The Final Cut

by Catherine Coulter

  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 s
tairwell. 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.”

  34

  Mike called over the roar of the helicopter rotors, “It’s the wrong cab. We’ve got the wrong cab.” She started toward the head of the tactical unit, but Nicholas grabbed her arm.

  “No, it’s the same license pla
te. She duped us. Again. Well, bollocks.”

  Mike whirled around and made a cutting motion across her neck. Charlie shut down the rotors, and they could hear each other again. The troopers shoved the woman into the backseat of a vehicle, the cabbie in a separate car.

  Mike wanted to kick the helicopter skids. “How did she pull this off? Did she get out along the way? Trade places with this woman? Did she set it all up beforehand?”

  Nicholas said, “Watch this.” He’d uploaded the video feed Savich sent to his tablet before they left the museum. He queued it up and hit play, froze the video on the figure getting into the cab. He pointed at the screen.

  “Those are the clothes she was wearing when we arrived at the museum, without a doubt. The hair matches, and the height. But we never see her face, only a profile.” He gestured at the sobbing woman who was now sitting in the back of a state trooper’s vehicle.

  “This is the same woman who got into the cab. But it’s not the Fox.”

  Mike stared at the screen. “As you say, bollocks.”

  Nicholas closed the tablet, smacked it with his fist. “Of course it wasn’t her. This is the Fox we’re talking about, one of the finest thieves in the world. She spent at least a year planning, probably more, with over nine months working at the museum. She had a proper escape plan, too. She’d never be this sloppy, and we should have known it. Let’s talk to the woman.”

  Mike followed him to the trooper’s car. She flashed her creds. “Good job on the intercept. We’re ready to speak with her now.” The trooper nodded and stepped to the side. Mike leaned into the car.

  “Step out here a moment, ma’am.”

  The woman got out of the backseat awkwardly, her hands cuffed behind her back. She had long, dark hair, and looked a bit like Victoria, especially dressed in the same clothes. Enough to fool them all.

  She was shaking, crying, and hiccupping, all at the same time. One look at Mike and her sobs gained new volume, and words spilled out, but all Nicholas could make out was paid me.