The Final Cut

by Catherine Coulter

  “You blew up the building.”

  It was coming back now, bits and pieces, the blue-white gleam of the diamond in the box, the red and orange wires, the hot explosion at his back.

  “Not me. I closed the lid.”

  “You should have told the bomb that. The moment you stepped out the door, the whole building blew. You had a shard of glass in your back, plus several cuts from the shrapnel. The doctors removed it all. And your hands were burned a bit. You most likely have a concussion, and your hearing might be messed up for a while. Mine’s finally getting back to normal. It was a big blast.”

  He couldn’t feel his back, and panic began to creep in. “My back?”

  “You’re probably numb from the lidocaine. They had to stitch you up a bit. You’re going to be sore, but you’re all right.”

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  She shook her head. “Some people banged up, but everyone’s okay.”

  He looked around the room, small, white, one chair. The blinds were closed. It seemed like night to him though. “How long have I been out?”

  “A few hours. You were bleeding badly, and you were unconscious. I thought—well, you’re okay. Tomas was scared for you, too. Yes, he’s all right. Last time I saw him he was shaking like a leaf, stuttering as he tried to answer the police officer’s questions.” She touched a hand to his cheek. “Don’t do that again, all right?”

  “I’ll do my best,” and he smiled, though it hurt, and leaned back against the crackly pillow.

  “Menard and the Geneva police are all over the bomb. The fire was confined to the one building, which was amazing. C-4, it looks like, on a detonator. Was it similar to the bomb at the Met?”

  “No. There was a pressure switch. She wasn’t playing around this time.”

  Mike’s lips pressed together in a grim line. “No, she wasn’t. And when we catch her, I’m going to beat the crap out of her.”

  He wanted to laugh, but suddenly it all came back, and he started to sit up. “Did they find the diamond?”

  “No, don’t try to get up. You’re hurt.”

  She pressed on his shoulders and eased him back down. It took him a moment to control the pain. “The diamond. The Koh-i-Noor. It was in the box. The bomb surrounded it. The box was wired to blow the moment anyone opened it.”

  “Are you sure, Nicholas?”

  “I am. Have them look. Did the boy Tomas know about the bomb?”

  “No. As I told you, he was totally freaked out. I heard him tell the police about Browning. He admitted she paid him well to direct us to the first box, the one with the account numbers in it. The one with the bomb was meant for someone else, a lone man, Tomas said, with dark hair and eyes.”

  “The buyer,” Nicholas said.

  “Probably,” Mike said. “I guess if things went wrong, she needed to take him out and destroy the evidence. But we forced Tomas to give us the second box—and kablooey. I better call Menard, tell him about the diamond.”

  Mike made the call, and Nicholas allowed himself to float for a minute. She came back and sat down on the chair next to him. She didn’t touch him. “They’ll look, but it’s too hot to go in now.” She leaned forward, stared him straight in the eye. “Seriously, Nicholas, you scared me to death.”

  “When we find her, after you beat the crap out of her, I’m going to strangle that woman. She’s tried to blow me up twice now. I’m starting to take this personally.”

  “Tell me, what tipped you off? You realized there was a bomb and told us to leave.”

  “I did?”

  “You did.”

  He didn’t remember, then, “Wait—the box felt wrong. Too heavy. I could tell something nasty was in there.”

  Again, she touched her fingers to his face. “Let’s hear it for your fine instincts. You’ve saved my life twice in as many days. I owe you one.”

  “Actually, you owe me two, but I’m not counting.” He tried to smile, but it hurt too much. On the other hand, he was alive, and he would heal. “Browning, the Fox, whoever she is, she’s upped the ante. A lot of people could have been hurt or killed today. Mike, we’re so close, we can’t stop now.”

  She bent over him again, pushed his hair off his forehead. “We won’t stop. But you need to stay here overnight. The doctors think the concussion is mild, but they want to keep an eye on you. Let the drugs work. We’ve lost the trail, anyway; she’s gone for now.”

