Private security guards flank the library entrance, glaring from its granite steps. They aren’t watching for criminals like me. This neighborhood has gone downhill, and they’re looking for muggers. I navigate the steps with my silver-handled cane, ignoring them.

My forged ID grants me access to the research basement and a bespectacled woman at a large wooden desk. “I have an appointment to view the Blaeu,” I say with a feigned tremor.

She nods, glances at my ID, then leads me through a maze of unoccupied tables. We’re alone. The librarian has already retrieved my prize. Volume II of the 11-volume, 1662 Latin version of Joan Blaeu’s Atlas Maior, the greatest atlas of the 17th Century and an exceedingly rare find.

“Beautiful, isn’t she,” the librarian says.

“Yes,” I reply. “Tragedy it’s in private hands.”

She turns. “We’re grateful the owner lent it to us for the exhibit.”

I’m grateful the library allows researchers access to all exhibit items.

“Did you bring gloves?” she asks. I remove a pair from my suit. As I rest my cane against the table, she nods and returns to her desk.

I sit, breathing in the tome’s centuries, then retrieve a notebook and pen. I’m gentle with the atlas. It deserves my tenderness. After several minutes of page-turning and note-taking, I reach a page titled “Grand Duchy of Muscovy or Russia.” A kaleidoscope of distractions surrounded a map, including a “Moskva” street map, Russians in traditional attire, and an elaborate cartouche. Several maps in this volume are worth far more on the black market, but this is my client’s choice. You never argue with a Russian oligarch.

Using a mirror between my cane’s handle and shaft, I confirm the librarian is facing away. I remove the handle, then withdraw an embedded razor blade. After aligning the sharp steel at the top of the page, I slice, wincing as I imagine the ancient tome’s pain.

The page leaves its home without resistance. Another glance. Clear. The atlas has been well-preserved, presumably in a humidity-controlled case away from UV light. The page rolls easily. I slide it into the cane’s hollow.

Examining the atlas from every angle, I see no evidence a page has been removed. A camera has captured my actions, but this is a public library with limited resources. No one is monitoring security footage in real time, and likely the system records over its data frequently. The library’s Dutch Golden Age exhibit goes on for another month. Besides, with my wig, false nose, and slight limp, I’m unrecognizable.

“All done.” I stand, using the cane. The librarian moves to retrieve the atlas, and I disappear into the elevator. As I descend the library’s exterior steps, the guards ignore me. I reach the street, savoring the crisp fall air. The oligarch will be pleased. He’s a man you want happy.

A block away, I retrieve my burner phone. Time to summon a ride-share and get away from the crime scene.

My vision blurs. Pain shoots through my neck and back. I drop, my fall barely broken by my palms. When my head clears, I glance up. In the distance, two young men flee the assault. One holds my phone, the other my silver-handled black cane.