The Final Cut (A Brit in the FBI 1)

Couverel stared at the table, flicked a nail against the edge.

Nicholas leaned into Couverel’s face. “Listen to me very carefully. Y

ou have something I want. In return, I will give you what you want—a transfer to Clairvaux Prison. If you’re truthful, I will make it happen. Lie to me”—Nicholas shrugged, placed his large hands on the table—“you will remain here to sleep with the rats.”

75

Couverel settled deeper into the hard metal chair, chewed on a ragged, cracked lip for a moment, then said quietly, “If you can get me to Clairvaux, I will give you what you want.”

Nicholas said, “Consider it done. You have my word. Now, your sister?”

Mike said, “We need a name, Henri. What was she called?”

“We called her Victoire. We were separated at a young age. She went to live with a family in England; I was left behind. I was old enough to be on my own, she was only a child.”

Victoire. Victoria in English. As Gray Wharton had said, the best lies were always based in truth.

“Our parents left us when she was five. I do not know if they died or were killed or simply did not care anymore. I found out later they were murdered. We were put into the Clesde Champs orphanage and stayed off and on for five years. Victoire had a family who liked her; they took her away, and I have not seen her since.”

“What were your parents’ names?”

“Isobel, she was my mother. My father was Henri as well.”

“Couverel?”

“Oui.”

“And the family who took her?”

“No idea. The woman, she had light hair and eyes. I remember thinking it would be clear Victoire was adopted; she looked nothing like the woman.”

“Victoire Couverel. How old is she?”

“Four years younger than me. I am forty-two.”

Mike was surprised. He looked to be in his late fifties if he was a day.

She said, “And you haven’t seen her since you were fourteen and she was ten?”

“That’s correct.”

“No contact at all?”

“No.” But he looked away, down and to the left as he said it, and they both knew he was lying.

Nicholas crossed his arms. “Clairvaux Prison awaits if you tell us the truth, Henri.”

Couverel sat back in the chair, scratched his neck. Something came off in his fingers; he examined it for a second, then casually flicked it away.

Mike shuddered. Couverel caught the movement and smiled at her. His teeth were crooked but in surprisingly decent shape, considering. His voice was dreamy.

“Do you know they keep Carlos the Jackal at Clairvaux? I should like to meet him. He was here for a time, inside La Santé. But kept isolated. A celebrity. I suppose they didn’t want him to give us ideas.”

Nicholas was getting impatient. “Henri, I’ll make sure you get a personal audience with him, but only if you tell me the truth. When did you see Victoire last? I know you’ve seen her recently, so don’t lie.”

He sniffed and lit a cigarette he’d probably stolen. “I speak the truth. It has been twenty years since I last saw her. She does not care about me, I do not care about her. I have no idea where she is or what she’s done to bring you to me, cochon. I don’t care, either. If you see her, remind her she has a dying brother.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she will send me some money. Or her friend will.”

Nicholas flattened his palms on the table and leaned close. “What do you know of your sister’s friends, Henri?”