The Final Cut

by Catherine Coulter

  Savich was leaning over to check a tattoo on the neck of one of the sons when two young men the size of linebackers ran into the kitchen, looked at the three dead men, and one of them screamed at the top of his lungs. Savich straightened, and both of them yelled curses at him and jumped. One of the men was waving a gun, the other his fists, both radiating out-of-control fury, Savich their target. Two NYPD officers came screaming in after them, guns drawn.

  Time seemed to freeze. Ben saw one of the men strike Savich in the shoulder with a huge fist, sending him stumbling back against the big kitchen island. He saw the other man raise his gun, but then, in a move so fast it was a blur, Savich swung his leg up, sharp and hard, clipped the guy’s hand, and sent the gun flying across the kitchen. He turned fast, leaned forward, and slammed the outside of his hand against the other man’s throat. He stopped then and stared calmly at the young man who was cradling his hand, sobbing, his nose running.

  It was over in less than three seconds.

  Horace stared at Savich. “As my son would say, dude, that was very fine.” Then he picked up the gun, clicked out the magazine, barked at his officers, who were both wild-eyed and panting, “We’ve got it under control. Get back outside, both of you. I’ll deal with you later.”

  He leaned over the young man who was sobbing and cradling his broken wrist. “Yuri, calm yourself down. I’m NYPD. These are FBI agents. None of us killed your father or your brothers. We found them like this. They were executed.”

  Yuri wiped the back of his hand across his nose, raised tear-filled eyes. His brother was still wheezing, holding his throat, trying to get up. Horace said, “You, too, Toms, get yourself together. At least Agent Savich didn’t kill you.”

  Sherlock slowly rose. She said to the young men, both now staring blankly toward their dead father, their two dead brothers, “We’re very sorry about this, Yuri, Toms. But you must steady yourselves.” She nodded toward Dillon. “This man isn’t good for your continued health if you don’t get a grip on yourselves. All right?”

  • • •

  An hour and a half later, Savich, Sherlock, and Ben stood on the front doorstep of the beautiful Italianate mansion and watched the two coroner’s vans drive off down the street, three Anatolys in black body bags inside one and one of the killers in the other. Techs swarmed through the house while officers canvassed the neighborhood. Savich agreed with his wife: the same man had killed five people in a matter of days; possibly it was also the same man who’d attacked Nicholas and Mike the previous night.

  “Smart guy, aren’t you?” he said quietly. “And you’re not new to this. I’ll bet you’ve been at it a lot of years now.” He looked up to see the sun burst out from behind the gray clouds. The wind still snapped and cut, but it was becoming a beautiful winter day.

  He said to Sherlock, who’d come up to stand next to him, “The killer wasn’t interested in the Picasso, merely set it against the wall by the safe. There were also two Manets, one Pissarro, and a gorgeous Berthe Morisot still hanging on the walls, all of them very valuable, and I doubt they were stolen. Nor was he interested in the cash or the cocaine. And we have no clue what he was after. Did you think he found what he wanted?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I have a strong feeling he did. He didn’t take the other goodies because he’s the consummate professional, a very well-paid consummate professional.”

  Savich said as he pulled up his coat collar, “No sign of The Night Tower. I wonder if we’ll ever find grandmother’s painting now?”

  Sherlock didn’t think so, but she said nothing.

  • • •

  Two hours later, Savich and Sherlock accompanied Louisa and a forensic team to Anatoly’s Midtown office because, Savich told her later, he’d simply had this feeling.

  He found a small hidden room off Anatoly’s office. The room was climate-controlled, the lighting perfect. In the center of the room sat a comfortable armchair. Twelve paintings were beautifully hung on the white walls. One of the paintings was his grandmother’s The Night Tower.

  57

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Friday afternoon

  True to his word, Agent Pierre Menard met them on the tarmac at Geneva International. He was a short, neat man with graying temples, wearing a beautiful charcoal three-piece suit.

  Some bulldog, Nicholas thought. Well, they’d soon see.

