“You’re the boss.”

Yes, she was. When she heard the engines roar, felt the plane rolling, she knew she’d made it. Five minutes later, the lights of New York winked up at her.

Wishing her well. Bidding her adieu. She waved, laughing.

The phone rang at her elbow.

“We’ve cleared the New York airspace. Where to?”

“Paris. Alert me when we’ve crossed into European airspace; I’ll give you coordinates then.”

“Roger that. There is champagne in the refrigerator, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

A ’54 Dom Pérignon, very nice. She poured herself a glass, then snuggled deep in the seat, inserted a small earpiece and took out her iPad. A few taps, and the screen turned an eerie green. She saw shadowy mannequins in shades of grays moving about. She’d used a small cellular repeater that wirelessly boosted the microphones’ range, and she could easily hear all the voices from the microphones she’d hidden along the Met’s fifth-floor hallway and in the communication center itself.

She turned up the volume in time to hear Mike Caine say, “I’m going to personally punch that bitch when we catch her.”

Kitsune raised her glass and toasted the small screen.

“Bonne chance.”

Next she called her employer.

30

Paris

Avenue Foch

Friday, 6:00 a.m.

A soft voice in his ear interrupted a most delicious dream.

“Monsieur Lanighan? Monsieur Lanighan, sir?”

He came awake immediately, jerked upright, nearly hitting Colette, his secretary. She was naked at his side.

“Monsieur Lanighan, the private line. You have a call.” She handed him an encrypted mobile phone, one he’d never used before, because only she had that number.

At last, at long last.

“Merci, Colette. You may return to your quarters for the rest of the night. That is all.”

She slid from his bed and disappeared without a word, closing the bedroom door behind her. He took a deep breath and answered.

“Oui?”

“Bonjour, Saleem. I trust the impending dawn finds the Lion snug in his den? Perhaps with a mate for warmth? I hear Paris is cold tonight.”

His heart leapt to his throat. “Kitsune. Do you have my diamond?”

“Where are your manners, Saleem? We’ve not spoken in nearly two years, and you have no proper greeting for me?”

He touched the scar on his throat. “I will greet you properly if you tell me you have my diamond.”

Her voice was light, indifferent. “I am offended, Lion. Your father was much more polite. Yes, I have your precious diamond. Meet me at midnight, l’Arc de Triomphe. Repeat, l’Arc de Triomphe. As soon as I confirm the money has been wired into my account, I will give you your prize.”

The coded delivery point meant she had encountered problems, making her delivery dangerous. “What has happened?”

“Nothing at all. Everything went smoothly. Any time now the world media will report the theft of the Koh-i-Noor diamond, right from under the FBI’s nose. Still, I don’t wish to take any chances. There is a wild card in the deck now, and he is good, very good.”

“Who is this wild card?”

“His name is Nicholas Drummond, a chief detective inspector with New Scotland Yard.”

“So what? He’s only a policeman.”

“More than that, Lion. He used to be in the Foreign Office. He was, I have heard, a very successful operative.”

Saleem calculated how long it would take him to arrive. He had plenty of time. The Koh-i-Noor was nearly his, nearly in his hands.

“I will be there. I’m paying you fifty million dollars to be smarter than any ex-spy. Do not let me down.”

“I will not,” she said, and ended the call.

Saleem sat for a moment in the cooling covers, then walked naked to the huge bay window in his bedroom and looked out over his city. The Paris dawn greeted him. He placed a hand on the chilly glass and imagined what would happen once the diamond came home, to him, its true heir. He would succeed where his father and the long line of Lanighan men before him had failed. He would be the one to merge the pieces together. The power of the stone would yield to him, and him alone, and then his world would be changed forever. He smiled, his teeth flashing in the darkness.

31

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Late Thursday evening

The media was swarming the Met, going ballistic in their coverage of the incredible events unfolding, so Bo had set up a temporary task force in the basement of the museum, away from the prying eyes of both the media and the Met’s board of directors, who were upstairs with the insurance adjusters, steaming mad and tap dancing hard.

Nicholas listened to Mike speak to Agent Gray Wharton, one of the FBI’s top computer experts.

“Gray, assemble a team. Here’s what we need: a trace on Nicholas’s phone, ASAP, the last incoming call, not older than ten minutes. Get out a BOLO for Dr. Victoria Browning, Scottish national, Ph.D. from the University of Edinburgh. We’ll need to get her work visa on file with INS, also her passport, and a photo out to every airport, train station, bus station, car rental. Send a team to her apartment.

“Gray, as you know, this woman stole the Koh-i-Noor, and we’re going to have an international disaster on our hands. Her alias is the Fox. Mark her armed and very dangerous, and send me everything as you get it.”

She turned to Nicholas as Gray Wharton rushed from the comm center. “Let’s go. Bo will be waiting.”

They took the service elevator to the basement. Bo was talking to Sherlock, and Savich was hunched over a keyboard, his fingers flying.

They stopped to clap.

Zachery said, “Here’s the man of the hour. Good work on the device, Nicholas.”

Bo said, “It looks like you didn’t waste your time with the bomb disposal unit in London. All of us are grateful for that.”

Mike punched him on the shoulder. “You could have told me. I was going to call you Captain America.”

Zachery said, “I sent two of the bomb boys with my men to look through the rest of the museum to see if Browning left any more surprises for us, but we seem clear. Here’s the deal: Browning hacked into the fifth floor video feeds and erased everything from the start of the gala on. Savich is trying to override and restore the feed.”

“Any report on Louisa and Paulie?” Mike asked.

Sherlock said, “They were transferred up the street to Lenox Hill Hospital. They took pretty hard shots to the head, plus it looks like she sprayed them with the same agent from the tear-gas canister. Takes an element of surprise to take down two FBI agents; she planned this to the letter. But they’ll be okay, Mike. Everyone’s okay.”

Mike said, “It could have been so much worse. I’ll head up there as soon as we’ve finished our briefing.”

Nicholas said, “Bo, I need everything you know about Victoria Browning.”

Bo handed him a manila folder. “Here’s her file. She hired on at the Met last spring when they had an open call for security-guards-cum-docents. They handle the tours, plus keep an eye on the artwork. It’s a growing trend to hire overqualified people for these positions—kills two birds with one stone. You need a master’s or a Ph.D. in art to even be considered. So in addition to being a docent, she was well versed with everything security-related in this museum. She moved up the ladder quickly, was made a curator right before the holidays. When the original curator for the crown jewels exhibit fell ill, Browning was the number-one choice to replace him. She took over every aspect of the exhibit, worked with Inspector Elaine York directly.”

Mike said, “Wait, she wasn’t the original curator?”