The Final Cut

by Catherine Coulter

  “Isobel and Henri Couverel. This is interesting, they were murdered. During a robbery gone wrong, it seems. Henri Couverel was a shopkeeper; his wife was an artist. Oils, watercolors, the like. They were mugged, and fought back. Both were shot and left on the street. Their assailant was never caught.”

  “So they left two kids, five and nine. No family to take them in. Does the orphanage have good enough records?”

  “There should be records of an adoption. And if her name really is Victoire, we can search from that angle, too.”

  He typed in the name of the orphanage. “Oh, bugger. The orphanage burned down in the nineties, and there are no online records. We’ll have to go at this the old-fashioned way, through the state system, and it’s going to cost us time.”

  He took a big bite of bread, washed it down with his coffee.

  Mike played with her spoon, dipping it in and out of the coffee absently as she thought aloud. “The murders will be easier to track. Even though it’s a cold case, the French police will have the records. As for the adoptive parents, let’s assume parts of her story for the Victoria Browning identity were real. She did have a Scottish accent. It could have been faked, but that’s hard to do for months at a time. So let’s look for missionaries near Roslin, Scotland. Her brother said England, but it was a long time ago. Perhaps they brought her home before they set out on their voyages, or came back to Scotland after their mission was accomplished.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll tackle the adopted parents. Would you like to use your considerable American charm to get the murder information from the French?”

  “If it’s a cold case, I doubt it will help, but I’ll call Zachery. He’s got a friend over here. This same friend is also the reason we were able to get into the prison so easily. In the meantime, you may want to think about where we’re sleeping tonight. Not to mention, I’d like a shower.” She yawned, not bothering to try and hide it. “And a nap. And I’d like to take a look at your back. After our car chase in Geneva, I want to be sure your stitches aren’t ripped.”

  He arched a black eyebrow at her. “I have the accommodations covered. We’re going to the Ritz, on the Place Vendôme. We’ll regroup, as you Yanks like to say, and you can strip me down.”

  77

  Ritz Paris

  15 Place Vendôme

  Saturday afternoon

  When they arrived at the Ritz, the valet took the car, and Mike stared at the white awnings of the swanky hotel, wondering how, exactly, she would write this off. She couldn’t afford to stay here, but she wasn’t about to say so to Nicholas, who was holding out his arm and smiling like they were on a date. She laughed to herself. A very demented date.

  She tucked her arm in his and he whispered, “Follow my lead.”

  They entered the hotel and walked to the desk. A young blonde with her hair drawn back in a messy, casual bun looked up from her computer to greet them, and her face broke into a wide smile. She spoke in rapid French to the woman next to her, who scurried away, then acknowledged them with a nod.

  “Monsieur DuLac, welcome back to the Ritz.”

  “Merci, Clothilde. Comment ça va?”

  She dimpled at him. “I am well, Monsieur DuLac. It is good to see you again. Will you be staying long?”

  “At least one night, perhaps two.”

  She glanced at Mike, who suddenly felt very American, very tall, and very underdressed in her motorcycle boots and jeans.

  “One room or two?”

  “A suite would do nicely, Clothilde. Two bedrooms.”

  “Excellent.” She handed him a key. “Shall I send up your usual?”

  “That would be lovely. For two, if you will. Merci, Clothilde.”

  Mike followed him across the elegant lobby, past the Bar Vendôme. Nicholas paused for a moment to watch the small flat-screen TV. A panel of jewel experts on a local news station were yelling over one another to see who could condemn the Americans more for the Koh-i-Noor theft. He shook his head. It wouldn’t stop until the diamond was back. Once on the elevator, Nicholas smiled at her. “All right?”

  She grinned back. “What was all that? Who is Monsieur DuLac? And do I want to know what your usual is?”

