Confidence

"It's astonishing, isn't it?" says Helena to the man beside her. "The anger. The chaos. You feel it radiating from the canvas."

"It's palpable," he agrees. "Primal."

Up close, the painting dwarfs them, its monochrome oils stretching almost the length of the gallery wall. The museum itself is virtually empty, giving at least the illusion of privacy; the tourists and schoolchildren, she suspects, have been driven elsewhere by the midday heat, despite the promise of cool marble and air-conditioned corridors.

"I shall be very sad to see it go," she says.

----

That afternoon, in a corner of the museum cafeteria, Helena reviews her progress. It's going well, she thinks. Better than well; it's going entirely to plan.

She's reviewing the next stage of the game, half-wondering where on the tourist trail Claudia might have vanished to that morning, when a woman, in defiance of the emptiness of the cafe, pulls out a chair from Helena's table and sits down opposite her.

Helena stares for a moment; remembers.

"I've seen you before," she says, taking in the still-terrible shoes, the no-longer-red hair.

"In London," says the woman. "You were having lunch with Rupert Scott."

"And here you are now."

"I wanted to talk to you."

"And so you followed me halfway across Europe? I admire your dedication."

She takes a sip of her coffee; waits.

"I know who you are," says the woman eventually.

Helena raises an eyebrow.

"I also know why you're here," the woman adds.

"And why is that?"

"You're selling Guernica."

She's startled, momentarily, but knows better than to let the disquiet play out across her features. Instead, she makes a show of studying the woman: face and body, top to toe.

"You aren't law enforcement," she says.

"No," says the woman. "I'm really not."

"Is it worth my asking who you are?"

"Why don't I tell you who you are?" says the woman. "Then we can move on to me."

"I'm always keen to know myself better. Please."

The woman removes her jacket; settles back into her seat.

"You're Helena Wells," she says. "And you're a grifter - a very good one, if that house you keep in Dulwich is anything to go by."

"I'm so glad you like it. You should have made yourself known, if you were in the area - I might have invited you in."

"You play the long con," the woman continues. "You and your crew."

"My crew? Good Lord. Who knew I'd amassed a following?"

"You're clever, and you're careful. You don't get caught."

"You know, it rather sounds as if you might be my following."

"You work fast. And you flirt, aggressively, with everyone. Including me, apparently."

"Can you blame me, darling? Just look at you."

"Right now, as far as I can tell," says the woman, "you're working the Eiffel Tower scam. The mark is a man named Jürgen van Houten. He's in real estate, worth about 3 billion - some of it inherited, most of it made through investment. He's a regular on some of those World's Worst Landlord lists. Not a nice guy."

"Is that significant?"

"To me, yes."

"Beautiful and noble. I can barely contain myself."

The woman ignores her; maintains eye contact.

"Van Houten thinks of himself as a collector," she says. "Though from what I understand, he's more concerned with the price tag than what's in the frame. He likes Picasso; really likes Picasso. He was circling Women Of Algiers when it went to auction in New York last year. Got pretty angry when he was outbid."

"You seem more interested in Mr. van Houten than in me. I'm almost offended."

"He's a good mark, I have to admit. He’s rich, he’s greedy, he’s volatile... I couldn't have chosen better."

"I do hope we are coming back to you. I'm already brimming with questions."

"Now we both know," says that woman, "that the Spanish government don't want to let Guernica go any time soon. This isn't the US; they don't like deaccession over here. So I'm guessing you've told him that the museum wants the sale to go through quietly. That they don't want a scandal."

"Who would?"

"So I figured: sealed bids. Obviously with you handling the auction personally. And a deposit upfront from each bidder - maybe 2% of the painting's value? Nobody's priced Guernica for a while, but if Women Of Algiers went for $160 million, we've got to be looking at more. So let's say for argument's sake that it's worth, I don't know... €200 million, or whatever that is in euros. That's $4 million already, right in your pocket."

"Lucky me. What a windfall."

"But van Houten... He's not going to want to lose this one. Not after last time. He's the only bidder here, of course - but he doesn't know that. So he puts in a little extra - something to make sure his is the only envelope the board will open on the day. Another 1%, maybe? Another two million?"

"That's a great deal of money, for a bribe. Almost too much. A sensible person would know not to push quite so hard. I'd say 0.5% at the most, hypothetically."

"0.5%, then. And afterwards, after the bid and the little something extra has been delivered - then they disappear, this sensible person. And van Houten can't work out why the museum won't take his calls."

"What a delightful story. Almost Hitchcockian in its intricacy."

"I'm here to ask you not to do it - not to run the con."

Helena leans forward, suddenly. The movement catches the woman off guard; forces her backwards, very slightly, in her seat.

"If it were true," she says, an octave lower than her usual pitch, "if I were this confidence woman, this creature of guile and artifice - why on earth would I want to do that? To throw away a million-dollar payoff?"

"Because you can do better," says the woman. "And because I want you to come work with me instead."

----

"This is all terribly mysterious," says Helena, balancing herself on the edge of the desk.

"Really? You're not used to following strange women into their hotel rooms? I find that sort of difficult to believe."

"They're usually more forthcoming about their intentions."

"I thought I'd been pretty upfront."

"And yet I remain very much in the dark. I'm generally offered a first name in these circumstances, even when it's transparently a false one."

