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The divider went up between the front and back seats, and she hit the mute button on the speaker. Once secure, she dialed Mulvaney again.
No answer. She clicked off, set the phone in her lap. The Arve River flowed to her right, following the highway, silted by glacial water to an eerie green. It looked wrong, as wrong as she felt. Mulvaney had now missed three check-ins. She knew what his silence meant. He was either taken or dead.
She pushed away the gut-wrenching fear at losing him; she couldn’t afford to think about him now, but the pain was still there, hot and deep. No. She had the job to complete. She had to deal with Saleem Lanighan, deliver the diamond, make sure the money was transferred properly. She saw Mulvaney in her mind’s eye, warning her that Lanighan wasn’t his father, who learned his lesson quickly—no, the son couldn’t be trusted; she’d have to be very careful.
She needed to take extra precautions with this exchange. When she was confident he hadn’t double-crossed her, only then would she hand over the safe-deposit box key to the diamond. He wouldn’t like it, but it was the safest way for her. And where was Drummond? Close, she knew it. He was close.
She made a few adjustments to her hair and clothes, looked out the window to see the geyser peak of water in the distance, the Jet d’Eau, at the center of Lake Geneva, a lovely sight.
She checked her watch; right on time. She had two hours before she was to meet Lanighan. Considering the situation, she was glad of their set of coded meeting points. Even if Drummond had tracked her down, he’d be waiting for her in Paris, not Geneva.
She realized she was more concerned about him than she was about Lanighan. A few more distractions might be necessary to keep her safe. Just in case.
The driver followed her instructions well. The car stopped in front of the Deutsche Bank off Quai des Bergues exactly one hour after he’d picked her up in Megève.
Kitsune dismissed the driver—she could walk everywhere she needed for the rest of the morning—and entered the building. She immediately cut across the lobby into the courtyard and went out the north entrance. It was a five-minute walk to the Basilique Notre-Dame. She wound her way around the streets on foot, looking in the plate-glass windows of the stores along the way, until she was certain no one was following her.
The day was cold and clear, the city bustling around her. Geneva was always one of her favorite cities, even in winter, when the lake sometimes roiled and splashed over its banks, encasing the cars and boats and walkways along its length in ice.
She walked back toward the lake and went into the exquisite lobby of the Bank Horim.
One last errand, then thirty minutes later, she walked a bit up the Quai du Mont-Blanc, stopped for an espresso at the Hôtel de La Paix to shake off the chill.
She was nearly finished. Once the money was transferred and carefully redistributed to safe places, she would go directly to Bern, restore her blue eyes, and fly to Capri, to Mulvaney. She wouldn’t accept that something had happened to him, that he’d suffered an accident or a heart attack. No, he would be all right, welcoming her with a smile and a glass of his favorite Capri Falanghina. She would be with him again soon, and they would laugh together about all her adventures in New York.
Grant Thornton’s face flashed into her mind. When this was all over, maybe, just maybe, she could get him back. Mulvaney wouldn’t like that she’d fallen for a mark, it went against everything he’d taught her, but it was her life, her decision. Was she asking too much from the universe? Probably. But at the thought of him, a smile lingered on her lips.
Five minutes later, the espresso was gone. It was time.
52
Geneva, Switzerland
Friday, noon
Saleem was traveling on a false passport, under the name Rolph Heyer. It was easier to fool the border guards than customs agents in the airports, which was the purpose of driving across the border.
The border crossing was backed up, cars slowing to nearly a standstill. He lowered his window and breathed in the chill air. He felt good. He was close now. So close.
When asked for his papers, he handed them over with a smile. Image was everything. He was relaxed and capable. Nothing to fear. His face was not known to be a part of any criminal enterprise. Rolph Heyer was a businessman, a careful, cunning businessman, and entirely legitimate.
A few moments later, the car thoroughly looked over, his passport swiped through the reader, he was given the go-ahead to move forward.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, and four hours later, as he pulled off the highway into the streets of Geneva, his mobile rang. Colette. At last.
“Tell me you have good news.”
“Yes, sir, I do. I have received the call. The package has been secured.”
He relaxed. “Excellent, Colette. Merci.”
“Do not thank me yet. We lost Rathbone.”
“Was he taken or killed?”
“He is dead, sir. I was told there was no way to recover the body, but there is also no way to discover his identity, since he was never in the system, either in Europe or in the U.S. He is not a liability.”
Lanighan sighed. Rathbone was one of his favorite henchmen, lethal as a rattlesnake and twice as fast, but smart, never even arrested. He’d been with Saleem for many years, always willing to do anything he asked.
