Текст книги "The Final Cut"

Автор книги: Catherine Coulter

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

51

Megève, France

Near the Swiss border

Friday morning

Kitsune slept through the plane’s approach and landing, which was just as well, because the small landing strip’s position gave the illusion the plane might fly directly into the side of the massive mountain Mont Blanc before it banked sharply and landed.

She woke when the wheels touched the ground and the engine fired into reverse. She yawned and stretched, and dug a warm coat out of her bag. It was cold out; she could see the snow on the Alps, cotton white, backed by the azure sky.

The pilot taxied to a stop and came out of the cockpit.

“Will you be needing my services again today?”

She thought about it for a moment. She’d planned to send him away, but to be safe, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have him primed and ready.

“Do you ski?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

She gave him a charming smile. “I will be a day. Enjoy the slopes. I will meet you back here on Sunday morning. Six a.m. Don’t be late.”

She descended the stairs to the waiting car. A black Mercedes sedan, as requested. The driver held the door.

When she was safely inside, he got behind the wheel and said in French, “We will be in Geneva in one hour, mademoiselle.”

The divider went up between the front and back seats, and she hit the mute button on the speaker. Once secure, she dialed Mulvaney again.

No answer. She clicked off, set the phone in her lap. The Arve River flowed to her right, following the highway, silted by glacial water to an eerie green. It looked wrong, as wrong as she felt. Mulvaney had now missed three check-ins. She knew what his silence meant. He was either taken or dead.

She pushed away the gut-wrenching fear at losing him; she couldn’t afford to think about him now, but the pain was still there, hot and deep. No. She had the job to complete. She had to deal with Saleem Lanighan, deliver the diamond, make sure the money was transferred properly. She saw Mulvaney in her mind’s eye, warning her that Lanighan wasn’t his father, who learned his lesson quickly—no, the son couldn’t be trusted; she’d have to be very careful.

She needed to take extra precautions with this exchange. When she was confident he hadn’t double-crossed her, only then would she hand over the safe-deposit box key to the diamond. He wouldn’t like it, but it was the safest way for her.
And where was Drummond? Close, she knew it. He was close.

She made a few adjustments to her hair and clothes, looked out the window to see the geyser peak of water in the distance, the Jet d’Eau, at the center of Lake Geneva, a lovely sight.

She checked her watch; right on time. She had two hours before she was to meet Lanighan. Considering the situation, she was glad of their set of coded meeting points. Even if Drummond had tracked her down, he’d be waiting for her in Paris, not Geneva.

She realized she was more concerned about him than she was about Lanighan. A few more distractions might be necessary to keep her safe. Just in case.

The driver followed her instructions well. The car stopped in front of the Deutsche Bank off Quai des Bergues exactly one hour after he’d picked her up in Megève.

Kitsune dismissed the driver—she could walk everywhere she needed for the rest of the morning—and entered the building. She immediately cut across the lobby into the courtyard and went out the north entrance. It was a five-minute walk to the Basilique Notre-Dame. She wound her way around the streets on foot, looking in the plate-glass windows of the stores along the way, until she was certain no one was following her.

The day was cold and clear, the city bustling around her. Geneva was always one of her favorite cities, even in winter, when the lake sometimes roiled and splashed over its banks, encasing the cars and boats and walkways along its length in ice.

She walked back toward the lake and went into the exquisite lobby of the Bank Horim.

One last errand, then thirty minutes later, she walked a bit up the Quai du Mont-Blanc, stopped for an espresso at the Hôtel de La Paix to shake off the chill.

She was nearly finished. Once the money was transferred and carefully redistributed to safe places, she would go directly to Bern, restore her blue eyes, and fly to Capri, to Mulvaney. She wouldn’t accept that something had happened to him, that he’d suffered an accident or a heart attack. No, he would be all right, welcoming her with a smile and a glass of his favorite Capri Falanghina. She would be with him again soon, and they would laugh together about all her adventures in New York.

