The Final Cut

by Catherine Coulter

  “Always trust a hunch,” Savich said. “I’ll be back as soon as MAX spits out some results.”

  “Thanks, Savich. Give my best to Sherlock.”

  He hung up and sent the email, then turned to Mike, who was also on her mobile. She held up a finger and kept talking and nodding as she took notes.

  A moment later, she hung up. “The fingerprints done during Browning’s background check for employment at the Met were faked. They match the prints for the Browning identity.”

  Nicholas said, “And they discovered the fingerprints were entered in your AFIS database two years ago, right? Why are you grinning?”

  “No one can spend day in and day out working in an office without leaving something of themselves behind. Louisa said Browning had wiped her office thoroughly, but she noticed some tooth marks on the pencils. She tested them, and shazzaam—DNA. Browning chewed on her pencils, and forgot to throw them away. They’re putting it into the system now.”

  “Well done, Louisa. But if there’s no DNA on file, there won’t be anything to match it to. Unless we catch her.”

  “Until we catch her,” Mike said, “and you’re right, but don’t forget what we can get from DNA. We can determine eye color and racial makeup, and at the very least we’ll be able to reverse the mitochondria and search for family members as well. Louisa tells me she’ll have the results within twenty-four hours.”

  “Excellent. Anything else?”

  He watched her unbraid her hair, smooth it free with her fingers, and begin to rebraid it, her movements sure and fast, weaving in three separate hanks of hair. “Gray said the additional bodega video feed showed a strange man entering Elaine’s building the morning of her murder. They canvassed the entire apartment building, spoke to everyone who lives there, and no one can identify him.”

  “A him. Not Victoria Browning disguised?”

  She shook her head. “It couldn’t be Victoria, he was too tall. And too thin. So we could have our killer on video. Remember, Gray has an ex-girlfriend at the NSA? She came through with the trace on the cell phone. Browning threw it in the Hudson River on her way to the airport, but it turns out they found another call, made from a cell phone with a sequential serial number from the one who called your phone during the attack at the Met. Gray figures they were disposable cell phones bought at the same time, a two-for-one package. The call from the second phone was scrambled, but it originated over the Atlantic, heading east.”

  “Browning?”

  “The timing’s right. They ran the number she called, but there was no answer. She called it twice in one hour.”

  He sat back in his chair, rubbing his fingers along his chin, staring straight ahead, toward the cockpit. He was rotating his shoulder, trying to regain full motion. He needed to shave, not that it mattered, Mike thought, it enhanced the Don’t mess with me or I’ll twist off your head look down pat.

  Nicholas jumped up from his seat. “Of course. The two calls she made, all that expert computer work—she does have a partner.”

  She hated to rain on his parade, but they had to consider everything. “She could have been calling the buyer to let him know the diamond was on its way.”

  “Why wouldn’t the buyer answer? Especially if he’d been waiting two years for this call.”

  “Why wouldn’t a partner answer?”

  He threw himself down in the seat again. “I don’t know. But a job of this magnitude, I know she has someone to work the back end. It’s very rare to have a thief, or an assassin, do a job without someone to facilitate—vet the jobs, handle the money, those types of things. It makes sense she would have someone behind the scenes, and of course she would guard their identity with her life.”

  “But you said nothing in her background speaks of a partner. The Fox is known for going it alone.”

  “Yeah, but I was wrong.”

  Mike said, “Then we need to find out who the partner is and where he or she is. We can’t afford to be surprised again.”

  He reached across the aisle and slapped her on the knee. “You know, I may have to steal Agent Wharton from you. He seems to earn his keep.”

  “I won’t give him up without a fight. He’s one of the best in the FBI.”

  Her cell phone rang again.

  “It’s Zachery.” She put the call on the speaker. He sounded excited.

  “Mike, divert the plane. The Fox didn’t go to Paris. Agent Wharton and the NSA got lucky. Using satellite footage of European airports within the plane’s fuel range, they’ve tracked the false tail number to a private airstrip in Megève, France. The French authorities have her pilot in custody. She’s headed for Geneva, Switzerland.”

  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 buildi
ng. 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 goi
ng 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.”