Текст книги "The Final Cut"

Автор книги: Catherine Coulter

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

68

The car shook with the force of the explosion, but Kitsune put it in gear and drove away, counting on debris from the explosion and the bursting flames to cover her escape.

Two blocks from the explosion, on a quiet, unmarked street, she found a small gray Fiat, still running, the owner probably running into the house to get something. Perfect.

She abandoned the rental in the small driveway of a town house, threw her things to the Fiat, and was gone all in under a minute.

She forced herself to calm, to think, to figure out what she was going to do now. The sky was already darkening. She would be all right. She had two more clean identities in her bag, both prepared for her by Mulvaney, and there was no one better than him. Where was he? No, she couldn’t think about him just yet, too much to do.

She started west immediately. The border was only a few kilometers out of town, and she wanted to make it through before they’d been alerted about her.

Since all available personnel would rush to the scene, including the FedPol agent, Helmut would have enough time to secure the box and its contents. She’d better come through, Kitsune thought, since she was paying her a small fortune.

Lanighan had betrayed her, just as Mulvaney had warned he might. She hadn’t seen it coming, though. She thought back to the night in Paris with him two years before; she’d weighed, judged, and decided his desire for the Koh-i-Noor would keep him on the straight and narrow. He was a businessman. He knew how things worked. So what had changed? Why did he now consider her the enemy? Why had he believed she was betraying him?

A thief who would hand over the goods in person was a fool, hardly professional. He knew this. Give him the key, make sure her money was transferred, and everyone was happy. It should have worked seamlessly. Instead it was all unraveling.

Those precautions she’d set into place were going to save her now, not only from Lanighan but from the authorities, too.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. It would have to suffice for the moment, until she could feel Lanighan’s blood on her hands.

She changed quickly, pulling on a new wig and pulling out the appropriate ID from the base of her backpack. She called Marie-Louise Helmut at the Bank Horim.

“Did you secure the package in the safe-deposit box?”

“Yes, madam. A fortuitous happenstance, there was an explosion nearby. Even the FedPol agent went to deal with the emergency. You will not be coming back to the bank, I presume?”

“No. Send the contents to the Café Popon, on Rue Henri-Fazy.”

“I know it.”

“I will be there in ten minutes. Have your person waiting in the women’s loo.”

“Ten minutes.” Helmut rang off, and Kitsune felt her control slide back into place. Ten minutes and she’d have the diamond back in her hands. She pulled the Fiat into the light traffic, checked the mirror to see if anyone was following.

She made it to the Café Popon in five minutes, walked to the counter, bought a croissant and a coffee. The television set above the cash register had an alert on the screen, the local station running news of the bombing, showing the horrendous carnage, the flames bursting into the sky, raining down debris. It was the only local event, she thought, dramatic enough to replace the outrage over the stolen Koh-i-Noor.

She listened to the rapid-pace French. Three injured, none dead. So Drummond hadn’t died in the blast. He was in the hospital, then, and that would slow him down, surely long enough for her to get herself, and the diamond, away from Geneva.

A young woman entered the coffee shop, walked directly past Kitsune toward the back. Kitsune followed her to the bathroom.

It was an expert handoff, the diamond was now heavy in her pocket, and Kitsune was gone. As she climbed back in the car, she thought maybe she needed some help with things after all. At the very least, it should surprise the hell out of him.

69

Geneva, Switzerland

Hotel Beau-Rivage

Friday, early evening

Lanighan raced back to the balcony at the sound of the explosion. It shook the railing and rattled the windows. He saw the ball of fire plume into the air, then smoke, black and thick, well up, blacking out the sky.

Where was Kitsune? Was she responsible for this?

Thirty minutes later his cell rang.

She said only, “I need your help.”

A moment of surprise, then he said, “And I need my diamond.”

“I have it, but I can’t get back across the bridge to your hotel because of the fire. The police from America and Britain are after me—how, I don’t know, but they’re here.”

“I assume you set the bomb. You were so careless they didn’t die?”

“I tried, but they managed to escape the blast. One of them is injured. I don’t know how badly, but I don’t want to take any chances. I’m sure both of them will be at the hospital, at least tonight. When they leave, don’t kill them, just get them off my back for a while.”

“And my diamond?”

“You will get your diamond when you meet me in Paris. You know the time and place.”

His suspicion and distrust sounded loud in the silence. “Very well, I will handle things. I will see you in Paris.”

There was a click and his cell went dead.

Saleem slipped his cell into his pocket, packed his bag, and left the suite. He took the stairs to the basement, checked his BMW—who knew if this was a trick and she’d planted a bomb on his car? He saw no bomb. He was out of the garage and onto the Quai du Mont-Blanc less than two minutes after she called. Better to cross the border now before the police started cracking down.

