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.”