Текст книги "The Final Cut"

Автор книги: Catherine Coulter

Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

29

New York, New York

George Washington Bridge

Late Thursday evening

She didn’t have much time. They knew who to look for now, but she’d still made the call to Nicholas’s cell phone—she pictured their surprise, their gut-wrenching fear—she had to admit, it was fun. She knew exactly what Mike Caine and Nicholas Drummond would do next—put a trace on the phone, try to pinpoint the last known location of the call. They’d find it eventually, but in the Hudson River. Smack themselves on the forehead a few times before they figured out exactly how Dr. Victoria Browning, the dedicated, knowledgeable museum curator, had pulled off the theft of the century.

She laughed aloud. Too bad she couldn’t stick around and watch the FBI go in circles, the way she intended, but she had a plane to catch.

Her Ducati Streetfighter maneuvered smoothly through the evening traffic as she drove across the bridge. She chucked the phone over the railing and glanced at her watch. She was five minutes out from Teterboro Airport. One advantage to working for Saleem Lanighan was she could afford everything a woman might need to succeed, including a Gulfstream, fueled up and waiting for her.

She gunned the bike, enjoying the kick of power, the engine growling between her legs. It was too early to celebrate, but she would, and soon. Things had gone like clockwork so far.

She frowned. There was one fly in the ointment. She hadn’t planned on Drummond. Not only was he was cunning and smart, she knew he wouldn’t follow FBI procedures unless they suited him. No, Drummond would go on the hunt. He’d been a spy with the Foreign Office, did whatever it took, broke whatever rules he needed to break in order to get the job done. He was coming after her, she could feel it.

She could see him now, organizing, planning, systematically searching. Very intense. Very attractive. Very much like Grant. No, she wouldn’t think about him now.

At last she was here. With a wave at the guards at the airport entrance, she pulled through the gates and around to the back of the departure building. Money had changed hands, enough money that no one even noticed her, because, as arranged, the airport cameras had been shut down for a ten-minute interval. She’d found a thick stack of hundreds to be the ultimate motivator.

She’d had the tail number of the Gulfstream altered so it would be very hard to trace ownership. The captain was the only one aboard, and he’d filed a flight plan for Vancouver, though he was fueled for a journey across the Atlantic instead. He was awaiting her instruction as to where to go when she got on board. Both precautions would assure anonymity, lay a false trail for the FBI to follow.

She knew, of course, the FBI would eventually figure out the subterfuge, but by the time they found out where she was headed, she hoped it would be too late.

She left the bike on the tarmac but kept her helmet on. No sense taking chances, not yet. Her backpack was a welcome weight on her shoulders. She grabbed another, smaller bag from the bike’s storage box. She climbed the stairs, and once inside, the captain raised them and secured the door. Only then did she remove her helmet, pull the ponytail holder from her hair, stretch her shoulders, her back. She needed rest. She’d been too keyed up to sleep last night. A long flight was the perfect remedy.

The captain was young, fit, eye candy with big brown eyes. He greeted her with a blinding grin. She supposed it must be fun for him, jetting around the world, never knowing where he would be from one day to the next. She hoped he was competent.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” He had a slight Parisian accent. He motioned for her to have a seat in one of the luxurious tan leather chairs.

“I’m ready. Let’s get going.”

“Where to?”

“Vancouver, remember? I’ll give you exact coordinates when we’re in the air.”

“You’re the boss.”

Yes, she was. When she heard the engines roar, felt the plane rolling, she knew she’d made it. Five minutes later, the lights of New York winked up at her.

Wishing her well. Bidding her adieu. She waved, laughing.

The phone rang at her elbow.

“We’ve cleared the New York airspace. Where to?”

“Paris. Alert me when we’ve crossed into European airspace; I’ll give you coordinates then.”

“Roger that. There is champagne in the refrigerator, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

A ’54 Dom Pérignon, very nice. She poured herself a glass, then snuggled deep in the seat, inserted a small earpiece and took out her iPad. A few taps, and the screen turned an eerie green. She saw shadowy mannequins in shades of grays moving about. She’d used a small cellular repeater that wirelessly boosted the microphones’ range, and she could easily hear all the voices from the microphones she’d hidden along the Met’s fifth-floor hallway and in the communication center itself.

