Menard tossed back his espresso in one gulp, and Mike stared. The coffee was steaming hot; his throat must be made of asbestos. He set the tiny cup on the counter so he could use his hands to help him speak. A very expressive man, Menard, and smart, she thought, very smart, and very committed. They’d lucked out. She was wondering when he was going to make it clear he really liked her, the American, best.
“You must think of art theft this way: there are usually three possibilities. In this case, for this particular diamond, and similar pieces which have such a strong historical path, there are four.”
He raised his hand and started ticking the list off on his fingers.
“One, to sell it. Then you are dealing with a profiteer, and they have no style, no panache. It is simply a transaction, and it is most likely already gone, out of your reach. Two, if it was taken to return it to its rightful owners. Then you’re looking for a zealot, who is very dangerous, for he will try to kill anyone who gets in his way. Three, for the prestige of having such a piece. A collector, then, who will be the hardest of all to trace, because he will quietly hold on to his prize and never share it with the world.”
“And the fourth?” Nicholas asked.
Menard’s face grew grim. “A man who has stolen the diamond because of the legend attached. This man would be unpredictable, dangerous, a man who would destroy the diamond before he gives it up.”
Mike said, “Which do you think we’re dealing with?”
Menard splayed his hands. “I do not know, mademoiselle, but we shall hope it is not the fourth, yes?”
Nicholas sipped his espresso, hot as fire, thick as tar, delicious. “Have you heard of the Fox working with someone?”
“No. Never. My understanding is that he—she—always works alone.”
Nicholas said, “She made two calls to the same number while she was flying from America to Europe. Neither was answered. Mike’s government is running the number, and we should know soon who it belongs to.”
“I am sorry. I have never heard of her working with anyone.”
“What about against someone? Who is her competition?”
Menard nodded vigorously, signaling to the barman for another shot of espresso. “Ah, this I can answer for you. There are three: a Frenchman from Algiers, dead now. He was shot by a security guard in a botched attempt on the Tate Modern and bled to death on the floor. He was called Goyo. The second is Ruvéne—he successfully lifted three Cézannes for the Russian government and was caught two years ago near Prague. He is in jail for life.
“The third is the Ghost. He has been in business far longer than anyone else I know of. No one knows his nationality, but he takes only the biggest jobs, the most prestigious, the most challenging and dangerous. He has either retired or died, for his name and his signature have not been seen in over ten years.”
Mike asked, “What was the Ghost’s signature?”
“Explosives. They were used as insurance. He would wire the place and leave a small warning note behind. If he was allowed to steal away, he would not blow up the rest of the museum, or the house, or wherever else he had taken his prize from. After twenty-four hours, the clocks on the bombs ran out, and they were deactivated. Crude but effective. He always got away.”
Nicholas felt his adrenaline spike. He looked at Mike. “Sound familiar? Menard, the Fox wired the Jewel of the Lion exhibit to blow. I was able to defuse the bomb before she followed through.”
Menard pursed his lips. “Very interesting. A nod to the great one, perhaps, or simple coincidence?”
“I don’t know. Do Interpol or FedPol have a physical description of the Ghost?”
“The jacket on the Ghost contains an anecdote someone told an interviewer at one time. The man saw a ghost when he was a child, and it turned his hair stark white. This is all we know about him.”
Mike and Nicholas both sat up straighter.
“This means something to you?”
“Yes, it does.” Mike loaded the video and pushed her tablet across the table. “We received this feed today, from the scene of Inspector Elaine York’s murder.” She hit play.
Menard watched with interest. “A man with white hair.”
“Could it be the Ghost?” Nicholas asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know why not. Send the feed to me, I will load it into the FedPol database. Perhaps there will be something to match it to.”
Mike did, and Nicholas said, “One more thing. This man was probably one of two men sent to kill Agent Caine and me last night in her underground garage. We fought them off, and one was killed. This one”—he tapped the screen—“got away. I saw white hair sticking out of his ski mask. He was tough, and fast, a martial-arts master.”
Menard was getting excited. “So the Ghost could still be with us? But why was he in New York, and why attack you, and Inspector York? He wasn’t involved in the Koh-i-Noor theft, was he?”
“Maybe,” Mike said, “the Ghost is her partner and guarded her back.”
Nicholas said, “I’ll email Zachery and Savich, give them this additional information.”
Menard’s mobile rang while Nicholas sent the email. He listened, then a smile broke out on his face. He hung up and said, “Let’s go.”
Nicholas typed in a couple more words, then jumped to his feet. “You found her?”
“We found where she was two hours ago. Bank Horim. It is across the way.”
59
Bank Horim was a block and a half down the street, along the lake. They hurried, Nicholas restraining himself from breaking out in a sprint. They were closing in, he could feel it. Could feel the Fox nearby like she was giving off a scent.
Sirens began to wail. A cop car drew closer, summoned by Menard.
Menard had short legs and a smoker’s lungs; he was puffing to keep up. “Swiss banking is a global business. Horim is very private, very discreet, has branches in Zurich, Geneva, Luxembourg, and Singapore, and offices in Russia, Hong Kong, and Israel.” He had to stop to catch his breath. “I hope they are as helpful as Monsieur Tivoli at Deutsche Bank.” But he sounded doubtful.
