The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

“No. Send the contents to the Café Popon, on Rue Henri-Fazy.”

“I know it.”

“I will be there in ten minutes. Have your person waiting in the women’s loo.”

“Ten minutes.” Helmut rang off, and Kitsune felt her control slide back into place. Ten minutes and she’d have the diamond back in her hands. She pulled the Fiat into the light traffic, checked the mirror to see if anyone was following.

She made it to the Café Popon in five minutes, walked to the counter, bought a croissant and a coffee. The television set above the cash register had an alert on the screen, the local station running news of the bombing, showing the horrendous carnage, the flames bursting into the sky, raining down debris. It was the only local event, she thought, dramatic enough to replace the outrage over the stolen Koh-i-Noor.

She listened to the rapid-pace French. Three injured, none dead. So Drummond hadn’t died in the blast. He was in the hospital, then, and that would slow him down, surely long enough for her to get herself, and the diamond, away from Geneva.

A young woman entered the coffee shop, walked directly past Kitsune toward the back. Kitsune followed her to the bathroom.

It was an expert handoff, the diamond was now heavy in her pocket, and Kitsune was gone. As she climbed back in the car, she thought maybe she needed some help with things after all. At the very least, it should surprise the hell out of him.

69

Geneva, Switzerland

Hotel Beau-Rivage

Friday, early evening

Lanighan raced back to the balcony at the sound of the explosion. It shook the railing and rattled the windows. He saw the ball of fire plume into the air, then smoke, black and thick, well up, blacking out the sky.

Where was Kitsune? Was she responsible for this?

Thirty minutes later his cell rang.

She said only, “I need your help.”

A moment of surprise, then he said, “And I need my diamond.”

“I have it, but I can’t get back across the bridge to your hotel because of the fire. The police from America and Britain are after me—how, I don’t know, but they’re here.”

“I assume you set the bomb. You were so careless they didn’t die?”

“I tried, but they managed to escape the blast. One of them is injured. I don’t know how badly, but I don’t want to take any chances. I’m sure both of them will be at the hospital, at least tonight. When they leave, don’t kill them, just get them off my back for a while.”

“And my diamond?”

“You will get your diamond when you meet me in Paris. You know the time and place.”

His suspicion and distrust sounded loud in the silence. “Very well, I will handle things. I will see you in Paris.”

There was a click and his cell went dead.

Saleem slipped his cell into his pocket, packed his bag, and left the suite. He took the stairs to the basement, checked his BMW—who knew if this was a trick and she’d planted a bomb on his car? He saw no bomb. He was out of the garage and onto the Quai du Mont-Blanc less than two minutes after she called. Better to cross the border now before the police started cracking down.

He made a call as he weaved his way out of downtown Geneva and pointed the car west. The phone was answered on the third ring. He explained his needs and hung up, fully satisfied his demands would be met. He’d get the agents off her back forever. Then he would get his diamond and deal with her.

He dialed her number, and she answered with a curt “Yes?”

“I have made the arrangements. Tell me how you’ve bungled this so badly. From the way my father talked, he considered the Fox to be above mistakes. I begin to believe you are not worth the vast amount I agreed to pay you.”

She heard it in his voice, beneath the smooth, civilized words he spoke, and she knew absolutely he would betray her, and so it pleased her to say, “You will listen, Saleem. The wire-transfer numbers from your first payment to me in Paris allowed me to track down other account amounts you’ve used to pay other thieves over the years. I placed a list of these numbers in a Sages Fidelité safe-deposit box. If my list survived the explosion, it is possible for an accomplished forensic accountant to trace the accounts back to you, don’t you think?”

He froze in shock. He knew to his gut she was telling the truth, but wait, no, it didn’t matter, since he always closed those bank accounts after each transaction. But given enough time . . . He said very softly, “You bitch.”