She turned up the volume in time to hear Mike Caine say, “I’m going to personally punch that bitch when we catch her.”

Kitsune raised her glass and toasted the small screen.

“Bonne chance.”

Next she called her employer.

30

Paris

Avenue Foch

Friday, 6:00 a.m.

A soft voice in his ear interrupted a most delicious dream.

“Monsieur Lanighan? Monsieur Lanighan, sir?”

He came awake immediately, jerked upright, nearly hitting Colette, his secretary. She was naked at his side.

“Monsieur Lanighan, the private line. You have a call.” She handed him an encrypted mobile phone, one he’d never used before, because only she had that number.

At last, at long last.

“Merci, Colette. You may return to your quarters for the rest of the night. That is all.”

She slid from his bed and disappeared without a word, closing the bedroom door behind her. He took a deep breath and answered.

“Oui?”

“Bonjour, Saleem. I trust the impending dawn finds the Lion snug in his den? Perhaps with a mate for warmth? I hear Paris is cold tonight.”

His heart leapt to his throat. “Kitsune. Do you have my diamond?”

“Where are your manners, Saleem? We’ve not spoken in nearly two years, and you have no proper greeting for me?”

He touched the scar on his throat. “I will greet you properly if you tell me you have my diamond.”

Her voice was light, indifferent. “I am offended, Lion. Your father was much more polite. Yes, I have your precious diamond. Meet me at midnight, l’Arc de Triomphe. Repeat, l’Arc de Triomphe. As soon as I confirm the money has been wired into my account, I will give you your prize.”

The coded delivery point meant she had encountered problems, making her delivery dangerous. “What has happened?”

“Nothing at all. Everything went smoothly. Any time now the world media will report the theft of the Koh-i-Noor diamond, right from under the FBI’s nose. Still, I don’t wish to take any chances. There is a wild card in the deck now, and he is good, very good.”

“Who is this wild card?”

“His name is Nicholas Drummond, a chief detective inspector with New Scotland Yard.”

“So what? He’s only a policeman.”

“More than that, Lion. He used to be in the Foreign Office. He was, I have heard, a very successful operative.”

Saleem calculated how long it would take him to arrive. He had plenty of time. The Koh-i-Noor was nearly his, nearly in his hands.

“I will be there. I’m paying you fifty million dollars to be smarter than any ex-spy. Do not let me down.”

“I will not,” she said, and ended the call.

Saleem sat for a moment in the cooling covers, then walked naked to the huge bay window in his bedroom and looked out over his city. The Paris dawn greeted him. He placed a hand on the chilly glass and imagined what would happen once the diamond came home, to him, its true heir. He would succeed where his father and the long line of Lanighan men before him had failed. He would be the one to merge the pieces together. The power of the stone would yield to him, and him alone, and then his world would be changed forever. He smiled, his teeth flashing in the darkness.

31

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Late Thursday evening

The media was swarming the Met, going ballistic in their coverage of the incredible events unfolding, so Bo had set up a temporary task force in the basement of the museum, away from the prying eyes of both the media and the Met’s board of directors, who were upstairs with the insurance adjusters, steaming mad and tap dancing hard.

Nicholas listened to Mike speak to Agent Gray Wharton, one of the FBI’s top computer experts.

“Gray, assemble a team. Here’s what we need: a trace on Nicholas’s phone, ASAP, the last incoming call, not older than ten minutes. Get out a BOLO for Dr. Victoria Browning, Scottish national, Ph.D. from the University of Edinburgh. We’ll need to get her work visa on file with INS, also her passport, and a photo out to every airport, train station, bus station, car rental. Send a team to her apartment.

“Gray, as you know, this woman stole the Koh-i-Noor, and we’re going to have an international disaster on our hands. Her alias is the Fox. Mark her armed and very dangerous, and send me everything as you get it.”