Grant Thornton’s face flashed into her mind. When this was all over, maybe, just maybe, she could get him back. Mulvaney wouldn’t like that she’d fallen for a mark, it went against everything he’d taught her, but it was her life, her decision. Was she asking too much from the universe? Probably. But at the thought of him, a smile lingered on her lips.

Five minutes later, the espresso was gone. It was time.

52

Geneva, Switzerland

Friday, noon

Saleem was traveling on a false passport, under the name Rolph Heyer. It was easier to fool the border guards than customs agents in the airports, which was the purpose of driving across the border.

The border crossing was backed up, cars slowing to nearly a standstill. He lowered his window and breathed in the chill air. He felt good. He was close now. So close.

When asked for his papers, he handed them over with a smile. Image was everything. He was relaxed and capable. Nothing to fear. His face was not known to be a part of any criminal enterprise. Rolph Heyer was a businessman, a careful, cunning businessman, and entirely legitimate.

A few moments later, the car thoroughly looked over, his passport swiped through the reader, he was given the go-ahead to move forward.

The rest of the journey was uneventful, and four hours later, as he pulled off the highway into the streets of Geneva, his mobile rang. Colette. At last.

“Tell me you have good news.”

“Yes, sir, I do. I have received the call. The package has been secured.”

He relaxed. “Excellent, Colette. Merci.”

“Do not thank me yet. We lost Rathbone.”

“Was he taken or killed?”

“He is dead, sir. I was told there was no way to recover the body, but there is also no way to discover his identity, since he was never in the system, either in Europe or in the U.S. He is not a liability.”

Lanighan sighed. Rathbone was one of his favorite henchmen, lethal as a rattlesnake and twice as fast, but smart, never even arrested. He’d been with Saleem for many years, always willing to do anything he asked.

“This is a terrible loss. But it is the price we must pay. Many men’s lives have been sacrificed in the pursuit of the Koh-i-Noor. He will be remembered as a hero.” The eulogy finished, he said sharply, “Now, where is the package secured?”

“In the warehouse, in Gagny.”

He hung up the phone, quite satisfied.

There was too much at stake to take the risk of allowing Kitsune to double-cross him. Too much money, too many variables. She’d been sloppy, letting the FBI close in on her as she was leaving America. Showing off, no doubt, proving the Fox was smarter than the world’s best law enforcement.

He was a patient man. Yes, he was. The power he would wield was worth waiting for. But he would have to be very careful and not take any chances, because now he had another variable in the mix.

Lanighan had a room booked at the Beau-Rivage, at the edge of Lake Geneva across from the Jet d’Eau fountain, as their plans dictated. He checked in, took his bag to his elegant suite, and went out on the balcony, watching the huge plume of water rising nearly five hundred feet in the air.

His meeting with Kitsune was in two hours. She was sure to be nearing Geneva at this point, and he would soon hold the Jewel of the Lion itself in his hands. He shivered with excitement, with the promise of what was to come.

He closed the doors to the balcony and ordered raclette and champagne to be delivered, then took a scalding hot shower. He dressed carefully, then went out onto the balcony to enjoy a cocktail while he waited.

Mont Blanc glistened in the distance, and Saleem had a rare moment of peace. He was alone, he was about to fulfill his lifelong dream, and he had insurance to assure the smooth transition of the Koh-i-Noor diamond into his possession, for a much smaller price than he’d bargained.

Of course, at his death, his father was comforted by the knowledge his son would carry on the search, as he’d done for his father, and his father before him, and he’d suggested Saleem use the Fox, and yet, he wondered again, as he had many times over the past two years, why hadn’t his father told him the Fox was a beautiful, soulless woman?

He was long dead now. It didn’t matter.

The promise of the stone’s power wasn’t a legend to Saleem—it was real. He was the Lion, and soon he would have the famed Koh-i-Noor in his possession, and everything he wanted would finally be his. Nothing could stop him. He could feel it in his bones.

53

Over the Atlantic Ocean

Mike said, “Switzerland, sir?”

“Yes. We got lucky. The French had a satellite passing over when she arrived. Facial recognition confirmed it was the Fox, though I didn’t recognize the woman in the still photos as Victoria Browning. Her hair is short now, black, and she’s smaller, if that’s possible. Talk about a master of disguise.

