The Final Cut by Catherine Coulter
“You lied to her, too.”
“It was trained into me.”
“You obviously were at the head of your class.”
Three minutes later they were on the elevator to the twenty-third floor. Browning’s apartment was halfway down the hall.
When they were at the door, Nicholas whispered, “Careful. Like Ben reminded us, she isn’t all that predictable, plus she’s already set one bomb today.”
37
Mike nodded, listened at the door, heard nothing. She drew her Glock, and Docherty gasped.
Nicholas said smoothly, “Perhaps you should wait downstairs, Ms. Docherty, for your safety. We may have some more agents arriving, and we’ll need you to greet them and escort them upstairs. Would you do mind handling it for us?”
“But shouldn’t I, well, my goodness, what has she done? I mean, she’s a doctor, right?”
“It’s very important you bring them to us immediately.” Nicholas took her firmly by the elbow and walked her back to the glass-paneled elevator, and took the leasing file from her as he hit the down button.
Mike had to admire Mr. Aren’t I Great. He was beginning to live up to his reputation.
She inserted the door key to Browning’s apartment and slowly turned the knob. When Nicholas was back by her side, she gave a quiet three count and opened the door.
Empty. Strangely empty. There was furniture, but nothing personal. No books on the bookshelves, no afghans or magazines, nothing homey at all. Nothing of Victoria Browning.
He said, “No bomb, so that’s something.”
Mike waved her hand around. “It’s like everything was staged for a showing. Like she’d already moved out.”
“Or she never moved in.” Nicholas walked to the big windows, undid the blinds. The view wasn’t spectacular, there was a building blocking much of it, but a sliver looked north to Central Park. He could see the dusting of snow, the blinking of lights from the occasional car driving toward them down Broadway.
Mike was thumbing through the file. “According to the rental agency, she leased the flat in June of last year, moved in July first. She was paying five thousand two hundred dollars a month.”
“What’s that—three thousand three hundred pounds, give or take.” He took another look around. “Seems underpriced.”
“You’re used to London prices. This is New York. For the size and location, it’s about right.” Mike shivered. The heat wasn’t on in the apartment, and it didn’t have double-paned windows. Cold night air seeped through, finding her neck under the collar of her leather jacket.
Nicholas said, “Isn’t five thousand two hundred dollars a month a lot of money in rent on a museum docent’s salary?”
“According to her personnel file, even once she was bumped up to curator, her annual take-home was sixty-two thousand dollars. So her salary didn’t even cover her rent, much less anything else.”
“It’s very possible the person who hired her is paying her way.” He leaned against the window. “And paying her a bucketload, you can be sure of that.”
“At least we know Anatoly isn’t the buyer.”
Mike joined him at the window, took a last glance at the city, cold and silent beneath her. She handed him a pair of nitrile gloves. “All right. Let’s take it apart.”
Mike started in the bedroom. She pulled out empty drawers and checked underneath. Nothing. No clothes in either the dresser or the closet. The bathroom cabinets and shower were empty, too. She tossed the rooms carefully and found exactly zip.
“Nicholas, are you finding anything?”
“No,” he called from the second bedroom. “This place is clean as a whistle.”
They met in the kitchen. Nicholas opened the refrigerator door. Cold inside, still running at maximum capacity, but empty, wiped clean.
“She knew she was taking off. Cleared everything out. The drawers are empty, bathroom’s spotless. Heat’s off. She thought of everything.”
Nicholas stood quietly, thinking. What would I do if I were Victoria Browning? If I needed to be completely undercover, off the grid? He said, “She never lived here.”
“But this was the address on her application; the leasing agent remembered getting her the place. And it matches the fake driver’s license she gave Tanya Hill.”
“She rented it, sure. But she never moved in. No one can keep a place this clean, not if they’re living here. It’s more proof the Fox is no zebra. She arranged a very precise identity, a full complete background—the works. We can run DNA in here, but we won’t find anything, at least that belongs to her. We know Victoria Browning is a false name. Why shouldn’t everything attached to her identity be false as well?”
Mike thought about it. “Do you think there’s a real Victoria Browning out there who’s an archaeologist? Who has no idea someone stole her name?”
“I’ll start running the name through all the databases while your team does a forensic sweep.”
“Knock, knock! Yoo-hoo!” Gillian Docherty was back, with three FBI crime scene techs. “I found them for you, Inspector Drummond.”
“Ah, Ms. Docherty. Brilliant. Thank you.”
Mike took her techs aside. “Find me something. This woman has already put two of our people in the hospital. If there’s DNA, fingerprints, anything, you pull it and call for me immediately.”
“Roger that, Mike. If there’s anything here, we’ll get it.”
“Thank you.”
She stepped back and watched them get to work. Nicholas was asking more questions of Gillian Docherty, but it was like trying to get blood from a stone. She didn’t know anything, was only playing along so she could flirt with the hot Brit.
Mike tuned everyone out, stood in the living room, looking out over the city, and ran through it again.