  He bustled them into a white Toyota Land Cruiser with POLICE stenciled in blue on the side and bright orange stripes around the back, and started into the city.

  Nicholas hadn’t been to Geneva in several years, but the city hadn’t changed. The architecture was eclectic—hypermodern buildings mixed in with classic French and medieval churches, side by side. The city still housed the world’s finest watchmakers, with twenty-foot-high signs clinging to the sides of the buildings. Rolex. Patek Philippe. Montblanc. Hermès. Every luxury a discerning shopper could need was headquartered and built here in the city of time.

  Mike watched the scenery flow by, entranced by the modern glass buildings and huge parks buttressed by neoclassic lines. It was her first time in Europe, and she felt straight off the boat, stepping onto a strange shore.

  Menard wasn’t much of a talker, though his English was quite excellent. Nicholas wanted details, but Menard shook his head. “I am sorry, Inspector Drummond. All I know is what we have already spoken of. We are going directly to the bank. When there is news of a sighting on the cameras, they will call. Who is this woman you’re chasing?”

  “The Fox.”

  The name perked him up. “The art thief? Mon dieu. No wonder you are here. The Fox is a legend. But you say he is a she?”

  “Yes. Tell us what you know about her.”

  He was driving with his right hand, the left hand hovering by the edge of the window, two fingers together as if he normally smoked and flicked the ashes out of the crack. “There are many warrants, of course, across several countries. She steals very valuable paintings both from private collections and museums, does not matter which. But she is also known for stealing very valuable jewels, some priceless, like the Koh-i-Noor. We have never managed to track her down, of course, because she is very good.”

  Mike said, “You admire her. Why does everyone admire her so much? She’s a common thief.”

  Menard shook his head. “Non, she is an uncommon voleuse de bijoux. To be a jewel thief of this magnitude, never identified, hunted for so long, but never caught? The Fox is magnifique. And to think, she is a woman.” He grunted a very French sounding, “Huh.”

  “I plan to put the handcuffs on her myself,” Mike said.

  Menard mumbled something she thought was “Good luck,” and she shot Nicholas a look. He shrugged and rolled his eyes.

  Menard said, “You will see the Koh-i-Noor theft is dominating all the news channels. It is pervasive, even to the villages in the Pyrenees. The FBI is being given big pokes in the eye, yes?”

  “Yes,” Mike said. Menard didn’t sound all that upset about it.

  “I have even read blogs about the theft, although the idiots writing the blogs are writing fiction, since they could not possibly know exactly what happened. Your British news stations are foaming at the mouth. Ah, it is a terrible thing, is it not?”

  Nicholas only nodded. “Has the Fox ever been accused of killing people for money, or does she only steal?”

  Menard again flicked his fingers out of habit. “I remember a rumor of an assassination—maybe ten, fifteen years ago—some Italian gun manufacturer near Milan, but there was nothing proven. It remains an unsolved case, and I have not heard of anything since. And now she has stolen the Koh-i-Noor.”

  He sounded so intrigued, Mike wanted to punch him.

  Menard continued. “The media is also playing up many nefarious plots regarding your British Inspector York’s role in the theft.”

  Nicholas’s voice was cold. “The Fox might be involved in her murder.”

  “I must say this surprises me. Ah, we arr
ive.”

  Mike could see Lake Geneva ahead, and the huge water plume called the Jet d’Eau. The promenade was lined with people, ignoring the chill, enjoying the show. She got out of the car, checked her weapon on her hip. This wasn’t exactly how she’d always dreamed of visiting Europe.

  Despite the shining sun, a cold breeze whistled through the city. Nicholas turned up the collar of his coat and looked at Mike, shivering in her leather jacket.

  Menard said, “The wind is brutal today. You should see when the waves form on the lake and the water splashes over onto the streets. We are lucky, this is a warm winter.”

  Mike shivered. “You’re saying it could be worse?”

  Nicholas laughed. “What, and you a New Yorker? I thought your blood was thicker than this.” But he moved to shelter her from the worst of the wind. “It’s momentary; we’re going to have to cross the street to get into the bank. Yell when you’re ready.”

