The Final Cut by Catherine Coulter
“My son doesn’t check in as regularly as he should.”
“Ah, well, then. If you should speak to him, tell him I’m waiting.”
“Is this what you called me about, Drummond? First you defy my orders and run off to America, now you want me to be the messenger boy from my son to you? You have some gall.”
“No gall, sir. I’m working closely with the FBI; they’ve been most cooperative. We’ve identified Elaine’s killer, an assassin named Mulvaney, also known as the Ghost, and we believe we understand his motive for killing her. She was innocent in all this; it was a terrible mistake.”
Penderley said, “I knew Elaine couldn’t be involved. The Ghost, you say? I’ve heard of him. He’s a legend. He was just a kid we were told. It was rumored he was behind a series of bombings in Northern Ireland while I was in the academy. We had to work the scenes; they pulled the trainees onto the ground to support the regular coppers. I’ll never forget it. From what I know, he disappeared from the stage several years ago. It was widely assumed he was dead.”
“Apparently, he’s not dead. What else can you tell me about him?”
“There’s a dossier of information in our database, but it’s sketchy at best. He’s a dangerous man, Drummond, maybe more dangerous than you. Keep me informed. And Drummond, watch your back.”
“Will do, sir.”
He hung up. It looked like he’d have a job to return to when all was said and done, though Penderley would find a way to punish him—probably with training exercises at Hendon for six weeks—but he wouldn’t be cast out.
Mike was watching him. He gave her a mad grin.
“It’s nearly nine p.m. Let’s go see what Lanighan is up to.”
90
Paris
Avenue Foch, Saleem Lanighan’s home
Saturday night
At five minutes after nine, they heard a car start up and drive around from the garage. The door to the building opened and Lanighan came out. He looked angry. They watched him get into the waiting car and slam the door. The wheels on the Mercedes squealed as the car whipped away from the curve. What had him so pissed off?
Nicholas gave them a moment to put some distance between them, then pulled out after him.
“Keep an eye on them, Mike, they’re going fast.”
They were circling around the Arc de Triomphe now.
She said, “There they are, turning to the right. Let me count, fifth turn off the roundabout, onto the Champs-Élysées.”
Nicholas downshifted instead of braking as the car flew out onto the street behind the Mercedes. He could see it up ahead, nearly a quarter of a mile down the street. He floored the gas pedal, and the Peugeot leapt forward.
Mike said, “He’s headed east. Gagny is his biggest holding, and the only one east of the city. That must be where he’s going.”
“I’ll lay back a bit. Is he using his mobile?”
She checked the computer in her lap. “I’ve tapped into the wire Savich has on his phone. No outgoing calls.”
“I’m sure that will change.”
Ten minutes into the drive, the tracker on Lanighan’s mobile lit up.
“Got one. Outgoing, from Lanighan.” Mike turned up the volume on her laptop. Lanighan’s voice was scratchy.
Is everything prepared?
It is.
Is the bitch there yet with the stone?
Not yet. She’ll come. She wants her money too much to betray you. It’s all she ever cared about. Relax. How long until you arrive?
Thirty minutes, no longer.
I’ll be waiting.
The mobile went dead.
Mike’s cell phone rang almost immediately.
“Hey, Dillon. You guys get that?”
“We did. The call was made to the same phone signal we have on record here. Lanighan was talking to the Ghost, William Mulvaney.”
Mike said, “So who’s he working with? Lanighan or the Fox?”
Nicholas said, “Well, we’re going to find out soon enough. Savich, is Menard set up to meet us at Gagny warehouse?”
“Yes. He has a team with him.”
Nicholas said, “Be sure to tell them to stay well back until we signal for them. We’re going to go in first and see what’s happening. We don’t need this blowing up in our faces and turning into a bloodbath.”
“Be careful,” Savich said, and hung up.
“He’s not going to be alone, Nicholas. We need Menard and his men.”
He didn’t argue with her. “I have no issue with having Menard’s men backing us up. But the last thing I want is a massive show of force before we know what’s happening inside that warehouse.”
Nicholas lagged back, and Mike couldn’t see the Mercedes anymore. He shut off the lights, let the moon guide him. “When Mulvaney talked about the Fox, he sounded bitter, maybe angry. I wonder what that’s all about.”
Five minutes later, they could see the road dead-end at a large gate, topped with a camera.
Mike said, “Stop here. We don’t want to announce ourselves yet.” She pointed to the camera. Nicholas pulled the car to the side of the road. It was quiet, and very dark. The warehouses were deep into the grounds behind the gate. There was no movement here.
“No help for it,” Nicholas said, “we’ll have to go over the fence. Can your arm stand it? Or should I cut through?”
Mike shook her head. “Nicholas, we need to wait for Menard’s men.”
Nicholas shot her a grin. “No, we don’t. Are you with me or not?”
She thought about the three assassins Lanighan sent to kill them, thought about taking a nice swing at the Fox, bloodying her lip—it took exactly two seconds before she said, “Let’s go.”
“Let’s start out with a bit of reconnaissance.”