  “DuLac is one of my better covers. I used to come to Paris often when I worked for the Foreign Office, and DuLac served me well. I didn’t see any reason to walk in and announce who I really was. Besides, we’ll be well taken care of now. You can freshen up and we’ll have some dinner. Without food and sleep, we’re going to be worthless to this investigation. I need to spend some time on the computer, tracking some of these identities. We’re getting enough information on this woman to pull together a real profile. I think the Fox’s days as an anonymous master thief are coming to an abrupt end.

  “Even though we have no idea where the Fox might be, she seems to have a sixth sense about us following her. She may have assumed, or hoped, I was dead after the explosion, but she will find out quickly enough there were no fatalities. I certainly don’t need her calling around to hotels to see if anyone by the name of Drummond or Caine has checked in.”

  Smart man. “You look like you could use a pain pill. You haven’t had one since we left the hospital this morning, and we’ve had quite a day.”

  Actually, he could use a whole handful of pain pills. He said gruffly, “Mike, if I need mothering, I’ll call home.”

  They rode to the sixth floor, and Nicholas led her down the blue-and-gold hallway to their suite.

  “Did you know the Ritz was supposedly the first hotel in Paris to have en suite bathrooms?”

  Mike said, “Good to know. At this point, so long as it has hot water, I don’t care where the bathroom is.”

  He opened the door and let her go in first, then pointed to the left. Without examining the room, which looked like the inside of a castle, or the view, which looked expansive—she caught a snatch of the Eiffel Tower; you really could see it from everywhere—she excused herself and went inside.

  The bathroom did indeed have hot water, and a gorgeous marble shower with buttery soft peach towels. She stayed under the steaming waterfall for a good fifteen minutes, washing away the travel dust, explosion residue, worry, fear and two days of exhaustive searching for what amounted to a very well-equipped and pissed-off ghost.

  She did her best thinking in the shower. She was certain the Fox was in Paris; where else would she be? She thought about the adoptive parents—missionaries—and about the new life the Fox had led with them. Was it good, bad, or maybe it didn’t matter? The Fox had become a criminal regardless.

  She was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Go away. I’m never coming out. This is the most glorious shower I’ve ever taken.”

  Nicholas laughed. “You may think differently when I give you this news. Savich called. He has a money trail. And the food’s arrived.”

  She couldn’t get dry fast enough. She spared a quick glance at her clothes—no sense getting back into them right away, and she’d rushed in here so fast she’d left her bag in the other room. She pulled on the thick robe instead and joined Nicholas in the living room.

  He’d had a shower, too. His hair was still damp, and he smelled good. Unlike her, in her anonymous bathrobe, he looked as sleek as a panther in a black zipper-neck sweater and gray wool trousers. Where did he stash all these wonderful clothes? He had to be coming to the bottom of his magic carry-on.

  A tray was on the table with a variety of cheeses, bread, and fruit. A bottle of wine was open, but she ignored his offer of a glass and instead poured herself some water.

  “So what did Savich have to say?”

  “I told him I was going to get you out of the shower so he could tell us both. He should be calling back any minute.”

  “I better grab some clothes.”

  “Don’t dress on my account.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “In your dreams.”

  Nicholas grinned. “And was I dreaming, or did you kiss me las
t night?”

  “You were definitely dreaming.”

  “And was I dreaming when you called me a lamebrain?”

  “That you didn’t dream,” she said, and grabbed her bag and carried it into her room.

  When she returned a few minutes later, he said, “Eat something. The coffee and pastry weren’t enough.”

  She helped herself to a plate and sat with her legs drawn up, eating Brie and grapes. She looked tired, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d been drugged up, but still he’d gotten a good ten hours. He couldn’t imagine she’d enjoyed much rest in that chair.

  “After we talk to Savich, we’ll work the computers, find the trail. And stick around here tonight. You need some rest.”

  She swept her arm around. “This is nice.”

  It was nice, which was the reason he’d wanted to bring her here. Half showing off, half wanting to give her some kindness, after the kindness she’d shown him last night.

  He said, “You’re a good partner, Mike.”

