49

London Offices of the Order,
Kensington Palace Gardens

Lutsenko’s special phone lit up, causing a not-unpleasant tightening in his groin. The Grimalkin had never called him before. The assassin’s reputation was a thing of terrible beauty. While the Order considered the Grimalkin their employee, the truth was that the assassin was a freelancer, capable of executing Lutsenko—anyone—and then disappearing forever. Killing without consequence. It engendered a certain excitement, dealing with someone so lethal.

“Hello?”

“She’s on her way to Parliament.”

Lutsenko had not gotten to the board of the Order by being stupid. “The final clue?”

“I believe so.”

“You’re with her?”

A pause. “I can see her.” The background noise sounded like an airport or a subway, a location where crowds gathered in transit. “We need to remind her what’s at stake.”

“The girl.” It wasn’t a question. Standard procedure, really.

“Yes. When you send the reminder, tell her she has four hours. I’ll need current coordinates to the Tea Room plus exclusive use of it. I’ll take it from there.”

The command chafed, but only momentarily. Lutsenko had no ego in this. He wanted what was at the end of the Stonehenge train. Any man would. They were stupid, ignorant, or lying if they thought otherwise. “Fine. Is that it?”

The Grimalkin had already hung up.