The Final Cut

by Catherine Coulter

  The kid knew a serious man when he saw one. “No, no, don’t do that. I have a master key. We’re not allowed to use it, though; it’s only for emergencies.”

  Mike touched her fingers to her Glock. “This is an emergency. Open the box.”

  The boy swallowed and handed over the paperwork, then ran into the back for his master key.

  Mike said, “This place isn’t very secure.”

  “If it were one of the banks, this would never happen. They’d have to drill the lock out. There’s no guarantee of safety in a place like this.” He looked down at the paperwork. “Cheeky girl—she rented the box in the name Duleep Singh.”

  Mike asked, “Duleep Singh? The last rightful owner of the Koh-i-Noor, before it was handed over to the British, right?”

  “Yes. She’s playing games with us.”

  The boy came back with the master key, opened the lock of the safe-deposit box, and quickly stepped back. Nicholas pulled the gray plastic box from the wall.

  It was light. His heart began to pound. Was this it? Had they found the Koh-i-Noor?

  Without waiting to set it on a table, he opened the box. There was only a piece of paper inside.

  “I’d hoped it was the diamond. No such luck.”

  He pulled out the paper. There was a list of numbers. No rhyme or reason to them that he could see.

  “What is it?”

  Mike took the paper from him and studied it. “Bank accounts. They’re consistent, each with thirteen numbers. Numbered accounts. We better let Savich throw this into the mix.”

  “What’s that written on the back?”

  She flipped the paper. Written in an elegant cursive were eight words. This is all you get. Leave me alone.

  Mike said, “Do you think this is directed at us, or to someone else?”

  Nicholas looked down at the message. “It has to be someone else, since she shouldn’t know we’re here. But we’re a step closer.”

  He saw the young man watching them warily.

  Nicholas dropped the box and crossed the floor in three steps, grabbed the boy’s collar, and jerked him up on his toes, got right in his face. “What else did she do while she was here?”

  “N-Nothing, sir.”

  “You’re lying. Did she buy another box?”

  The boy was silent. Nicholas shook him. “Which one is it?”

  “She didn’t, I swear.”

  He said to Mike, “Call Menard, have him send over his officers to arrest this man.”

  “Wait. Wait. Okay. She did rent one more box.”

  Nicholas let him go. “So she paid you to keep quiet about it, did she, Tomas? Too late now. Open it.”

  This box was heavier than the first. Nicholas carried it to the small Formica-covered table in the center of the room. He began to lift the lid, saw a flash of blue velvet and the clear, clean lines of molten glass.

  The Koh-i-Noor.

  Then the lid caught. He stopped and, holding his breath, he slowly and carefully allowed it to close.

  “Everyone, don’t move.” Still holding the lid carefully closed, he fished in his pocket for his Swiss Army knife with its small attached flashlight.

  He eased down onto his haunches until he was eye level with the edge of the lid, and keeping it less than an inch open, flashed the light inside.

  There was the Koh-i-Noor in the box. Surrounded by wires.

  Bloody hell.

  He thanked the Almighty for the instincts that had just kept them all alive, and gently laid down the lid. Without moving, without raising his voice, he said, “Mike, it’s rigged to blow. Get the boy and walk outside. I’m right behind you.”

  She didn’t hesitate, grabbed Tomas’s arm. “Come with me, right now.”

  When he was sure they were safely outside, Nicholas carefully eased his hand from the lid, praying he hadn’t jostled the bomb. It was meant to explode the moment the lid was lifted past a quarter of the way open.

  He slowly and silently backed away. He was still in one piece, which meant he hadn’t tripped the pressure switch. It didn’t mean they were safe, there could be a secondary timer, or it could work on a mobile signal, like the bomb in New York. It was surely divine intervention they all hadn’t been blown to kingdom come.

  No way would he try and disarm this bomb himself. He needed to leave the building as quickly and calmly as possible and bring in the experts, with their robotic counterparts, to deactivate the switch.

  He backed toward the door until he felt the handle under his hands, then turned swiftly and stepped outside. The freezing air bit his face, and he breathed a deep lungful. Too close, Nicholas. Too bloody close.

  The glass door swung shut behind him, and he searched for Mike. She was across the street with Tomas, her face white. She was scared. And she was shouting at him, her hands above her head, arms waving wildly.

  His mind registered her screams, and he felt rather than heard the glass shatter behind him with a ferocious burst of heat and ear-blasting explosion. He dropped to the ground, rolling into a ball, protecting his head, as the explosion roared around him, glass and metal twisting and hurtling outward, shooting out fire that burned his hands.

  He couldn’t hear anything, see anything. It was all black.

  67

  Parc Saint-Jean

  Kitsune watched Drummond and Caine talking to the boy, manhandling him, and the idiot caved and opened the box for them. At least he’d followed her instructions—if a couple came in looking for information, he was to give them the box with the paper in it.

  If Saleem Lanighan came in, it was a different story.

  But Drummond had scared the daylights out of the kid, and he’d brought out the second box. The box meant for Lanighan.

  Her left thumb was on the detonator, the right held a monocle trained on the Sages Fidelité lobby. She was safe, across the park, but well within radio range.

  She watched them talking about the bank account numbers in the first box. She saw Caine flip the paper over, saw Drummond snatch it from her and read her short message, meant for them.

  This is all you get. Leave me alone.

  More discussion, then Drummond got physical with Tomas and she knew it was all over.

  All it would take was a minute press of her thumb, a hint of pressure, and this would all be over.

  No more Drummond. She recognized she was full of righteous anger, a feeling she remembered well from when she was younger and less disciplined. She’d acted on emotion only once. This couldn’t be about rage. This was about survival.

  She’d wanted it to be Lanighan to open the second box, to blow himself off the face of the earth, because it would mean he’d betrayed her.

  She held the detonator in her hand and watched. No, she wouldn’t have to blow up the box, Drummond was going to open it and do the job himself.

  She heard Mulvaney telling her once, twice, perhaps with the planning of every tough job: Redundancy is your friend, Kitsune.

  She gritted her teeth at the thought of her mentor, pushed him from her mind. She needed to be clear for this. There would be time enough later to find what happened to Mulvaney.

  She watched Drummond stiffen, and she knew he’d realized the bomb was there. She watched Caine drag Tomas from the building, and run across the street. And she watched Drummond slowly lower the lid, then slowly step away from the box. His life was in her hands.

  She hadn’t wanted it to end like this. She swallowed, breathed deeply, forced herself to calm.

  Do it.

  You have to survive. There is too much at stake.

  Do it do it do it!

  The front door opened and Drummond was outside—Do it now.

  Her thumb twitched, and it was over.

  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 stre
et, 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?”