They entered the building and asked for the manager. They were shown into a small glass office, and were quickly joined by a tall older woman wearing a sleek black suit. Her strawberry-blond hair was cut in an elegant bob. She didn’t smile, but she did nod to each in turn as they showed her their creds. She said in a lilting accent, “I am Marie-Louise Helmut. What can I help you with?”
Menard said, “Madame Helmut, we are looking for a woman who came into the bank two hours ago. We need to know what business she had here.” Nicholas showed her Browning’s photo.
She said, in a formal voice, “Assuming I’ve seen this person, you know I cannot share this information with you. We have the strictest privacy policies to protect our customers. Without the proper papers, I will not be able to speak to you.”
Nicholas took a step toward her, aggressive as a wolf. Helmut immediately recoiled, obviously alarmed.
Mike saw the look on his face and the way he readied himself, but when he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “This is a matter of the utmost urgency, madame. Look again.”
Despite being wary of him, Helmut stared him down. “We need the appropriate paperwork.”
“Hold on.” Menard whipped out his mobile and made a call to the local police. “This is Menard. I am at Bank Horim. We need armed men at the entrances. In case our suspect returns.”
He hung up and smiled pleasantly at Helmut. He handed her a card. “If you change your mind about cooperating, call. Otherwise, it is going to look like a siege in here until the warrants are executed. And you will not get any banking done because we are going to interview everyone who was in the building, all morning long.”
“See here, Monsieur Menard, there is no call to be this way. I am bound by our privacy laws—”
Nicholas shoved the photograph in front of her face. “What did she do while she was here? Tell us now or you’re going to be tied up for weeks with regulatory checks on each of your accounts. Your bank participates in the International Anti-Money Laundering and Terrorism Acts. We have the right to discovery on your clients, the money you move, everything. And we’ll spend all the time we need being very, very thorough.”
She looked like she wanted very much to shoot them but couldn’t. So she said, “She did no business with us. She simply asked for directions.”
Nicholas said, “Stop wasting our time.”
“It is true. She did no banking.”
Mike stepped in. “This is a matter of life and death. This woman is fugitive; she is extremely dangerous. We need to know what she was doing here.”
Helmut closed her eyes for moment. A small frown crossed her face, then her shoulders straightened, her decision made. “The lady in the photograph inquired about the purchase of a safe-deposit box. I informed her there was a waiting list of over two years for the security section.” She looked down her nose. “We don’t do ‘walk-ins,’ as you like to say. She was very upset. I sent her to Sages Fidelité, on Place de Chevaleux. They perform a similar service without the wait. Or the security, but this did not seem to matter. She was quite urgent about it.”
She gestured toward the door. “This is all I know. Please, I must return to my work.”
Nicholas was vibrating with anger. “After all that, you mean to say you’ve been stalling us over a matter of directions?”
Helmut crossed her arms over her chest. “I am protecting my bank and my clients. I would prefer for you to leave now.”
Menard said, “Not yet, Madame Helmut. My officers are on their way. You will understand we cannot take your word for it. We will need your video feeds for the day.”
Mike’s phone dinged with a new text message. She looked at it and breathed in hard. Nicholas looked over at her.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Menard, Ms. Helmut, please excuse us for a moment.”
Menard nodded at them and stayed to face off with Marie-Louise Helmut. Mike walked out onto the street, Nicholas behind her.
“What is so important that you’d pull me away from a suspect in the middle of an interrogation?”
She merely showed him the message from Ben.
Nicholas read it aloud. “Andrei Anatoly and two of his sons are dead. Call me when you can. Savich has news for you, too.”
Menard joined them.
“She is lying through her teeth but is handing over the video feeds. What has happened?”
“News on another facet of the case, in New York,” Mike said, “and it’s a doozy. One of our initial suspects has been murdered. A mobster named Andrei Anatoly. Heard of him?”
“I do not know this name. What would you like to do?”
Nicholas said, “Tell us about Sages Fidelité.”
“They are much less intransigent. They would do business with a rhinoceros, should it have the right amount of money. I must stay here and gather the video. You should take a taxicab, they are a long walk from here.”
A cab pulled over at nearly the same time Menard raised his hand. Nicholas said, “We’ll be back as soon as we find anything.”
The moment she saw the three police officers walk away from the front of the bank, Marie-Louise Helmut calmly picked up the phone.
60
Mike called Ben from the cab as they raced through the streets of Geneva, put him on speaker so Nicholas could hear.
“Hey, Mike. Good timing.”
“What in the world is happening there?”
“Other than I’m up to my butt in dead mobsters and wished I had a beer, nothing much.”
“Ben, quit being funny and tell me what happened.”
He did, then said, “Sherlock thinks it’s the same guy who killed Kochen and Elaine. He could also be the guy who attacked you and Nicholas last night in the garage. As for his dead partner, he simply left him to bleed out. Savich thinks he found what he wanted.
“Two more sons, Yuri and Toms, came in, saw their father and two brothers dead and attacked straight off. Savich put them both down, neat as you please. So far no one in the neighborhood saw anything.
