Ritz Paris
15 Place Vendôme
Saturday evening
Mike was typing one-handed on her computer, the light from the screen making her skin glow. She was tough, and he admired that. He knew how much a bullet hurt, but she had barely missed a step.
Nicholas said, “Any luck?”
Mike nodded. “Lanighan has offices in La Defense, and he lives on Avenue Foch.”
“Not a surprise,” Nicholas said, “Avenue Foch is one of the posher areas of Paris. Residential neighborhood, very expensive, perfect for our Mr. Lanighan.”
Mike said, “He has several warehouses where he stores all his art. The biggest is in Gagny, east of downtown Paris. He has over twenty-five hundred paintings and sculptures, both religious and secular, in his possession at any given time.”
She turned the laptop around so he could see the warehouse at Gagny. “For a crook, he’s incredibly legitimate. He’s on the cultural advisory board at CERN, bankrolled an exhibit at the Louvre, is a majority shareholder in a startup fashion business which has gotten serious legs, even made a failed bid to buy Christie’s auction house. He owns several smaller entities, including—drumroll, please—Sages Fidelité. They have over one hundred branches across Europe and Asia. Lanighan has serious money. He could afford to buy pretty much anything; last year he beat out Qatar’s ruling family on a lost Pissarro painting. Forty-eight million dollars.”
Mike sat back and shifted her arm to a more comfortable position. “There’s one other thing I came across you might find interesting. Lanighan’s been married three times, had a slew of affairs. He’s been connected to any number of rich and elegant women. Yet he has no children. He was sick as a kid, leukemia, and had chemotherapy treatments. It worked; he was cured, and obviously survived. But if you’re right about him being the last in a long line of descendants, and he has no siblings, and no children—wait, maybe his wanting the Koh-i-Noor isn’t about the obsession to own a unique artifact, maybe instead it’s about something else entirely, something very personal, something he believes connects only to his family, to his line.”
Nicholas said, “Okay. But what exactly does he want the Koh-i-Noor for?”
“I don’t have the foggiest idea. Sorry, something flashed in my mind, but—I really don’t know. Maybe he really is an obsessed collector or maybe he really does feel deeply that the Koh-i-Noor should come home to him and to India because it’s part of his heritage.”
“Keep your brain flashes going.” Nicholas checked his watch, stood up, and pulled on his jacket. “It’s time for us to go see what Mr. Lanighan is up to.”
88
Nicholas had his hand on the door to leave the suite when his mobile began blaring “London Calling.”
r /> Mike’s eyebrow rose. “The Clash?”
He shrugged. “This will be Nigel.”
“Who is Nigel?”
“My butler.” Ignoring her incredulous look, he answered the call. “What’s up?”
“Sir, you received a package today, from America.”
“Yes? Who’s it from?”
“Inspector York, sir.”
Adrenaline shot through him. “Open it, Nigel.”
He heard a ripping in the background, then, “There’s only a thumb drive. Shall I pull it up on your computer?”
“Yes, hurry, Nigel. Open it and email me the contents immediately.”
“Yes, sir. Please let me know if there is anything else I may do for you.”
Nicholas ended the call, reloaded his email over and over until the new mail registered. It was a .wmv video file. He hit play, and Elaine’s face appeared on the screen. He stared at a woman he’d respected, admired, and trusted for three years—and more, he thought, so much more.
“It’s Elaine York,” Mike said from behind him, and couldn’t help but compare the woman on the screen to the body she’d stood over three days before. The gray bloated face—no, she wouldn’t remember her like that. She’d remember her like this—studious face, beautiful dark hair, serious eyes.
“Yes, let’s see what this is about,” Nicholas said, and hit play.
Nicholas, let me answer your first question. Why am I sending you this video instead of an email or calling? The answer is, I can’t take the chance of your email or mine being seen, or hacked, or your call overheard. The truth is, I need your advice. I’m afraid I’ve gotten in over my head.