He reached up and turned off the interior light and opened his door carefully. He loaded his bag on his shoulder. She could see his face; he was having fun, the idiot.
She felt strong; she felt right. She checked her Glock and followed him out of the car. It was a war she wanted to fight, a war she intended to win.
91
Gagny Neuf-trois, Paris
Lanighan’s warehouse
Saturday night
Kitsune went over the fence at the back of the warehouse and climbed to the roof of the next building in the compound.
She could see the gate to the grounds, the parking lot, and half of the building proper.
She knew Mulvaney was inside, knew Lanighan had hurt him. He was probably in pain, wondering where she was, if she had a plan to save him. All she knew for sure was that she was going to destroy Saleem Lanighan tonight.
Lanighan’s Mercedes came into the warehouse parking lot at ten minutes to ten. She trained her monocle on the car, watched Lanighan get out and hurry inside the warehouse. He shouted something to his driver, but she couldn’t make out his words. She could tell, however, he was mad. At her? Good. Mad meant off balance, and that would make her job easier.
The warehouse had windows high up on the second floor and she could get only an idea of where people were from the shadowy movements behind the lights.
She counted off until she saw him again on the second floor. Thirty seconds. There was probably a single stairwell and hallway. She’d loaded the blueprints for the space, and knew the building was divided into two areas—an open bottom floor, where large paintings and sculptures were kept, the space large enough for a decent-size truck to drive in and out. She knew the setup was sophisticated and fully automated, knew hundreds of paintings were kept on racks electronically programmed to slide out from the wall for easy access and storage.
The second floor had a very large office where the manager of the warehouse worked and where occasional buyers came to see art Lanighan was selling. She was convinced this was wher
She saw the guards patrolling the grounds were only casually alert. They weren’t expecting the show—namely, her—until later, which was the reason she was hitting them now.
With her left hand, she screwed the suppressor into the threaded barrel of the H&K MP23. She hated guns, always had, after the long ago incident, as she often thought of it, with her parents, but she wasn’t about to go in without one. The H&K fit her hand nicely, the suppressor giving it only a few ounces of additional weight. She tucked it into the custom-made leather holster, felt for the two tear-gas canisters she had placed in the pockets of her black cargo pants. Four knives were in place, two strapped to her outer thighs, two to her stomach in a cross-handed pull.
She did square breathing, in for four counts, hold for four, out for four, hold for four; when she felt the familiar clean emptiness, she started down off the rooftop.
She went silent as a cat through the night, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the moon guiding her steps, sure and quick. Five hundred feet to the warehouse. Three hundred. Two. She swallowed and slowed, listening for the guards in case they circled around the back of the warehouse.
Nothing. She was clear.
She drew her gun, walked forward, watching for the metal staircase she needed to climb to the second-floor window.
A voice spoke from the darkness: “Stop, right there.”
She whipped around, crouched, gun pointed, finger already putting pressure on the trigger, but she realized she couldn’t risk firing yet, not outside. Even suppressed, it might bring the guards.
Decision made in a split second, her movements quick and sure, she holstered the gun and whipped a K-Bar knife out of its sheath on her thigh. The weapon made a vicious whisper as it left the webbing, and she readied it, sharp edge out.
A man took a step from the darkness and said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Drummond!
She lashed out at him, and he danced back, away from her lunge, back arched and stomach drawn in. Close, but she didn’t get him.
She pulled out the second K-Bar and sliced back the other way, forcing her way forward, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet. He stepped back just as a cloud floated in front of the moon, effectively blacking out the scene.
Knives poised and blind, she went for him again, a shadow in the dark. His fist shot out and hit her face. Pain radiated out from her cheek, and she gasped, ducked, and swung out her leg to trip him, but he was gone, fast as lightning. He was behind her, his hand in her hair, jerking her head back, exposing her throat. She jabbed one knife backward, but he twisted in time and she missed again.
He wrapped his hand hard around her right wrist and pulled her toward him. A mistake, that. She could throw him now. Leg forward, balanced on her toes and ready to spin, knowing the move would drive him over her shoulder, but she froze at the touch of hard metal against her temple.
“Drop the knives now, or I’ll take great pleasure in dropping you where you stand.”
It was Mike Caine.
Time stopped for a moment. She heard her own heavy breathing, felt the blood dripping from her nose, and wondered if Drummond had broken her wrist.
Kitsune said, “If I drop the knives, they’re going to make quite a bit of noise, then the guards will come. You’ll never make it out alive.”
Mike grabbed a K-Bar from her hand and tossed it behind her with a clatter. Nicholas removed the second gun from her hip holster, and took the other knife away.
He wrenched her arms behind her back, and Mike tossed him her handcuffs. He latched them on, then turned her around and grinned, his teeth flashing white in the light of the moon.
“Hello, Victoria.”
92
Nicholas retraced their path to the fence. There was a perfect body-size hole where he’d cut through the metal. Mike went first, watching for guards, cleared the road, then signaled the go-ahead. He pushed Victoria through and followed after her.
