The Final Cut

“Who sent you?”

The man shoved backward with all his strength, knocking Nicholas into the air conditioner’s housing, slamming his head into the metal unit, but Nicholas hung on. Still the man came at him, trying to slam his fist into his throat, a crushing blow meant to kill him, but Nicholas got his hands up in time.

The man kicked out again with his leg, blood dripping down his chin onto his chest. Nicholas was in a berserk fury now, punching and jabbing and kicking. Mike screamed, “Don’t kill him, Nicholas, we need him!” but the only noise he heard was his blood thundering in his ears.

Nicholas shoved the man backward, and as he lost his balance Mike shot him in the leg. He howled in pain, and his leg buckled. He was too close to the edge of the roof. Nicholas saw him stumble and fall, and grabbed for his wrist, but his palms were slick with blood and he couldn’t hold on.

With a scream, the man disappeared over the edge. His body struck the dormer window frame, then toppled down to the sidewalk onto the Place Vendôme below.

82

Nicholas and Mike looked over the edge. The man had landed facedown, arms spread-eagled out on the concrete, his neck clearly broken. She didn’t want to see his face.

Nicholas slid down the wall, breathing hard. Mike eased down beside him, reached over and swiped the blood off his nose and mouth. She picked up his hand, saw the torn knuckles. “Not too bad.” There was blood all over his chest. “You’re bleeding!”

“No, no, it’s his blood. Sorry I couldn’t keep him alive, Mike.”

“I wish I’d shot him in both knees.”

Nicholas laughed, couldn’t help it. He got up and pulled her with him. “Damnation, woman, you’re the one covered in blood. Where did he hit you?”

She blinked at him, mute, then stared down at herself and passed out without a sound.

He eased her down onto the roof. Her nose was bleeding, and she had a cut lip. He ripped her shirt open and pulled it down. The man had shot her in the arm. A bullet to the biceps, through and though, into the meat of the muscle, not the bone, thank the good Lord above.

He ripped the sleeve off and used it as a tourniquet, then ran his hands over the rest of her body. No more injuries. She’d be okay. He pulled her against him for a moment, thankful and quiet, then stood up and hoisted her over his shoulder. He heard a whisper of a laugh.

“That tickles.”

“Stay still. I need to get you down the stairs.” She relaxed against his back, and he carried her down the stairs to their room.

Their suite looked like a war zone. At least the sofa was still in one piece. He laid her down, and she looked up at him and smiled.

“Aren’t we a pair? Do I look as bad as you do?”

He smiled back. “I don’t want to look. Stay still, Mike. I hear the sirens. We’re going to be crawling with cops any second now. Did you call it in?”

“Yes. Before I went up after you to the roof. Let me sit up.” She realized then she had a split lip from the man’s fist in her face when she first opened the door.

“Now who’s being the tough one?” he asked, but helped her up, loosened the tourniquet, happy to see that the wound was bleeding only slightly.

He said, “We’re going to have matching stitches.”

She wanted to tell him she would have more fun checking his stitches than he would hers, but she didn’t. She said, “Who was that man?”

“I don’t know. He’s dead. Look, it couldn’t be helped. I still can’t believe he wouldn’t give up.”

She couldn’t believe it, either.

“I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do. It’s brutal.”

Nicholas said, “It’s Filipino Kali with a bit of karate thrown in. I’ll teach you, if you’d like.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you’d better wait to see some of my moves first.”

83

Ritz Paris

15 Place Vendôme

Saturday evening

Hotel security wasn’t happy to have a shootout on their roof and a dead man on the street at the front doors. The local flic from the commissariat de police, who introduced himself as Monsieur L’Agent Foulard, insisted on interrogating them for twenty minutes, despite their badges. It was only Menard’s arrival that put a halt to it.

After Foulard was gone, Menard said, “I was told your former suite needed a lot more than a simple dusting and clean towels. Do tell me how you managed to end up on the roof with an assassin.”

Nicholas said, “Fewer people on the roof than in the lobby.”

Menard gri

Mike said, “I think we’re better off sticking together and staying here. Whoever’s after us isn’t going to give up simply because we’ve killed three of his men.”

Menard said, “We have an ID on the two men who ended up in Lake Geneva—César Arnault and Claude Soutane, local freelance bad guys.”

Nicholas said, “We think we know who hired them. A man named Saleem Lanighan, a British national who makes his home in France.”

“I know this man. He is big in the art world. What makes you think he is behind this?”

“Everything is pointing his way. If you could trace the men in Geneva to him, that would pretty much nail it. The man who went off the roof wasn’t local muscle, he was a pro. Tough, vicious, and committed to seeing us dead.”

“I heard the flics mention the name O’Brien. If this is the same man I know, you’re lucky to be alive. Talk about a pro—he’s never failed before tonight.”

Menard rose. “I need not remind the two of you to take care. Agent Caine, do as the doctor tells you. Keep your arm in a sling, and no more fights—at least for a couple of days.”

Mike said, “It’s only a flesh wound.”

Menard gave each of them a long look. “I will try to trace the men in Geneva to Saleem Lanighan.” And he took himself off to deal with the mess downstairs.

Nicholas’s computer chimed.

It was Savich. Nicholas opened the chat.

“Good to see you’re both still upright.”

“We’re fine,” Nicholas said. “The man who attacked us is dead, and Menard is going to try to co

Nicholas and Mike filled Savich in on everything they’d learned from Couverel, to the Ghost, who was undoubtedly the man who’d murdered the Anatolys and Elaine York and Kochen. She told how they believed the Ghost was co

Nicholas told him about Saleem Lanighan’s direct line back to Duleep Singh, the brother of the Lion of Punjab, and the newly discovered scandal about his affair with the Countess Wiltshire.

Savich said, “I’m going to have to tell Sherlock she was right. She said she knew down to her size sevens we’d find the answer to the theft of the Koh-i-Noor in its English roots.”

“Kiss the woman’s size sevens, Dillon,” Mike said.

Savich laughed. “Now, for my contribution, I’ve found the money trail for one of the Fox’s accounts. Over the past three years, there have been four money transfers from the Bank Horim to a Smith Barney account, which then pinged out to a bank in Curaçao. The money left Curaçao and went to Israel, where it was disbursed back into five numbered accounts at a Horim branch in Tel Aviv. Clean as a whistle.”

“For how much?”

“Each transfer was for five million dollars.”

Nicholas was impressed. “Twenty-five million bucks. That isn’t a half-bad payday for a single job, and I imagine there’s another equal share owed her on delivery of the Koh-i-Noor. Does it say who the accounts belong to?”