The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

He glanced at the photograph and shook his head. “No, monsieur, I have not.”

“Are you sure? Look again. She may have asked to access the security boxes. Her hair would be short and black, not long and brown.”

Tivoli’s eyes lingered on the photograph, but he shook his head. “I am most sure, monsieur. It has been a busy day. One of my men is out sick, thus it is I who have been handling the vault today. I would remember her. We sent our videotape to the police when they called, but I also checked the tapes from the time frame, and saw no one who matched her description. I am sorry.”

Nicholas said, “Thank you, Monsieur Tivoli. We appreciate your help.”

They stopped in the lobby next to the scrolled front doors.

Mike sai

d, “Now what?”

Nicholas ran his hand over his chin. “The Fox isn’t stupid. She would have taken precautions, made sure if she had a tail, she could lose them. Driving up to the Deutsche Bank in broad daylight, plain as you please, was a bold move. It was also a brilliant stroke of camouflage. She came in here”—he pointed toward the other end of the lobby—“and she probably walked right on through. We have the police looking at the wrong tapes.”

Menard agreed. “I will ask for more surveillance video to be examined. To come to a bank first—it seems an odd thing to do.”

Mike said, “We were thinking she might be here to accept payment for the theft, but you’re right, it could all be a smoke screen. We can’t even be positive she’s still in Geneva.”

“I was told the pilot of her plane said she sent him skiing, and would meet him in twenty-four hours. Do you believe she meant to keep this appointment?”

“Yes, why not?”

Menard said, “Then she must still be in the city. We will find her. Come. Let us get a hot drink and I will call for a deeper search.”

58

Menard knew exactly who to call, and better yet, where to go. Within ten minutes they were inside a small café drinking steaming espressos, waiting on news about additional footage from the cameras around the Deutsche Bank. Mike was grateful for the warmth; the wind off the lake had her chilled through. Nicholas, Mr. Aren’t I Great, seemed unaffected.

He asked Menard, “Are you an expert on art crimes?”

“I am.”

“We are narrowing down a list of people who could afford to bankroll a theft of this magnitude. Let me ask you, in your experience, why would anyone steal the Koh-i-Noor? It’s one of the most famous pieces in the world, so they couldn’t resell it. It couldn’t be displayed without running the risk of someone telling the authorities. The buyer would surely know the British will never stop hunting for it. So why this stone?”

Menard tossed back his espresso in one gulp, and Mike stared. The coffee was steaming hot; his throat must be made of asbestos. He set the tiny cup on the counter so he could use his hands to help him speak. A very expressive man, Menard, and smart, she thought, very smart, and very committed. They’d lucked out. She was wondering when he was going to make it clear he really liked her, the American, best.

“You must think of art theft this way: there are usually three possibilities. In this case, for this particular diamond, and similar pieces which have such a strong historical path, there are four.”

He raised his hand and started ticking the list off on his fingers.

“One, to sell it. Then you are dealing with a profiteer, and they have no style, no panache. It is simply a transaction, and it is most likely already gone, out of your reach. Two, if it was taken to return it to its rightful owners. Then you’re looking for a zealot, who is very dangerous, for he will try to kill anyone who gets in his way. Three, for the prestige of having such a piece. A collector, then, who will be the hardest of all to trace, because he will quietly hold on to his prize and never share it with the world.”

“And the fourth?” Nicholas asked.

Menard’s face grew grim. “A man who has stolen the diamond because of the legend attached. This man would be unpredictable, dangerous, a man who would destroy the diamond before he gives it up.”

Mike said, “Which do you think we’re dealing with?”

Menard splayed his hands. “I do not know, mademoiselle, but we shall hope it is not the fourth, yes?”

Nicholas sipped his espresso, hot as fire, thick as tar, delicious. “Have you heard of the Fox working with someone?”

“No. Never. My understanding is that he—she—always works alone.”

Nicholas said, “She made two calls to the same number while she was flying from America to Europe. Neither was answered. Mike’s government is running the number, and we should know soon who it belongs to.”

“I am sorry. I have never heard of her working with anyone.”