Victor Khaze.com

I imagine myself as a thief.

It’s night as I walk into the museum staff entrance dressed as one of the guards. I swipe the keycard of  the real guard whose place I took. Today would have been his first shift, so none of the others really know what he looks like. They’ve all met him but, with my fake eyebrows and nose, I look close enough to fool anyone but his mother (who, coincidentally, died in a car accident with his father as they plunged into the Hudson after careening off the George Washington bridge).

I felt bad, having had to kill him, but my client paid be good money to get this item. Too good. More over, they told me something that went against my every intuition: don’t disable any of the security measures and make the theft as obvious as possible. Remembering the woman’s voice on the end of the line as she said those words made me shiver. Her voice was colder than peaks of the Himalayas. Unless under contract, thieves usually steal for the challenge. But for those who hire us, it’s usually an object of personal import. This woman, though, this ice queen, there was no emotion in her voice. Cool, calm, and analytical.

As I let the eleventh or twelfth Ambien drop into the shared guards coffee pot in the break room, I wondered why she had also asked- no, ordered me to forgo my usual warning of the target and the leaving of my calling card. I listened to my radio as it squarked to life.

"James? Where are ya?"
"In the break room, boss," I answered.
"Well, get back to your post. That exhibit needs to be picture perfect tomorrow morning for the press conference."
"Yes sir! On my way!" I added with a little extra enthusiasm.

As I made my way to the exhibit hall, I looked around for any changes in the security. I had cased the place several times before in the week, each time with a different disguise. No changes. I smiled wryly. It wasn’t going to be the easiest heist, but certainly not even close to the most difficult I’ve ever pulled.

I had arranged to take the post closest to my target, the "Romanov Tercentenary", a Faberge Egg on loan from the Kremlin Armoury Museum in Moscow for the visit of Vladimir Putin. Standing with my back to the the glass case, I was so close to that egg I could almost smell the gold.
Waiting for the shift change to make my move, I smashed the glass case with my diamond tipped hammer and snatched the egg, pocketing it and stowing the hammer back under my uniform jacket. Running towards the front of the museum, I saw a trio of guards heading my way. I pointed to the main doors and yelled, "The thief! I saw him go this way!"
I threw open the doors, took out my flash light and started running down the stairs to the outside of the museum. I stopped and yelled back to the guards at the top of the stairs, "I see him! He’s heading south! I’ll get him if it kills me!"

As I ran down the street and out of sight of the museum, I began un-velcroing my pre-prepared uniform and making my way to the delivery truck that awaited me, now walking in a Fed-Ex uniform. Climbing into the drivers seat, I pulled out the museum radio.

"I’ve got him. We’re on our way back now."
"Good work, Rookie! Let’s get some beer after this."
"Yes, sir!"

As I held up my treasure, I smiled and started driving south, only stopping so that the police cars heading towards the museum could whiz past me. When James doesn’t show up, they’d go looking for him. In his apartment, they’ll find James, face down on the floor with a bullet in his head, in his real uniform, with a duplicate keycard and an identical diamond tipped hammer. They’ll assume that he was paid to steal the egg, but that the people who paid him decided to save their money and not leave any loose ends.