Текст книги "The Final Cut"

Автор книги: Catherine Coulter

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

38

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Friday, 1:00 a.m.

Savich had called for some late-night pizzas to be brought in, a veggie delight for him and any other vegetarians, and plenty of pepperonis and sausages for the carnivores. Sherlock was chowing on a piece of pepperoni, happy as a clam. He joined her at a small computer desk.

“Careful. You don’t want to spill any of that on your gorgeous dress.”

“My gorgeous dress already smells like tear gas, and I doubt that’ll come out. And, to be honest here, I’m too hungry to care.”

Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” wailed from his pocket. “Good timing. There’s Nicholas now.” He answered the call, put it on speaker. “Before you say anything, Nicholas, a sweep of the Met security offices upstairs showed several cleverly placed bugs. Browning was able to monitor everything we did tonight. We’ve dismantled them all, but you might think to tell the techs to check her place for bugs as well. She is a very thorough woman.”

Mike said, “So she could be listening now? Well, if you are, Victoria, we’re coming for you. Savich, give us a minute, we’ll step outside the apartment.”

There was a brief delay, then Mike came back on the line. “We’re clear.”

“Did you find anything at her apartment?”

Nicholas said, “The apartment Browning leased was never lived in. Security cameras from the building don’t show her entering or leaving anytime in the past month, and it’s all they have; their cameras recycle the tapes on the thirtieth of each month. Right now, this woman is a ghost.”

“That explains why we’re hitting dead ends ourselves,” Savich said. “There’s nothing on the transportation grid—she didn’t get on a plane or train or bus, or we would have found her by now. She may be on the road, driving north to the border, but the facial-recognition system needs more time to process all the faces at the northbound tollbooths. We’ve alerted Canadian customs to the BOLO, sent it to the highway patrols as well. We’re going to need a wider net.”

Nicholas said, “She may be hunkered down somewhere in the city, letting her buyer come to her. We do believe she’s stolen the diamond for someone, not for herself. If we’re right, she stands to gain a great deal of money.”

Savich said, “It’s nearly two in the morning. I think it would be best to shut down for the night, let everyone get some rest, and start fresh in the morning. We’re having a meeting at 26 Federal Plaza at eight a.m.”

Mike said, “Yeah, you’re right, but I hate letting her get more hours ahead on us.”

Zachery leaned over from the workstation. “Time for a break, Mike. Sleep, get some food in you, and I’ll see you in a few hours. We need to give the databases time to catch up to her. We’ll find her, I know we will. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

They clicked off, and Savich stowed his phone, yawned.

Sometimes the only answer was getting a fresh start.

39

Over the Atlantic Ocean

Kitsune listened to Mike and Nicholas discuss her whereabouts with Agent Savich. She was sorry not to have met him; he sounded interesting.

Her staged apartment was bugged, he’d been right about that, with mikes in all the rooms, like she’d done at the Met. But he didn’t realize how thorough she was—she’d also bugged the hallway outside her apartment, all the way down to the elevator. It was a pity she couldn’t have miked 26 Federal Plaza, then she could have heard everything the Feds were planning.

She laughed. Mike Caine thought she had only a few hours’ head start? She had two years on them. The flat was a total dead end, $5,200 a month well spent. No DNA, folks, except for that fat leasing agent’s, so you might as well hang it up and go get some sleep.

If they found her real place, she’d know immediately; the door was rigged to blow, and an alarm would be sent to her phone.

But she doubted they would. It was many blocks away, in Hell’s Kitchen. She’d worn wigs and the clothes of a student down on her luck, plus a baseball cap, every time she went in or out. The rent was paid for another year, and she could disarm the bomb remotely if needed. Kitsune knew exactly how to cover her tracks. She’d been doing it for so many years it was second nature.

When their call ended, she sat back in the buttery leather and ran through the options. They didn’t have anything yet, not that she’d expected them to. She knew it was only a matter of time before they figured out the Teterboro Airport connection, but if her luck continued to hold, she’d be on the ground before they did.

But what about Drummond? She wished he’d stayed in London, where he belonged.