She turned to Nicholas as Gray Wharton rushed from the comm center. “Let’s go. Bo will be waiting.”

They took the service elevator to the basement. Bo was talking to Sherlock, and Savich was hunched over a keyboard, his fingers flying.

They stopped to clap.

Zachery said, “Here’s the man of the hour. Good work on the device, Nicholas.”

Bo said, “It looks like you didn’t waste your time with the bomb disposal unit in London. All of us are grateful for that.”

Mike punched him on the shoulder. “You could have told me. I was going to call you Captain America.”

Zachery said, “I sent two of the bomb boys with my men to look through the rest of the museum to see if Browning left any more surprises for us, but we seem clear. Here’s the deal: Browning hacked into the fifth floor video feeds and erased everything from the start of the gala on. Savich is trying to override and restore the feed.”

“Any report on Louisa and Paulie?” Mike asked.

Sherlock said, “They were transferred up the street to Lenox Hill Hospital. They took pretty hard shots to the head, plus it looks like she sprayed them with the same agent from the tear-gas canister. Takes an element of surprise to take down two FBI agents; she planned this to the letter. But they’ll be okay, Mike. Everyone’s okay.”

Mike said, “It could have been so much worse. I’ll head up there as soon as we’ve finished our briefing.”

Nicholas said, “Bo, I need everything you know about Victoria Browning.”

Bo handed him a manila folder. “Here’s her file. She hired on at the Met last spring when they had an open call for security-guards-cum-docents. They handle the tours, plus keep an eye on the artwork. It’s a growing trend to hire overqualified people for these positions—kills two birds with one stone. You need a master’s or a Ph.D. in art to even be considered. So in addition to being a docent, she was well versed with everything security-related in this museum. She moved up the ladder quickly, was made a curator right before the holidays. When the original curator for the crown jewels exhibit fell ill, Browning was the number-one choice to replace him. She took over every aspect of the exhibit, worked with Inspector Elaine York directly.”

Mike said, “Wait, she wasn’t the original curator?”

“No.”

“I assumed she was the curator from the start. Remember, Nicholas, she told us she named the exhibit? Jewel of the Lion. She thought it was catchy.”

“How convenient for her, moving up the ladder so quickly,” Sherlock said. “What sort of illness did the original curator contract?”

Bo said, “Vertigo. I remember hearing it was a terrible case, too. He ended up taking an early retirement package.”

Mike said, “I bet she Hitchcocked him with the vertigo. Were there any rumblings when Browning got the position? Scuttlebutt? Surely there were more experienced curators who would have been more likely replacements than a newbie.”

Bo shook his head. “Before my time. I’ve only been here six weeks, remember, and Victoria was already the lead dog when my company came on board. I’ll have to discuss it with the director and the personnel director. My staff liked her, though. She was easy to work with, tough but nice. She worked hard, like everyone else, but I don’t know anything more personal about her than her choice of drink—Diet Coke. We’ll have to talk to her coworkers for more.”

Nicholas said, “I spent the plane ride over brushing up on the details of the exhibit. My briefing said Browning was chosen because of her extensive knowledge of the crown jewels.”

Bo nodded and shook the file. “I have it here, too. A ‘preeminent authority,’ it states.”

Mike said, “An authority? She must have faked her bio.”

Nicholas raised his eyebrows. “Faked? Yes, I suppose she could have faked any and all of it, though it would take a bit of doing. The palace vetted her, so she must check out, even with a pretty deep check.” He turned to Bo. “I’m sure the Met did as well, correct?”

“We do a thorough background check on every employee, from janitors to the board members.” Bo read from Browning’s file. “Her employment record, her transcripts checked out, nothing to set off any alarm bells.”

“Then we need to go deeper. Ten pounds says her name isn’t Victoria Browning.”

Savich called out, “Got it. The video feed from the attack is up and running. You’re going to want to see this.”

32

They watched the grainy video.

