[Note: this title is very temporary. Any suggestions for a better one would be greatly appreciated]
Prologue
“This just in—officials at the British Museum have reported that the Kohinoor Diamond has been stolen. The Jewel, on loan from the Tower of London, was discovered to be missing this morning when curatorial director Dr.—THUD.“
The newscast was interrupted by an orange tabby knocking over (another) one of Laila’s mugs. Rolling her eyes, she picked it up and exchanged it for a dish towel to clean up the puddle of Earl Grey on the coffee table.
“Stupid cat,“ she thought, cursing her flatmate for not taking it with her on her summer holiday. The news report transitioned to various commentators earnestly speaking about how tragic the loss of such an important artifact was for history, science, and culture everywhere. The same commentators probably didn’t think raiding tombs and looting graves were antithetical to history, science, and culture: but they were, at least below the Ivory Tower. The report transitioned to a detective inspector, who informed viewers that investigations were ongoing, but they had no leads yet.
“Known for its great beauty and size, the Kohinoor Diamond remains one of history’s most iconic objects,” one newscaster said. “And one of the most controversial—many South Asian and Middle Eastern nations have claimed ownership, demanding its return from the British Crown.”
When ex-PM David Cameron was asked to give the Kohinoor back, he said no, saying that it would be a slippery slope to emptying the entire British Museum. And would that be the worst thing in the world?
The current PM remained unavailable for comment. Laila snorted, and turned off the TV. An eerie silence settled over the flat. She was used to her flatmate’s sounds and movements, rattling pots in the kitchen and talking to the cat like it was an infant. Under any other circumstances, she would have loved to be alone. But she’d never had a secret this big to hide before.
After triple-locking the front door, putting food out for the cat, and tidying up, she was ready to retire. Closing her bedroom door, she wedged a chair underneath the handle. She sat on her bed and exhaled. After a few moments, she reached under the bed and peeled back an object taped to the frame. Setting the adhesives aside, she looked at the almost impossibly bright jewel and wondered aloud: now what?
CHAPTER I
Ten days earlier, Laila decided to visit her mother at work. This was easier said than done, as her mother harbored a distaste for how Laila “squandered” her education. The head curator of the British Museum once had high hopes for her daughter. They were all crushed to pieces when her only child turned down Oxford to study fashion and art history—at an American institution, no less. Most parents would be happy if their children had an Ivy-League education. But Laila’s mother was different. Her saber-tooth-tiger-mom parenting philosophy mirrored that of her museum acquisition strategy: you’d better do what she asked, and if you didn’t, she’d find a way for you to make you wish you had.
Laila’s tried explaining to her mother that her interest in fashion came from growing up in exhibition halls and dusty archives; from being raised by one of the most esteemed scholars in the world. Wandering the British Museum allowed Laila to travel the world without ever leaving London; but, she hated the sterility of it all: glass cases, velvet ropes, and the cultural erasure that came with divorcing objects from their homeland. Forget imperialist and colonialist—it was anti-human to display these artifacts without showing the people who made and used them. That’s why she became interested in fashion: it made art, history, and culture come alive.
She channeled her frustration into a triple major at Columbia in art history, anthropology, and design (if you asked Laila’s mum, only one of those degrees “counted”). She then landed a conservatory in one of Paris’s top fashion institutes and eventually became a cultural consultant to fashion houses and independent designers worldwide. Laila spent as much time in studios as she did archives. Her latest project took her back to the British Museum, where she was hardly looking forward to another career “conversation” (read: lecture) with her mum. As she sat in the Tube, she could already hear the sharp words: “why not do something worthwhile with your degree, time, and whatever intelligence you managed to retain?”
The project itself was the most prestigious one that Laila had landed so far. She was working with a team of designers dressing the British Royals for the Met Gala. The theme was Intersections. The Royals thought wanted to wear outfits that blended different cultures’ garments with British Regency-era attire. When Laila perused the design team’s file, she noticed something odd about the countries they wanted her to research: every one of them was once a part of the British Empire. That’s not really saying much, though, is it? Laila thought. If you picked a country at random, what were the odds that we’d colonized it? Whether this was appropriation or some sort of bold social statement, Laila didn’t know. That decision was above her pay grade. Her job was just to come to the meetings with conceptual sketches and hope for the best.
As the meetings progressed, the discourse she heard from the Royals made her a little queasy. They would often describe styles, motifs, or even entire cultures as “savage” or “backwards.” They felt entitled to cherry-pick what they’d like to use and leave the rest to be forgotten. What they chose to wear had more to do with aesthetics than anything of social, historical, or cultural significance. Laila thought back to her mother’s work at the museum: what the Royals were doing paralleled what curators did when acquiring new objects. They’d exhibit what they thought was worth showing, on their own land, and in their own words. People around the world lost control of the narrative once these artifacts hit museum halls.
Laila liked to think of herself as someone who stood up for what she believed in. But words wouldn’t get her very far—not here, where she was at the bottom of the pecking order. Instead, she began to hatch a plan where she wouldn’t need to say anything at all. She suggested to her supervisors that it would be even more jaw-dropping if the Royals wore actual artifacts instead of merely drawing inspiration from them. They loved the idea—and so did the nobility, of course. Laila started compiling a list of eligible objects in the British Museum and other collections in the UK. It took weeks of prodding and manipulation, but Laila finally had the team where she wanted them: It was decided that Kate Middleton would walk up the red-carpeted Met steps wearing the Kohinoor Diamond.
