We rode the elevator up to the penthouse floor in silence.

The elevator doors opened onto the mahogany-paneled reception area of Grant’s private office.

The night manager stood by the desk, his face white as paper.

“I don’t have the keys to the corner office,” the manager stammered.

“Mr. Mercer keeps it locked.”

Agent Vance didn’t argue.

He nodded to one of his men, who wedged a heavy crowbar into the seam of the double doors.

With a sharp, splintering crack, the wood gave way.

Inside, the office smelled of expensive scotch, cedar, and old paper.

Agents immediately began bagging hard drives from the desks and pulling files from the metal cabinets behind Grant’s desk.

“Look at this,” Agent Vance said.

He was pointing to a small, heavy safe hidden behind a landscape painting of the Greenwich harbor.

The painting had been swung open, and the safe’s door was already slightly ajar.

Inside were three leather-bound ledgers and a secondary silver laptop.

Lena stood next to Vance as he booted up the laptop using the master credentials Daniel’s courier had provided.