“I don’t know what happened to you before, I don’t want to know. But this is the real deal, I promise.”
“We both know your promises aren’t worth shit.”
Jennifer nodded slowly.
“You’re right. It’s not my call. But come to Paris and I’ll speak to my boss. If he refuses the deal then I’ll let you go, say you gave me the slip or something. That I can promise,” Jennifer continued, leaning back in her seat and looking out of the window. They were heading out toward Clapham now, the office buildings and plush riverside developments having given way to rows of neat Victorian terraced houses. She knocked on the screen and the taxi slowed to a halt.
“Otherwise, it’s up to you to take your chances here and now.” She opened the taxi door and waved toward it. “But I can tell you that the U.S. government will not be in a position to back up your story. There will only be your word that I was at that dinner, that Harry was alive when you left and that you didn’t leave your place all night. Frankly, I don’t envy your chances.”
Tom started laughing in spite of himself.
“Just so I know, is this you helping me still?”
“I’m not trying to make any friends here. I’m talking about a truce. You help me find the coins and whoever took them. I help you to find Harry’s killers, square things up with your friend Clarke, and wipe your file clean. It’s up to you, but it’s a good deal.”
Much as Tom hated to admit it, she was right.
“Fine, I’ll come to Paris and you talk to your boss. If he doesn’t like it I’ll disappear before you can say ‘extradition treaty.’ But I’m doing this for Harry, not for you and certainly not for the FBI.” He raised his voice slightly to emphasize his point. “And when we find them, whoever they are, don’t stand in my way. I want the people who did this to him. I want them to pay.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It took them two hours to drive down to the airstrip. The black taxi made its way incongruously, once they had left the motorway, down narrow roads and steep country lanes, its domed roof just visible over the top of the thick hedgerows, until they reached the plane that was waiting for them at one end of a large sloping field deep in the Kent countryside.
Obtaining it had required a quick change of plan by the ever-helpful Max since, with the police looking for Tom, the chartered flight that Jennifer had been booked on was now out of the question. Good old Uncle Sam clearly did have very long arms, thought Jennifer proudly.
“Climb on board,” she said to Tom as they approached the plane. “I’m going to make that call.”
Nodding, Tom hauled himself through the hatch as Jennifer reached for her phone. It was just after three A.M. in D.C., but she figured Corbett would want to be woken for this. Her stomach tightened the second he picked up. “It’s me, sir.”
“Browne? What time is it?”
“About eight A.M. London time, sir. I’m sorry to have woken you.”
“No, that’s fine.” She heard a yawn from the other end. “How did it go last night? Everything okay?”
“No sir, everything’s not okay.”
“What happened?” The tiredness evaporated almost immediately from his voice.
“Renwick’s dead.”
“Dead?” She could picture Corbett jumping to his feet as he said this, his eyes flashing.
“Murdered. Shot. I saw it.”
“Slow down. What happened.”
She took a breath, tried to steady herself. When she spoke it was in calm, deliberate sentences.
“Kirk was there as planned. We had dinner and then he left. I stayed to talk the case over with Renwick. Then three men broke in. They attacked us, shot Renwick and knocked me out. When I came round the coin was gone.”
“It was what?” Now she saw him sinking onto the bed, his fist clenching and then relaxing against his side. There was a pause. “Shit. Young will have a heart attack when he hears this.”
“I’ll get it back, sir.”
“Do you think they were there for the coin or was it coincidence?”
“No coincidence. Renwick had millions of dollars of paintings hanging on his walls. They didn’t touch them. They were in and out. And they didn’t just shoot Renwick, they practically executed him. Because he knew who’d sent them.”
“But how did they know the coin was there?”
“Max is checking Renwick’s phone records for me. It looks like he made a few calls after Kirk left.”
“So we got a dead civilian and a missing eight-million-dollar coin?”
“The Brits think Kirk killed Renwick and tried to arrest him for it this morning. I had him under surveillance all night and there was no way he was involved. He was set up. His prints were deliberately left at the scene while mine were wiped.”
“What are you saying?”
“Sir, I think we may be chasing the wrong guy. I can read people and my gut tells me he knew nothing about Fort Knox and nothing about the coins until I told him.”
“So what are you suggesting? We just let him walk away?”
“He refused to strike a deal yesterday but now we’re his only alibi and he’s got no choice. He’s agreed to help if we put the cops here straight. I want to take him to Paris with me to see Van Simson. He knows the game better than anyone and he knows the territory over there, too. It makes sense to use him while we can.”
“I’m going to have to talk to Green and Young about this. It’s too big a call for me.”
“Fine, just let me take him with me now. If it comes back a no, we can decide what to do with him then. But the more time we lose, the colder the trail.”
“You’re way out on a limb here, Browne, you know that, don’t you? There’s no way you can be a hundred percent sure that Kirk’s not involved. It’s a big risk.”
“You’d take it… sir.”
Corbett gave a short laugh.
“You know what? I probably would.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The small Cessna Skylane bounced its way across the English Channel’s shifting wind currents like a stone skipping across a pond. Her eyes shut to steady her stomach, Jennifer barely said a word from the moment she stepped on board. But it didn’t seem to matter because Tom had not been particularly talkative, staring silently out the window instead.
Several hours later, the plane touched down at Deauville airport, where a dark green Renault Mégane was waiting for them, together with a few changes of clothing for Tom and a new American passport in the name of William Travis, that he accepted with a grudging nod of respect at Max’s obvious efficiency.
“So what was your boss’s verdict, Agent Browne?” asked Tom, as they turned onto the A13 and headed for Paris.
“You know, if we’re going to be working together, perhaps we should try first names.”
Tom shrugged.
“Sure, Jen.”
“Jennifer, if you don’t mind,” she said curtly. First names was one thing. “Jen” suggested a degree of familiarity they weren’t close to having. Tom made a dismissive noise and turned away. Jennifer shook her head ruefully. This was clearly going to be a long journey. “He said that he’d think about it.”
“Well, that fills me with confidence.”
They were both quiet and the wheels thumped rhythmically over the joints in the tarmac like a needle reaching the end of a record. The flat countryside slid by, huge rectangular sheets of gold and bronze that the combine harvesters had yet to dent. After a while, Jennifer looked over at him.