She gunned the bike, enjoying the kick of power, the engine growling between her legs. It was too early to celebrate, but she would, and soon. Things had gone like clockwork so far.
She frowned. There was one fly in the ointment. She hadn’t planned on Drummond. Not only was he was cunning and smart, she knew he wouldn’t follow FBI procedures unless they suited him. No, Drummond would go on the hunt. He’d been a spy with the Foreign Office, did whatever it took, broke whatever rules he needed to break in order to get the job done. He was coming after her, she could feel it.
She could see him now, organizing, planning, systematically searching. Very intense. Very attractive. Very much like Grant. No, she wouldn’t think about him now.
At last she was here. With a wave at the guards at the airport entrance, she pulled through the gates and around to the back of the departure building. Money had changed hands, enough money that no one even noticed her, because, as arranged, the airport cameras had been shut down for a ten-minute interval. She’d found a thick stack of hundreds to be the ultimate motivator.
She’d had the tail number of the Gulfstream altered so it would be very hard to trace ownership. The captain was the only one aboard, and he’d filed a flight plan for Vancouver, though he was fueled for a journey across the Atlantic instead. He was awaiting her instruction as to where to go when she got on board. Both precautions would assure anonymity, lay a false trail for the FBI to follow.
She knew, of course, the FBI would eventually figure out the subterfuge, but by the time they found out where she was headed, she hoped it would be too late.
She left the bike on the tarmac but kept her helmet on. No sense taking chances, not yet. Her backpack was a welcome weight on her shoulders. She grabbed another, smaller bag from the bike’s storage box. She climbed the stairs, and once inside, the captain raised them and secured the door. Only then did she remove her helmet, pull the ponytail holder from her hair, stretch her shoulders, her back. She needed rest. She’d been too keyed up to sleep last night. A long flight was the perfect remedy.
The captain was young, fit, eye candy with big brown eyes. He greeted her with a blinding grin. She supposed it must be fun for him, jetting around the world, never knowing where he would be from one day to the next. She hoped he was competent.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” He had a slight Parisian accent. He motioned for her to have a seat in one of the luxurious tan leather chairs.
“I’m ready. Let’s get going.”
“Where to?”
“Vancouver, remember? I’ll give you exact coordinates when we’re in the air.”
“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.