Laila envisioned the Duchess wearing the jewel in a necklace modeled after Ranjit Singh’s armlet that once held the gem, centuries ago. When she finished the conceptual sketch, Laila was sure that her Indian ancestors would be rolling over in their graves (had they not been cremated and scattered in the Ganges). Even if they had graves, Laila thought bitterly, I wouldn’t know where to find them. Laila’s mother came from generations of British nobility, but her father’s parentage was a mystery. The only thing her mother divulged was that they parted ways before Laila was born due to “irreconcilable ideological differences.” She never told Laila’s father she was pregnant. Yet, somehow, when Laila’s mother woke up in the delivery room after giving birth, she found her daughter wearing a gold coin around her neck. Her tiny hands were clutching what looked like a museum display placard: “Gold coin issued by Chandragupta II (circa 380 – 414 CE).” Under it, in tiny handwriting: “Every child should know their roots.”
Years later, Laila still wasn’t sure if this coin held any clues to her father’s identity. It seemed more like a reminder that even though she was a British woman raised by a British woman, there was another part to her story that was worth exploring. She still wears the coin around her neck.
Maybe it was this legacy from an otherwise absent father that allowed such a daft idea to take root in her head. Filching the Kohinoor? Ridiculous! And yet, there’s never been a more perfect time for anyone to steal it back…
The jewel, normally housed at the very secure Tower of London, would be moved at the absolute last possible moment: one week before the Royals left England for the Met Gala. It would be replaced with a fake so as to not attract attention. The Crown didn’t want anyone outside the inner circle to know that the jewel was being moved. Most of the preparatory work—designing, fitting, and so on—would be done with a replica of the Kohinoor at the British Museum. Because the team needed a few fake diamonds to carry out their plan, Kohinoor replicas were scattered around the studio. Nobody would notice if one went missing, Laila thought as she swiped one. I’ll need this later.
After leaving the Tower, the Kohinoor would arrive at the British Museum, where the tools and security necessary for the final fitting would be ready. It would also give a few select geologists a rare chance to study the brilliant gem before it went back into the Tower. As Head Curator, Laila’s mother was in charge of the transfer.
Once Laila stole the diamond (if she got that far), she’d stash it in a shipment of antique jewelry heading to Vogue India’s Delhi office in a few days. There was no other way to transport such a large gem without avoiding airport security. Luckily, she was able to swing working on this photoshoot by trading it for one in Milan (sigh). In between sessions, she’d leave the diamond at Delhi’s National Museum. If the timing worked just so, it would receive the Kohinoor on the same evening that Kate Middleton paraded its fake up the Met Steps.
The actual theft was still a big gaping hole in the repatriation plan. Now that Laila finished designing the necklace, her professional involvement with was done. There was no way she’d be allowed anywhere near the real Kohinoor. She had no idea where her mother would hide it, and with what kind of security. But she had a few days to figure it out and enough work to warrant her presence in the Museum Archives. Besides, she’d gotten away with everything short of bloody murder right under her mum’s nose. How hard would stealing the Kohinoor be?
Laila had the four levels of clearance and enough self-confidence to march right into her mother’s office (after knocking, of course). Much to Laila’s delight, it was empty. Her mother’s office looked exactly the way you’d expect it to look: bookshelves with old, thick volumes. Stolen artifacts from around the world. Lots of mahogany. Laila did a quick sweep of the room for any visible cameras. She was sure there wouldn’t be any hidden cameras: why hide surveillance in the most famous museum in the world? People expect there to be cameras around every corner. It looks like her mother’s office was spared the invasion of privacy: god forbid anyone sees the Head Curator exhibit any signs of humanity, like picking her nose or itching her bum.
Laila took a GoPro out of her bag and stopped once she heard footsteps. Shit. Laila held her breath as the steps grew progressively louder, closer to the door. Shit shit bloody shit—oh thank god. She let out a heavy exhale as the steps faded away. False alarm—but I have to act fast. She quickly put the camera behind a mask facing the desk and synced it to her phone. Then, she went behind the desk, stuck a bug underneath it, and copied her mother’s digital calendar over to her own. After making sure everything was in place, she rushed back to a chair in the corner, taking out a sketchbook. Moments later, her mother entered, towering over her in four-inch heels. The shoes brought her height all the way up to 6’2”.
“Laila, what are you doing here?” She asked, her eyes widening. Aside from the red-bottomed heels (worn purely for intimidatory, not aesthetic, purposes) and a thin string of pearls, there was nothing feminine about her attire. She dressed like the Oxford professor she used to be, in well-tailored tweed and a ballet-tight brunette bun. Her headmistress-like aesthetic was accentuated by her almost impossibly angular cheekbones and stormy grey eyes. The only soft part about her were her full lips, which invited comparisons to Angelina Jolie from those who incorrectly assumed she’d be flattered by the compliment. They never made the same mistake twice.
“Hello, mum,” Laila said, folding up her sketchbook. “It’s nice to see you too.” Laila stowed the book away in a loud tote reminiscent of Yayoi Kusama’s trademark polkadots. It clashed (intentionally) with her lavender skirt and blazer, under which she wore a white knit shirt. While her mother wore pearls conservatively on her neck and earlobes, Laila wove them into her two French braids, which ended below her shoulders. Laila’s platform Prada sneakers (a work freebie) were half as high as her mothers’ heels, but cost about as much. At 5’3”, she could use whatever height she could get.
“Laila, I don’t have much time. We’re acquiring an asset, and the envoy is on the way.” Laila’s heartbeat quickened. She thought she’d have at least a few days before the diamond arrived, but it looks like the team was ahead of schedule. “And it’s classified.” The Kohinoor. It had to be.
“I take it this acquisition came from outside the European continent?” Laila asked, covering up her nervousness with a snarky comment.
“Laila, please,” her mother snapped. She sat at her desk, removed her glasses, and began cleaning them aggressively with a microfiber cloth. “And if you must know, it’s coming from just across town. But that’s all I can say.” After setting her glasses back on the bridge of her nose, the Curator looked at her daughter pointedly. “You should leave.”
“Alright, I’ll get my things,” Laila said, rolling her eyes. I can’t believe I’m still rolling my eyes—I’m almost bloody thirty years old! Then again, mum does have a way of bringing out my inner child. As Laila slung her tote over her shoulder, there was a knock on the door.
“Bloody hell,” her mother whispered. What’s gotten mum so on edge? This was completely out of character—something wasn’t adding up. It couldn’t be that this diamond was a priceless artifact—Laila’s mother handled those every day. Laila started to sweat as she jumped to the conclusion that her mother knew about the theft she was planning. She couldn’t possibly know. She’s good, but she’s not that good.
“Mum, I see you’re on edge about this. I’ll get going, then.”
“Laila, I’m not on edge, I—” The knock again. “Why don’t you take the back door out?”
“But why I’m—“ Her mother glared at her.
“Dr. Croft?” A voice ventured, accented with something Laila couldn’t place: it wasn’t fully British, but it sounded almost like it could slip into something foreign quite naturally at any moment.
“Oh all right—come in,” Laila’s mother said, throwing her hands up in the air and letting out a huge sigh. Something about this envoy really had her mother quaking in her Louboutins, Laila thought. The last time she saw her mother like this, she was haggling with the Director of the Smithsonian over some statues stolen from the Andes.
The door opened slowly. Laila looked at the man who just entered and gasped. Every feature that she didn’t share with her Blue-Blooded British mother—the wild, curly hair, brown skin, and pitch-black eyes—she saw in the stranger standing before her.
“Laila,” he said with twinkling eyes, “I suppose it’s time you met your father.”
CHAPTER II
Laila was frozen in place, forgetting the Kohinoor, forgetting how to speak, how to move. All she could do was try not to make direct eye contact with her father as he was trying to do the exact opposite.
“Laila, could you excuse us, please,” her mother asked sternly.
“Lara, come on, we’re not in that much of a hurry,” her father said, fully stepping into the office. Laila managed to peel her feet from the floor and pivot backwards to the desk. She looked expectantly at her mother, refusing to move until she got an explanation.
Even without Laila’s scheming, the Crown was in trouble. Dr. Croft didn’t trust the man with joint custody over their own daughter: how were they supposed to protect the most valuable diamond in the world? I can’t tell if having my father involved will make the heist easier or harder, Laila thought. Then again, I have no idea who he actually is and why the Crown trusts him with the Kohinoor.
“This has to happen now,” the curator said firmly, ushering her daughter towards the door. “We can all sit and chat later,” she added in a voice that conveyed what she really thought of such an idea: it was never going to happen. On her way out, Laila stole one last glance at her father. He was shaking his head and harboring a small smile, as if her mother’s “final say” was only temporary. His expression suggested that Laila’s parents had grown accustomed to dealing with each others’ nonsense: that the two of them had, at some point, been like family.
Ten minutes later, Laila was looking at her parents again. This time, though, she was sitting in a spare room in the archives, staring at the GoPro’s live feed streaming onto her laptop. Her hands were shaking as she synced her headphones to the audio, nervous about what she might find out about her parents and about her past.
The past will be there forever, Laila reminded herself. Right now, I have to focus on learning more about the diamond. She still didn’t know where the it was going to be stored, what kind of security it would have, and when would be best to snatch it: and she was running out of time.
The audio finally connected, and she heard her mother grumbling and rummaging through files. His father looked at her silently from the other side of the desk. After a few more moments of heavy silence, he finally spoke.
“I can’t believe you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about Laila.”
“Of course I couldn’t trust you! You lied to me—about everything,” Dr. Croft replied. “I don’t fault you for lying for a living, but your career choices make for an unfit father figure.”
“Our love was real, even if my story wasn’t.” Gag. Laila’s mother looked up from the filing cabinet, the mild rainstorm in her grey eyes turning into a category five typhoon.
“Why are you really here?” Yes, get back to the Kohinoor, please.
“I’m transporting the asset”
“How does an ex-MI6 operative—emphasis on ex—,” Dr. Croft said, almost sneering, “end up transporting the bloody Kohinoor from the Tower of London to the British Museum? Where his ex—emphasis again, on ex—happens to be in charge?”
“Someone needed a favor,” her father replied, resting his hands atop a chair. “And besides, I reconsidered my relationship to our imperialist nation once they let one of us on Downing Street”
“‘One of us’ as in an Indian, or ‘One of us’ as in your fellow daft prankster chum from your posh boarding school days?”
“It’s hard to separate one from the other, Lara,” her dad said with a mischievous smile. “Back then, it was the headmaster. Now, it’s all of Parliament and the horrid Royals.”
“And now the PM has convinced MI6 to take you back?”
“Of course not—I wouldn’t rejoin that agency for all the money in the world. But I’ve proven that I can be trusted. That I see things differently now,” her father took a deep breath. “I realized we can change things without hurting anyone. Without being so… radial.” Dr. Croft raised her eyebrows.
When Laila was a child, she would have given almost anything to see her parents together and to learn more about her dad. But she was so anxious out now that she couldn’t enjoy any of it. Each new piece of information was like a sucker punch to the gut: her father was ex-MI6, in with the government, and trusted by the Royals—even though he seemed to hate everyone but the PM. Who was her father, really? She still didn’t even know his name…
“Did you know? About Laila?”
“That she existed?” Her father rolled his eyes. “Yes. I’m ex-MI6, remember?”
“Why didn’t you reach out before?”
“Lara, if I know anything about you, it’s that you need your space. Especially when it comes to me. You didn’t want me in the picture for a reason.”
“And now, transporting the Kohinoor—is it just a coincidence that you arrived when Laila’s latest project brought her back to the British Museum?”
“No, it’s not. I heard that she was working on Kate’s necklace and… ” He sat down and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m the ‘someone’ that needed the favor. When I saw that there was a chance for all three of us to be together, to just talk as a family, I leapt at it, and… ” his voice trailed off. It looked like he was struggling to get the rest of the words out of his mouth.
“And?”
“And now that I have somewhat of a different perspective, maybe we could all try being a family, whatever that looks like.”
