The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

“What about against someone? Who is her competition?”

Menard nodded vigorously, signaling to the barman for another shot of espresso. “Ah, this I can answer for you. There are three: a Frenchman from Algiers, dead now. He was shot by a security guard in a botched attempt on the Tate Modern and bled to death on the floor. He was called Goyo. The second is Ruvéne—he successfully lifted three Cézannes for the Russian government and was caught two years ago near Prague. He is in jail for life.

“The third is the Ghost. He has been in business far longer than anyone else I know of. No one knows his nationality, but he takes only the biggest jobs, the most prestigious, the most challenging and dangerous. He has either retired or died, for his name and his signature have not been seen in over ten years.”

Mike asked, “What was the Ghost’s signature?”

“Explosives. They were used as insurance. He would wire the place and leave a small warning note behind. If he was allowed to steal away, he would not blow up the rest of the museum, or the house, or wherever else he had taken his prize from. After twenty-four hours, the clocks on the bombs ran out, and they were deactivated. Crude but effective. He always got away.”

Nicholas felt his adrenaline spike. He looked at Mike. “Sound familiar? Menard, the Fox wired the Jewel of the Lion exhibit to blow. I was able to defuse the bomb before she followed through.”

Menard pursed his lips. “Very interesting. A nod to the great one, perhaps, or simple coincidence?”

“I don’t know. Do Interpol or FedPol have a physical description of the Ghost?”

“The jacket on the Ghost contains an anecdote someone told an interviewer at one time. The man saw a ghost when he was a child, and it turned his hair stark white. This is all we know about him.”

Mike and Nicholas both sat up straighter.

“This means something to you?”

“Yes, it does.” Mike loaded the video and pushed her tablet across the table. “We received this feed today, from the scene of Inspector Elaine York’s murder.” She hit play.

Menard watched with interest. “A man with white hair.”

“Could it be the Ghost?” Nicholas asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know why not. Send the feed to me, I will load it into the FedPol database. Perhaps there will be something to match it to.”

Mike did, and Nicholas said, “One more thing. This man was probably one of two men sent to kill Agent Caine and me last night in her underground garage. We fought them off, and one was killed. This one”—he tapped the screen—“got away. I saw white hair sticking out of his ski mask. He was tough, and fast, a martial-arts master.”

Menard was getting excited. “So the Ghost could still be with us? But why was he in New York, and why attack you, and Inspector York? He wasn’t involved in the Koh-i-Noor theft, was he?”

“Maybe,” Mike said, “the Ghost is her partner and guarded her back.”

Nicholas said, “I’ll email Zachery and Savich, give them this additional information.”

Menard’s mobile rang while Nicholas sent the email. He listened, then a smile broke out on his face. He hung up and said, “Let’s go.”

Nicholas typed in a couple more words, then jumped to his feet. “You found her?”

“We found where she was two hours ago. Bank Horim. It is across the way.”

59

Bank Horim was a block and a half down the street, along the lake. They hurried, Nicholas restraining himself from breaking out in a sprint. They were closing in, he could feel it. Could feel the Fox nearby like she was giving off a scent.

Sirens began to wail. A cop car drew closer, summoned by Menard.

Menard had short legs and a smoker’s lungs; he was puffing to keep up. “Swiss banking is a global business. Horim is very private, very discreet, has branches in Zurich, Geneva, Luxembourg, and Singapore, and offices in Russia, Hong Kong, and Israel.” He had to stop to catch his breath. “I hope they are as helpful as Monsieur Tivoli at Deutsche Bank.” But he sounded doubtful.

They entered the building and asked for the manager. They were shown into a small glass office, and were quickly joined by a tall older woman wearing a sleek black suit. Her strawberry-blond hair was cut in an elegant bob. She didn’t smile, but she did nod to each in turn as they showed her their creds. She said in a lilting accent, “I am Marie-Louise Helmut. What can I help you with?”

Menard said, “Madame Helmut, we are looking for a woman who came into the bank two hours ago. We need to know what business she had here.” Nicholas showed her Browning’s photo.

She said, in a formal voice, “Assuming I’ve seen this person, you know I cannot share this information with you. We have the strictest privacy policies to protect our customers. Without the proper papers, I will not be able to speak to you.”

Nicholas took a step toward her, aggressive as a wolf. Helmut immediately recoiled, obviously alarmed.