No, he wouldn’t catch her. All would be well. She would meet with Lanighan, take care of business, and then she’d be gone. Done. Retired. On a small Pacific island, where she’d fit in seamlessly, and no one would think to look for her. Or maybe she could go back to London, speak to Grant—no, he was gone, she had to let him go.

The captain’s voice came over the speaker. “Madam, we’re in French airspace. Where to now?”

She pressed the button, gave him coordinates. The airstrip was exceedingly private, one she’d used before. There would be no record of the plane even touching down.

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.”

“You know it?”

Mike laughed. “Only from the outside. Part of being a New York Field Agent is knowing every nook and cranny of this city. I’ll go up against an old-time New York cabbie any day of the week. The Yale Club is a few blocks southeast.” She looked right and left and pulled out onto Seventh. “I’m starting to think of my bed with lust in my heart. Past time to catch a few hours.”

“Elaine had more trouble when she first moved here, distinguishing the long blocks from the short. She took to running an extra hour each night to learn her way around. She once called and said, ‘Nicholas, you wouldn’t believe how lost I was tonight.’”

He got quiet.

Her stomach growled, and Nicholas looked over at her. “Hungry, are we?”

“Starved. I can’t remember when I ate last; we’ve been going hard since I woke up. I’m exhausted, but I need something.” She smiled at him. “I reheat a mean slice of pizza.”

“Pizza sounds good.”

She heard something in his voice, something that spoke to her. She understood pain. She understood grief. She understood not wanting to be alone. Too well. And she remembered Jon, and let the pain settle in for a moment. Had he really been gone five years?

“We’re only ten minutes from my place. Tell you what, come home with me, it’ll be easiest. I live down in the Village, and I’ve got a lovely long sectional sofa.” She continued without pause. “What’d you do in Afghanistan?”

“Is the sofa long enough for me? It’s classified.”

It could be, but she doubted it; at least what had happened to him wasn’t classified. Whatever it was, she figured it must be bad.

She said, “It’s over seven feet long, and I have lots of comfy blankets. You left the Foreign Office after Afghanistan, left the spy world altogether, and moved to Scotland Yard. Come on, Nicholas, what happened?”

“I doubt your pajamas will fit me. Let me just say I wanted to be out on the street again, back home, in London, get my hands dirty. Work homicide. Help the helpless.”

“You’re James Bond. You don’t wear pajamas.” She drove through a yellow light as it turned red. “At this hour a person’s biorhythms are supposed to be low, and they’ll spill pretty much everything about themselves.”

“I was trained not to,” he said. “I won’t go to bed commando, as you Americans say, to save you any embarrassment. Let’s check out your biorhythms. What’s the name of your last boyfriend?”

She spurted out a laugh. “Classified. Tell me about your ex-wife. She’s the daughter of an earl?”

Safe subject, she thought, because he straightened and turned toward her. “An earl who’s also a very rich man and gives Pamela anything she wants, like backing her online magazine and footing all the bills here in Manhattan.”

“How did you two meet?”

“I met her in London, at some party, I forget. Anyway, two years later, I was finishing an assignment in Zurich. She was skiing at Engelberg. We ran into each other at a bar, and it was good to see someone I knew. She shed her friends. It all happened fast, too fast.” He slouched down in the seat and closed his eyes.

“Sorry, none of my business.”

He didn’t open his eyes. “Not a state secret. Pamela loved the thought of my being a spy. It was all fictionalized cloak-and-dagger to her, dangerous and exciting, and sexy, but the reality stopped being fun after about six months. I was gone a great deal of the time, places she couldn’t travel with me, and when I was in London, I was usually too wiped to go to parties and bars and wild weekend bashes. And then there was Afghanistan.” He didn’t shrug, but he could have. “I guess I changed. Settling in London as a copper’s wife was the last thing on her mind. She was all sharp edges and snark toward me tonight. She didn’t used to act that way.”

“She’s certainly something.”

“She’s also the past. Right now, all I want is some pizza, and sleep, and a new perspective.”

Mike said, “We made great progress today, you know.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “If you think being played for fools is progress, then certainly. Between Anatoly and Browning, our strings have been pulled quite nicely.”

41

Hudson Street and West Eleventh Street

Mike Caine’s apartment

Friday, 2:30 a.m.