Bo said, “Oh, she’s very, very good. She programmed the computer in the comm center to create a timed power surge which forced the fifth-floor generators to kick in. Only the fifth floor, mind you. So when she threw the gas canisters and the alarms picked it up, only the fifth-floor alarm went off, not the rest of the building. It gave her exactly the cushion of time she needed to grab the diamond and get away.”

Nicholas said, “Savich, rewind it again, to the moment before it all goes black. See, right here. The second Paulie releases the diamond from the setting, Browning takes out what looks like a perfume bottle, squirts it at him, and then Louisa. They’re effectively blinded, start rubbing their eyes, and she hits each of them with a police baton, then pockets the diamond. Look at how fast she moves. If I wasn’t looking for it, I wouldn’t see it.”

Savich froze the frame, then advanced it at quarter-speed.

“See, right there.” Nicholas pointed at the screen. “Spray, and now the ASP baton is out and she’s spinning. She’s had martial-arts training, without a doubt.” He whistled in what could almost be called admiration. He had to hand it to her, Browning was quick.

Sherlock said, “Those expandable batons hurt, and a blow with one to the head will do some damage. Paulie and Louisa are lucky they weren’t hurt worse.”

Savich nodded. “So they’re down, she scoops up the diamond. She runs to the comm center, throws in the canister. It doesn’t take more than ten seconds before everyone is down. She slams the doors closed to contain the gas and heads back to the stairwell. I pick her up again two minutes later, when the fire alarm goes off. Bo, I’m sure you’ll find the museum alarms were triggered when she pulled the alarm as she exited the stairwell on the main floor.”

Nicholas said, “Then she waltzes right out the front door.”

Mike said, “We have to get in contact with the NYPD, get their camera feeds to track her.”

Bo shook his head. “We need a warrant for that, and it’ll eat up valuable time.”

Savich started typing. A few minutes later, the screen split into five squares, each showing intersections and stoplights. He toggled the switch in front of him, and the cameras attached to the feeds turned in unison.

Bo said, “You’re slipping. Thought it would only take you a second.” He snapped his fingers.

Savich grinned at him. “Let’s see where she went.”

Mike said, “You hacked into the secure New York City CCTV network?”

“No, that would be illegal,” Savich said. “This is the live, public, and very unsecured tourist cam system. It shows every intersection in the area. Perhaps even a better view than our official cameras, since they’re bogged down with the new license-plate technology. Let’s see where the Fox went.”

He backed up the feed and started searching. Mike followed each frame closely. “Wait, Dillon. Right there.” She pointed at the top-right quadrant. With a click, it filled the computer screen. He backed it up and hit play, and Victoria Browning’s pretty boots walked into the frame and hopped in a cab.

Mike said, “She changed out of her ball gown and back into her work clothes so she’d be less conspicuous on the street. Got her at the corner of Fifth and East Eighty-fifth at 9:39 p.m. She’s headed across town.”

Savich freeze-framed the camera and zoomed in, then started typing again. “The cabbie’s hack license is NY670097. Running it now.”

Zachery came into the room. “Bomb squad team leader called. They’ve finished dismantling the rest of the device Browning planted. They said to tell you well done, Nicholas. Took some quick thinking to throw on your jammer.”

Savich said, “Here we are. The cab is registered to a Daneesh Himsah. I’ve got his cell, calling it now.”

“Told you Savich was good,” Bo whispered to Nicholas.

“Yes, and he’s on a roll. Let’s see how far he can get.”

A man’s voice came out of the laptop’s speakers.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Himsah, my name is Special Agent Savich, with the FBI. You had a fare an hour ago, a woman you picked up at the corner of Fifth and East Eighty-fifth. Where did you take her?”

Click.

“Can you believe that—he ended the call.” Savich sounded so surprised everyone laughed.

Nicholas said, “Let’s get the NYPD to pick him up. Maybe a face-to-face will—”

A ring interrupted them. Savich clicked the laptop screen. Words scrolled down. “The taxi driver is texting us.”

Fare in cab. Thru the CT border booth. Drop off at Tweed.

Zachery said, “That’s the airport in New Haven, Connecticut. Tell him to keep it up. We can intercept. Thank you, Savich.”

