The Final Cut

  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?”

  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.

  There was an opening ahead, the lake showing through the heavy trees next to the road.

  The man in the passenger side of the truck pulled his entire upper body out of the window and sighted on them.

  “Now, Mike. Hold the wheel and put your foot on the gas.”

  She moved to take his place, and he slid his upper body out of the window and took careful aim, ducking as the AK spat bullets back at them.

  “Here you go, you bugger.” He caught the driver’s eye in the rearview, rolling and mad, and took careful aim despite the wind whipping him backward. He emptied his magazine into the driver’s-side window, saw the fine spray of blood across the glass, and pulled back into the car.

  The results were immediate. The Land Rover squirreled hard to the left, hit the concrete barrier and ricocheted off to the right, through the metal guardrail, which launched it into the air. It twisted as it toppled over the edge and caromed down to the water head over tail, before crashing through an old wooden dock and landing upside down in Lake Geneva.

  Nicholas pulled the beaten-up valiant Mercedes to the side of the road. Mike was out the door immediately, Nicholas right behind her, their weapons drawn, but there was no need—the Land Rover and its occupants were sinking down into the freezing water.

  It was over.

  To Mike’s astonishment, Nicholas started laughing. “You want to know something? My back doesn’t hurt at all. I feel b
loody great.”

  The sirens were on them. The Geneva police screeched to a stop, blocking the A1 in both directions. Officers scrambled down the bank to the submerged truck, and two took defensive positions in front of Mike and Nicholas, shouting in French, “Drop your weapons!”

  Mike held up her FBI credentials. “I’m Special Agent Michaela Caine, FBI, and this is Chief Detective Inspector Nicholas Drummond, Scotland Yard! Call FedPol Agent Pierre Menard; we’re working with him.”

  She looked at Nicholas and shook her head, her ponytail swinging in her face, trying to catch her breath. “You call that no heroics?”

  73

  Menard caught up to them as the divers arrived. Nicholas and Mike were drinking hot coffee out of foam cups and being questioned by a pissed-off young Contonal Police captain. After shooting up the main thoroughfare through Geneva, causing countless wrecks during the course of a high-speed chase, ending with a car in Lake Geneva and two missing bodies, the captain wasn’t inclined to allow them to leave the city, but Menard flashed his FedPol badge, spoke a few curt words in French, and he backed off, even more pissed off than he’d been when he arrived.

  Nicholas said, “No one was hurt, I hope?”

  “Only the two you chased into the lake,” Menard said. “What can you tell me about them?”

  Nicholas said, “Both dark-haired and medium height, late twenties to early thirties. One was Caucasian and the other was Egyptian, maybe. I thought I heard a few choice phrases I’ve overheard in Cairo before. As to who set them on us, that’s the more troubling question. Either the Fox called in some hired muscle, or these guys belong to the buyer. To go to this extreme, it’s got to mean they’re panicking, which means we’re getting close.”

  A diver in a wet suit broke the surface with the truck’s license plate in his hand.

  Menard said, “I am thankful you and Agent Caine escaped more injury. It is probable the Land Rover was stolen, but we will trace this plate and find out to whom the truck belonged, and with luck, it will lead us to your buyer. And when we have a positive identification on the two assailants, I will let you know. I will meet you in France tonight.

  “Now, the young captain will not detain you. We have secured your flight to France. It would be best for you to leave sooner, rather than waiting too long. I will manage this. But you must go now, or the captain might shoot all of us.”

  Mike touched Menard’s arm. “Thank you, monsieur, you’ve been a great help.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “My pleasure, of course.” He handed Nicholas a Glock .40.

  “My own. You may need this. Be careful.”

  74

  Paris, 14th Arrondissement

  La Santé Prison

  Saturday, noon

  The flight from Geneva to Paris took only forty-five minutes, and the drive from Charles de Gaulle to La Santé Prison another twenty-five. Nicholas wasn’t feeling so great now. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat when they arrived. Mike was worried about him, but he was a stubborn man, determined not to look like he was hurting, so she kept her mouth shut.

  They were met by the warden of La Santé. Her name was Lucienne Badour, a striking brunette in her late forties, heavyset but with long, shapely legs more suited to dancing the cancan than walking the filthy prison halls. She spoke very nice English with a strong Parisian accent.

  She met them at the gate, got them signed in, and brought them to the entrance of the infamous prison. She stopped before they entered the first door.

  “May I ask why you desire a meeting with Henri Couverel?”

  Nicholas shook his head. “It’s a matter of national security. We must speak with him in private, with no one listening. If he knows he’s on camera or tape, he may not be frank with us, and we don’t have time to sort out lies.”

  “Is it pertaining to the Koh-i-Noor diamond? I understand it was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art Thursday evening. It’s all over the news.” She turned to Mike. “Forgive my curiosity. Your boss, Milo Zachery, arranged this meeting. He told me a bit about what was happening.”