  He caught her by surprise. She paused for a moment, then said, “You know what? You are, too.”

  He laughed. “When do you want to examine my stitches?”

  78

  Paris

  Saturday afternoon

  Kitsune stopped for an espresso and a bathroom break at a roadside travel station. She was dragging. Paris was an hour away; she needed to hold it together a bit longer, then the job would be finished and she could rest. This was why she trained so hard, and saved her energy between contracts; once she started a job, proper sleep and food weren’t priorities.

  She set the empty cup down on the bar. The place was filled with tourists, teens in tight jeans and mismatched colors, flirting, harried parents with small children, the odd lingering glances of single men. Normal. It was all so very normal. She didn’t remember ever having normal.

  She turned to leave and heard her mobile ringing from her jacket pocket. She drew the phone out and looked at the screen. It was Mulvaney.

  She shouted with relief. She ran out of the building, jumped in her stolen Fiat, and answered the phone.

  “Mulvaney! Thank God, I’ve been so worried!” She got hold of herself. “Well, it’s about time. I thought you were dead.”

  “Hello, Kitsune.” Her heart stopped. No. Please, no.

  “Lanighan?”

  “You’ll get your man Mulvaney back when you hand over the diamond.”

  Her heart pounded at her temples, fear clogged her throat. “What have you done to him? Where is he?”

  She knew who held the power now. Lanighan’s voice held both contempt and pleasure. “You will do exactly what I say. No more mistakes, no more trying to screw me out of my diamond. You give me the Koh-i-Noor, in person, and I will let him go.”

  How had he found Mulvaney? They were always so careful. And how had he managed to take him? No one took Mulvaney, he was too smart, too fast—

  Control, she must gain control. She must be calm. She said, “I do not understand why you have done this. I have given you my word, and two years of my life in the pursuit of your dream. I want you to have your diamond.”

  He was breathing fast, so mad now he was nearly shouting. “I’m to blame here? You’re the one who put my bank accounts in the hands of the FBI. You’re the one who gave me a key to open that rigged safe-deposit box. You would have blown me up!”

  His voice dropped; he was struggling for control. “Damn you, you bitch, you sliced my throat in Paris. Consider this payback. You’re going to do exactly what I tell you. Bring me the diamond, and you get your precious mentor back.”

  She was shaking, she was so furious. She yelled, “You idiot! That was not a fake key! You let Mulvaney go right now, or I will disappear with the Koh-i-Noor forever. You won’t be able to unite the three stones.”

  She heard the sharp intake of his breath. She knew he was planning something crazy with the diamond, she knew it. She’d shaken him; now it was time to press her advantage, to be calm and take control again.

  “Yes, Saleem. I know what you think you can do. Why else would you want the Koh-i-Noor? All the men in your family have tried and failed. What makes you think you are any different?”

  Saleem ignored her words, and went for the jugular. “You’re killing him, Kitsune. Every word, every minute that ticks by, Mulvaney dies a little more. A finger, an ear, so much I can do. I am serious. You bring me the diamond at nine p.m., to my home, or I will cut him into little pieces.”

  He hung up.

  Kitsune buried her face in her hands. She felt hollowed out with failure.

  She’d bested the father. Somehow she would best the son. She had to regain the upper hand. Lanighan was mad if he thought she would now hand the diamond over in person—he’d kill her without hesitation, and Mulvaney as well. She patted her backpack. The diamond was safe. Now she had to find out where he was holding Mulvaney, and end this.

  She put the Fiat in gear and got back on the road, thinking furiously.

  This was not the first attempted double-cross she’d faced. But it was the first time a job had ruptured into her real life. Again, she couldn’t believe Lanighan had managed to find and take Mulvaney. He was the most careful man she’d ever known.