Mike read over his shoulder as he typed in a message to the cabbie.

Proceed as planned. Police will intercept at airport. Thank you for your cooperation.

She said, “Nicholas, you and I will go. I want to see Victoria Browning’s face when we arrest her. First, though, I need to change my red gown for jeans.”

33

An MD-530 Little Bird was ready when they arrived at the FBI helipad. Zachery had pulled a tactical unit for them, six men bristling with weapons, silent as the grave, awaiting their orders.

Overkill, Nicholas thought, and said, “Mike, surely they won’t be needed.”

Her face was set, her tone cold. “She already tried to blow us all up. I’m not taking any more chances.”

“Actually, all she had to do was call the number before I disarmed it and we’d all be playing harps. She didn’t. She waited until she had to know we’d have disarmed the bomb.”

She frowned at him. “Not the point.”

They strapped themselves in and put on headsets so they could hear the pilot and speak to one another. The bird lifted off, twisted slightly, then banked right and headed north.

Nicholas looked over to see a grin on Mike’s face a mile wide. Her voice crackled in his ear, distorted by the headset. “I love this chopper. I don’t get to do intercepts like this very often.”

“It’s certainly faster than driving.”

“Fifteen minutes, tops. We should reach Tweed before Victoria’s cab arrives.”

“Yeah, we will.”

Mike said, “You think there’s something else going on, don’t you?”

“I’m wondering how we got this lucky.”

The pilot spoke in their ears: “We’re five minutes out.”

Mike said, “Thanks, Charlie,” and looked back to Nicholas. “Sometimes gift horses really neigh, don’t they? With any luck, we’re about to wrap this whole thing up. We’ll bring Victoria back to New York and restore the diamond to the crown. And there will be rejoicing in the kingdom again.”

Charlie said in their headsets, “I already heard about the theft on the radio. Talk about a brouhaha—I sure hope this comes off easy.”

“It will.” She turned to Nicholas. “When this is wrapped up, I’m hoping we can get Victoria to talk, tell us how this whole thing went down and who financed it.”

He said, “If we do catch her, don’t count on her opening her mouth. No thief of her reputation would ever nail the boss. Ever.”

“It’s against a thief’s moral code?”

“In her case, I’m sure it would be.”

The lights of the Tweed Airport runway glittered in the distance, and the pilot broke into their conversation. “Tweed tower has cleared the airspace surrounding the airport and we’re on a path to intercept. Are we a go?”

Mike said, “We are a go, Charlie. This isn’t exactly a high-traffic airport, but there are still several cabs. Have you identified our target?”

“Yep, we’ve got a lock on the cab. We have clearance to stop it before it reaches the airport. We’ll drop down right in front of it as soon as it takes the exit. Do you know if the suspect is armed?”

“I can’t confirm either way. Better be ready for anything, Charlie.”

He relayed the message to the tac team. Six heads nodded in unison.

The helicopter banked to the left, circling out over the water before diving back toward the highway. Mike saw police lights turn on, five squads merging into traffic, two ahead of the cab, three behind. It was a beautifully timed intercept. The cab slowed, then pulled to the side of the road.

Charlie hovered the chopper for a moment, and the tac team sprang into action, slithering down cords to the ground. They surrounded the cab, weapons pointed. The troopers stepped in.

It was over in a heartbeat, the cabbie out and on the ground with his hands on his head, Victoria Browning pulled from the backseat. Mike pulled off her headset, and could hear her screams over the helicopter’s rotors, hear her crying out, “What are you doing? Why are you arresting me?”

The instant Charlie set the chopper down on the road, Nicholas ripped off his headset and jumped out the door, Mike on his heels, her Glock at the ready.

Nicholas yelled before he reached her. “Where is the Koh-i-Noor, Dr. Browning?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her black hair blew back from her face, and Nicholas knew this gift horse wouldn’t neigh.

“Bloody hell. Who is this?”

Mike lowered her weapon. “I don’t know. But she’s definitely not Victoria Browning.”