Nicholas said, “The apartment Browning leased was never lived in. Security cameras from the building don’t show her entering or leaving anytime in the past month, and it’s all they have; their cameras recycle the tapes on the thirtieth of each month. Right now, this woman is a ghost.”
“That explains why we’re hitting dead ends ourselves,” Savich said. “There’s nothing on the transportation grid—she didn’t get on a plane or train or bus, or we would have found her by now. She may be on the road, driving north to the border, but the facial-recognition system needs more time to process all the faces at the northbound tollbooths. We’ve alerted Canadian customs to the BOLO, sent it to the highway patrols as well. We’re going to need a wider net.”
Nicholas said, “She may be hunkered down somewhere in the city, letting her buyer come to her. We do believe she’s stolen the diamond for someone, not for herself. If we’re right, she stands to gain a great deal of money.”
Savich said, “It’s nearly two in the morning. I think it would be best to shut down for the night, let everyone get some rest, and start fresh in the morning. We’re having a meeting at 26 Federal Plaza at eight a.m.”
Mike said, “Yeah, you’re right, but I hate letting her get more hours ahead on us.”
Zachery leaned over from the workstation. “Time for a break, Mike. Sleep, get some food in you, and I’ll see you in a few hours. We need to give the databases time to catch up to her. We’ll find her, I know we will. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
They clicked off, and Savich stowed his phone, yawned.
Sometimes the only answer was getting a fresh start.
39
Over the Atlantic Ocean
Kitsune listened to Mike and Nicholas discuss her whereabouts with Agent Savich. She was sorry not to have met him; he sounded interesting.
Her staged apartment was bugged, he’d been right about that, with mikes in all the rooms, like she’d done at the Met. But he didn’t realize how thorough she was—she’d also bugged the hallway outside her apartment, all the way down to the elevator. It was a pity she couldn’t have miked 26 Federal Plaza, then she could have heard everything the Feds were planning.
She laughed. Mike Caine thought she had only a few hours’ head start? She had two years on them. The flat was a total dead end, $5,200 a month well spent. No DNA, folks, except for that fat leasing agent’s, so you might as well hang it up and go get some sleep.
If they found her real place, she’d know immediately; the door was rigged to blow, and an alarm would be sent to her phone.
But she doubted they would. It was many blocks away, in Hell’s Kitchen. She’d worn wigs and the clothes of a student down on her luck, plus a baseball cap, every time she went in or out. The rent was paid for another year, and she could disarm the bomb remotely if needed. Kitsune knew exactly how to cover her tracks. She’d been doing it for so many years it was second nature.
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.