Laila almost slammed her laptop shut. Instead, she stood up and started marching back and forth behind her desk. Of course after over two decades of a drama-free family, I get hit with this bloody nonsense the same week I’m trying to do something with my short and insignificant life. Laila sat back down and started doing the “deep, calming breaths” suggested by her yoga-instructor flatmate. She was skeptical until now: she felt her heart rate slowing down, the heat in her face dissipating.
Unlike her daughter, Dr. Croft was unfazed. It can’t be the first time she’s heard these words. They may as well have been the creak of the hardwood floor or the turn of her ceiling fan: you get used to certain sounds after a while, and then never notice them at all.
“When does the asset arrive?” the curator asked, taking a seat and uncapping a felt-tip marker. She positioned its fine point over her desktop calendar, its squares filled with meticulous block print and a thick X drawn through each finished day.
“In four days. 9:30am Tuesday. Where will you be storing it?”
“In this office. There’s a safe I use for such acquisitions. There’s quite a few priceless artifacts in there right now.”
“Lara, it’s the Kohinoor. Not some pottery fragment from Ancient Cyprus,” her father said incredulously. “And you’re planning to keep it here?” Laila couldn’t believe what she was hearing either. Mum’s office! The diamond was as good as stolen. She wasn’t sure how to crack the safe in question, of course, but this was one place in the museum she could visit without looking suspicious at all.
“Anything more intricate will attract too much attention. The less personnel involved, the better.” Dr. Croft replied confidently. “Besides, it’s fireproof, bomb-proof, and idiot proof—perfect for who the Crown decided to hire for this assignment.”
“Lara, darling, they hired both of us,” Laila’s father said, smiling. “Anyways, I’ll see you Tuesday.” A pause. “Unless you—”
“Tuesday,” she said firmly.
He left unceremoniously, closing the door quietly behind him. Dr. Croft shook her head and rose, using her hands to push herself up, as if the act required the last of her remaining strength. She stood there for a few minutes, taking deep breaths, staring at her hands beneath her. Then, she walked slowly over to a cabinet and pulled out an expensive-looking decanter and glass. She poured herself a generous portion of what looked like scotch. Laila had never seen her mother drink anything other than red wine (and champagne, at New Year’s). It felt wrong, watching her mother in the most private of moments, as she sipped from her glass pensively. Hidden or not, there were definitely no cameras (other than Laila’s) surveilling that office: her mother would rather the entire contents of the British Museum be stolen—or repatriated—than show even a small sliver of vulnerability.
Suddenly, Dr. Croft jumped to her feet. She had a strange look on her face as she walked towards the bookshelf. The very same bookshelf that the mask was on. Oh god. Oh no. Could they even trace the camera back to me? I have to start thinking of a cover-up story. And then other side-stories so the original story checks out. And find someone to watch this bloody cat in case I end up in jail tomorrow. Laila’s mother got closer and closer to the frame, the contours of her face getting sharper, the details on her clothing more visible. Even the deep yoga breaths couldn’t help Laila now. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her thighs and pressed her feet into the floor.
Dr. Croft then veered right as Laila let out the largest exhale of her life. Approaching the bookshelf, Laila’s mother grabbed the thickest, oldest, dustiest volume. Its yellow pages were barely bound together anymore. Laila’s mother made her way back to her desk, sat down on top of it, and kicked off her shoes. Laila could barely hear them hit the floor over the sound of her heartbeat ringing in her ears.
Laila’s mother opened the book and took out a smaller slip of paper—an 8”x10” black-and-white photograph. Setting the book aside, she drained what was left of the glass. She gazed at the picture, as if in a trance, gripping it so hard there was sure to be a dent underneath her thumb. Laila couldn’t tell what—or who—was in the photograph. This surely has something to do with Dad and what happened between them all those years ago. Her mother tucked the photograph back in the book. From where she sat, Laila had a full view of her mother’s face. Her cheeks had a new shine to them, damp from a steady trickle of tears. This was the first time Laila had seen her mother cry. Diamond or no diamond, one thing’s for sure—I have to get my hands on that picture!
CHAPTER III
Laila woke up frustrated the next morning. She was supposed to be focusing on the Kohinoor, but her mind kept returning to the photograph that all but destroyed her mother. The picture will be there forever—the diamond will be here in three days!
This left her even less time to work on strategy. Laila couldn’t wait until Tuesday to figure out what kind of security she was up against. I need mum to show me where the safe is today, and hopefully I can figure out how to crack it in the next day and a half. The Met Gala was in a week’s time, and the Royals would remove it from the safe sometime before then. After the team lead set it into the choker, the jewel would be shipped across the Atlantic. Laila would lose her chance at the Kohinoor forever.
Laila wasn’t too worried about the Museum’s security cameras after finding out the Kohinoor was to be stored in her mother’s office. She went in and out of there all the time, and nobody questioned Laila’s intentions—besides, of course, Dr. Croft herself. After looking at her mum’s calendar, she saw that Dr. Croft was up to her cheekbones in meetings this week: people would be going in and out of the office all the time. By the time the Royals realized the Kohinoor was a fake, the suspect list would be at least 50 people long: and Laila, the head curator’s daughter, was sure to be at the bottom of it.
Assuming she didn’t get caught, of course. If she did, Laila would end up locked in the Tower of London like the Kohinoor has been for the past couple centuries. Maybe they’d take her corpse out every once in a while and show it at the Museum: Traitors and Thieves, a Limited Time Exhibition. Her mother would have plenty of archival material to choose from.
After a long night of eating chocolate-espresso beans and running different plans by the demonic tabby, Laila devised a way to get her mother to reveal the safe’s location. When Laila was a child, her love for classic detective stories got her thinking about being an investigator. That is, until she turned thirteen and learned about paperwork and polyester police uniforms. But all throughout her adult life, she’d often reread the stories of Sherlock Holmes. It was his attention to detail and air-tight reasoning that made him a great detective. Laila found that similar thought processes are applicable to problem solving in any field, including fashion. And heist pulling.
