The Hypnotist

SIXTY-EIGHT

The west wall of the American Wing faced Central Park and, like the ceiling, was made entirely of glass panes. Dead center were two wide glass emergency doors.

“Open the doors,” the lead terrorist shouted at Olshling. “Now.”

The head of security looked over at Lucian for instructions.

As the agent most closely involved with the Met for the past eight years, Lucian knew the details of all the security systems in place. To open those doors required both a biometric fingerprint scan and retina scan. He felt a kick of something that was almost hope. Now that he knew how the intruders planned on getting away, Lucian didn’t think they planned on detonating the explosives. The goal was to take the sculpture and get away.

Damn if Lucian was going to let that happen.

He was going to need Olshling to be listening and thinking, and not just reacting. Normally Lucian would have bet on him. But knowing someone in peacetime didn’t always prepare you for how they would react in war.

“Do it all, Nick. Everything. Open all the systems. Fast,” Lucian instructed, and then he stepped to the side. He was standing to the left of the sculpture now. On the right, closer to the door, was one of the terrorists-the brutish one who had wheeled the statue down from upstairs was watching Olshling, who was still in front of the glass doors. They were all watching him. Lucian took a half step back. Then another. He was behind Hypnos now. No one was paying attention to him.

Olshling entered a PIN number and then put his finger on the biometric reader. A red light flashed. Then he looked up. The retina scanner blinked green. A single second later a screaming alarm went off, the ear-shattering noise filling the great hall and overpowering the chopper’s whirring.

Talbot rushed Olshling, grabbed him around the neck and screamed in his ear. “Shut it off! Shut it off! No tricks, damn you. What the hell are you trying?”

It took Olshling three seconds to punch in the cancellation code.

The siren came to a dead halt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Talbot yelled.

“Forget it,” Samimi screamed as he shoved the man aside and pushed open the door. “We have to get out of here now. Fast. Move. Everyone out!”

Behind them, the partygoers who saw the doors open surged forward-they wanted to get out-and fast.

Three of the terrorists held the crowd back, pushing and shoving the hysterical crowd back out of the way, while the other two ushered Hypnos out and into the net hanging off the extension sling connected to the helicopter, and then all of the men jumped on beside him. The exodus had taken less than forty-five seconds to accomplish.

As the chopper rose up above the Beaux Arts building, six men and an ancient chryselephantine sculpture swung back and forth above the tree line while, below, the museum’s guests stampeded the doors, desperate to escape the building even though the threat was gone.

In the mad rush, Jim Rand, one of the Met’s board members, who was holding his wife’s arm, was thrown to the ground. Her hysterical screams for help went unheard. Hitch Oster assisted two elderly women, both in tears, through the door. Not far behind him Marie Grimshaw stumbled and found herself being helped by a stranger. Olshling was caught up in their wake, unable to fight the push of the crowd, and wound up outside. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the chopper and the swaying bounty it carried. He prayed Lucian Glass knew what he was doing.