The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

“N-Nothing, sir.”

“You’re lying. Did she buy another box?”

The boy was silent. Nicholas shook him. “Which one is it?”

“She didn’t, I swear.”

He said to Mike, “Call Menard, have him send over his officers to arrest this man.”

“Wait. Wait. Okay. She did rent one more box.”

Nicholas let him go. “So she paid you to keep quiet about it, did she, Tomas? Too late now. Open it.”

This box was heavier than the first. Nicholas carried it to the small Formica-covered table in the center of the room. He began to lift the lid, saw a flash of blue velvet and the clear, clean lines of molten glass.

The Koh-i-Noor.

Then the lid caught. He stopped and, holding his breath, he slowly and carefully allowed it to close.

“Everyone, don’t move.” Still holding the lid carefully closed, he fished in his pocket for his Swiss Army knife with its small attached flashlight.

He eased down onto his haunches until he was eye level with the edge of the lid, and keeping it less than an inch open, flashed the light inside.

There was the Koh-i-Noor in the box. Surrounded by wires.

Bloody hell.

He thanked the Almighty for the instincts that had just kept them all alive, and gently laid down the lid. Without moving, without raising his voice, he said, “Mike, it’s rigged to blow. Get the boy and walk outside. I’m right behind you.”

She didn’t hesitate, grabbed Tomas’s arm. “Come with me, right now.”

When he was sure they were safely outside, Nicholas carefully eased his hand from the lid, praying he hadn’t jostled the bomb. It was meant to explode the moment the lid was lifted past a quarter of the way open.

He slowly and silently backed away. He was still in one piece, which meant he hadn’t tripped the pressure switch. It didn’t mean they were safe, there could be a secondary timer, or it could work on a mobile signal, like the bomb in New York. It was surely divine intervention they all hadn’t been blown to kingdom come.

No way would he try and disarm this bomb himself. He needed to leave the building as quickly and calmly as possible and bring in the experts, with their robotic counterparts, to deactivate the switch.

He backed toward the door until he felt the handle under his hands, then turned swiftly and stepped outside. The freezing air bit his face, and he breathed a deep lungful. Too close, Nicholas. Too bloody close.

The glass door swung shut behind him, and he searched for Mike. She was across the street with Tomas, her face white. She was scared. And she was shouting at him, her hands above her head, arms waving wildly.

His mind registered her screams, and he felt rather than heard the glass shatter behind him with a ferocious burst of heat and ear-blasting explosion. He dropped to the ground, rolling into a ball, protecting his head, as the explosion roared around him, glass and metal twisting and hurtling outward, shooting out fire that burned his hands.

He couldn’t hear anything, see anything. It was all black.

67

Parc Saint-Jean

Kitsune watched Drummond and Caine talking to the boy, manhandling him, and the idiot caved and opened the box for them. At least he’d followed her instructions—if a couple came in looking for information, he was to give them the box with the paper in it.

If Saleem Lanighan came in, it was a different story.

But Drummond had scared the daylights out of the kid, and he’d brought out the second box. The box meant for Lanighan.

Her left thumb was on the detonator, the right held a monocle trained on the Sages Fidelité lobby. She was safe, across the park, but well within radio range.

She watched them talking about the bank account numbers in the first box. She saw Caine flip the paper over, saw Drummond snatch it from her and read her short message, meant for them.