The Final Cut

“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 ru

“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 Céza

“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 ca

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.”