  They’d worked together for more than half her life, more than twenty years now, and never been linked. Anyone who knew their names saw them only as rivals, and she and Mulvaney had laughed, toasting each other with the Krug he so loved to drink. Tears stung her eyes. She was afraid, not for herself, but for him. Had she done something to allow this to happen? Or maybe she’d been naïve, trusting their measures were infallible? It didn’t matter now. She had to stop Lanighan, had to, no choice.

  She wanted to kill him, she wanted to feel the point of her blade sink into the thin flesh of his throat. She wanted to watch him realize he was dead.

  A righteous killing, but first she had to figure her way through this.

  Think, Kitsune.

  Lanighan had driven from Paris to Geneva so there would be no record of his face at the airports or train stations while this hubbub about the diamond raged on in the news. His car would have been searched at the border, which meant Lanighan hadn’t held Mulvaney in Geneva.

  Where, then?

  In Paris. Lanighan’s empire was run out of the City of Light. His first and only meeting with her had been at the Paris Ritz. Before their first meeting, she’d done a property records search. Lanighan had four private holdings where a covert operation could take place. Mulvaney was surely being held at one of them. She needed more information.

  Saleem Lanighan was not the man his father was. He was arrogant and sloppy and cared only what happened to himself. He thought money solved everything. Nor was he comfortable operating far away from his base, which meant he kept precious possessions close. And at this point, Mulvaney was precious.

  79

  Ritz Paris

  15 Place Vendôme

  Saturday, early evening

  Nicholas’s computer chimed. He opened the secure teleconference, and Savich’s face popped up on the screen. Mike recognized the furniture from the FBI’s conference room, which meant they were on the CIVITS secure videoconference network. They could say anything without worry of eavesdropping. Even the screens were pulled on the picture windows—they could see out, but no prying eyes could see in.

  Nicholas said, “Hello, Savich. Good timing.”

  “You have Mike now?”

  Nicholas shifted so Mike’s face appeared over his shoulder. “She’s right here.”

  “Hi, Dillon.”

  “Hey, Mike. I’ve been at it all morning with MAX, and here’s what I’ve found. The numbers you sent were wire transfers for a variety of banks. I’ve emailed the file to you, Nicholas; you should have it now.”

  “I have it open.”

  “All right. I didn’t find all the money yet, but I narrowed down three possible buyers for the stone. As you guys know, the banks are hard to crack; number
ed accounts are the best way to stay under the radar when you’re moving large amounts of money. It’s not like anyone will funnel millions of dollars through Western Union.”

  Nicholas laughed. “Life would be so much easier.”

  “It would. Based on everything we’ve compiled so far, I’d pay special attention to the first person on your list. I’m going to keep at it, see if anything else matches. We’re putting all three men under surveillance immediately. I’ll call you back if I find anything more.”

  Nicholas closed the chat and looked at the email from Savich. The top entry was a man named Saleem Lanighan. Mike scrolled through the attached photos. He was a handsome man, dark hair and direct brown eyes, a square jaw, but he wasn’t smiling, and Mike thought he looked cruel.

  Mike said, “Dark hair, dark eyes. Remember what the kid from Sages Fidelité said? None of the other three match the physical description. Lanighan could be the one.”

  Nicholas read Savich’s dossier aloud.

  “Lanighan is thirty-eight, educated at Oxford, a resident of Paris. He has a second home in the Loire Valley. He took over his father, Robert Lanighan’s, art and antiquities business, plus the man’s huge art collection, when he died five years ago. Lanighan was in ArtReview’s top one hundred three years running, is known for his philanthropic work on behalf of new artists and new galleries.

  “He sits on the board of three separate companies, employs almost a thousand people in Lanighan Enterprises—they do international import-export—and regularly travels to China, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Tokyo in search of treasures. If this is our guy, there’s a good chance the Fox is here, too.”

  Mike said, “He’s entirely too respectable, don’t you think? But rich as Croesus.”

  “Well, without the money, none of this would work. Lanighan sounds like the winner to me. On the surface, he’s exceptional, but the man’s father was suspected of orchestrating several art thefts. Where does Savich find this information?”