
another big donation coming in at the same time!”
She
turns to St. Clair. “We
just can’t
thank you enough for recruiting Spencer Crawford to help with the
exhibit as well.”
    St.
Clair smiles, modest. “This
is an important cause. I want to see it do well.”
    “We
never expected such a generous loan from two of the art world’s
biggest names!”
she
gushes. “Truly,
it’s
an honor.”
    “I’m
happy to do it,”
he
says.
    Marie
clears some space on the closest table and directs two workers to
roll the crate with St. Clair’s
painting a little closer. They lift the painting from the crate with
care, like they’re
holding a baby, and set it carefully on the table.
    “Beautiful,”
Marie
breathes. “I
hadn’t
seen it in person yet.”
    “Indeed,”
St.
Clair says. “I
can’t
wait to see it hanging tonight.”
    Marie
calls someone else over, and they begin talking in rapid-fire French.
I’m
sure St. Clair’s
brain is tracking all the little details he’ll
need to pull off the heist, and I know the things I noticed are just
the beginning.
    “See
that?” St.
Clair whispers, nodding to another table. I follow his gaze. There’s
a jacket slung over the back of a chair –
with
a security badge dangling from the pocket.
    I
nod.
    “I
need a distraction,”
St.
Clair whispers. “Can
you make that happen?”
    I
nod, but my mind