“The car, a Mercedes, took A40 to the A411 northwest toward Geneva. The license plate was obscured, but the satellite picked up the car entering the city limits an hour later.

“The driver dropped her at the Deutsche Bank in the city center and left. The Geneva police are looking for him, but if he’s anything like the pilot, he knows nothing of use. She seems to hire new people with every job. She doesn’t have a set group of people she uses again and again.”

Nicholas said, “It’s much safer that way. There’s very little chance of being able to turn someone against her. You lost her after the bank?”

“Yes. We’re in touch with the police in Geneva to get the camera feeds, but nothing yet. All we know for sure is she’s in the city.

“Pierre Menard will be your contact on the ground; he’s a FedPol agent stationed in Geneva. He’s a bulldog, likes Americans, and you can always count on him. Mike, I’ve texted you his number. He’s expecting your call.”

Mike said, “We’ll get in touch with him and go straight to the bank when we arrive, see what she left behind. We’ll call you when we’re on the ground.”

She hung up and pressed her call button. The pilot came on the air. “We need to reroute to Geneva, Switzerland. How long will it take to get there?”

“Hold on a moment, Agent Caine, let me get a new flight plan. I’ll be back to you in five minutes.”

She turned to Nicholas. “Geneva?”

“Best banking in the world.”

“What do you think she’s up to?”

“Maybe the buyer put her money in a Swiss account and she has to sign for it in person.”

Mike’s face fell. “She’ll probably be gone before we get there.”

“Don’t be a pessimist. Look, she anticipated we might trace her call and sent us to the wrong place at the wrong time. But she’s here. We’re going to get her.”

“You think she had prearranged codes with the buyer, something like L’Arc de Triomphe at noon means Geneva, dinnertime?”

He nodded. “I expect you’ve hit it head-on.”

Mike hated to admit it, but she felt a grudging respect for Browning. “She has thought of everything.”

“And we’ve gotten bloody lucky, tracking her to Geneva. She knew we’d find her trail, but not so quickly. We have the element of surprise. We’ve underestimated her before. We won’t do it again.”

The pilot came over the speaker. “We’re on course to Geneva, Agent Caine. We’ll be landing in less than two hours.”

Mike keyed the switch and said, “Roger that,” then pulled up the text from Zachery. “Have you dealt with FedPol before?”

“The Federal Police? Yes, many times. I’ve had mixed success with them. Interpol doesn’t have agents in the field the way we do, they’re really more data crunchers. FedPol works closely with them. Every major European country has a branch. Honestly, there are so many layers of international law enforcement that bureaucracy gets the better of them, but right now, we need someone who can move freely around the European theater. We’ll see if Menard is a help or a hindrance.”

Spoken like a true spy.

“Zachery said he’s a bulldog, plus, since I’m an American, we know he’ll at least like me. Let’s just see how much,” and she rang Menard’s number.

“Menard, here. Is this Agent Caine?”

“Yes, and Nicholas Drummond from New Scotland Yard.”

“Drummond, I’ve heard of you. You used to be Foreign Office, oui? You may know a friend of mine, Jacques Bouton.”

Nicholas laughed. “I know him well. What’s the old bugger up to these days?”

“Retired, but you never can leave, can you? Even though he’s up in his chalet in Chamonix, he still manages to butt in to our cases. He spoke for you, said you could be trusted.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Bona fides established, he asked, “Do you know where our target is now?”

“We’re searching. The Geneva police have been cooperative, but there is nothing yet. When will you arrive?”

“Two hours.”

“I will meet you at the airport. Good-bye.”

Nicholas said, “He should be a help, which is good news. If he and Bouton are friends, he’ll know how to bend the rules. You know, I think he likes me better than you.”

She went silent for a moment, then said, “Who’s this Bouton character?”

“He’s a friend, one of my old contacts. We worked together on a nasty case about five years ago, in Algiers. And if Menard knows him, we’re in luck.” He paused a moment. “To catch the Fox, we might have to jump over the line.”