No zebra, Dad. What’s more, I’m missing something, something really big. If I were a master thief, how would I pull all this off?
A small tingle started in her back, at the base of her spine.
A big job like this, I’d plan it down to the very last detail, then I’d befriend someone who would help me. Someone on the inside I could use, then discard when the time was right.
Someone like Inspector Elaine York.
Surely sometimes zebras could be as devious as lions, too.
38
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
Friday, 1:00 a.m.
Savich had called for some late-night pizzas to be brought in, a veggie delight for him and any other vegetarians, and plenty of pepperonis and sausages for the carnivores. Sherlock was chowing on a piece of pepperoni, happy as a clam. He joined her at a small computer desk.
“Careful. You don’t want to spill any of that on your gorgeous dress.”
“My gorgeous dress already smells like tear gas, and I doubt that’ll come out. And, to be honest here, I’m too hungry to care.”
Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” wailed from his pocket. “Good timing. There’s Nicholas now.” He answered the call, put it on speaker. “Before you say anything, Nicholas, a sweep of the Met security offices upstairs showed several cleverly placed bugs. Browning was able to monitor everything we did tonight. We’ve dismantled them all, but you might think to tell the techs to check her place for bugs as well. She is a very thorough woman.”
Mike said, “So she could be listening now? Well, if you are, Victoria, we’re coming for you. Savich, give us a minute, we’ll step outside the apartment.”
There was a brief delay, then Mike came back on the line. “We’re clear.”
“Did you find anything at her apartment?”
Nicholas said, “The apartment Browning leased was never lived in. Security cameras from the building don’t show her entering or leaving anytime in the past month, and it’s all they have; their cameras recycle the tapes on the thirtiet
“That explains why we’re hitting dead ends ourselves,” Savich said. “There’s nothing on the transportation grid—she didn’t get on a plane or train or bus, or we would have found her by now. She may be on the road, driving north to the border, but the facial-recognition system needs more time to process all the faces at the northbound tollbooths. We’ve alerted Canadian customs to the BOLO, sent it to the highway patrols as well. We’re going to need a wider net.”
Nicholas said, “She may be hunkered down somewhere in the city, letting her buyer come to her. We do believe she’s stolen the diamond for someone, not for herself. If we’re right, she stands to gain a great deal of money.”
Savich said, “It’s nearly two in the morning. I think it would be best to shut down for the night, let everyone get some rest, and start fresh in the morning. We’re having a meeting at 26 Federal Plaza at eight a.m.”
Mike said, “Yeah, you’re right, but I hate letting her get more hours ahead on us.”
Zachery leaned over from the workstation. “Time for a break, Mike. Sleep, get some food in you, and I’ll see you in a few hours. We need to give the databases time to catch up to her. We’ll find her, I know we will. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
They clicked off, and Savich stowed his phone, yawned.
Sometimes the only answer was getting a fresh start.
39
Over the Atlantic Ocean
Kitsune listened to Mike and Nicholas discuss her whereabouts with Agent Savich. She was sorry not to have met him; he sounded interesting.
Her staged apartment was bugged, he’d been right about that, with mikes in all the rooms, like she’d done at the Met. But he didn’t realize how thorough she was—she’d also bugged the hallway outside her apartment, all the way down to the elevator. It was a pity she couldn’t have miked 26 Federal Plaza, then she could have heard everything the Feds were planning.
She laughed. Mike Caine thought she had only a few hours’ head start? She had two years on them. The flat was a total dead end, $5,200 a month well spent. No DNA, folks, except for that fat leasing agent’s, so you might as well hang it up and go get some sleep.
If they found her real place, she’d know immediately; the door was rigged to blow, and an alarm would be sent to her phone.
But she doubted they would. It was many blocks away, in Hell’s Kitchen. She’d worn wigs and the clothes of a student down on her luck, plus a baseball cap, every time she went in or out. The rent was paid for another year, and she could disarm the bomb remotely if needed. Kitsune knew exactly how to cover her tracks. She’d been doing it for so many years it was second nature.
When their call ended, she sat back in the buttery leather and ran through the options. They didn’t have anything yet, not that she’d expected them to. She knew it was only a matter of time before they figured out the Teterboro Airport connection, but if her luck continued to hold, she’d be on the ground before they did.
But what about Drummond? She wished he’d stayed in London, where he belonged.
No, he wouldn’t catch her. All would be well. She would meet with Lanighan, take care of business, and then she’d be gone. Done. Retired. On a small Pacific island, where she’d fit in seamlessly, and no one would think to look for her. Or maybe she could go back to London, speak to Grant—no, he was gone, she had to let him go.
The captain’s voice came over the speaker. “Madam, we’re in French airspace. Where to now?”
She pressed the button, gave him coordinates. The airstrip was exceedingly private, one she’d used before. There would be no record of the plane even touching down.
She finished the last sip of her Dom Pérignon. An hour to landing. One hour on the road to the meeting site. Three hours to reconnoiter the place, and make sure Lanighan was following protocol, as she always did.