He made a call as he weaved his way out of downtown Geneva and pointed the car west. The phone was answered on the third ring. He explained his needs and hung up, fully satisfied his demands would be met. He’d get the agents off her back forever. Then he would get his diamond and deal with her.

He dialed her number, and she answered with a curt “Yes?”

“I have made the arrangements. Tell me how you’ve bungled this so badly. From the way my father talked, he considered the Fox to be above mistakes. I begin to believe you are not worth the vast amount I agreed to pay you.”

She heard it in his voice, beneath the smooth, civilized words he spoke, and she knew absolutely he would betray her, and so it pleased her to say, “You will listen, Saleem. The wire-transfer numbers from your first payment to me in Paris allowed me to track down other account amounts you’ve used to pay other thieves over the years. I placed a list of these numbers in a Sages Fidelité safe-deposit box. If my list survived the explosion, it is possible for an accomplished forensic accountant to trace the accounts back to you, don’t you think?”

He froze in shock. He knew to his gut she was telling the truth, but wait, no, it didn’t matter, since he always closed those bank accounts after each transaction. But given enough time . . . He said very softly, “You bitch.”

She laughed. “That’s right. Now, shut up and listen to me closely, because I am not lying. I have every intention of honoring our agreement. I know you’ve been very careful over the years, just as I know it’s very unlikely anyone could ever trace the accounts back to you.

“You will consider this a warning. I will lead the police directly to you if you try to betray me. Do you understand? Your empire is in my hands, Saleem. Honor our agreement.”

“That is all I ever intended. It is you I do not trust.”

“There is no reason for you not to trust me. You know my reputation. We will try again tomorrow. Remember, I have the diamond in my hand. Now, slow those agents down.”

His voice was clipped, rage bubbling. “Unlike you, I don’t screw up,” and he threw the mobile onto the leather seat next to him and gunned the BMW’s engine, letting it snarl as he hit the A4 out of Geneva.

A police car flashed past him, heading into the city.

With an eye on his rearview mirror, he took the ramp for the highway, northwest toward Paris, then set the cruise control to one hundred twenty kph, fast enough so he wouldn’t seem suspect among the other drivers.

Arrogant, stupid woman. In Paris, she would learn exactly how much power he had over her.

70

Geneva, Switzerland

Friday evening

He heard his name from a distance, and felt hands shaking him. He didn’t want to wake, wanted to drift back into the sweet oblivion nestling him deep, but there was pain now, bright and sharp in his back, and so he opened his eyes.

Flashing lights. Voices, screaming, calling. He tried to focus, but his eyes wouldn’t work right. A woman’s voice in his ear, calm, controlled, a touch of fingers, feather light. “Nicholas? Can you hear me? Answer me.”

Her voice was familiar somehow. He searched for the woman’s name. Mike. Mike Caine. Her blond hair was swinging in his face. He reached up, whether to push it out of his face or hug her, he didn’t know, and she wrapped her arms around him. He felt the warmth of her tears and smiled. Better. Even pain lessened in a woman’s arms. She was soft and warm, and her hair smelled like flowers, and wild grass. Jasmine, he thought.

Then she pulled away from him, and pain sliced across his lower back like a hot knife. He gasped and was gone again.

When he awoke the second time, the confusion, the heat, the noise were gone. The air around him was quiet, deathly so. Something cold was across his face; pulses of chilly oxygen pushed into his nose. Low, steady beeps, the thrum of his own heart in his chest, pounding hard. The smells were different, antiseptic and unnatural. Hospital. He was in hospital.

“Nicholas? You’re back. No, stay with me. Stay awake now. Listen to me. You’re going to be okay.”

His vision swam into focus. Mike was sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand held between hers. She had a black smudge on her cheek. He wanted to reach up and wipe it away, but his arm was curiously heavy.

She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, fast and light. “You listen to me, you lamebrain. Trying to get yourself killed was not part of the deal.”

His voice wouldn’t come. She gave him a sip of water. It tasted better than his grandfather’s favorite single malt, Glenfiddich. His voice came out a croak. “What happened?”

“You blew up the building.”

It was coming back now, bits and pieces, the blue-white gleam of the diamond in the box, the red and orange wires, the hot explosion at his back.

“Not me. I closed the lid.”

“You should have told the bomb that. The moment you stepped out the door, the whole building blew. You had a shard of glass in your back, plus several cuts from the shrapnel. The doctors removed it all. And your hands were burned a bit. You most likely have a concussion, and your hearing might be messed up for a while. Mine’s finally getting back to normal. It was a big blast.”

He couldn’t feel his back, and panic began to creep in. “My back?”

