The Final Cut

“I did?”

“You did.”

He didn’t remember, then, “Wait—the box felt wrong. Too heavy. I could tell something nasty was in there.”

Again, she touched her fingers to his face. “Let’s hear it for your fine instincts. You’ve saved my life twice in as many days. I owe you one.”

“Actually, you owe me two, but I’m not counting.” He tried to smile, but it hurt too much. On the other hand, he was alive, and he would heal. “Browning, the Fox, whoever she is, she’s upped the ante. A lot of people could have been hurt or killed today. Mike, we’re so close, we can’t stop now.”

She bent over him again, pushed his hair off his forehead. “We won’t stop. But you need to stay here overnight. The doctors think the concussion is mild, but they want to keep an eye on you. Let the drugs work. We’ve lost the trail, anyway; she’s gone for now.”

He wasn’t going to argue. Moving around was going to be difficult until his head cleared. He’d been concussed before, knew if he did too much too soon, he’d end up vomiting on the floor and right back in the bed. And since they’d shot something really good into his IV, he really didn’t want to move, because he was floating high, up there at the ceiling. Now Mike was lightly rubbing his temples, and it felt very nice. He felt calm, and let go.

He heard her voice from a distance. “That’s right. Relax. I’m here. Nothing bad will happen.”

Just like his mother, he thought, and slept.

71

Hôpitaux Universitaires de Genève

Saturday, dawn

Nicholas passed a restless night, full of strange drug-induced dreams, and was vaguely aware of being poked and prodded every hour on the hour by the nurses. Mike slept awkwardly in the chair by his bed.

He awoke at dawn, his head still aching, but he could see much better. He searched the room until he spied a wall clock. Five in the morning. Twelve hours after they’d walked into the Sages Fidelité and all the fires of hell had burst into the world.

The Fox was certainly gone by now, Mike was right about that, as was the Koh-i-Noor.

Mike opened her eyes to see Nicholas sitting up in bed. She saw his eyes were clear, his face only slightly bruised.

“Hey, dude. Go back to sleep.”

Nicholas said, “I’m up. I’m feeling better. Did you hear back from Menard? Did he find the diamond?”

Mike gave it up. “No sign of it. Chances are the heat of the explosion reduced it to sand. I don’t know if heat will destroy a diamond, but I hardly think anything could survive strapped to a brick of C-4.”

“It would depend on the blast radius. It could have survived and they simply haven’t found it yet.”

“I was thinking about it last night. I don’t think it was the Koh-i-Noor at all. It was the other replica and the bomb was her insurance policy.”

Of course it was. He’d clearly damaged his brain.

“Menard and his men found nothing at Bank Horim. According to the bank’s logs, there was a safe-deposit box leased around the time she was there, but when they drilled it open, it was empty. The manager, Madame Helmut, claimed she didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Do you think she was lying?”

“Menard thinks so. About the Fox, the police found an abandoned rental car late last night a block away from a report of a stolen Fiat. Menard told me the border police have a photo of the stolen car passing through the Swiss-to-France at ten last night. A single woman, passport registered to a Stephanie Arle, resident of Calais, France. She was blond, but from the snap photo, it’s definitely her.”

“I wonder where she’s headed now.”

“There have been no Fox sightings since the border. She clearly has several identities at her disposal. She may be laid up somewhere, or ditched the car and stolen another one.” She paused for a moment. “Remember, Paris was the first place she was supposed to go. It’s only a four-hour drive from here. She could be driving there to meet the buyer.”

It made sense. “Do we have anything yet on the bank account numbers we found in the safe-deposit box at Sages Fidelité?”

“Unfortunately, you must have set the list down when you opened the box with the explosives.”

Had he set the paper down? He didn’t think he had. “Check the pocket of my pants. No, wait, try my wallet. I think I stashed it in there.”

Mike pulled the plastic bag from under the hospital bed that held the smoky remains of Nicholas’s clothes.

She pulled out his bloodstained pants and stuck her hand in the back pocket, careful not to cut herself on the small shards of glass embedded in the fine wool. The leather wallet had shaped itself to the curve of his butt, and wasn’t that nice?

Sure enough, in between the euros and dollars she found a small slip of paper. She pulled it out and waved it in his face.

“Hallelujah, Nicholas, you saved it.”

He started to smile, thought better of it. Now that he was becoming more alert, everything hurt, especially his face. And his eyebrows. And his ears. Even his teeth felt sore.

“Call Savich. He can add the account numbers to the database he’s working on.”

Mike typed away on her cell phone, copying the numbers, then hit send and looked up to see him watching her. She could tell he was hurting and she hated to see it. She really was going to smack that bitch when they caught her.

“Good thing you have your magic leather carry-on,” she said, holding up his pants. “These clothes are ruined.”

“And I so dearly loved those pants.”

A bit of a joke, it was a good start. He was going to be okay, thank the Almighty.

She said, “Louisa sent me a note late last night while you were getting stitched up. The DNA taken from Victoria’s chewed pencil was a familial match to an entry in CODIS. Did you know we’ve been matching our Combined DNA Index to international profiles though Interpol?”

That perked him right up. “And?”

“The Fox has a brother. And aren’t we the lucky ones—he’s in prison, serving life without parole for murder. We’ll go talk to him, see if we can’t get some background on this woman. Maybe he even knows where she is.”

“Where is he?”

“La Santé. In Paris. I’ve already set the arrangements. As soon as you’re well enough to travel, we’ll head to the airport.”

“All roads lead to Paris, it seems. Tell me about him.”

“Henri Couverel is his name, and he’s got a jacket a mile long, from petty street stuff to murder. Drugs, mainly. The murder he’s in for is his dealer. The man was stabbed a dozen times, and Couverel was found high as a kite, sitting in the man’s blood. He does not at all fit the profile for a explosives expert jewel thief.”

“So you don’t think she’s ever worked with him?”

“No,” Mike said, “and from his history, he’s much too scattered to have ever been any use to her. She’s a precision instrument, honed by years of practice. He’s a sledgehammer in comparison. Selling drugs is the least of it. According to the file, he’s a heroin addict. You know heroin addicts aren’t known for their cleverness.”

He sat up again, ignoring the pain in his back and the urge to vomit. “I’m well enough now. Let’s go.”

“Big bad tough guy, aren’t you, James Bond?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Lie back, Nicholas. The plane doesn’t leave until eight a.m. whether you’re ready or not.”

A nurse came in, checked him out, drew his blood, and offered him a sedative, which made him snort. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed to go shower. His head swam for a moment, then righted itself. The pain in his back where they’d stitched him up was a dull throb.

He was fine. Sore, but fine.

The nurse said from the doorway, “If your lab work is normal, you are being discharged in a hour. Maybe sooner, given what a macho guy you are. Oh, yes—try not to faint in the shower.”