Micah retrieved a cellular phone from his suit jacket’s inner pocket after sneaking it from the hotel room’s safe while Kylie was still asleep in the bedroom.
After Kylie had nearly walked out on him and Micah had repaired the damage, he’d send her off to make a pot of coffee in the suite’s kitchen while he ostensibly showered.
The showerhead was indeed blasting hot water inside the glass enclosure. Clouds of steam billowed through the bathroom, hanging in diaphanous waves near the ceiling like half-forgotten dreams.
Like Micah, the phone in his hand was not everything it seemed. The cheap black plastic case and scratched screen belied some of the world’s most advanced and current technology in counterespionage. The device had been aged to look like nothing special but had been constructed less than a month before.
Yeah, Micah probably wasn’t weathering the years very well, either.
He dialed the phone and held it against his cheek.
A man’s voice spoke in a British accent near Micah’s ear. “Good afternoon, and it’s about time.”
Micah was a week late checking in. “Can you talk?”
The British voice said, “I’m communing with the deer in my estate’s deer park, wondering which of their ancestors was eaten by King Henry the Eighth.”
“I find myself in need of some information. It seems Kylie Miller has a sister we didn’t know about, in addition to her father being murdered.”
“A sister? We found no evidence of her having a sibling.”
“Kylie has mentioned her at least twice, and she doesn’t seem to know where her sister is. The sister could be a liability. We should find out where she’s gone and perhaps secure her.”
Arthur said, “I’ll have my boys find out what we can.”
“Kylie Miller may need documents and pocket litter.”
“Not a problem. Wait, which nationality?”
“American. She won’t pass for British.”
“Perhaps a problem. I’ll consult with our cousins and see what can be done.”
“Also, I’m going to need half a million US in cash,” Micah told him.
“I beg your pardon.”
As the voice of Lord Finch-Hatton, the Earl of Severn, echoed in his head, the posh British accent that had been imposed on Micah in high school found its way into Micah’s words. “I’m giving her the half a million US we negotiated in cash.”
“We’ve already deposited that amount at Banque Ammann, and so on.”
“I’ll be wiring it back. She doesn’t trust banks.”
“Neither does Her Majesty’s government,” Arthur said, chuckling.
“I’ll need the first quarter of it by Monday. It’s absolutely imperative,” Micah said.
“We don’t do cash.”
“Yes, you do.”
“We don’t do it for assets who haven’t proven their value.”
Anger flowed through Micah’s body, an energizing imperative, and he stood. “She’s exactly what we need. She can introduce me to Grande’s organization, and everything falls from that like dominos. We’ll have results in weeks or months, not years.”
“If you succeed.”
“Arthur, old chum, if I don’t succeed in bringing down Salvatore Grande,” Micah’s British accent faded, and his native New York one surfaced, “I’m gonna be sleepin’ with the fishes.”