The Final Cut

“No contact at all?”

  “No.” But he looked away, down and to the left as he said it, and they both knew he was lying.

  Nicholas crossed his arms. “Clairvaux Prison awaits if you tell us the truth, Henri.”

  Couverel sat back in the chair, scratched his neck. Something came off in his fingers; he examined it for a second, then casually flicked it away.

  Mike shuddered. Couverel caught the movement and smiled at her. His teeth were crooked but in surprisingly decent shape, considering. His voice was dreamy.

  “Do you know they keep Carlos the Jackal at Clairvaux? I should like to meet him. He was here for a time, inside La Santé. But kept isolated. A celebrity. I suppose they didn’t want him to give us ideas.”

  Nicholas was getting impatient. “Henri, I’ll make sure you get a personal audience with him, but only if you tell me the truth. When did you see Victoire last? I know you’ve seen her recently, so don’t lie.”

  He sniffed and lit a cigarette he’d probably stolen. “I speak the truth. It has been twenty years since I last saw her. She does not care about me, I do not care about her. I have no idea where she is or what she’s done to bring you to me, cochon. I don’t care, either. If you see her, remind her she has a dying brother.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she will send me some money. Or her friend will.”

  Nicholas flattened his palms on the table and leaned close. “What do you know of your sister’s friends, Henri?”

  His eyes flickered. So this was the lie. He said slowly, unwillingly, “Perhaps I have heard of a man she knows.”

  “Go on.”

  “He is, how do you say it in English, un fantôme, oui?”

  A ghost. Nicholas felt his heart speed up.

  “A ghost?” Mike asked. “You mean the man is dead?”

  Henri lit a new cigarette from the smoking ember of the old one. He nodded. “Yes, a ghost. But he is not dead.”

  “You have to give us a bit more to go on, mate.”

  “I cannot give what I do not have.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Silence.

  Yes, Couverel was afraid of this so-called ghost. Who was he?

  “Where did she meet him?’

  Silence.

  Mike said, “Come on, Henri. Help us out.”

  “Un fantôme. You look, and you will see.”

  “Tell us more about the people who adopted Victoire.”

  Couveral didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t meet their eyes.

  76

  Couverel looked caught between the Devil and a hard place. Nicholas paused at the door, waited for a moment, and, sure enough, Couverel leaped up from his chair but he said nothing.

  Nicholas waited, then stood up. “Say good-bye to Clairvaux, Henri.” He turned to Mike. “Let’s go.”

  “The family who took Victoire, the man was some kind of missionary. He traveled, to foreign countries. I remember because they asked what sort of shots Victoire had.” He snapped his fingers in disgust. “As if she were a dog they had rescued from the gutter.”

  Nicholas had seen Victoria snap her fingers in that same dismissive way in New York, at the Met, while they were still on the same team. Was it simple genetics, or had Henri seen Victoria more recently than he claimed?

  Nicholas doubted it, because Couverel wanted Clairvaux more than he was afraid of the ghost. Nicholas rubbed his hand across his chin. He hadn’t had a chance to shave, and the stubble was thick. “Shots. A missionary. Were they taking her back to England, or somewhere else?”

  “I do not know. And I swear to you, I know nothing more. Clairvaux—will I go there?”

  Nicholas said, “Yes, you will go to Clairvaux.”

  Nicholas went to the door and pressed the buzzer. Moments later, Madame Badour appeared, and they stepped from the room. She shuttled them through the first two gates before saying, “It sounds as if you had success.”

  Nicholas nodded. “Expect the request to come for his transfer to Clairvaux, but don’t release him to their custody until I give you the go-ahead. I need to make sure the information he gave us was the truth.”

  The woman spoke without irony. “You may count on me to do my duty, Monsieur Drummond.”

  They wound out of the prison’s heart, through the clanging gates, and she bid them adieu at the cement bench she’d collected them from two hours earlier.

  Mike couldn’t get out of the prison fast enough, and she could tell Nicholas was anxious to be gone and follow the lead, too. It wouldn’t take long to verify the information regarding Victoria’s adoption; it would be in the state records. The ghost. Fantôme.

  She said, “Couverel said the ghost was Victoire’s friend. I assume you made the connection, too, between Henri’s fantôme and our master thief, the Ghost.”

  “Yes, I did. He’s a busy man, this fantôme.”

  Mike nodded.” This is the last bit of evidence we need—they have to be partners. And maybe the number she was calling on the plane belongs to him. We can track him through the number.”

  “It fits, Mike. Menard told us the Ghost was a retired assassin. No wonder Couverel was so terrified to tell us about him. The fantôme has already murdered five people we know of in the past couple of days. At least he told us enough about her adoptive parents to track them down.”

  He didn’t argue when Mike took the keys from his hand and got behind the wheel. He climbed in beside her, and she turned the engine over. Heat began shooting from the vents of their rented Peugeot, and she rubbed her hands in front of the stream of air. She was cold through, and it wasn’t only because of the winter chill.

  “You’re quiet. Still hurting?”

  He was hurting, the adrenaline of the chase wearing off. He could make it awhile longer, though.

  “I’ll do. I’m going to look up the parents’ murder as we go. Do you need directions?”

  “No, I have the GPS. But I do need know where we’re going.”

  “A destination would help, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, and having a plan might be good, too.”

  “I think our first priority should be finding some food. I’m famished.”

  “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve eaten a proper meal since this case began. You, either.”

  “Drive west, toward the Eiffel Tower. We’ll find something suitable along the way.”

  She put the Peugeot into gear and pulled out. Forty minutes later, they were seated at Café L’Ardoise, steaming cups of café au lait at their elbows and croissants on the plates in front of them. Nicholas’s computer was open, and he was reading out loud between bites.

  “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 f
aked, 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 last 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 surp
rise. 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.”