“Now, back to the Fox. The bomb boys have a signature on the C-4 explosive from the Met exhibit. It’s out of Tunisia. They’re looking to compare it to the explosive used on Anatoly’s safe. No tests yet, but they think it’s the same.
“Neither Yuri or Toms Anatoly know what was in the safe. There are three more sons. We’ve called them to come in and talk to us. Paulie and Louisa are tearing the place apart, but so far, nothing you wouldn’t expect in a huge house like this one.”
Nicholas said, “Ben, we have a tentative ID on the man with white hair—we think he’s another master thief called the Ghost. Could be he’s partnered up with Browning. We don’t know exactly how he ties in to the theft of the Koh-i-Noor, but he does.”
Ben whistled. “Lot of coincidences piling up. And you know how we feel about coincidences.”
“There aren’t any. You got anything else, Ben?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, one other thing. We got a warrant in, and I tracked Elaine’s funds. She paid Kochen three equal installments of five thousand dollars apiece.”
Nicholas said, “Any indication why she paid him this money?”
“No. You guys watch your backs, okay? There’s some bad people around.”
“We will. Call me if you find anything else.”
She punched off her cell and turned to Nicholas. “Ben’s right. Talk about a case twisting in on itself.”
She saw his expression was remote. When he replied, his voice was distant. “So Elaine was paying Kochen.”
She lightly touched his arm. “I’m sorry.”
He shook himself. “Doesn’t means she’s guilty of anything yet, Mike.”
The cabdriver slowed, slid to the curb, and grunted at them, “Three euros.”
Nicholas handed the money through the slot. “Here’s our stop. Let’s go see what the Fox was up to, and maybe things will begin to make sense.”
61
Loire Valley, near Chartres, France
Lanighan estate
Thirty years ago
Saleem was eight when his father took him to visit his grandfather one last time before the old man was expected to die. At his request, Saleem was left alone in the study for an audience with the dying Lion.
The fire was the only light in the room. His grandfather’s chair sat squarely before the fire, close enough for the old man to warm his bones. There was nothing wrong with his hearing. The moment the servants softly closed the door behind them, he commanded, “Come here to me, boy.”
Saleem edged forward. His grandfather had changed so much since their last visit. The man who’d held him on his knee and hugged him close was gone, replaced by this ancient gray thing sitting too close to the fire.
He knew his grandfather was very sick, and suddenly Saleem was scared of him. He smelled wrong, and his eyebrows were thick, like hairy caterpillars, with stray hairs growing out like feelers.
When he was within a few feet, his grandfather’s arm snaked out and grabbed him, pulling him close. The musty smell of death overwhelmed him, and Saleem coughed.
“I need to tell you a story, Saleem. I am dying. It is important for you to know what this means.”
“Why are you dying, Grandfather?”
“My heart is broken, young Saleem. It has a hole that cannot be fixed. So it slows and doesn’t push the blood through my body. Feel how cold my hands are, how blue my nails.”
He touched the boy’s forehead, and Saleem jumped. It was like setting a large cube of ice against his skin.
“Shall I add more w
ood to the fire, then? Will it help warm you?”
The old man shook his shaggy head. “It will not work. Now listen to me, and listen well. You are about to be given a secret so important you can never share it with another soul. Do you understand what I mean when I say a secret?”
“I can’t tell anyone, or I’ll die.”
A spark of humor showed in the old man’s eyes, and Saleem briefly saw the man he remembered, peeking out from the gathering black. He smiled, pleased to make his grandfather happy, and said, “Tell me, Grandfather. I will never tell a soul.”
“Good, Saleem, good. I must whisper these words to you. Come closer.”
Saleem bent his head, and his grandfather spoke, his old-man breath foul and hot on his face. “You are of a long line of men whose one job in this life is to guard a most ancient and valuable secret. See the box on the table there? Fetch it to me.”
The rosewood box was small and brown, with an intricate lock. “Where is the key, Grandfather?”
“I will show you. Bring me the box and the small knife lying beside it.”
Saleem did as he was asked. His grandfather took the box in one feeble hand, set it on his lap. His fingers were gnarled, but he cut his thumb surely with the ivory-handled knife. The blood welled from the wound, and instead of wiping it away, he laid his thumb against the latch of the box. Saleem heard a deep clicking noise, and the latch sprang free.
His voice shook. “Blood? Blood opens the box?”
His grandfather smiled. “Not any blood, Saleem. Our blood. The blood of the Lion. We are the descendants of the Lion of Punjab, and it is our line which was given this great gift. We, and we alone, are the guardians of the stone.”
He lifted the top of the box, and within lay a crystal-clear rock, slightly misshapen, not quite an oval, and the size of his grandfather’s fist. It didn’t look grand or exciting, and Saleem was disappointed.
“This is your destiny, Saleem. It is one part of the most ancient diamond in the world. Once, our ancestors possessed a great stone, given to Krishna himself by Surya, the sun god. He who owned the stone had the power of the world in his hands. This power could not be bought, it could only be given, or”—his voice hardened—“taken by force.”