Mike kicked off her boots and drew her feet up on the leather seat. “We aren’t flying to Europe to bend the rules, Nicholas.”

“The only rules that matter right now are the Fox’s.”

Mike was already shaking her head. “Come on, you know the FBI doesn’t play fast and loose with the law.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, of course you know. But you also think the Fox was involved in Elaine York’s murder, and you want revenge. I can see it on your face, Nicholas. But our job is to solve this case without breaking laws and compromising ourselves.”

His voice went cold. “If you think I’m going to allow my grief for Elaine to influence me in this investigation, you’re dead wrong. Apparently I know a lot more about you than you know about me.”

“You absolutely don’t know anything about me.”

He shifted in his chair, eyebrow raised. “You told me about your dad, the chief of police in Omaha, quite the achievement for the son of a farmer. I also know he did two tours in Vietnam and received a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. Your parents are still married—happily, by the looks of it. You have a younger brother, Timothy. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to check him out. He called you in the middle of the night last night. I guess there’s a problem with your brother, since you said he was your Afghanistan, sort of—”

She cut him off. “Stop right now. This is all Google stuff any moron could find out about my family. It has nothing to do with how I choose to do my job. I don’t wave my wand and decide what’s appropriate for the given situation. My rules, as you call them, separate me from the people I hunt. It should be the same for you.”

His face remained expressionless, and his voice was light, but she wasn’t fooled, not for an instant. “Believe it or not, the Elaine I knew was a lot like you. And you know what? I could always count on her to have my back, no matter what I asked. I do hope I can count on you.”

She fingered the Glock on her hip and said, her voice as light as his, “You’re a lamebrain, you know that? Don’t worry about me. I’ve never backed down from a fight in my life. But we won’t break laws, Nicholas. We won’t become criminals to catch criminals.”

54

Nicholas didn’t reply. He picked up the phone and called Savich again.

“Sorry, I don’t have anything for you yet.”

“I have one more thing to add into the search. Our suspect walked into a Deutsche Bank in Geneva half an hour ago.”

“Ah, that will help. Good work. I’ll add it in, see if anything changes.” They hung up, and Mike’s email dinged.

“Finally,” she said. “Video feed from Elaine’s building is here. Why would they keep the tapes off-site? Took us forever to get it.”

Nicholas sat beside her as she opened the feed on her laptop. It had been taken from the camera in the building’s lobby, and the time stamp read 10:14 a.m.

They saw a tall, thin man wearing a black jacket and slacks with a hank of white hair under a black watch cap. He walked with confidence, looking neither right nor left, but away from the camera, so they couldn’t see his face. He had a key to the building’s door. He let himself in, and as the heavy glass swung closed and he passed the camera, they saw the small backpack on his left shoulder.

“That’s the man who attacked us in the garage, Mike, I’m sure of it.”

The video fast-forwarded to 12:10 p.m. They watched the man exit. He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap now, and his jacket was apparently reversible; it was now a light gray. As he walked out the door he again tilted his face down so the camera couldn’t catch any details. All they could see was a thin knife-blade nose and a small smile playing on his lips. He turned and they had a full-on shot of the lower portion of his jaw, but only for a fraction of a second, and then he strolled out of the frame. The video stopped.

Mike said, “He looks awfully happy for someone who just committed a double murder.”

“He looked happy last night, too, when he was trying to kill us. Play it again.”

She rewound the tape. “He’s a professional. He’s aware of the cameras, knows exactly what to do to avoid them. I don’t know if there’s enough to run him through the facial-recognition database.”

“Zachery’s email says they’re trying.” She played it again. “Who is he working for? He doesn’t look Russian, does he?”

“Not really, no. Are the cameras on the street able to capture where he goes? Does he have a car, or does he walk away?”

She scanned the email. “This is all we have. I’m sure they’ll send us more if they find something else.”

“Play it once more. Watch the backpack he’s carrying.”

She looked closely.

Nicholas said, “See, as he exits? Look how much farther down his torso the bottom of the bag is. He’s carrying something heavy, something he didn’t have when he went in.”

“Elaine’s laptop?”

