The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the Dobermans, Zeus and Brutus, snoozed comfortably by the rose bushes after devouring the tasty treat I had brought. Before slipping into the mansion’s side door, I could smell salt in the air and hear waves crashing over my left shoulder. The landscaped lawn ended a hundred yards away at a private beach.

     This night, just as during my previous visit, I was attired head-to-toe in black. However, for this little jaunt I was not wearing the black beaded Vera Wang halter gown and Jimmy Choo stilettos I had sported the last time. No, for this foray my Lycra garb more closely resembled Catwoman. The difference between arriving invited to the party versus planning your own liberation ball.

     My blond hair was hidden by a tight cap, and night vision goggles finished off my ensemble. A security pad flashed on the left wall. I patted the ring of leather pouches attached to my belt, knowing each could be vital toward achieving my goal. I removed a cute little electronic gizmo picked up in Zurich that bore a resemblance to a garage door opener, but could instead decode security systems and render them harmless. The tiny warning whine never had a chance to turn into a scream; my device had made friends and we were invited to enter.

     I slipped down the back hall and up a staircase that my research discovered in a back issue of Architectural Digest. In the upper hall, infrared lasers protected this area from unwelcome visitors, so I pulled a small, specially formulated aerosol can from a pouch and sprayed in a gentle sweeping pattern. As the spray particles fell to the carpet, laser lines showed in vivid detail, and I carefully picked my way across the space. In seconds, my lock picks were out and the turret gallery door was opened.

     Last time I was in the room, the master of the house had provided a guided tour and made a blatant pass beneath the gaze of a Dutch Master. Deflecting the lothario took grace and diplomacy, plus restraint in curbing my desire to break his nose, but the event had been worth the effort. A six month quest was over, and I had found my Holy Grail of paintings.

     "My father started this collection. He made purchases while stationed in Europe in the mid-1940s," the slimy millionaire had explained. "I added to the collection, and specially constructed this room to keep the temperature and humidity at optimum preservation levels."

     Now, as I moved carefully through the darkened room, lit only by laser lines and minimal light filtering through a half dozen narrow, castle-themed windows, maybe only a foot wide, it was enough for my night vision goggles to take in the glorious set of Rembrandts and French Impressionists. As well as standalone scenes like the one I came to liberate.

     A vibrant seascape, circa 1821, it was a little known work by a well-respected artist, and had been cherished by the family of its previous owner before eventually falling into the hands of the millionaire’s father. It was a breathtaking scene of energy and clear passion. Just gazing upon it I could hear the buoy bell ringing in the distance, but it was too dark to see anything beyond the receding foamy water. I shivered as if the wind picked up, and a late-season Nor'easter would hit in the next few hours. It was that powerful. Suddenly, I heard a noise, a human, moving, noise, and knew this was my last chance. I slipped a blade from my belt and ran it along the frame’s edge. The moment the painting was free, he barked, "What are you doing?"

     I glanced left and right. Sheathing my knife, I dug into another of the pouches, then raised my arm and threw the glass bottle into the darkness between myself and potential capture. As the chemicals in the bottle hit the air a dense smoke enveloped the room, obscuring all vision. But I had already calculated the distance to the nearest window, moved to it and affixed a suction cup with a braided nylon line to the wall. With the painting in one hand, my remaining gloved fist shattered the narrow glass and I slid through the turret’s slit-window, just making it, and taking a few shards of glass along for the ride. Seconds later I had repelled down the rough stone wall and landed on the manicured lawn.

     "Zeus! Brutus! Help! Robbery!" my impotent enemy screamed. His head and one shoulder were the only body parts that could squeeze through my narrow exit.

     The next morning, I took the painting to Greg’s shop. I was ushered into the back, where a new frame was already constructed, as per my specifications. It was a close facsimile to photos I had seen, and infinitely better than the garish gold, curlicue-imbued number that had restrained the seascape during its turret imprisonment. A burnished brass tone, antiqued to match the work’s 1820-era, the frame perfectly complemented the scene, even evoking a little of a nautical theme as its streamlined sides resembled the look of a spyglass.

     I changed into blue coveralls, and left his shop with the framed painting wrapped in brown paper. Magnetic signs attached to my van implied a courier service, as did the insignia affixed to the breast pocket of my uniform. It was a short drive to Mrs. Lebowitz’s tiny home.

     "Yes." She answered the door, her white hair epitomizing all the history she had witnessed in seventy-six years. A Holocaust survivor, the only one in her family to make it out of Europe alive, she was a child when the Allies freed her from Auschwitz.

     My brown-wrapped package had once graced her grandmother’s dining room, before the painting was stolen by the Nazis and purchased with a fictionalized provenance by the father of my adversary.

    "Mrs. Lebowitz, I have a special delivery for you."