  Menard had already started across. “Nicholas, you speak French, right?” Mike asked.

  “Well enough. Geneva is trilingual—French, German, and Italian are all the official language—but everyone speaks English. You won’t have any trouble getting around, I promise.”

  “Good. Because I doubt my high school French will do more than get us to the bathroom successfully. I’m ready now. Let’s go.”

  They dashed across the Quai des Bergues, the wind cutting at their heels. Once inside the Deutsche Bank, Mike took a second to warm her face with her hands.

  They were greeted by the bank manager, a short, rotund man with merry eyes and lovely white teeth.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle, monsieurs. You are the FBI the Contonal Police told me to expect?” His pleasant manner made her think he’d been told they were coming, and warned to make nice.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Drummond, and this is Special Agent Caine.”

  “And I am Agent Pierre Menard, with FedPol. We require your assistance.”

  “I am Tivoli, and I will do all within my power to help. How may I assist you?”

  Nicholas handed Tivoli a picture. “Have you seen this woman? She came to the bank earlier today.”

  He glanced at the photograph and shook his head. “No, monsieur, I have not.”

  “Are you sure? Look again. She may have asked to access the security boxes. Her hair would be short and black, not long and brown.”

  Tivoli’s eyes lingered on the photograph, but he shook his head. “I am most sure, monsieur. It has been a busy day. One of my men is out sick, thus it is I who have been handling the vault today. I would remember her. We sent our videotape to the police when they called, but I also checked the tapes from the time frame, and saw no one who matched her description. I am sorry.”

  Nicholas said, “Thank you, Monsieur Tivoli. We appreciate your help.”

  They stopped in the lobby next to the scrolled front doors.

  Mike said, “Now what?”

  Nicholas ran his hand over his chin. “The Fox isn’t stupid. She would have taken precautions, made sure if she had a tail, she could lose them. Driving up to the Deutsche Bank in broad daylight, plain as you please, was a bold move. It was also a brilliant stroke of camouflage. She came in here”—he pointed toward the other end of the lobby—“and she probably walked right on through. We have the police looking at the wrong tapes.”

  Menard agreed. “I will ask for more surveillance video to be examined. To come to a bank first—it seems an odd thing to do.”

  Mike said, “We were thinking she might be here to accept payment for the theft, but you’re right, it could all be a smoke screen. We can’t even be positive she’s still in Geneva.”

  “I was told the pilot of her plane said she sent him skiing, and would meet him in twenty-four hours. Do you believe she meant to keep this appointment?”

  “Yes, why not?”

  Menard said, “Then she must still be in the city. We will find her. Come. Let us get a hot drink and I will call for a deeper search.”

  58

  Menard knew exactly who to call, and better yet, where to go. Within ten minutes they were inside a small café drinking steaming espressos, waiting on news about additional footage from the cameras around the Deutsche Bank. Mike was grateful for the warmth; the wind off the lake had her chilled through. Nicholas, Mr. Aren’t I Great, seemed unaffected.

  He asked Menard, “Are you an expert on art crimes?”

  “I am.”

  “We are narrowing down a list of people who could afford to bankroll a theft of this magnitude. Let me ask you, in your experience, why would anyone steal the Koh-i-Noor? It’s one of the most famous pieces in the world, so they couldn’t resell it. It couldn’t be displayed without running the risk of someone telling the authorities. The buyer would surely know the British will never stop hunting for it. So why this stone?”

  Menard tossed back his espresso in one gulp, and Mike stared. The coffee was steaming hot; his throat must be made of asbestos. He set the tiny cup on the counter so he could use his hands to help him speak. A very expressive man, Menard, and smart, she thought, very smart, and very committed. They’d lucked out. She was wondering when he was going to make it clear he really liked her, the American, best.

  “You must think of art theft this way: there are usually three possibilities. In this case, for this particular diamond, and similar pieces which have such a strong historical path, there are four.”

  He raised his hand and started ticking the list off on his fingers.