For this particular plan, Laila took inspiration from “A Scandal in Bohemia”: Holmes faked a fire to get Irene Adler to reveal the location of some important papers. When threatened with fire, Holmes explained to Watson, we run to save what we value most. Laila’s flatmate, for example, would scramble to save her horrid cat. Laila would never admit it, but she’d let the tabby die and grab a pair of shoes or two instead. Her mother would, undoubtedly, throw her most valuable artifacts in the “fire-proof, bomb-proof, and idiot-proof” safe. Even though the Kohinoor wasn’t there yet, it was learning the location, make, and model of the safe that was important at this stage.
Laila was, of course, not going to set her mother’s office on fire. At least not until she repatriated all the stolen artifacts on its walls and shelves. Thankfully, she had something Sherlock Holmes didn’t: a fire alarm. She’d just have to make sure nobody saw her pulling it.
Laila drew the blinds in her office room and turned up some music so it was barely audible just outside the door. She didn’t think anyone would come looking for her, but it looked like she was busy working if anyone wanted to know her whereabouts. After checking that the coast was clear, Laila left the office in a completely new outfit: slacks, a white button down, and red tie that mirrored the Museum’s security guard uniform. She topped it off with a bald cap and the pièce de résistance: a mid-sized beard plastered on her cheeks and chin. These theatrics were, of course, unnecessary—a baseball cap would have probably sufficed—but you might as well go all-in when you’re stealing the most valuable diamond in the world.
Laila sprinted up four flights of stairs and made a mental note to start jogging before her next big heist. Laila wedged the door open and poked her head out, making sure the coast was clear. She chose an administrative floor that was far from the archives, fairly quiet, and free of Museum guests. Everyone here was either too focused or tired to notice her emerge from the stairwell. She briskly walked to the (empty) break room around the corner. From her pocket, Laila removed a hollowed-out, burnt potato with a smoke grenade hidden inside. She lit the grenade and tossed the potato in the toaster oven. After turning the oven on 240oC, she slowly backed away. The journey back to the stairwell door felt like an eternity, but nobody looked up from their desks.
The fire alarm was right near the emergency exit door—someone was clearly planning ahead. With a gloved hand, Laila pulled the alarm, sprinted back down the stairs, and ducked back into the office. The alarm was blaring at full force as Laila ripped off her disguise, peeled off her cap and beard, and stuffed it all in a rubbish bin under a heap of discarded paper. She hears the shuffle of people exiting the archives and joins them, all heading upstairs in a single file line.
Three hours later, Laila is sitting in her flat. She just finished speaking with her mum, who had to do some damage control with the fire department. The cause of smoke was attributed to a faulty microwave (the grenade’s remains were entirely obscured within the body of the potato). In light of recent events, the Museum was forced to schedule a mandatory fire safety training for all employees and have bi-annual emergency preparedness drills.
Laila rewound the camera’s feed to that afternoon’s footage, about 10 minutes before she pulled the fire alarm. Her mum was meeting with three eggheads in tweed. They seemed to be arguing about some ancient runes etched on a few pieces of rock. The meeting ends, and her mum begins examining the rubbish of interest with a comically large magnifying glass. Suddenly, the alarm starts to blare, and Dr. Croft arises with a start. She rests her hand on the door handle, testing it for warmth. Dr. Croft determines she has some time to save a few objects and turns back to her collection.
Lara’s mum grabs a huge sheaf of papers from inside her desk, an antique sword from a shelf behind her, and detaches the skull from the skeleton hanging in the corner. She then crouches on the floor (in her heels), setting everything down beside her neatly. Her hands graze the hardwood floor and press a panel firmly. A door pops open (Laila’s mum was also an avid reader of mystery novels)—a trapdoor safe! Laila looked closer at the screen: from where her camera was positioned, she couldn’t see what the safe looked like. But Laila did see her mum entering some sort of combination. And no retina scanner—thank god.
Dr. Croft places everything in the safe and is about to lock it up when she jumps up (gracefully, still in her heels) and rushes in front of the mask where Laila hid her camera. But, like before, she has no interest in the mask: only the thick, dusty volume shelved next to it. She’s about to take the book back to the safe when suddenly, the alarm stops.
Everything is fine. For now. Her mum exhales and places the book back on the shelf. Hands on her hips, she runs her fingers through her hair. Laila fast forwards the video so it’s a live feed: her mum is still in the office and probably will be for a few more hours. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to gain more intel about the safe.
PART II
The next morning, Laila wakes up and groans. Only two more days until I fail my ancestors. Today she will figure out how to crack the safe. Working in museums and the luxury goods industry made her pretty experienced with safes of all sorts. She was sure whatever model her mum chose would be a cut above anything she’s used to: but having access to manuals and a strong grasp on safe fundamentals would come in handy.
Laila glanced at her mother’s calendar: she was at the V&A all morning for some sort of charity event. Reading the event description, Laila smiled. It was a brunch celebrating a recent acquisition of butterflies (stolen) from the Amazon. Her mother hated these formal affairs, forced to socialize with those more interested in people funding the galleries than the priceless specimens that decked their walls.
Without her mother in the office, the job is easy: Laila walks right in. She was pretty sure nobody saw her enter, and if they did, she could always make up some rubbish excuse. Her mum would be pearls-deep in sad finger sandwiches and an even sadder conversation about the sorry state of said sandwiches. Laila glanced at her watch. She had at least another hour before the event was supposed to end—plenty of time to get the specs of the safe, find the mystery photograph, and get the hell out of there.
Laila kneeled down to where she thought her mother did yesterday, pressing around haphazardly for the spot. When the door finally popped open, Laila was met with a contraption that looked like it was designed by Apple: smooth and white, with the words MINERVA 2400 printed in small block letters on the bottom-right corner. She was surprised to find that the only thing that would protect the Kohinoor was an old-fashioned numeric code. If mum wanted simple, she’d done it—it doesn’t get any more elementary than this.
