The Final Cut

Nicholas pulled the beaten-up valiant Mercedes to the side of the road. Mike was out the door immediately, Nicholas right behind her, their weapons drawn, but there was no need—the Land Rover and its occupants were sinking down into the freezing water.

It was over.

To Mike’s astonishment, Nicholas started laughing. “You want to know something? My back doesn’t hurt at all. I feel bloody great.”

The sirens were on them. The Geneva police screeched to a stop, blocking the A1 in both directions. Officers scrambled down the bank to the submerged truck, and two took defensive positions in front of Mike and Nicholas, shouting in French, “Drop your weapons!”

Mike held up her FBI credentials. “I’m Special Agent Michaela Caine, FBI, and this is Chief Detective Inspector Nicholas Drummond, Scotland Yard! Call FedPol Agent Pierre Menard; we’re working with him.”

She looked at Nicholas and shook her head, her ponytail swinging in her face, trying to catch her breath. “You call that no heroics?”

73

Menard caught up to them as the divers arrived. Nicholas and Mike were drinking hot coffee out of foam cups and being questioned by a pissed-off young Contonal Police captain. After shooting up the main thoroughfare through Geneva, causing countless wrecks during the course of a high-speed chase, ending with a car in Lake Geneva and two missing bodies, the captain wasn’t inclined to allow them to leave the city, but Menard flashed his FedPol badge, spoke a few curt words in French, and he backed off, even more pissed off than he’d been when he arrived.

Nicholas said, “No one was hurt, I hope?”

“Only the two you chased into the lake,” Menard said. “What can you tell me about them?”

Nicholas said, “Both dark-haired and medium height, late twenties to early thirties. One was Caucasian and the other was Egyptian, maybe. I thought I heard a few choice phrases I’ve overheard in Cairo before. As to who set them on us, that’s the more troubling question. Either the Fox called in some hired muscle, or these guys belong to the buyer. To go to this extreme, it’s got to mean they’re panicking, which means we’re getting close.”

A diver in a wet suit broke the surface with the truck’s license plate in his hand.

Menard said, “I am thankful you and Agent Caine escaped more injury. It is probable the Land Rover was stolen, but we will trace this plate and find out to whom the truck belonged, and with luck, it will lead us to your buyer. And when we have a positive identification on the two assailants, I will let you know. I will meet you in France tonight.

“Now, the young captain will not detain you. We have secured your flight to France. It would be best for you to leave sooner, rather than waiting too long. I will manage this. But you must go now, or the captain might shoot all of us.”

Mike touched Menard’s arm. “Thank you, monsieur, you’ve been a great help.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “My pleasure, of course.” He handed Nicholas a Glock .40.

“My own. You may need this. Be careful.”

74

Paris, 14th Arrondissement

La Santé Prison

Saturday, noon

The flight from Geneva to Paris took only forty-five minutes, and the drive from Charles de Gaulle to La Santé Prison another twenty-five. Nicholas wasn’t feeling so great now. He was covered in a fine sheen of sweat when they arrived. Mike was worried about him, but he was a stubborn man, determined not to look like he was hurting, so she kept her mouth shut.

They were met by the warden of La Santé. Her name was Lucie

She met them at the gate, got them signed in, and brought them to the entrance of the infamous prison. She stopped before they entered the first door.

“May I ask why you desire a meeting with Henri Couverel?”

Nicholas shook his head. “It’s a matter of national security. We must speak with him in private, with no one listening. If he knows he’s on camera or tape, he may not be frank with us, and we don’t have time to sort out lies.”

“Is it pertaining to the Koh-i-Noor diamond? I understand it was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art Thursday evening. It’s all over the news.” She turned to Mike. “Forgive my curiosity. Your boss, Milo Zachery, arranged this meeting. He told me a bit about what was happening.”

Mike said, “I’m sure he did, Madame Badour, but we are not at liberty to discuss the matter. May we see Monsieur Couverel now?”

Badour gave them a beautiful Gallic shrug. “You can see him, but whether he will speak to you is another matter. He is not a cooperative inmate.”

Mike had been in her share of prisons. La Santé had a reputation as one of the worst in the world. The suicide rates were enormous, inmates battled infestations, overcrowding, lice and rats, and one another. She had to admit, the long, gray corridors weren’t cheerful. They would go for twenty to thirty feet and meet another gate, which was opened only after the gate behind them was shut, locked, and cleared. It took a solid twenty minutes to weave their way inside the dank concrete walls.

Nicholas said, “Madame Badour, has Couverel made any requests which you’ve denied?”

“Hundreds. He knows most of the drug pushers in Paris. Many officials want information from him, but it always comes at a price. Cigarettes, privileges, television. His most fervent demand, however, is beyond my control.”

“What does he want?”

“A transfer to Clairvaux Prison. Out of Paris, out of this—” She broke off, swinging her hand around, and finished with a short “muck.”

“And if I could make this happen? Would he be more cooperative?”

She studied him for a moment. “You must have sway with the French authorities.”

Nicholas said, “Enough.”

Mike remembered his Foreign Office ties, and realized that yes, he did have the pull for such a move.

Madame Badour realized he was serious as well. “Then I will not stop you from making the offer as leverage. We will wait here for Couverel. It won’t be long. He isn’t dangerous; we keep him in the mixed cells. Four men to a cell, they are confined twenty hours out of the day. He’s been in isolation a few times, but he’s been well behaved for the past two years, so he’s been given work privileges. He folds pamphlets for a company we do business with. Oh, here is Couverel now.”

Even as bad as the prison was, Mike was still shocked at the man’s appearance. His dark hair was lank and greasy, and heavily streaked with white. His clothes were torn and dirty. He hadn’t seen a razor in at least a week, nor water for bathing, it seemed. French prisoners didn’t wear uniforms as they did in American prisons. They depended on the kindness of family and friends to provide fresh clothes. Couverel was obviously on his own.

She didn’t think Couverel looked well enough to stand the interview, much less many more years.

He sat down hard at the chipped Formica table and stared at them. Mike and Nicholas sat themselves opposite him.

Nicholas turned to Madame Badour. “You’ll excuse us?” It wasn’t a request.

She pursed her lips and walked out. The steel door shut behind her with a loud clang, and they were alone with the prisoner.

Nicholas asked, “Parlez-vous anglais?”

Couverel shrugged. “Non.”

In fluid French, Nicholas continued to speak, and Mike struggled to keep up with his fast, idiomatic speech. Couverel was paying attention, and when Nicholas switched to English mid-sentence, he followed along.