“Most likely. Can you ask Gray to see if he can identify what sort of backpack it is? It may give us something.”

“Nicholas, you’re grasping at straws.”

“It’s better than nothing.”

He was angry now. It was bad enough imagining what happened, but to see Elaine’s murderer, a smile on his face, almost as if he were whistling, casually strut out of the building without a care in the world? It burned him. And poor Elaine had followed him out several minutes later, stumbled to the river, and fell to her death.

Mike laid her hand on his arm. “We’ll get him. You know we will.”

He realized his hands were fisted, and he relaxed them. “I hate being in the dark, and I don’t like being played for a fool. We’re still ten steps behind these buggers, and it’s starting to tick me off.”

55

Brighton Beach, New York

Friday, noon

It was nearly noon, gray and overcast, windy, no sun at all. After three hours of sitting here watching Anatoly’s fancy Mediterranean-style mansion, Agent Ben Houston still hadn’t seen any movement—no one turning on lights against the gloom, no one coming out to get the paper, walk a dog, drive somewhere, nothing, which meant Anatoly still had to be at home.

He looked down at his watch. Savich and Sherlock should be here soon, and together they’d go knock on Anatoly’s door, and they would question him about the stolen Sarah Elliott painting from the Prado. Ben still thought it amazing that Savich was Sarah Elliott’s grandson.

Ben continued to stare at the silent house, as if willing something to happen, anything. He’d like to go in there before Savich and Sherlock got here and beat the living crap out of Anatoly, force him to tell the truth about Kochen and Elaine.

He banged his fist on the steering wheel. It didn’t help thinking about Elaine. Rules were rules; the law was the law.

He wondered what Mike and that dude from Scotland Yard were doing. Ben had thought Nicholas Drummond smart enough, but he took chances, and Ben bet he’d cut corners when one got in his way. At least he’d defused the bomb in the exhibit room—talk about a big chance. He sighed. They did have one thing in common: Elaine York. Ben felt the familiar pain settle in his belly.

He was bored with this view. He started up the Crown Vic and moved a block north, which gave him a clear shot of three sides of the house, and settled back in to watch and wait for Savich and Sherlock. His cell rang. It was Sherlock. They’d been held up another thirty minutes.

Ben tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He knew two of the seven sons lived with Anatoly. No mother, no wives, no children. Only the three grown-ups, all bad to the bone. He wouldn’t want to play poker with them. He couldn’t imagine them being good losers. Actually, he wouldn’t want to eat breakfast with them, either.

And that made Ben realize he was hungry. The bagel he’d inhaled for breakfast was long gone. He’d seen a pizza place as he’d come in, Papa Leone’s. A pepperoni sounded good. After their meeting with Anatoly, maybe he could talk Savich and Sherlock into a slice.

One more drive by, Ben decided, and started up his Crown Vic. He drove slowly by the Anatoly mansion, and lo and behold—he saw the front door wasn’t closed.

Why hadn’t he noticed before? Because something had happened, something he hadn’t seen. Adrenaline poured through him. He wasn’t about to wait now. But no way was he going to approach the house by himself, not after Anatoly had looked at him last night like Wouldn’t you look good without a face? And Anatoly would be glad to oblige.

No time to wait for Savich and Sherlock, no time to call in other FBI agents. Instead he called the Brighton precinct. Three minutes later, a blue-and-white NYPD cruiser sharked around the corner, two more cruisers in its wake. These boys knew whose house this was.

Ben waved at them as they slowly pulled to the curb. A sergeant approached him, an older guy, going bald and sporting a growing paunch. His nameplate read F. Horace.

“What’s the problem, sir?”

Ben stuck his creds in his face. “Special Agent Ben Houston, FBI. I had a chat with Mr. Anatoly last night down at Federal Plaza. I’m expecting two other agents, but not for maybe twenty more minutes, and I didn’t want to wait.” He pointed to Anatoly’s front door. “It’s open, but I haven’t seen anybody go in or out for the past three hours.”