  Mike said, “I’m sure he did, Madame Badour, but we are not at liberty to discuss the matter. May we see Monsieur Couverel now?”

  Badour gave them a beautiful Gallic shrug. “You can see him, but whether he will speak to you is another matter. He is not a cooperative inmate.”

  Mike had been in her share of prisons. La Santé had a reputation as one of the worst in the world. The suicide rates were enormous, inmates battled infestations, overcrowding, lice and rats, and one another. She had to admit, the long, gray corridors weren’t cheerful. They would go for twenty to thirty feet and meet another gate, which was opened only after the gate behind them was shut, locked, and cleared. It took a solid twenty minutes to weave their way inside the dank concrete walls.

  Nicholas said, “Madame Badour, has Couverel made any requests which you’ve denied?”

  “Hundreds. He knows most of the drug pushers in Paris. Many officials want information from him, but it always comes at a price. Cigarettes, privileges, television. His most fervent demand, however, is beyond my control.”

  “What does he want?”

  “A transfer to Clairvaux Prison. Out of Paris, out of this—” She broke off, swinging her hand around, and finished with a short “muck.”

  “And if I could make this happen? Would he be more cooperative?”

  She studied him for a moment. “You must have sway with the French authorities.”

  Nicholas said, “Enough.”

  Mike remembered his Foreign Office ties, and realized that yes, he did have the pull for such a move.

  Madame Badour realized he was serious as well. “Then I will not stop you from making the offer as leverage. We will wait here for Couverel. It won’t be long. He isn’t dangerous; we keep him in the mixed cells. Four men to a cell, they are confined twenty hours out of the day. He’s been in isolation a few times, but he’s been well behaved for the past two years, so he’s been given work privileges. He folds pamphlets for a company we do business with. Oh, here is Couverel now.”

  Even as bad as the prison was, Mike was still shocked at the man’s appearance. His dark hair was lank and greasy, and heavily streaked with white. His clothes were torn and dirty. He hadn’t seen a razor in at least a week, nor water for bathing, it seemed. French prisoners didn’t wear uniforms as they did in American prisons. They depended on the kindness of family and friends to provide fresh clothes. Couverel was obviously on his own.

  She didn’t think Couverel looked well enough to stand the interview, much less many more years.

  He sat down hard at the chipped Formica table and stared at them. Mike and Nicholas sat themselves opposite him.

  Nicholas turned to Madame Badour. “You’ll excuse us?” It wasn’t a request.

  She pursed her lips and walked out. The steel door shut behind her with a loud clang, and they were alone with the prisoner.

  Nicholas asked, “Parlez-vous anglais?”

  Couverel shrugged. “Non.”

  In fluid French, Nicholas continued to speak, and Mike struggled to keep up with his fast, idiomatic speech. Couverel was paying attention, and when Nicholas switched to English mid-sentence, he followed along.

  Liar. He did speak English.

  “The lady does not have enough French to follow. We will continue in English.”

  He shrugged again, a spark of humor in his eyes. “Oui, cochon.”

  Nicholas ignored the insult. “You look a bit like your sister.”

  Couverel’s eyes narrowed. “I have no sister.”

  “Of course you do. We have DNA matching her to you. Where is she?”

  Couverel stared at the table, flicked a nail against the edge.

  Nicholas leaned into Couverel’s face. “Listen to me very carefully. Y
ou have something I want. In return, I will give you what you want—a transfer to Clairvaux Prison. If you’re truthful, I will make it happen. Lie to me”—Nicholas shrugged, placed his large hands on the table—“you will remain here to sleep with the rats.”

  75

  Couverel settled deeper into the hard metal chair, chewed on a ragged, cracked lip for a moment, then said quietly, “If you can get me to Clairvaux, I will give you what you want.”

  Nicholas said, “Consider it done. You have my word. Now, your sister?”

  Mike said, “We need a name, Henri. What was she called?”

  “We called her Victoire. We were separated at a young age. She went to live with a family in England; I was left behind. I was old enough to be on my own, she was only a child.”

  Victoire. Victoria in English. As Gray Wharton had said, the best lies were always based in truth.

  “Our parents left us when she was five. I do not know if they died or were killed or simply did not care anymore. I found out later they were murdered. We were put into the Clesde Champs orphanage and stayed off and on for five years. Victoire had a family who liked her; they took her away, and I have not seen her since.”

  “What were your parents’ names?”

  “Isobel, she was my mother. My father was Henri as well.”

  “Couverel?”

  “Oui.”

  “And the family who took her?”

  “No idea. The woman, she had light hair and eyes. I remember thinking it would be clear Victoire was adopted; she looked nothing like the woman.”

  “Victoire Couverel. How old is she?”

  “Four years younger than me. I am forty-two.”

  Mike was surprised. He looked to be in his late fifties if he was a day.

  She said, “And you haven’t seen her since you were fourteen and she was ten?”

  “That’s correct.”