Another twenty-five million in her bank account, which she’d immediately break into packets and transfer into multiple accounts all over the world. Untraceable, even to Lanighan’s people, should they try to come back and steal what was rightfully hers.
Lanighan’s father had tried to cheat her once, on a stellar Manet she’d lifted from Amsterdam. The payment had been recalled, but Kitsune was faster than the Lion. She’d managed to have the money transferred before he followed through. She’d called him, told him he was a fool. And he’d apologized. He’d come to respect her cunning, all the measures she took to protect herself, and never tried to double-cross her again. Their relationship was fruitful—after the Manet debacle, he’d become her most faithful client, and a lot more. Over the years, a full fifty percent of his collection was gathered by her hands.
She looked at the ground lights below the jet, skimming past too quickly to register. No landmarks. No real certainty that the pilot was listening to her instructions. So this was paranoia. Well, nothing wrong with that. It kept her knife-sharp, always on edge.
She’d earned her nickname the Fox. She was clever and fast, prepared for anything.
Anything.
She glanced at her watch and picked up the phone.
Mulvaney. She smiled as she punched in his number. For more than twenty years, they’d been together. He was her teacher, her confidant, her father, if it came right down to it, always there for her in good times and not-so-good times, her rock, and she trusted him implicitly. He advised her on which jobs to take, discussed strategy with her. He’d even set up the way she disbursed her money, and he was always willing to jump in and help if needed, and he had a good half-dozen times over the years. She would give her life for him, it was that simple. She’d sometimes thought he tethered her to this earth until she’d met Grant—Really, Kitsune, you must stop thinking of him.
The phone continued to ring. At this hour of the morning, Mulvaney should be lounging on the fourth deck of his villa, a warm breeze rustling through the lemon grove below the house, his nose in a book, the first of dozens of espressos at his elbow.
Why didn’t he answer? He always took her calls, always.
She punched off her cell. She would try again later, but something nagged at her. She didn’t like this, not one bit. Paranoia again. But maybe he was simply busy with something.
She realized she was exhausted. She had an hour until landing, and the next part of her plan went into action.
Kitsune closed her eyes and slept.
40
New York, New York
Victoria Browning’s apartment
Friday, 2:00 a.m.
Nicholas had to agree with Zachery and Savich: they were spinning their wheels. Even though he was itching to get his fingers on a keyboard and start his own search for Browning, he’d been up for thirty-six hours and needed sleep.
“Mike, let’s close it down for the night.”
She chewed her lip. “Anything?” she asked the tech she called Mouse.
He shook his head. “A half-dozen bugs, which we dismantled. Other than that, nothing. I’m betting the only thing we’re going to find here is yours and Nicholas’s DNA.”
The woman didn’t miss a trick. Mike sighed. “Okay, go on home.”
When they were in the elevator on their way down, Nicholas said, “You think she’s got cameras on this building?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her.”
Both Mike and Nicholas were freezing when they got into her car. She turned the heat on high, rubbed her hands in front of the vent for a minute, then turned to Nicholas. “Where are you staying?”
“On Vanderbilt, between Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth.”
“The Yale Club? Swanky.”
“You know it?”
Mike laughed. “Only from the outside. Part of being a New York Field Agent is knowing every nook and cranny of this city. I’ll go up against an old-time New York cabbie any d
“Elaine had more trouble when she first moved here, distinguishing the long blocks from the short. She took to running an extra hour each night to learn her way around. She once called and said, ‘Nicholas, you wouldn’t believe how lost I was tonight.’”
He got quiet.
Her stomach growled, and Nicholas looked over at her. “Hungry, are we?”
“Starved. I can’t remember when I ate last; we’ve been going hard since I woke up. I’m exhausted, but I need something.” She smiled at him. “I reheat a mean slice of pizza.”
“Pizza sounds good.”
She heard something in his voice, something that spoke to her. She understood pain. She understood grief. She understood not wanting to be alone. Too well. And she remembered Jon, and let the pain settle in for a moment. Had he really been gone five years?
“We’re only ten minutes from my place. Tell you what, come home with me, it’ll be easiest. I live down in the Village, and I’ve got a lovely long sectional sofa.” She continued without pause. “What’d you do in Afghanistan?”
“Is the sofa long enough for me? It’s classified.”
It could be, but she doubted it; at least what had happened to him wasn’t classified. Whatever it was, she figured it must be bad.
She said, “It’s over seven feet long, and I have lots of comfy blankets. You left the Foreign Office after Afghanistan, left the spy world altogether, and moved to Scotland Yard. Come on, Nicholas, what happened?”
“I doubt your pajamas will fit me. Let me just say I wanted to be out on the street again, back home, in London, get my hands dirty. Work homicide. Help the helpless.”
“You’re James Bond. You don’t wear pajamas.” She drove through a yellow light as it turned red. “At this hour a person’s biorhythms are supposed to be low, and they’ll spill pretty much everything about themselves.”