No one else in the room seemed to notice when the clock stopped ticking. Which was exactly what Marcus had paid good money for. The device had a four-minute window; that was what the engineer had promised, and Marcus had built the whole plan around it. Four minutes of stillness. Four minutes in which champagne hung suspended mid-pour, a woman's laugh froze in her throat, and the security guard by the east staircase stood blinking at nothing like a man remembering a dream. Marcus moved quickly. He'd walked the room twice in the preceding week, memorizing the layout, the angles, the precise location of the painting. It was smaller than the photographs suggested, which meant it was easier to carry, which was the first thing that had gone right all evening. He lifted it cleanly off the wall. Tucked it under his arm. Crossed the room without hurrying, because the engineer had also told him not to hurry, that hurrying was how people got caught, that the stillness would hold, trust the stillness. He was almost at the fire exit when time resumed. He heard it happen — the sharp collective inhale of a room suddenly remembering itself, the resumption of music, the first uncertain shout of an alarm. He ran. It went wrong in stages, the way things always did. The courier panicked on the street and bolted. The painting went with him, which meant Marcus ran a different direction with nothing but adrenaline and the vague satisfaction of knowing the device had worked. The engineer would be pleased about that, at least. By the time he reached the safe house, soaked through and empty-handed, his partner was already there. She looked at his face and understood immediately. "The painting?" "Gone." She was quiet for a moment. Then: "And the others?" He thought of the courier. Of the three men on the inside who hadn't made it to the exits. Of the contingency fund wired to an account that no longer existed. All things considered, losing the map was the least permanent consequence.