He wanted to tell Mike she’d put a stop to the fight at just the right moment because he didn’t know how much longer he’d have been able to dodge those knives. He felt a small wetness at the base of his spine; most likely he’d torn open his stitches. He certainly didn’t need any more.
When they reached the car, Mike got into the back with Victoria, her Glock pressed hard against her ribs. Nicholas got behind the wheel, and quietly pulled the car away.
“Where are you taking me?” Her voice shook a bit, not from fear, Mike thought, but from the pounding adrenaline.
Nicholas said, “Away from here. We want the Koh-i-Noor and we want it now. Where do you have it hidden?”
Kitsune laughed. “You seriously think I’m going to hand it over to you?”
“Yes.” He might have well have said, Don’t, and I’ll kill you myself.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked again.
Mike wondered the same thing but contented herself with keeping the barrel of her Glock against Victoria’s ribs.
Nicholas took turns too fast, going deeper into the Parisian suburbs. After fifteen minutes, he pulled into a small alleyway behind a row of town houses. “Mike, back in three, don’t let her move an inch,” and he got out of the car.
Kitsune said, “You take orders rather well, don’t you, Mike? Lying down for the man, huh? Why? You don’t work for him. Surely you’re too smart to be sleeping with him. Why don’t you think about this: you help me and I can give you more money than you’ve ever dreamed of.”
Mike really would like to beat the crap out of this woman. Such a pity, but she couldn’t, not with her in handcuffs. She gave her a big smile. “Screw you, Victoria.”
Kitsune didn’t move, didn’t say another word.
Nicholas appeared on Kitsune’s side of the car and opened the door. “Come. And be quiet about it.”
Kitsune saw her chance, opened her mouth to scream. Nicholas yanked her out of the car and smashed his hand over her mouth. He whispered, “I said, be quiet.”
She tried to bite him, so he clouted her hard over the ear, enough to stun her, and dragged her into the rear entrance of the town house.
Mike followed, silently applauding.
Nicholas tied Victoria to a chair in the kitchen, arms and legs, and gagged her with a dishrag he found in a drawer.
Mike felt Victoria’s pulse, strong and steady. Good. She wasn’t hurt badly. She turned to Nicholas, who was sitting on the table, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, watching.
Mike said, “Now we’re breaking and entering?”
He grinned at her. “Safe house.”
From his time as super-spy, of course.
“Now what?”
He gestured toward Victoria, who was coming around enough to open her eyes. She was making mewing noises behind the gag.
“Now she gives us the whereabouts of the Koh-i-Noor.” He hopped off the table and pulled the gag from her mouth. Mike gave her a drink of water.
Nicholas said, “Don’t bother screaming; this place is soundproof.”
Kitsune cocked her head to the side, eyed him. “And to think I waited for you to leave before I blew the bomb in Geneva. What a mistake that was.”
“Yes, it was. Where is the Koh-i-Noor?”
“It’s still in Geneva.”
“Okay, Victoire Couverel. Yes, we’ve met your brother, we know about your parents, about their murder. We know about your adoptive parents, the missionaries. And look at you. You grew up to be the notorious thief known as the Fox. Fact is, I know enough about you to know you’d keep the Koh-i-Noor close. Now, where is it?”
She was stunned. But she’d never let him see it.
She gave him a sneer. “I see you’ve done your homework.”
Nicholas said, “Listen, all we want is the diamond. You give it to us,
“I did not lie. It’s in Geneva. In a safe place.”
Nicholas was advancing on her when his mobile rang. After a moment, he pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Penderley.
He said, “Mike, convince our guest of the smart course of action.” He threw her the K-Bar knife he’d lifted during the fight. Mike caught it, expertly twisted it in her hand so the blade was pointed out, directly at Victoria’s lily-white throat.
It was a nice move. He went into the living room and answered the phone with a brusque “Yes?”
“I’ve spoken to Miles,” Penderley said. “The leak on the jewels traced directly to the Tower of London.”
Nicholas asked, “Are the Yeoman Warders the only ones outside of the queen’s people who knew this was even being discussed? Has anyone left their ranks suddenly of late?”
“No, but last year there was an engagement that broke up. The man’s name is Grant Thornton, and his fiancée walked out on him. No one’s ever heard from her again.”
“Photo, please?”
“It’s in your email.”
“Hold on.” He switched apps to his email, pulled up the photo. He looked at a tall, dark haired, well-built man looking down at a smiling woman who was staring directly into the camera without knowing the shot was being taken. It was Victoria Browning, of a sort. Her hair was darker, and her eyes were a different color, a sparkling light blue, and her smile was genuine. The combination made her exotic instead of merely pretty.
“That’s our girl. Do you have the man in custody?”
“No. No one thinks he knows a thing about any of this, so we’re simply keeping an eye on him.”
“Okay. If we need leverage, you can haul him in. If he and the Fox were engaged, perhaps she had real feelings for him. I’ll be back in touch soon.”
93
Nicholas hung up and went back to the kitchen. Mike looked one second away from belting Victoria. She’d obviously said something to tick Mike off.