  He wasn’t going to argue. Moving around was going to be difficult until his head cleared. He’d been concussed before, knew if he did too much too soon, he’d end up vomiting on the floor and right back in the bed. And since they’d shot something really good into his IV, he really didn’t want to move, because he was floating high, up there at the ceiling. Now Mike was lightly rubbing his temples, and it felt very nice. He felt calm, and let go.

  He heard her voice from a distance. “That’s right. Relax. I’m here. Nothing bad will happen.”

  Just like his mother, he thought, and slept.

  71

  Hôpitaux Universitaires de Genève

  Saturday, dawn

  Nicholas passed a restless night, full of strange drug-induced dreams, and was vaguely aware of being poked and prodded every hour on the hour by the nurses. Mike slept awkwardly in the chair by his bed.

  He awoke at dawn, his head still aching, but he could see much better. He searched the room until he spied a wall clock. Five in the morning. Twelve hours after they’d walked into the Sages Fidelité and all the fires of hell had burst into the world.

  The Fox was certainly gone by now, Mike was right about that, as was the Koh-i-Noor.

  Mike opened her eyes to see Nicholas sitting up in bed. She saw his eyes were clear, his face only slightly bruised.

  “Hey, dude. Go back to sleep.”

  Nicholas said, “I’m up. I’m feeling better. Did you hear back from Menard? Did he find the diamond?”

  Mike gave it up. “No sign of it. Chances are the heat of the explosion reduced it to sand. I don’t know if heat will destroy a diamond, but I hardly think anything could survive strapped to a brick of C-4.”

  “It would depend on the blast radius. It could have survived and they simply haven’t found it yet.”

  “I was thinking about it last night. I don’t think it was the Koh-i-Noor at all. It was the other replica and the bomb was her insurance policy.”

  Of course it was. He’d clearly damaged his brain.

  “Menard and his men found nothing at Bank Horim. According to the bank’s logs, there was a safe-deposit box leased around the time she was there, but when they drilled it open, it was empty. The manager, Madame Helmut, claimed she didn’t know a thing about it.”

  “Do you think she was lying?”

  “Menard thinks so. About the Fox, the police found an abandoned rental car late last night a block away from a report of a stolen Fiat. Menard told me the border police have a photo of the stolen car passing through the Swiss-to-France at ten last night. A single woman, passport registered to a Stephanie Arle, resident of Calais, France. She was blond, but from the snap photo, it’s definitely her.”

  “I wonder where she’s headed now.”

  “There have been no Fox sightings since the border. She clearly has several identities at her disposal. She may be laid up somewhere, or ditched the car and stolen another one.” She paused for a moment. “Remember, Paris was the first place she was supposed to go. It’s only a four-hour drive from here. She could be driving there to meet the buyer.”

  It made sense. “Do we have anything yet on the bank account numbers we found in the safe-deposit box at Sages Fidelité?”

  “Unfortunately, you must have set the list down when you opened the box with the explosives.”

  Had he set the paper down? He didn’t think he had. “Check the pocket of my pants. No, wait, try my wallet. I think I stashed it in there.”

  Mike pulled the plastic bag from under the hospital bed that held the smoky remai
ns of Nicholas’s clothes.

  She pulled out his bloodstained pants and stuck her hand in the back pocket, careful not to cut herself on the small shards of glass embedded in the fine wool. The leather wallet had shaped itself to the curve of his butt, and wasn’t that nice?

  Sure enough, in between the euros and dollars she found a small slip of paper. She pulled it out and waved it in his face.

  “Hallelujah, Nicholas, you saved it.”

  He started to smile, thought better of it. Now that he was becoming more alert, everything hurt, especially his face. And his eyebrows. And his ears. Even his teeth felt sore.

  “Call Savich. He can add the account numbers to the database he’s working on.”

  Mike typed away on her cell phone, copying the numbers, then hit send and looked up to see him watching her. She could tell he was hurting and she hated to see it. She really was going to smack that bitch when they caught her.

  “Good thing you have your magic leather carry-on,” she said, holding up his pants. “These clothes are ruined.”

  “And I so dearly loved those pants.”

  A bit of a joke, it was a good start. He was going to be okay, thank the Almighty.