Granted, Laila didn’t know how many numbers the code was, what order they were in, or any idea what the digits could be. She pulled on some gloves and dusted for prints, enjoying the detective-like feeling. After she finished applying the powder, Laila saw that her mum only pressed seven keys: 1, 4, 8, 9, 0 and one marked “Open”.
And then, Laila heard it: the clicking. The unmistakable sound of her mother’s patent heels hitting the tile floor. Laila panicked, looked at her watch again, and started to sweat. She’s not supposed to be back for another 45 minutes—at least. She quickly wiped the safe clean of dust, closed the compartment, and leapt to the other side of the room, trying to find something to occupy herself.
When the door opened, Laila’s mother caught her daughter with her hands feeling the skeleton’s back teeth.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” her mother asked coldly. Laila turned abruptly, the bones of the skeleton rattling behind her.
“I was just trying to figure out if it was male or female”
“Female,” her mother said, slipping off her heels and sitting at her desk. “You can tell by the hips.”
“Right,” Laila said, trying to figure out why her mother was home well ahead of schedule. She probably got tired, was all. Even so, Laila expected that her mum would stay at the V&A bit longer, even if it was to steal away and just enjoy the exhibits alone.
“Will that be all?”
“No, I just—“ Laila was interrupted by a knock at the door. Her heartbeat quickened. Dad? She hadn’t seen him since that first day—it seemed like he wasn’t allowed on the premises unless absolutely necessary. Her mother’s assistant peeked in the door.
“Dr. Croft,” a voice said plainly, “I have an earl on the phone asking why you prematurely departed the V&A.” Laila raised her eyebrows. “And it seems that your—er—ex has somehow weaseled his way in and is asking about you.” Laila saw her mum’s lips press tightly together, a sign to those well-acquainted with Dr. Croft that the temperature of her blood in this instant could boil a mean cup of tea.
“Tell the Earl that I have some urgent business to attend to here.” A pause. “And then, quickly, help me come up with some sort of situation.” As she rushed out of the door, Dr. Croft took one glance back at her daughter. “I suppose you can stay if you like, but just remember—“
“Every one of these objects has a greater historical significance than both our lives put together,” Laila recited with mock acquiescence. “Yeah, I got it. Same rules since I was five.”
The door shut behind Laila’s mother, and just like that, Laila was alone again, in the office. No more surprises. I need a better place to stash the camera. Ideally, the new angle would have a clear view of the safe, so she could see her mother entering the combination. After experimenting with a few places, she couldn’t find a good hiding place with a clear enough shot. She settled on moving the camera into a potted plant directly above the secret compartment—she’d just have to zoom into the footage and hope that it wasn’t too grainy.
As a last resort, Laila did a quick sweep of her mother’s desk. I wonder if she kept the safe code written down somewhere. Mum’s pretty smart, but lots of older people have trouble with passwords, especially the long ones. The search turned up empty. Of course she bloody didn’t leave it lying around—if anything, it’s in another secret hidden compartment. Laila mentally prepared herself for a long night of studying the Minerva’s specifications.
On her way out, Laila grabbed the thickest, oldest volume off the shelf. She carefully opened the book and snapped a picture of the photograph that was wedged in the middle. She didn’t stop crying for an hour after she left the Museum.
CHAPTER IV
Laila sat in the her office, surrounded by dress form mannequins, a sewing machine, and colourful bolts of fabric. Her heist plans were hidden between sketchbooks. The specs for the Minerva 2400 were pulled up on her laptop.
She wasn’t paying attention to any of it. Instead, she was looking at an enlarged photograph on her computer screen. A black-and-white image of her parents before time had drawn lines on their faces, dimmed the light in their eyes, and tore them apart. Before whatever happened between them turned their wide smiles into faces worse than frowns: faces that refused to show anything at all. They were holding each other, both facing the camera. I wonder who took the photograph. A diamond twinkled on Dr. Croft’s left hand—they were, at one point, officially engaged. They were so young, so happy. Laila half-expected them to grab her hand through the screen and pull her into their celebration. Her father’s words echoed in her head: “When I saw that there was a chance for all three of us to be together… maybe we could all try being a family.”
But those people were long gone. Small vestiges of them remained: Laila’s father still wore the same watch. In the photograph’s background, her mother’s desk was just as neat and orderly as the one in the Museum: she even had her trademark X’s ticking off each calendar square. I wonder how long the engagement lasted, and how long after that I was born. In the picture, it looked like it was the Fourth of April. Laila was born in February. She tried formulating a chronology in her head, but eventually ended up clearing space off her desk to write everything out. If dad didn’t know mum was pregnant, it makes sense for their engagement to be almost a year before I was born. And then the fallout had to be sometime in the next three months—right? Laila wasn’t sure at what point an expectant mother began ballooning up.
As Laila tried to fill the timeline, she realised how little she actually knew about her mother’s pre-academic career. Decades of expeditions, fieldwork, and looting of tombs and temples around the world—it was all kept in the shadows. She’s tried asking about it but was met with either silence or dodgy answers. How much of this did mum do while pregnant? Did she tell anyone about me before I was born?
Laila looked up at the clock. She had given herself an hour’s break from safecracking research. She ended up spending most of it staring at this stupid photo and the rest of it crying. Laila shook her head and went back to studying the Minerva’s security specs. Another hour passed, and Laila minimised the manual’s pdf on her desktop. Dinnertime, she thought excitedly. Not that anything particularly great was on the menu. Laila simply enjoyed eating, especially when she actually felt hungry.
After making dinner, she sat back down at her computer with a steaming hot bowl of Curry Laksa. As she decided what to watch on Netflix, she allowed herself one more glance at her parents’ photo. This is the last time I look at it before I steal the Kohinoor—no more distractions. After dinner, of course.