Mike’s building was a five-story red brick circa 1970 smack dab in the middle of the West Village. Unlike the rest of Manhattan, there were always lights and action in the Village. Nicholas liked the look of the place. “Nice. Very New York.”

Mike waited for a taxi to pass, then turned onto the garage ramp. “They remodeled and converted to condos in the nineties. When I was looking for a place, this one had two major plusses—its own three-level parking beneath the building, and a doorman. Well, three if you count the local restaurants. See The White Horse Tavern across the street? Excellent food, and talk about history.”

She pulled her card out of her wallet, slid it into the garage reader, and the iron gates opened inward. She drove down one level and pulled into her assigned spot. “Here we are.”

Nicholas stepped out of the car, yawned, then stopped cold. The hair went up on the back of his neck. The garage was very dark, and very quiet, a graveyard of cars, all hunkered down, silent, so much silence. It was the middle of the night, so of course it was filled with shadows—no, something was wrong. He’d learned the hard way never to ignore the occasional punches of intuition, the premonitions that something bad was out there, ready to come at him. He remained perfectly still and listened. He heard Mike talking, but he didn’t pay any attention; he was concentrating on any sound that wasn’t right.

Nothing.

Mike climbed out of the driver’s side, spotted him standing still as a stone beside his door. “What’s wrong?” Her hand was already on her Glock.

But he didn’t move. There, he heard something. Breathing, carefully modulated breaths.

He motioned her to the front of the car, then stopped again, listened. There, he heard it again, this time not only breathing, harsh and low, but the sound of footsteps sliding over concrete.

A man launched himself from the darkness, swinging a tire iron toward Nicholas’s head. He jumped back, but not fast enough. The tire iron caught him on the shoulder, and the force of the blow sent him stumbling to the concrete. Better his shoulder than his head, was all he could think. His shoulder was on fire, but it didn’t matter. He lurched to his feet to see another shadow, also male, tall, fit, lean back on the heel of his left foot and kick out with his right, smooth and high and beautifully timed.

Before he could warn her, the man’s foot hit Mike square in the head. She went down with a small cry and didn’t move.

Adrenaline pulsed through him as the first man came at him again, swinging the tire iron. Nicholas ducked, blocked the tire iron with his forearm, and sent his fist with all his strength into the man’s throat.

He dropped the tire iron, grabbed his neck, and went down to his knees, wheezing, trying to breathe. Nicholas had only an instant before the second man, the one he’d mentally dubbed the kicker, was on him, whipping around to take him down with a to the head, as he had Mike.

Nicholas didn’t hesitate. He rammed his head into the man’s face, sending him back, his arms windmilling to keep his balance.

A gun fired, barely missing his head. Great, this was all they needed. No more silent attack, now it was all-out war.

Nicholas pulled Mike behind her Crown Vic, leaned over her, and said in her face, “Wake up, come on, wake up!” He shook her shoulder as three more shots rang out.

“Stop it, I’m together.” Mike pulled herself onto her hands and knees as more shots rang out. She pulled out her phone, called for backup. Her Glock was in her right hand, and her left reached for the gun at her ankle. She slapped her backup Glock 27 subcompact into Nicholas’s hand.

They fired, crouched side by side, the Crown Vic their only shield.

Their attackers shot off thirty-two rounds, fast and hard. An MP5, Mike knew. Bullets spiderwebbed the Crown Vic’s windshield, smashed the windows, struck the columns, sending jagged concrete shards in all directions. Nicholas saw a streak of blood snaking down Mike’s neck.

A moment of stark silence, then the slap of another clip jacking into place. The second man, the idiot, started firing again, but many of his shots went wild, ricocheting off other cars, smashing glass, wreaking havoc. In the confined space, the noise was deafening.

A bullet narrowly missed Nicholas’s head, shattered into the concrete pillar behind him.

Too close. Who the hell were these guys? “Where are the cops?”

“Any second now, they’re out of the Seventh and usually really fast.” Nicholas remembered Esposito and his Nikes. He fell forward onto his belly and shot under a parked car halfway down a row at the idiot’s legs. He yelped, jumped up, and cursed. Then he moved fast, crouching behind the rear tire of an SUV.

