They were crowded by a wall of instruments, ignoring the dead body at their feet, watching the feed from a button camera that panned one checkpoint after another as its wearer passed through them. Then the gilded, magnificent reception room of the palace came on the screen at last, looking exactly like the postcards vendors sold all over the city. “Boss’s in. We’re good to go,” the oldest of the men said, then clapped the rookie on the shoulder. “We’ll be in an’ out before they know what hit ’em.” The mood in the air was tense but optimistic as they checked their weapons. “ANYONE BUT HER.” Prince Istvan nestled the stash of two-hundred-year-old documents back into their leather pouch, then a ziplock bag and a protective box, careful not to damage the brittle paper. He shoved the copy he was making by hand into the inside pocket of his jacket. Every time he began work on the Maltmore diary, someone or something interrupted him. His office, located deep inside the palace, was supposed to be his sanctuary.
