The Final Cut

Saleem Lanighan was not the man his father was. He was arrogant and sloppy and cared only what happened to himself. He thought money solved everything. Nor was he comfortable operating far away from his base, which meant he kept precious possessions close. And at this point, Mulvaney was precious.

79

Ritz Paris

15 Place Vendôme

Saturday, early evening

Nicholas’s computer chimed. He opened the secure teleconference, and Savich’s face popped up on the screen. Mike recognized the furniture from the FBI’s conference room, which meant they were on the CIVITS secure videoconference network. They could say anything without worry of eavesdropping. Even the screens were pulled on the picture windows—they could see out, but no prying eyes could see in.

Nicholas said, “Hello, Savich. Good timing.”

“You have Mike now?”

Nicholas shifted so Mike’s face appeared over his shoulder. “She’s right here.”

“Hi, Dillon.”

“Hey, Mike. I’ve been at it all morning with MAX, and here’s what I’ve found. The numbers you sent were wire transfers for a variety of banks. I’ve emailed the file to you, Nicholas; you should have it now.”

“I have it open.”

“All right. I didn’t find all the money yet, but I narrowed down three possible buyers for the stone. As you guys know, the banks are hard to crack; numbered accounts are the best way to stay under the radar when you’re moving large amounts of money. It’s not like anyone will fu

Nicholas laughed. “Life would be so much easier.”

“It would. Based on everything we’ve compiled so far, I’d pay special attention to the first person on your list. I’m going to keep at it, see if anything else matches. We’re putting all three men under surveillance immediately. I’ll call you back if I find anything more.”

Nicholas closed the chat and looked at the email from Savich. The top entry was a man named Saleem Lanighan. Mike scrolled through the attached photos. He was a handsome man, dark hair and direct brown eyes, a square jaw, but he wasn’t smiling, and Mike thought he looked cruel.

Mike said, “Dark hair, dark eyes. Remember what the kid from Sages Fidelité said? None of the other three match the physical description. Lanighan could be the one.”

Nicholas read Savich’s dossier aloud.

“Lanighan is thirty-eight, educated at Oxford, a resident of Paris. He has a second home in the Loire Valley. He took over his father, Robert Lanighan’s, art and antiquities business, plus the man’s huge art collection, when he died five years ago. Lanighan was in ArtReview’s top one hundred three years ru

“He sits on the board of three separate companies, employs almost a thousand people in Lanighan Enterprises—they do international import-export—and regularly travels to China, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Tokyo in search of treasures. If this is our guy, there’s a good chance the Fox is here, too.”

Mike said, “He’s entirely too respectable, don’t you think? But rich as Croesus.”

“Well, without the money, none of this would work. Lanighan sounds like the wi

“Didn’t Dillon tell you he used magic dust?”

Nicholas nodded. “I really didn’t believe him. Would you look at this. Lanighan’s mother was Amelia Thomas-Collins.” He sat back, lost in thought. “Now I know why the name Lanighan sounds so familiar.”

Mike raised her eyebrows. “Why?”

“Last summer, there was a rumor about the lineage of the Lanighan family; the rags ran stories for three weeks. The gist of it was the Lanighan line was illegitimate, the issue of—” He stopped speaking, his eyes suddenly very far away.

Mike said, “Issue of who? Nicholas, what is it?”

He said, slowly, “Lanighan must believe he’s the last descendant of Duleep Singh. The last Lion of Punjab.”

“The safe-deposit box in Geneva was rented in the name Duleep Singh.”

“Just so. Remember when Singh was brought to England to give Queen Victoria the Koh-i-Noor, he became the toast of Britain and Scotland? He was on the social circuit, and society loved him. Queen Victoria even stood as godmother to several of his kids.

“He had eight children with two wives, but none of them had children of their own, so the line died out. Some said in the day that this is the true curse of the Koh-i-Noor.”

“The end of the line. I see.”

“The big scandal from last year came about when a historian realized one of Singh’s sons supposedly fathered a child with Lady Grace Lanighan, Countess Wiltshire. A bastard child, who in turn sired his own line. He wasn’t given a title; he was a second son, and clearly illegitimate. Though supposedly he looked exactly like his father, much to the earl’s dismay.”

He stood up and started to pace the room. “It wasn’t spoken of publicly then, mind you, not at the turn of the last century. I believe the child was born in 1898 or ’99, and no one wanted to accuse the countess of getting a leg over with someone other than her husband, the earl.

“Historically speaking, the child was of no consequence. His older brother married and produced a son, a proper heir, and no more was spoken of it. However, the family line died out after all the sons were killed in the war, and the title became extinct.”

“Gotta love primogeniture.”

He glanced at her coldly, and she shrugged. “What? I watch Downton Abbey.”

“To continue. Now, if Saleem Lanighan is the child of the illegitimate Wiltshire line, he could be an actual blood relative of the Lion of Punjab, the last true owner of the Koh-i-Noor diamond before it was taken.”

“That would be incredible. What if he is a blood heir? Who would care?”

Nicholas sat back on his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re dealing in conjecture, and legends. If Saleem Lanighan is the son of the line, then he is the rightful heir to the Koh-i-Noor. Not that it matters, because the British will never give it up. I know there’s more to this. But what?”

“I don’t know, but we better order some coffee. It’s going to be a long night.”

80

Paris, La Défense business district

Tour Areva, Lanighan Enterprises

Saturday evening

Kitsune walked into the black skyscraper known as Tour Areva like she owned the place. The lobby was quiet, only a single security guard sat behind a half-moon desk. He was leaning back in his chair with his feet up, watching a video on his monitor, some high Hollywood production in the middle of a battle, from the screams and explosions and screeches coming from the computer. He snapped to when he saw her approach but didn’t turn off the movie.

“May I help you, ma’am?”

“Bonsoir.” She didn’t stop walking, merely flashed a pass at him, too quickly for him to read. “My boyfriend left his phone in his office. I’m going to run up and grab it for him.”

“I’ll need you to sign in.”

She abruptly turned, grabbed the pen from his hand, and scribbled on the white sheet of paper, then kept moving.

“I can’t read this. Where are you going?”

“Twenty-third floor. I’ll only be a moment.”

He nodded—how much of a threat could this small woman be, after all—and went back to his movie.

She smiled as she reached the elevator. She’d talked her way past hundreds of security guards in her day.

She took the elevator to the twenty-third floor, then ran up the stairwell to twenty-five.