He didn’t know where the kicker was, but he was clearly the one in charge of this attack. Had he left the idiot behind? Or was he circling around?

More bullets struck the Crown Vic, this time shattering the windshield. Then, suddenly, the firing stopped.

Nicholas touched his hand to Mike’s arm. She stopped shooting.

Dead silence. He’d hit the idiot in the foot, so he couldn’t be lying dead behind that SUV.

Mike shouted, “We’re federal agents. Hear those sirens? You’re surrounded. Put down your weapons now!”

Silence. Was that talking he heard? Low, agitated? It was hard to hear anything over their own heavy breathing. He knew to his gut both men were still hiding in the dark, probably trying to decide what to do.

A half-dozen bullets pinged off Mike’s car from the left, opposite from where Nicholas believed the kicker was crouching.

Too close to Mike’s head, too close.

Bullets began raining on their position again from two directions. The kicker had joined the fray with another MP5.

Nicholas pressed his mouth against Mike’s cheek, tasted her blood, and whispered, “The idiot is on the up ramp. I think the guy who kicked you is in charge here. He’s behind the dark SUV at one o’clock. I’m going for the idiot, since he’s in the open. Cover me,” and he took off toward the ramp. Mike laid down fire to cover him, going back and forth between the ramp and the kicker.

Nicholas made it to the opposite side of the garage seconds before the darkness lit up with the flash of bullets. He pressed hard against a column, took two deep breaths, saw the idiot, and squeezed the trigger twice, his last two bullets. He missed, and the idiot ducked away into the darkness.

A heartbeat later, Nicholas was hit hard from behind, and went down face-first, the wind knocked out of him. He managed to fling himself over onto his back, struggling to catch his breath, when the idiot leapt on top of him, straddled him, and punched Nicholas in the mouth. He felt his teeth tear into his lip and tasted blood.

Nicholas jerked up and headbutted him, a sickening sound of flesh against flesh, then hit him hard in the jaw with the small Glock. A shot rang out. The idiot fell sideways, his head hitting the concrete floor with a thick, meaty sound. The man’s legs twitched, and Nicholas shoved them off and rolled spread-eagled on his back, the scent of his blood hot and thick in the air.

Mike had shot the idiot.

Nicholas came up on his knees, dragged the idiot behind the cover of a concrete pillar, and tore off the black mask. He was young, thirties, dark hair. Indistinguishable, eyes blank, blood spreading out from his back to halo around his body. He was very dead.

Mike shouted, “Nicholas, the kicker, he’s running up the ramp.”

More sirens now, drawing closer.

Nicholas took off, Mike right behind him. He slowed when he reached the final curve that turned into the street, gestured for her to hold up. He took three more steps, saw the garage barrier. It was closed tight, but the door to the street beside it was wide open.

He heard footsteps and people shouting. He charged through the open door to see light bars flashing, an echo of the cacophony of noises in his ears. An NYPD cruiser skidded to a stop at the curb, two officers bolted from the car, guns drawn. “Stop! NYPD!”

Mike screamed, “Federal agent! Federal agent, don’t shoot!” She held her Glock in one hand and her creds high in the other.

Nicholas saw a flash of black to his right. He ignored the shouts from the cops and edged carefully toward the alley. Mike ran into the alley behind him, shouting over her shoulder, “We need backup!”

The kicker was trapped at the back of the alley, a high fence behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and Nicholas saw a rim of jaw-length white hair under his mask. Of all things, the kicker smiled, then leapt onto the chain link and began climbing, fast and fluid as a monkey. Nicholas’s Glock was empty. He knew he couldn’t climb the fence, his shoulder was hurting so badly he could barely raise his arm. He could only watch the man pull himself up and over the fence, down the other side, and listen to his light footfalls disappear into the black night.

Mike fired until her gun was dry, but the kicker was gone.

She looked at him, then down at herself. She began to laugh. She choked out, “I don’t believe this, I really don’t.”

“Is your head all right? Believe what?”

“Open your coat and look at yourself. You’re still wearing your tux, what there is left of it.”

He said, “I doubt the dry cleaner is going to be able to fix this.”