Suddenly, she dropped her spoon on the floor. Hot soup fell in her lap. She screamed, scaring the cat underneath a table (good, stay hidden). Laila opened the manual again and took out her notebook. I think I’ve got it!
The next morning at 9:30am, Laila saw the Kohinoor arrive on livestream. Her father and one (lightly) armed guard brought the jewel to the curator’s office. They both waited outside as Laila’s mum loaded the diamond in the secret safe. Dr. Croft stole one lingering glance at the diamond before she locked it away. After the diamond was safely hidden, the two gentlemen were allowed to re-enter the office. Laila’s parents barely exchanged three words during the entire ordeal. Some papers were signed, and then Dr. Croft ushered them both outside. Closing the door behind her, she went back to examining yesterday’s ancient rubbish with her trusty magnifying glass.
It’s time. Laila triple-checked her mother’s schedule to ensure that her office would be empty for at least 30 minutes this time. No more surprises. Today, Dr. Croft scheduled lunch with another curator across town. Even if she left early by storming out angrily or escaping via loo window, it would take her at least 25 minutes to come back to the museum.
After watching her mother work for two and a half hours (yawn), Laila saw Dr. Croft leave for lunch. Laila stuffed her laptop and the ball of gym socks holding the Kohinoor replica in her bag. Sitting in the Tube, she couldn’t believe that today, the most valuable diamond in the world would be stolen.
I knew this was too easy, Laila thought as she saw her father loitering near the office door. The one time I don’t want to see him, he decides to show up.
“Laila!”
“Hey, dad”
“Have you seen your mum?”
“The ex-intelligence operator needs my help finding someone?” Laila asked with a laugh. Her father smiled.
“Your mother’s gotten wise to my tricks,” he replied with a grin. “After that stint I pulled at the V&A she’s been extra hard to pin down”
“Well, I happen to know where she’s gone off too,” Laila said mischievously. “I’ve had to keep a record of her whereabouts since secondary school. Just to know when a good time to make some trouble would be.”
She wasn’t sure why she wanted to help her father right then, especially considering how her mum felt. There was something genuine about the way he’d acted since coming here. She couldn’t help but feel that they wanted the same thing. Plus, a relationship with her mother was difficult to navigate, even after so many years. Laila often wished someone had helped her out: growing up, it was just the two of them. They’d often speak at each other, rather than to and with one another. It’s gotten better now, of course, but they’re still not perfect.
Of course Laila would like to see her parents together again. If they still loved each other. Maybe they did, and it was just that those feelings took different forms. That for her mother, it hurt too much to do anything but walk away; and that for her father, it would hurt too much to stop trying.
“Let me know how I can repay you for your kindness,” her father said as Laila confirmed the address of her mother’s lunch appointment.
“Dad, there is one thing,” she said as he was turning away to leave. She pulled the necklace out from underneath her sweater, the one her father gave her all those years ago. “What was the meaning of this?”
“I got that the day I met your mother,” he replied. “We prevented a small act of terror at the British Museum. At the time, your mother was an Oxford visiting scholar, working in the archives. We helped improve the museum’s security system. M16 is still very involved so nothing like that could happen again.” Shit. Stealing the Kohinoor would probably qualify as more than a small act of terror. Especially if the jewel was sent back to India. At least I know now how to get into the safe without having to totally destroy it. Or set off any alarms. I hope I can just—
“Laila?” Her father’s words snapped her back to the present moment.
“Oh, sorry I was just thinking about what you guys must’ve been like at that age,” The picture of her happy, twenty-something year old parents flashed in her head. “You and mum.”
“Hopefully, you’ll see us as we once were, Laila,” her father said, kissing her on the head. She watched him jog away, waving goodbye as he chased after her mother, yet again.
The kiss burned on her head, as if it was packed with all the sentiment of every single one she missed while growing up. Laila tried to shake off the feeling and focus. She looked at her watch. A conservative estimate put Dr. Croft 45 minutes from re-entering her office. By then, Laila needed to break into the safe, switch the diamonds, and be far far away from the British Museum.
Laila closed the door behind her, returning back to the secret panel. She pressed it, and the trapdoor swung open. Laila, with a gloved hand, entered in the date of her parents’ engagement: 04 04 1988. Eight numbers, all keys with her mothers’ fingerprints. The numbers and this date couldn’t be a coincidence. Her mother jeopardised the safety of some of the world’s most valuable objects, including the Kohinoor, because of love? Ridiculous.
But nobody would even think of that date as a possible combination. Their engagement didn’t end in marriage; 4th April, 1988 was a date significant to only two people. This is as simple a security plan as it gets: a date burned into the most tender parts of your brain. A combination you’d never forget and never share with anyone else.
And, Laila couldn’t afford to be wrong. She had no idea what kind of security she’d trigger if she was. She took a deep breath and pushed the “Enter” key. Something whirred, clicked, and the safe… it opened. Laila felt sweat come out of pores she didn’t even know had. It was an unfortunate day to choose wool. Her cheeks flushed as she moved around various objects: a few bracelets, a bronze knife, a bundle of cash (weird), some pottery pieces. A few official-looking documents and museum display cards.
After a few more moments of searching the safe for the diamond, the truth hit her: The Kohinoor wasn’t here.
The next few moments feel like she’s moving through gelatin. She spends a good amount of time just staring at the space where the Kohinoor should be—but wasn’t.
Suddenly, Laila hears the clicking of her mother’s shoes, a sound classically conditioned over two decades to trigger a sharp elevation in heart rate and profuse sweating. It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes since dad left! Laila experiences a profound sense of déja vû as she once again scrambles to close up the safe and the trapdoor, rip her gloves off and stuff them into her back pockets. While wiping her sweaty palms on her pants, she made her way back to the bookshelf, and grabbed a random volume.
The door opens, and Dr. Croft enters.
