“I’m a bit surprised,” she finally responded. “Usually, Mr. Arthur conducts these meetings in person. Sending you seems a bit…extreme.”

The man smiled. The name he had given her on the phone was Curt, even though it was every bit as approximate as Patricia.

“You’re surprised. Really. After the disastrous failures of the past twelve hours.”

Patricia winced, only partly because it was a fair assessment of what had transpired. Incredible, that it had only been twelve hours since she had been called into such furious action, after years of methodological investigative work and general spy craft on behalf of a massively rich boss she knew only by his first name who was brutally intolerant of failure. Even after a lifetime of training, her body was feeling the toll of the three consecutive missions. At thirty-seven, she was still in peak physical condition, but age had its limitations. When she’d first finished her “education” as an operative at the age of fifteen, she’d been able to conduct similar missions for days on end.

“The trunk has been located. It won’t be a problem again. And I’ve put the paintings on the cargo ship,” she said, straightening a line in her knee-length skirt.

It was the third outfit she’d worn in the past day. At the casino, she’d needed to blend in; a maid’s uniform she’d lifted from the laundry room in the basement of the Encore had worked well, even though it had been a size too large. She could have subdued the out-of-shape fence in a straitjacket and handcuffs, if she’d needed to. The young men in the warehouse had been more of a challenge. She’d worn an athletic jumpsuit and body armor, even though there had never been much of a chance of the low-level criminals getting a shot off. She doubted either of them had ever used that shotgun other than for intimidation; they had been totally unprepared for what had hit them.

The same could be said for Charles Walker. The leather skirt and high heels she’d chosen for that job had been even more efficient weaponry than a shotgun. The high heels, she was still wearing, but the skirt was back in her hotel. If this meeting went south, that skirt would have no effect on a man like Curt. But the heels still had their uses.

“Mr. Arthur doesn’t care about the paintings,” Curt said. “The Family hasn’t waited thirty years for a bunch of paintings.”