The Final Cut

He sat back in his chair, rubbing his fingers along his chin, staring straight ahead, toward the cockpit. He was rotating his shoulder, trying to regain full motion. He needed to shave, not that it mattered, Mike thought, it enhanced the Don’t mess with me or I’ll twist off your head look down pat.

Nicholas jumped up from his seat. “Of course. The two calls she made, all that expert computer work—she does have a partner.”

She hated to rain on his parade, but they had to consider everything. “She could have been calling the buyer to let him know the diamond was on its way.”

“Why wouldn’t the buyer answer? Especially if he’d been waiting two years for this call.”

“Why wouldn’t a partner answer?”

He threw himself down in the seat again. “I don’t know. But a job of this magnitude, I know she has someone to work the back end. It’s very rare to have a thief, or an assassin, do a job without someone to facilitate—vet the jobs, handle the money, those types of things. It makes sense she would have someone behind the scenes, and of course she would guard their identity with her life.”

“But you said nothing in her background speaks of a partner. The Fox is known for going it alone.”

“Yeah, but I was wrong.”

Mike said, “Then we need to find out who the partner is and where he or she is. We can’t afford to be surprised again.”

He reached across the aisle and slapped her on the knee. “You know, I may have to steal Agent Wharton from you. He seems to earn his keep.”

“I won’t give him up without a fight. He’s one of the best in the FBI.”

Her cell phone rang again.

“It’s Zachery.” She put the call on the speaker. He sounded excited.

“Mike, divert the plane. The Fox didn’t go to Paris. Agent Wharton and the NSA got lucky. Using satellite footage of European airports within the plane’s fuel range, they’ve tracked the false tail number to a private airstrip in Megève, France. The French authorities have her pilot in custody. She’s headed for Geneva, Switzerland.”

51

Megève, France

Near the Swiss border

Friday morning

Kitsune slept through the plane’s approach and landing, which was just as well, because the small landing strip’s position gave the illusion the plane might fly directly into the side of the massive mountain Mont Blanc before it banked sharply and landed.

She woke when the wheels touched the ground and the engine fired into reverse. She yawned and stretched, and dug a warm coat out of her bag. It was cold out; she could see the snow on the Alps, cotton white, backed by the azure sky.

The pilot taxied to a stop and came out of the cockpit.

“Will you be needing my services again today?”

She thought about it for a moment. She’d pla

“Do you ski?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

She gave him a charming smile. “I will be a day. Enjoy the slopes. I will meet you back here on Sunday morning. Six a.m. Don’t be late.”

She descended the stairs to the waiting car. A black Mercedes sedan, as requested. The driver held the door.

When she was safely inside, he got behind the wheel and said in French, “We will be in Geneva in one hour, mademoiselle.”

The divider went up between the front and back seats, and she hit the mute button on the speaker. Once secure, she dialed Mulvaney again.

No answer. She clicked off, set the phone in her lap. The Arve River flowed to her right, following the highway, silted by glacial water to an eerie green. It looked wrong, as wrong as she felt. Mulvaney had now missed three check-ins. She knew what his silence meant. He was either taken or dead.

She pushed away the gut-wrenching fear at losing him; she couldn’t afford to think about him now, but the pain was still there, hot and deep. No. She had the job to complete. She had to deal with Saleem Lanighan, deliver the diamond, make sure the money was transferred properly. She saw Mulvaney in her mind’s eye, warning her that Lanighan wasn’t his father, who learned his lesson quickly—no, the son couldn’t be trusted; she’d have to be very careful.

She needed to take extra precautions with this exchange. When she was confident he hadn’t double-crossed her, only then would she hand over the safe-deposit box key to the diamond. He wouldn’t like it, but it was the safest way for her.
And where was Drummond? Close, she knew it. He was close.

She made a few adjustments to her hair and clothes, looked out the window to see the geyser peak of water in the distance, the Jet d’Eau, at the center of Lake Geneva, a lovely sight.

She checked her watch; right on time. She had two hours before she was to meet Lanighan. Considering the situation, she was glad of their set of coded meeting points. Even if Drummond had tracked her down, he’d be waiting for her in Paris, not Geneva.

She realized she was more concerned about him than she was about Lanighan. A few more distractions might be necessary to keep her safe. Just in case.

The driver followed her instructions well. The car stopped in front of the Deutsche Bank off Quai des Bergues exactly one hour after he’d picked her up in Megève.

Kitsune dismissed the driver—she could walk everywhere she needed for the rest of the morning—and entered the building. She immediately cut across the lobby into the courtyard and went out the north entrance. It was a five-minute walk to the Basilique Notre-Dame. She wound her way around the streets on foot, looking in the plate-glass windows of the stores along the way, until she was certain no one was following her.

The day was cold and clear, the city bustling around her. Geneva was always one of her favorite cities, even in winter, when the lake sometimes roiled and splashed over its banks, encasing the cars and boats and walkways along its length in ice.

She walked back toward the lake and went into the exquisite lobby of the Bank Horim.

One last errand, then thirty minutes later, she walked a bit up the Quai du Mont-Blanc, stopped for an espresso at the Hôtel de La Paix to shake off the chill.

She was nearly finished. Once the money was transferred and carefully redistributed to safe places, she would go directly to Bern, restore her blue eyes, and fly to Capri, to Mulvaney. She wouldn’t accept that something had happened to him, that he’d suffered an accident or a heart attack. No, he would be all right, welcoming her with a smile and a glass of his favorite Capri Falanghina. She would be with him again soon, and they would laugh together about all her adventures in New York.

Grant Thornton’s face flashed into her mind. When this was all over, maybe, just maybe, she could get him back. Mulvaney wouldn’t like that she’d fallen for a mark, it went against everything he’d taught her, but it was her life, her decision. Was she asking too much from the universe? Probably. But at the thought of him, a smile lingered on her lips.

Five minutes later, the espresso was gone. It was time.

52

Geneva, Switzerland

Friday, noon

Saleem was traveling on a false passport, under the name Rolph Heyer. It was easier to fool the border guards than customs agents in the airports, which was the purpose of driving across the border.

The border crossing was backed up, cars slowing to nearly a standstill. He lowered his window and breathed in the chill air. He felt good. He was close now. So close.

When asked for his papers, he handed them over with a smile. Image was everything. He was relaxed and capable. Nothing to fear. His face was not known to be a part of any criminal enterprise. Rolph Heyer was a businessman, a careful, cu