“Laila, is everything alright? You look horrid”
“I just…” she shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t count on her mother to leave early again. Maybe she caught wind that her father was on the way to surprise her and left, posthaste.
“I take it you found what I’ve been hiding,” Dr. Croft said with a small smile. The thousand-kilo lump in Laila’s throat fell straight through the pit of her stomach, feeling like a penalty kick in the guts. Is this how it’s going to end? Caught by my bloody mother?
Laila’s mum sighed.
“I suppose now that you’ve met your father, the truth was bound to come out,” What? As Dr. Croft continued talking, Laila glanced at the book she slid off the shelf. The oldest volume, falling apart at the seams. “… and that was an important time in my life, but I ended that engagement for a reason.” A pause. “And maybe someday, I’ll explain it to you. But now, your father seems keen on getting to know you. And I don’t want to get in the way of it, or to be a part of it at all.” A pause. “Just… be mindful. Of how quickly and deeply you trust him.”
It took some time for Laila’s breathing to return back to normal. At least she had something to pin her guilty look on. With the barrage of thoughts flying through her head, ranging from the jewel (Where is the Kohinoor? Did the team take it for fitting already? Was this all just some sort of joke?) to her parents (Is dad staying around now? Will mum ever take him back? Will we ever even be able to have tea together? Maybe if mum sneaks some whiskey in her teacup…”), all she could manage to choke out right then was:
“All right.”
EPILOGUE
One month later, Delhi’s National History Museum received a parcel wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. The head curator opened it and gasped.
“They’ve finally done it!” she whispered quietly. The Kohinoor had come home. News spread quickly. When Laila heard about the return from her mother, she had to tell every cell in her body to calm down and not look happy about it. The diamond somehow made its way out of England and back to India.
Laila still had no idea what happened. Whoever stole the Kohinoor before she had the chance to somehow neutralized her GoPro’s recording capabilities: it stopped recording over an hour before Laila got to the office. She spent almost two weeks losing sleep over the diamond and where it might be, taking out the replica jewel at night, letting herself get hypnotised by its shine. Kate Middleton wore one of the other replicas to the Met Gala and wasn’t happy about it. The investigation was losing steam as the Yard ran out of leads and theories.
During this time, Laila also got to know her father a bit better. “Laila, you should meet your grandparents—my mum and dad,” he said one day at teatime, over unsweetened chai and Parle G biscuits. “My brother is welcoming his grandchild to the world next week.” Laila agreed enthusiastically, excited to be part of a large family.
“I have one quick call to make,” her father said, stepping away from the table. “But you should get another round—on me.”
At 10 Downing Street, a few moments before Laila ordered a second round of chai and biscuits, the PM was talking on a secure line. Of course, all the lines at Downing Street were secure, but this one was extra secure. It was the only one he felt comfortable cursing on, and so it was the only one he used to speak with his wife. This time, though, he was talking to someone a little less scary—but just about as angry with his judgement.
“Yes, I’ve seen the news. Hm, well, we can’t just bloody ask for it back, now, can we? After stealing it in the first place? I’d be mad to—I don’t care what those wankers at Parliament say. I’d love to fight them on it.” He paused and covered the mouthpiece, frowning. He hit a button to access another, less secure line, and said, “Jay, I should’ve had my tea brought up many moments ago. Please see to it, posthaste.” Turning his attention back to the phone he said, “Ah yes, where was I? Of course we weren’t the ones who stole it, I’m using the Royal ‘we’—no pun intended—but jokes aside, really, it’s out of my hands. Literally and figuratively, at this point.” He hung up the phone as Jay entered, holding a silver tray with the PM’s afternoon tea.
“Your unsweetened chai and Parle G biscuits, sir”
“Ah, Jay. This is the only thing that gets me through the day,” the PM said, rubbing his hands together as Jay set the tray down. “Do you know why the chai is unsweetened, Jay?”
“No, sir”
“I learned this from an old schoolmate of mine,” the PM explained. “You take unsweetened chai because the biscuits are already sweet. You don’t want too much sugar. Not when you’re genetically predisposed to diabetes—ha!”
“Of course not, sir” The phone rang, and Jay was waved away. It was the extra secure line again. Please don’t let it be the wife.
“Hello? Oh, thank god it’s you. I thought you might be the missus.” There was a laugh on the other end. “Well, I take it you’ve seen the news. Smashing job, by the way. I’m sorry we had to get personal. But it looks like all’s well that ends well, eh?” There was noncommittal assent at the other end. “And nice touch leaving that wad of bills for them—how much did you put there, exactly. And was it all government money? Oh, I see it was the amount Britain originally paid for it. But was that adjusted for inflation?” The PM laughed again. “God, I’d give almost anything to pull a scheme like this with you and the boys again. Yes, after this term’s over we’ll have to plan something or the other. Spain or—no, not Goa, we’re not 25 anymore—thank the bloody heavens for that…”
Across town, Laila dipped a biscuit in her chai. Dad’s right—It’s better unsweetened. Sweet chai and biscuits would probably give me cavities. Whoever her father was talking to was making him laugh incredibly hard. Definitely not mum… could it be another woman? It didn’t look like the conversation was going to end anytime soon. She pulled out her phone. It seemed like every other Tweet, post, and headline was covering the surprise repatriation of the Kohinoor. A Hindustani Times feature was the first link that popped up, and Laila clicked the article. She started skimming once she realised she pretty much knew all the information. That is, until she got to the end:
“The Kohinoor was not the only thing returned back to India this week. A handful of gold coins from the Victoria and Albert Museum, dating back to the era of Emperor Chandragupta (380 – 414 CE) were also deposited in the same parcel as the jewel. These coins were listed as missing from the British Museum about 25 years ago. Although we have no leads as to who returned these artefacts, the individual or organisation left a small clue to their motivation: a note, written in both Devangari and English script, which reads ‘No Country Should Be Without Its Roots.’ This begs the question: will more of our artefacts be coming home?”