“And you’re wondering why Mr. Anatoly would leave his front door open. Gotta say, I’m wondering, too. Let’s go check this out,” and Horace opened the snap over his Glock. He waved to the other officers, telling them to stay outside, wait for the two FBI agents that were expected, and keep their eyes open. Then they set off.

Ben pushed, and the front door swung in easily.

He stopped cold. Not good, not good. “Smell that?”

“Blood,” Sergeant Horace said, all humor gone. “I don’t like this, I really don’t.” He laid a beefy hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Listen to me now, Agent Houston, in case no one taught you, be sure to walk carefully. We don’t want to disturb any evidence, okay?”

Ben didn’t know where the manic grin came from. “Thanks for the wise words, Sarge. I’ll be extra-careful.”

Horace’s gruff laugh was his only reply.

The two men walked, guns drawn, at the ready, through a vast entrance hall decorated to the hilt with what looked to Ben to be Italian antiques. They followed their noses and stopped cold when they reached the huge vaulted kitchen, modern, shiny, pristine except for the three bodies pressed together in the middle of the kitchen floor, hands tied behind their backs. Two had fallen forward, one canted over as if he were sharing a secret with the man next to him. They’d all been shot in the back of the head, execution-style.

Sergeant Horace keyed the mike on his shoulder. “We need the crime scene unit and an ME out to Anatoly’s place. Triple homicide.” He turned back to Ben. “We gotta clear the house. Step careful.”

As Horace cleared the bottom floor, Ben went up the stairs, Glock steady in his hand.

In the second bedroom on the right, he found another body slumped on the floor, a male Caucasian, his back against the door frame, sitting in a pool of dried blood. His eyes were open, slightly gummed over, and he was facing the bed. He was dressed in black from head to toe. His hands were cupped around a wound in his stomach. He’d taken a while to die, Ben thought, looking at all the dried blood on his clothes, black now, stiff.

This man wasn’t big like the Anatolys. He had to be one of the shooters, had to be. So there were a minimum of two shooters, but his partner hadn’t shown him any love. He’d left him to die, and that was cold, real cold. Ben searched the man’s pockets but found no ID, no nothing.

The room itself was a mess, the bed unmade, smelled of dirty laundry, and, oddly, old toast. One of the sons’ rooms, then. He pictured the shooter coming into the room, and the son was fast enough to grab up a gun and gut-shoot him.

Had the son gone downstairs then, only to end up dead on the kitchen floor? He’d had a gun, he knew something bad was going on, but it hadn’t mattered. Whoever was waiting downstairs had overpowered him.

Ben methodically went through the rest of the rooms upstairs, then called down to Horace, “Upstairs is clear. Got a body, gut shot. Looks like he was part of the crew who broke in.”

“A quadruple homicide? Now, ain’t that something on a beautiful Friday.”

Ben rejoined him in the kitchen. Horace pointed at the bodies. “That’s Anatoly in the middle, and the younger ones are two of his sons. Someone was really pissed off. Nice of the killer to off them in the kitchen, no ruined carpet.

“But how the hell did he manage to get the drop on all three of these badasses? I just can’t see that.” They both stared down at the bodies.

Ben said, “Had to be more than one person responsible for this, had to be. Like you said, they were three very big strong men, even Anatoly.”

Horace nodded. “Plus, those Anatoly sons are meaner than hungry crocodiles. Their old man used to be, but he’s mellowed out, doesn’t kill those who piss him off himself any longer, just gives the orders. You need to see this.”

Ben followed Horace into what looked to be Anatoly’s office. The room hadn’t been ransacked. What looked to be an original Picasso had been gently lifted from its spot behind the huge mahogany desk and carefully placed against the wall. And there was a wall safe, the thick metal door hanging ajar.

Horace said, “There’s still packs of cash, legal papers, and lookee here—half a key of coke.”

Ben said, “That’s weird. If they found what they came for, why leave the cash and the drugs?”

“If I was the badass who broke in here,” Horace said, “I sure wouldn’t have left the C and C. I wonder what they did take out of that safe?”

Ben holstered his Glock.

“No clue.” He looked up to see Savich and Sherlock appear in the living room doorway.