  “One, to sell it. Then you are dealing with a profiteer, and they have no style, no panache. It is simply a transaction, and it is most likely already gone, out of your reach. Two, if it was taken to return it to its rightful owners. Then you’re looking for a zealot, who is very dangerous, for he will try to kill anyone who gets in his way. Three, for the prestige of having such a piece. A collector, then, who will be the hardest of all to trace, because he will quietly hold on to his prize and never share it with the world.”

  “And the fourth?” Nicholas asked.

  Menard’s face grew grim. “A man who has stolen the diamond because of the legend attached. This man would be unpredictable, dangerous, a man who would destroy the diamond before he gives it up.”

  Mike said, “Which do you think we’re dealing with?”

  Menard splayed his hands. “I do not know, mademoiselle, but we shall hope it is not the fourth, yes?”

  Nicholas sipped his espresso, hot as fire, thick as tar, delicious. “Have you heard of the Fox working with someone?”

  “No. Never. My understanding is that he—she—always works alone.”

  Nicholas said, “She made two calls to the same number while she was flying from America to Europe. Neither was answered. Mike’s government is running the number, and we should know soon who it belongs to.”

  “I am sorry. I have never heard of her working with anyone.”

  “What about against someone? Who is her competition?”

  Menard nodded vigorously, signaling to the barman for another shot of espresso. “Ah, this I can answer for you. There are three: a Frenchman from Algiers, dead now. He was shot by a security guard in a botched attempt on the Tate Modern and bled to death on the floor. He was called Goyo. The second is Ruvéne—he successfully lifted three Cézannes for the Russian government and was caught two years ago near Prague. He is in jail for life.

  “The third is the Ghost. He has been in business far longer than anyone else I know of. No one knows his nationality, but he takes only the biggest jobs, the most prestigious, the most challenging and dangerous. He has either retired or died, for his name and his signature have not been seen in over ten years.”

  Mike asked, “What was the Ghost’s signature?”

  “Explosives. They were used as insurance. He would wire the place and leave a small warning note behind. If he was allowed to steal away, he would not blow up the rest of the museum, or the house, or wherever else he had taken his prize from. Af
ter twenty-four hours, the clocks on the bombs ran out, and they were deactivated. Crude but effective. He always got away.”

  Nicholas felt his adrenaline spike. He looked at Mike. “Sound familiar? Menard, the Fox wired the Jewel of the Lion exhibit to blow. I was able to defuse the bomb before she followed through.”

  Menard pursed his lips. “Very interesting. A nod to the great one, perhaps, or simple coincidence?”

  “I don’t know. Do Interpol or FedPol have a physical description of the Ghost?”

  “The jacket on the Ghost contains an anecdote someone told an interviewer at one time. The man saw a ghost when he was a child, and it turned his hair stark white. This is all we know about him.”

  Mike and Nicholas both sat up straighter.

  “This means something to you?”

  “Yes, it does.” Mike loaded the video and pushed her tablet across the table. “We received this feed today, from the scene of Inspector Elaine York’s murder.” She hit play.

  Menard watched with interest. “A man with white hair.”

  “Could it be the Ghost?” Nicholas asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know why not. Send the feed to me, I will load it into the FedPol database. Perhaps there will be something to match it to.”

  Mike did, and Nicholas said, “One more thing. This man was probably one of two men sent to kill Agent Caine and me last night in her underground garage. We fought them off, and one was killed. This one”—he tapped the screen—“got away. I saw white hair sticking out of his ski mask. He was tough, and fast, a martial-arts master.”

  Menard was getting excited. “So the Ghost could still be with us? But why was he in New York, and why attack you, and Inspector York? He wasn’t involved in the Koh-i-Noor theft, was he?”

  “Maybe,” Mike said, “the Ghost is her partner and guarded her back.”

  Nicholas said, “I’ll email Zachery and Savich, give them this additional information.”

  Menard’s mobile rang while Nicholas sent the email. He listened, then a smile broke out on his face. He hung up and said, “Let’s go.”