  She said, “Louisa sent me a note late last night while you were getting stitched up. The DNA taken from Victoria’s chewed pencil was a familial match to an entry in CODIS. Did you know we’ve been matching our Combined DNA Index to international profiles though Interpol?”

  That perked him right up. “And?”

  “The Fox has a brother. And aren’t we the lucky ones—he’s in prison, serving life without parole for murder. We’ll go talk to him, see if we can’t get some background on this woman. Maybe he even knows where she is.”

  “Where is he?”

  “La Santé. In Paris. I’ve already set the arrangements. As soon as you’re well enough to travel, we’ll head to the airport.”

  “All roads lead to Paris, it seems. Tell me about him.”

  “Henri Couverel is his name, and he’s got a jacket a mile long, from petty street stuff to murder. Drugs, mainly. The murder he’s in for is his dealer. The man was stabbed a dozen times, and Couverel was found high as a kite, sitting in the man’s blood. He does not at all fit the profile for a explosives expert jewel thief.”

  “So you don’t think she’s ever worked with him?”

  “No,” Mike said, “and from his history, he’s much too scattered to have ever been any use to her. She’s a precision instrument, honed by years of practice. He’s a sledgehammer in comparison. Selling drugs is the least of it. According to the file, he’s a heroin addict. You know heroin addicts aren’t known for their cleverness.”

  He sat up again, ignoring the pain in his back and the urge to vomit. “I’m well enough now. Let’s go.”

  “Big bad tough guy, aren’t you, James Bond?”

  “Yes. Yes I am.”

  “Lie back, Nicholas. The plane doesn’t leave until eight a.m. whether you’re ready or not.”

  A nurse came in, checked him out, drew his blood, and offered him a sedative, which made him snort. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed to go shower. His head swam for a moment, then righted itself. The pain in his back where they’d stitched him up was a dull throb.

  He was fine. Sore, but fine.

  The nurse said from the doorway, “If your lab work is normal, you are being discharged in a hour. Maybe sooner, given what a macho guy you are. Oh, yes—try not to faint in the shower.”

  72

  He might want to crawl, but he didn’t. Nicholas managed to follow Mike from the hospital lobby, ignoring the pulling sensation in his back every time he took a step.

  He saw that yesterday’s sun was gone, replaced by gray skies and a bitter cold wind that whipped through the buildings. Snow was coming.

  He was going slow, but it felt good to be up and moving, and the brisk air helped clear away the cobwebs from the concussion. There was a black Mercedes sedan waiting for them at the curb.

  Mike said, “Menard was kind enough to send a car for us. We’re not that far from the airport. You’ll like this even more. The driver is the man who drove the Fox yesterday. We can have a chat with him on our way, see if he remembers anything.”

  Nicholas held the door for Mike when something buzzed his ear. He reached up to swat it away just as five holes appeared in the side of the car.

  He whipped sideways, dropped to the cement curb, yelled to Mike, “Get down, get down,” but she was already shouting at him to do the same. Her Glock was out, and she tossed him her backup Glock 27 off her ankle.

  As more bullets hit the car, he began returning fire, covering Mike as she pushed the driver out of the car and yelled at him, “Go, go, go.” She began shooting toward the gunfire as the driver darted inside the hospital doors.

  Nicholas shouted, “Call the man who arranged for you to pick us up, tell him what’s happened.”

  Mike was crouched behind the open driver’s-side door. Nicholas pulled open the passenger-side door. “Where are the shots coming from?”

  Mike said, “Up the street, to the right. I make two shooters. They’ve got us pinned down.”

  Nicholas sighted down the barrel of the gun, saw the men she was talking about, a block away, in a Land Rover similar to the one Menard had picked them up in, minus the orange police stripes.

  He squeezed off two shots, hitting their windshield and cracking the glass into a spiderweb.

  All went silent, then they heard the throaty growl of a Land Rover revving its engines. It started toward them with a squeal of tires, bullets flying.

  Nicholas turned and yelled, “They’re going to try and ram us. Let’s get out of here. Where are the bloody keys?”