“You’re probably numb from the lidocaine. They had to stitch you up a bit. You’re going to be sore, but you’re all right.”

“Anyone else hurt?”

She shook her head. “Some people banged up, but everyone’s okay.”

He looked around the room, small, white, one chair. The blinds were closed. It seemed like night to him though. “How long have I been out?”

“A few hours. You were bleeding badly, and you were unconscious. I thought—well, you’re okay. Tomas was scared for you, too. Yes, he’s all right. Last time I saw him he was shaking like a leaf, stuttering as he tried to answer the police officer’s questions.” She touched a hand to his cheek. “Don’t do that again, all right?”

“I’ll do my best,” and he smiled, though it hurt, and leaned back against the crackly pillow.

“Menard and the Geneva police are all over the bomb. The fire was confined to the one building, which was amazing. C-4, it looks like, on a detonator. Was it similar to the bomb at the Met?”

“No. There was a pressure switch. She wasn’t playing around this time.”

Mike’s lips pressed together in a grim line. “No, she wasn’t. And when we catch her, I’m going to beat the crap out of her.”

He wanted to laugh, but suddenly it all came back, and he started to sit up. “Did they find the diamond?”

“No, don’t try to get up. You’re hurt.”

She pressed on his shoulders and eased him back down. It took him a moment to control the pain. “The diamond. The Koh-i-Noor. It was in the box. The bomb surrounded it. The box was wired to blow the moment anyone opened it.”

“Are you sure, Nicholas?”

“I am. Have them look. Did the boy Tomas know about the bomb?”

“No. As I told you, he was totally freaked out. I heard him tell the police about Browning. He admitted she paid him well to direct us to the first box, the one with the account numbers in it. The one with the bomb was meant for someone else, a lone man, Tomas said, with dark hair and eyes.”

“The buyer,” Nicholas said.

“Probably,” Mike said. “I guess if things went wrong, she needed to take him out and destroy the evidence. But we forced Tomas to give us the second box—and kablooey. I better call Menard, tell him about the diamond.”

Mike made the call, and Nicholas allowed himself to float for a minute. She came back and sat down on the chair next to him. She didn’t touch him. “They’ll look, but it’s too hot to go in now.” She leaned forward, stared him straight in the eye. “Seriously, Nicholas, you scared me to death.”

“When we find her, after you beat the crap out of her, I’m going to strangle that woman. She’s tried to blow me up twice now. I’m starting to take this personally.”

“Tell me, what tipped you off? You realized there was a bomb and told us to leave.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

He didn’t remember, then, “Wait—the box felt wrong. Too heavy. I could tell something nasty was in there.”

Again, she touched her fingers to his face. “Let’s hear it for your fine instincts. You’ve saved my life twice in as many days. I owe you one.”

“Actually, you owe me two, but I’m not counting.” He tried to smile, but it hurt too much. On the other hand, he was alive, and he would heal. “Browning, the Fox, whoever she is, she’s upped the ante. A lot of people could have been hurt or killed today. Mike, we’re so close, we can’t stop now.”

She bent over him again, pushed his hair off his forehead. “We won’t stop. But you need to stay here overnight. The doctors think the concussion is mild, but they want to keep an eye on you. Let the drugs work. We’ve lost the trail, anyway; she’s gone for now.”

He wasn’t going to argue. Moving around was going to be difficult until his head cleared. He’d been concussed before, knew if he did too much too soon, he’d end up vomiting on the floor and right back in the bed. And since they’d shot something really good into his IV, he really didn’t want to move, because he was floating high, up there at the ceiling. Now Mike was lightly rubbing his temples, and it felt very nice. He felt calm, and let go.

He heard her voice from a distance. “That’s right. Relax. I’m here. Nothing bad will happen.”

Just like his mother, he thought, and slept.

71

Hôpitaux Universitaires de Genève

Saturday, dawn

Nicholas passed a restless night, full of strange drug-induced dreams, and was vaguely aware of being poked and prodded every hour on the hour by the nurses. Mike slept awkwardly in the chair by his bed.

He awoke at dawn, his head still aching, but he could see much better. He searched the room until he spied a wall clock. Five in the morning. Twelve hours after they’d walked into the Sages Fidelité and all the fires of hell had burst into the world.

The Fox was certainly gone by now, Mike was right about that, as was the Koh-i-Noor.

Mike opened her eyes to see Nicholas sitting up in bed. She saw his eyes were clear, his face only slightly bruised.

“Hey, dude. Go back to sleep.”

Nicholas said, “I’m up. I’m feeling better. Did you hear back from Menard? Did he find the diamond?”