The woman kicks off her shoes.

"Myka," she says, arranging herself into the Arne Jacobsen chair beside the bed. "My name is Myka."

"Myka. Alright. You already know mine, of course. Though I'd very much like to know how you know it."

"I know how to dig. And you're not as well-hidden as you think you are."

"I'm exactly as well-hidden as I need to be. People rarely look."

"I did."

"You may be the first. Which brings us back to the earlier question of who you are, and why you've trailed me across the continent."

"I have a team. A crew. We do what you do."

"Many people do what I do. We tend not to get together for dinner."

"We're different."

"Isn't that what they all say? It's certainly what I say. And we're all liars. Every one of us is the same, at base. All rats in a barrel, clambering over one another to get to the cheese."

"Not us."

"No?"

"No. We're not in it for the money."

Helena looks her over again; scans her clothes, her hair, the scant pieces of jewellery on her hands and neck.

"You have very expensive taste, for someone with no interest in money."

"It's a part," says Myka. "A costume. I put it on, I take it off. It's not who I am."

"Who are you, then?"

"Someone who's offering you a job. A good one."

"With your happy band of altruists? I'm afraid I wouldn't fit in at all well. I really rather like money."

"And I'm sure you've got enough of it to last six lifetimes. But what we do - it's better than money. More fun, too."

"I doubt that. You'd be surprised at just how much fun my money affords me." She grins. "Or perhaps you wouldn't."

"Stop it," says Myka.

"Stop what?"

"The flirting. It isn't necessary. I'm already offering something; you don't have to work me over to take it."

"Force of habit, I'm afraid. But go on, if you must: make your offer. Tell me what it is that you do, so that I might be persuaded to forsake the trappings of materialism."

"Like I said," says Myka, "we do what you do. The process is the same. It's the outcome that's different."

"Which is what, exactly? If it isn't remuneration?"

"Normally I'd say: justice. But you've made your position on altruism pretty clear. So how about this? It's payback. What we do is payback."

----

(Later, unbeknownst to Helena, Artie will be apoplectic, his anger barely contained by the small screen of Myka's tablet.

"This was not the plan!" he'll say. "You were supposed to watch her, not hire her."

"I know that," Myka will say. "But it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Aren't you the one who's always telling us to follow our instincts? That sometimes our gut knows better than we do?"

"She's got you there, Articulus," Pete will say, off-screen.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Myka will say. "She's not interested."

"And thank God for that," Artie will say, calming a little. "What would we have done with her, if she'd said yes?")

----

Back at her own hotel, with the doors to the adjoining suite thrown open and Claudia's tools and cables strewn across all available surfaces, Helena plays back the conversation; tries to puzzle out, with the benefit of hindsight, how she feels about it.

"I met a woman today," she says, aloud.

"Finally," says Claudia. "I knew this holiday was a good idea."

"It's not a holiday. I'm working."

"You may be. But I'm not."

She puts down her crimping pliers; drops the wire she's holding onto the bed.

"Please be careful," says Helena. "I do sleep in there."

"I'll clean it up. It’s not gonna, you know... scorch your quilt or anything. And if it does, so what? It's not like it'll go on your bill. I know you worked the slip and fall to get this room."

"I'd still rather not drape myself in burned cotton, if it's at all avoidable. What is it you're making this time?"

"You'll see when it's done."

"I'll never understand your secrecy about these devices of yours."

"That's because you've never felt the weight of your expectation when I tell you I'm making you something you can use on the job. It's crushing, H.G. Crushing."

"Are you making me something?"

"Did you hear what I just said? Don't ask me that."

"Consider the question retracted."

"Good. What's she like?"

"The woman I met?"

"Who else?"

"She tried to recruit me."

"Recruit you? She didn't know you were already, you know... on the team?"

"Actually recruit me. For a job."

Claudia snaps the goggles she's wearing back from her eyes, onto her temples.

"What kind of job?" she says, suspiciously. "A real job, or our kind of job?"

"Our kind."

"Should I be worried?"

"That I'll leave you? Of course not. We're a unit. Even if you do insist on searing my bedspread with whatever it is that you're creating with those implements of yours."

"What was she offering? I need to know, if I'm gonna compete."

"There's no competition. She wanted me to join her group of ... I'm not even sure what you'd call them. Vigilantes? Apparently they roam the globe, righting corporate wrongs."

"And she wanted you?"

"I asked the very same question. But apparently the strength of my skillset outweighs my moral turpitude. Either that, or our colleagues out there really are worse than we've imagined."

"What was her name?"

"Myka."

"No last name? Just Myka? Like Cher?"

"I'm sure she has one. But she didn't offer it to me."

"You didn't get any other details? I mean, we should keep an eye on her, right? If she knows us, knows who we are?"

"She didn't know you - only me."

"Still. We're kind of tied together in this, and I'd rather play it safe."

"I understand. She's staying at the Zafiro if you're in the mood for reconnaissance."

"She told you that?"

"I was there with her."

"You went to her hotel room?"

"Yes."

"Where she tried to recruit you?"

"Yes."

"And you're sure it was for real? It wasn't some Craigslist deal you got tangled up in?"

"It was entirely legitimate, inasmuch as these things can be."

"Then I'm definitely in the mood for reconnaissance."

"Tonight?"

"Let me wash the burn marks off my fingers, and I'm there."