  Mike yelled back, “The driver took them with him into the hospital.”

  Nicholas dove across the front seat and smacked the butt of the Glock, once, twice, and the plastic panel cover under the steering column split off. He ripped out the wiring harness, heard Mike yelling, “Hurry, hurry,” as two shots smashed into the windshield at eye level.

  He sparked the two wires together and the Mercedes engine roared to life.

  “Got it. Get in, get in!”

  Mike slammed the passenger-side door closed. Nicholas jammed his foot on the gas, and the Mercedes shot from the curb. The Land Rover was coming head-on. He sliced the car to the left, catching the Land Rover’s bumper on the grille with a rending screech.

  The force spun them around and he worked the wheel smoothly, allowing the car to turn one hundred eighty degrees, and now they were behind the truck.

  Nicholas said, “Take them out,” and floored it, bringing the car closer. The shooter on the passenger side stuck his head out the window and sprayed them with bullets.

  The driver gunned through an intersection, leaving skidding cars in his wake, and Nicholas shot through behind him, the wheel alive in his hands.

  “Take the shot, Mike, go for the tires.”

  “I’m trying,” Mike said. “Hold the damn car steady.”

  “Where the devil are they headed?”

  “Toward the Jet d’Eau, I think.”

  Northwest, then. He saw the Credit Suisse building to their right, then the Land Rover whipped across the bridge on Rue des Moulins, then turned right onto the Quai du Mont-Blanc.

  He said, “The road will open up in a minute. Try not to kill any tourists.”

  She pointed at a police car swinging out in front of them, flashers going wild. Nicholas swerved around the car and caught sight of the Land Rover again.

  He urged the Mercedes closer, gunning the engine to the red line, thanking all that was holy the car was an automatic.

  He got his left hand out the window and squeezed off a few shots, which hit the tail of the truck and did no damage to the tires. He cursed and tried again, ducking back into the car when he saw a black semiauto come out the driver’s-side window.

  “AR-15 fire incoming. Can you take out the driver?”<
br />
  He swung the car wide to the left so Mike could angle for a shot, ducked as the machine gun sprayed bullets across the front of the Mercedes, pockmarking the windshield and hood.

  Nicholas began to laugh. “It’s bulletproof glass. What luck. Mike, stay behind the glass and take them out.”

  As they flew through the city they were gathering cop cars like a magnet to filings, a stream of wailing building behind them. The shocked faces and angry horns of oncoming drivers flashed by, but Nicholas ignored everything except the bumper of the truck in front of them, getting closer and closer.

  The driver of the Land Rover was good, swerving all over the road to keep them from hitting anything vital, but Nicholas was better. He maneuvered the Mercedes right behind them, then shouted, “Hold on,” and gunned it, slamming into the tail of the truck. The Land Rover veered off to the left but held it together, shooting back at them.

  The road opened up, and they accelerated so fast Mike was forced to brace one hand on the dashboard to keep herself upright. Nicholas backed off a bit, evened the car’s direction, and then yelled, “Do it!”

  Mike took careful aim and pulled the trigger, and the Land Rover’s back left tire blew with a squeal and a puff of white smoke.

  Nicholas shouted, “Now! Get the right one.”

  “I’m trying,” she yelled back. She shot a good dozen times but missed.

  The lake was on their right; the blue-gray winter water looked cold and forbidding. Boats bobbed off their docks, and Mike realized they’d left downtown Geneva.

  “There’s a sign up ahead; it says sixty kilometers to Lausanne.”

  Nicholas was surging up toward the Land Rover again. “The road’s going to get tight up ahead as we go into Bellevue. When I pull next to them, Mike, I need you to hold the wheel.”

  “No heroics, Nicholas.”

  “Never. I’m going to take out the driver and we’ll be able to force them off the road.”

  Cars came toward them as they rushed up the road, weaving and honking. Nicholas ignored them, carefully pushing the Land Rover into the less occupied streets north of the city. They were lucky it was a weekend, the traffic would have been terrible during the weekday rush hour and more people would be at risk.