Mike gave it up. “No sign of it. Chances are the heat of the explosion reduced it to sand. I don’t know if heat will destroy a diamond, but I hardly think anything could survive strapped to a brick of C-4.”

“It would depend on the blast radius. It could have survived and they simply haven’t found it yet.”

“I was thinking about it last night. I don’t think it was the Koh-i-Noor at all. It was the other replica and the bomb was her insurance policy.”

Of course it was. He’d clearly damaged his brain.

“Menard and his men found nothing at Bank Horim. According to the bank’s logs, there was a safe-deposit box leased around the time she was there, but when they drilled it open, it was empty. The manager, Madame Helmut, claimed she didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Do you think she was lying?”

“Menard thinks so. About the Fox, the police found an abandoned rental car late last night a block away from a report of a stolen Fiat. Menard told me the border police have a photo of the stolen car passing through the Swiss-to-France at ten last night. A single woman, passport registered to a Stephanie Arle, resident of Calais, France. She was blond, but from the snap photo, it’s definitely her.”

“I wonder where she’s headed now.”

“There have been no Fox sightings since the border. She clearly has several identities at her disposal. She may be laid up somewhere, or ditched the car and stolen another one.” She paused for a moment. “Remember, Paris was the first place she was supposed to go. It’s only a four-hour drive from here. She could be driving there to meet the buyer.”

It made sense. “Do we have anything yet on the bank account numbers we found in the safe-deposit box at Sages Fidelité?”

“Unfortunately, you must have set the list down when you opened the box with the explosives.”

Had he set the paper down? He didn’t think he had. “Check the pocket of my pants. No, wait, try my wallet. I think I stashed it in there.”

Mike pulled the plastic bag from under the hospital bed that held the smoky remains of Nicholas’s clothes.

She pulled out his bloodstained pants and stuck her hand in the back pocket, careful not to cut herself on the small shards of glass embedded in the fine wool. The leather wallet had shaped itself to the curve of his butt, and wasn’t that nice?

Sure enough, in between the euros and dollars she found a small slip of paper. She pulled it out and waved it in his face.

“Hallelujah, Nicholas, you saved it.”

He started to smile, thought better of it. Now that he was becoming more alert, everything hurt, especially his face. And his eyebrows. And his ears. Even his teeth felt sore.

“Call Savich. He can add the account numbers to the database he’s working on.”

Mike typed away on her cell phone, copying the numbers, then hit send and looked up to see him watching her. She could tell he was hurting and she hated to see it. She really was going to smack that bitch when they caught her.

“Good thing you have your magic leather carry-on,” she said, holding up his pants. “These clothes are ruined.”

“And I so dearly loved those pants.”

A bit of a joke, it was a good start. He was going to be okay, thank the Almighty.

She said, “Louisa sent me a note late last night while you were getting stitched up. The DNA taken from Victoria’s chewed pencil was a familial match to an entry in CODIS. Did you know we’ve been matching our Combined DNA Index to international profiles though Interpol?”

That perked him right up. “And?”

“The Fox has a brother. And aren’t we the lucky ones—he’s in prison, serving life without parole for murder. We’ll go talk to him, see if we can’t get some background on this woman. Maybe he even knows where she is.”

“Where is he?”

“La Santé. In Paris. I’ve already set the arrangements. As soon as you’re well enough to travel, we’ll head to the airport.”

“All roads lead to Paris, it seems. Tell me about him.”

“Henri Couverel is his name, and he’s got a jacket a mile long, from petty street stuff to murder. Drugs, mainly. The murder he’s in for is his dealer. The man was stabbed a dozen times, and Couverel was found high as a kite, sitting in the man’s blood. He does not at all fit the profile for a explosives expert jewel thief.”

“So you don’t think she’s ever worked with him?”

“No,” Mike said, “and from his history, he’s much too scattered to have ever been any use to her. She’s a precision instrument, honed by years of practice. He’s a sledgehammer in comparison. Selling drugs is the least of it. According to the file, he’s a heroin addict. You know heroin addicts aren’t known for their cleverness.”

He sat up again, ignoring the pain in his back and the urge to vomit. “I’m well enough now. Let’s go.”

“Big bad tough guy, aren’t you, James Bond?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Lie back, Nicholas. The plane doesn’t leave until eight a.m. whether you’re ready or not.”

A nurse came in, checked him out, drew his blood, and offered him a sedative, which made him snort. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed to go shower. His head swam for a moment, then righted itself. The pain in his back where they’d stitched him up was a dull throb.

He was fine. Sore, but fine.

The nurse said from the doorway, “If your lab work is normal, you are being discharged in a hour. Maybe sooner, given what a macho guy you are. Oh, yes—try not to faint in the shower.”