The Final Cut

Kitsune couldn’t allow them to open the box, not while the stone was inside.

Kitsune said, “You must open the box yourself and remove the contents.”

“I ca

Kitsune’s heart sped up. A chance, then.

She said, “Do what you have to do. Make it happen.”

She turned to Lanighan.

“There is a problem, but I am handling it. Meet me back here in two hours.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, turned and left so quietly he wouldn’t have known she’d even been in his room if he hadn’t seen her with his own eyes.

66

Geneva, Switzerland

Sages Fidelité

Friday, early evening

Sages Fidelité was not a bank, it was simply a small building with a counter separating the foyer from three walls of floor-to-ceiling safe-deposit boxes. Mike and Nicholas burst in the door at a run, and the attendant behind the counter jumped to his feet and threw his hands in the air. He looked so scared Mike had to bite back a laugh. This was going to go better than it had at Bank Horim.

The boy was the assistant manager, a gawky youth who didn’t look old enough to shave. Tomas was his name, and he was happy to share all he knew, though, alas, it wasn’t much.

He looked at the picture and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, she came in this afternoon and rented a box. She paid up front, the nonresident of Switzerland rate, for two years. Then she put something in the box and left.”

“Let us into the box.”

The wide Adam’s apple bobbed. “Without her key, there is no way to open it.”

Nicholas banged his fist on the counter. “Find a bloody blowtorch, then. Get the box open, right now. And let us see the paperwork.”

The kid knew a serious man when he saw one. “No, no, don’t do that. I have a master key. We’re not allowed to use it, though; it’s only for emergencies.”

Mike touched her fingers to her Glock. “This is an emergency. Open the box.”

The boy swallowed and handed over the paperwork, then ran into the back for his master key.

Mike said, “This place isn’t very secure.”

“If it were one of the banks, this would never happen. They’d have to drill the lock out. There’s no guarantee of safety in a place like this.” He looked down at the paperwork. “Cheeky girl—she rented the box in the name Duleep Singh.”

Mike asked, “Duleep Singh? The last rightful owner of the Koh-i-Noor, before it was handed over to the British, right?”

“Yes. She’s playing games with us.”

The boy came back with the master key, opened the lock of the safe-deposit box, and quickly stepped back. Nicholas pulled the gray plastic box from the wall.

It was light. His heart began to pound. Was this it? Had they found the Koh-i-Noor?

Without waiting to set it on a table, he opened the box. There was only a piece of paper inside.

“I’d hoped it was the diamond. No such luck.”

He pulled out the paper. There was a list of numbers. No rhyme or reason to them that he could see.

“What is it?”

Mike took the paper from him and studied it. “Bank accounts. They’re consistent, each with thirteen numbers. Numbered accounts. We better let Savich throw this into the mix.”

“What’s that written on the back?”

She flipped the paper. Written in an elegant cursive were eight words. This is all you get. Leave me alone.

Mike said, “Do you think this is directed at us, or to someone else?”

Nicholas looked down at the message. “It has to be someone else, since she shouldn’t know we’re here. But we’re a step closer.”

He saw the young man watching them warily.

Nicholas dropped the box and crossed the floor in three steps, grabbed the boy’s collar, and jerked him up on his toes, got right in his face. “What else did she do while she was here?”

“N-Nothing, sir.”

“You’re lying. Did she buy another box?”

The boy was silent. Nicholas shook him. “Which one is it?”

“She didn’t, I swear.”

He said to Mike, “Call Menard, have him send over his officers to arrest this man.”

“Wait. Wait. Okay. She did rent one more box.”

Nicholas let him go. “So she paid you to keep quiet about it, did she, Tomas? Too late now. Open it.”

This box was heavier than the first. Nicholas carried it to the small Formica-covered table in the center of the room. He began to lift the lid, saw a flash of blue velvet and the clear, clean lines of molten glass.

The Koh-i-Noor.

Then the lid caught. He stopped and, holding his breath, he slowly and carefully allowed it to close.

“Everyone, don’t move.” Still holding the lid carefully closed, he fished in his pocket for his Swiss Army knife with its small attached flashlight.

He eased down onto his haunches until he was eye level with the edge of the lid, and keeping it less than an inch open, flashed the light inside.

There was the Koh-i-Noor in the box. Surrounded by wires.

Bloody hell.

He thanked the Almighty for the instincts that had just kept them all alive, and gently laid down the lid. Without moving, without raising his voice, he said, “Mike, it’s rigged to blow. Get the boy and walk outside. I’m right behind you.”

She didn’t hesitate, grabbed Tomas’s arm. “Come with me, right now.”

When he was sure they were safely outside, Nicholas carefully eased his hand from the lid, praying he hadn’t jostled the bomb. It was meant to explode the moment the lid was lifted past a quarter of the way open.

He slowly and silently backed away. He was still in one piece, which meant he hadn’t tripped the pressure switch. It didn’t mean they were safe, there could be a secondary timer, or it could work on a mobile signal, like the bomb in New York. It was surely divine intervention they all hadn’t been blown to kingdom come.

No way would he try and disarm this bomb himself. He needed to leave the building as quickly and calmly as possible and bring in the experts, with their robotic counterparts, to deactivate the switch.

He backed toward the door until he felt the handle under his hands, then turned swiftly and stepped outside. The freezing air bit his face, and he breathed a deep lungful. Too close, Nicholas. Too bloody close.

The glass door swung shut behind him, and he searched for Mike. She was across the street with Tomas, her face white. She was scared. And she was shouting at him, her hands above her head, arms waving wildly.

His mind registered her screams, and he felt rather than heard the glass shatter behind him with a ferocious burst of heat and ear-blasting explosion. He dropped to the ground, rolling into a ball, protecting his head, as the explosion roared around him, glass and metal twisting and hurtling outward, shooting out fire that burned his hands.

He couldn’t hear anything, see anything. It was all black.

67

Parc Saint-Jean

Kitsune watched Drummond and Caine talking to the boy, manhandling him, and the idiot caved and opened the box for them. At least he’d followed her instructions—if a couple came in looking for information, he was to give them the box with the paper in it.

If Saleem Lanighan came in, it was a different story.

But Drummond had scared the daylights out of the kid, and he’d brought out the second box. The box meant for Lanighan.

Her left thumb was on the detonator, the right held a monocle trained on the Sages Fidelité lobby. She was safe, across the park, but well within radio range.

She watched them talking about the bank account numbers in the first box. She saw Caine flip the paper over, saw Drummond snatch it from her and read her short message, meant for them.