When their call ended, she sat back in the buttery leather and ran through the options. They didn’t have anything yet, not that she’d expected them to. She knew it was only a matter of time before they figured out the Teterboro Airport connection, but if her luck continued to hold, she’d be on the ground before they did.

But what about Drummond? She wished he’d stayed in London, where he belonged.

No, he wouldn’t catch her. All would be well. She would meet with Lanighan, take care of business, and then she’d be gone. Done. Retired. On a small Pacific island, where she’d fit in seamlessly, and no one would think to look for her. Or maybe she could go back to London, speak to Grant—no, he was gone, she had to let him go.

The captain’s voice came over the speaker. “Madam, we’re in French airspace. Where to now?”

She pressed the button, gave him coordinates. The airstrip was exceedingly private, one she’d used before. There would be no record of the plane even touching down.

She finished the last sip of her Dom Pérignon. An hour to landing. One hour on the road to the meeting site. Three hours to reconnoiter the place, and make sure Lanighan was following protocol, as she always did.

Another twenty-five million in her bank account, which she’d immediately break into packets and transfer into multiple accounts all over the world. Untraceable, even to Lanighan’s people, should they try to come back and steal what was rightfully hers.

Lanighan’s father had tried to cheat her once, on a stellar Manet she’d lifted from Amsterdam. The payment had been recalled, but Kitsune was faster than the Lion. She’d managed to have the money transferred before he followed through. She’d called him, told him he was a fool. And he’d apologized. He’d come to respect her cunning, all the measures she took to protect herself, and never tried to double-cross her again. Their relationship was fruitful—after the Manet debacle, he’d become her most faithful client, and a lot more. Over the years, a full fifty percent of his collection was gathered by her hands.

She looked at the ground lights below the jet, skimming past too quickly to register. No landmarks. No real certainty that the pilot was listening to her instructions. So this was paranoia. Well, nothing wrong with that. It kept her knife-sharp, always on edge.

She’d earned her nickname the Fox. She was clever and fast, prepared for anything.

Anything.

She glanced at her watch and picked up the phone.

Mulvaney. She smiled as she punched in his number. For more than twenty years, they’d been together. He was her teacher, her confidant, her father, if it came right down to it, always there for her in good times and not-so-good times, her rock, and she trusted him implicitly. He advised her on which jobs to take, discussed strategy with her. He’d even set up the way she disbursed her money, and he was always willing to jump in and help if needed, and he had a good half-dozen times over the years. She would give her life for him, it was that simple. She’d sometimes thought he tethered her to this earth until she’d met Grant—Really, Kitsune, you must stop thinking of him.

The phone continued to ring. At this hour of the morning, Mulvaney should be lounging on the fourth deck of his villa, a warm breeze rustling through the lemon grove below the house, his nose in a book, the first of dozens of espressos at his elbow.

Why didn’t he answer? He always took her calls, always.

She punched off her cell. She would try again later, but something nagged at her. She didn’t like this, not one bit. Paranoia again. But maybe he was simply busy with something.

She realized she was exhausted. She had an hour until landing, and the next part of her plan went into action.

Kitsune closed her eyes and slept.

40

New York, New York

Victoria Browning’s apartment

Friday, 2:00 a.m.

Nicholas had to agree with Zachery and Savich: they were spinning their wheels. Even though he was itching to get his fingers on a keyboard and start his own search for Browning, he’d been up for thirty-six hours and needed sleep.

“Mike, let’s close it down for the night.”

She chewed her lip. “Anything?” she asked the tech she called Mouse.

He shook his head. “A half-dozen bugs, which we dismantled. Other than that, nothing. I’m betting the only thing we’re going to find here is yours and Nicholas’s DNA.”

The woman didn’t miss a trick. Mike sighed. “Okay, go on home.”

When they were in the elevator on their way down, Nicholas said, “You think she’s got cameras on this building?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her.”

Both Mike and Nicholas were freezing when they got into her car. She turned the heat on high, rubbed her hands in front of the vent for a minute, then turned to Nicholas. “Where are you staying?”

“On Vanderbilt, between Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth.”

“The Yale Club? Swanky.”

“You know it?”

Mike laughed. “Only from the outside. Part of being a New York Field Agent is knowing every nook and cranny of this city. I’ll go up against an old-time New York cabbie any day of the week. The Yale Club is a few blocks southeast.” She looked right and left and pulled out onto Seventh. “I’m starting to think of my bed with lust in my heart. Past time to catch a few hours.”

“Elaine had more trouble when she first moved here, distinguishing the long blocks from the short. She took to running an extra hour each night to learn her way around. She once called and said, ‘Nicholas, you wouldn’t believe how lost I was tonight.’”

He got quiet.

Her stomach growled, and Nicholas looked over at her. “Hungry, are we?”

“Starved. I can’t remember when I ate last; we’ve been going hard since I woke up. I’m exhausted, but I need something.” She smiled at him. “I reheat a mean slice of pizza.”

“Pizza sounds good.”

She heard something in his voice, something that spoke to her. She understood pain. She understood grief. She understood not wanting to be alone. Too well. And she remembered Jon, and let the pain settle in for a moment. Had he really been gone five years?

“We’re only ten minutes from my place. Tell you what, come home with me, it’ll be easiest. I live down in the Village, and I’ve got a lovely long sectional sofa.” She continued without pause. “What’d you do in Afghanistan?”

“Is the sofa long enough for me? It’s classified.”

It could be, but she doubted it; at least what had happened to him wasn’t classified. Whatever it was, she figured it must be bad.

She said, “It’s over seven feet long, and I have lots of comfy blankets. You left the Foreign Office after Afghanistan, left the spy world altogether, and moved to Scotland Yard. Come on, Nicholas, what happened?”

“I doubt your pajamas will fit me. Let me just say I wanted to be out on the street again, back home, in London, get my hands dirty. Work homicide. Help the helpless.”

“You’re James Bond. You don’t wear pajamas.” She drove through a yellow light as it turned red. “At this hour a person’s biorhythms are supposed to be low, and they’ll spill pretty much everything about themselves.”

“I was trained not to,” he said. “I won’t go to bed commando, as you Americans say, to save you any embarrassment. Let’s check out your biorhythms. What’s the name of your last boyfriend?”

She spurted out a laugh. “Classified. Tell me about your ex-wife. She’s the daughter of an earl?”

Safe subject, she thought, because he straightened and turned toward her. “An earl who’s also a very rich man and gives Pamela anything she wants, like backing her online magazine and footing all the bills here in Manhattan.”

“How did you two meet?”

“I met her in London, at some party, I forget. Anyway, two years later, I was finishing an assignment in Zurich. She was skiing at Engelberg. We ran into each other at a bar, and it was good to see someone I knew. She shed her friends. It all happened fast, too fast.” He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes.