The Paris Vendetta Read online

  “Is that what you’ve been doing?”

  “Graham Ashby tried to kill us all.”

  “I’m aware of that. Was it necessary to share those thoughts with everyone?”

  He shrugged. “They should know what’s in store for them. But I wonder, what were you planning? We weren’t up there to simply enjoy the view.”

  She threw him a quizzical look.

  “You can’t seriously think that I would have been a party to your madness. Those ideas you tossed out earlier. Insanity, all of it.”

  She seemed at once amazed, appalled, repelled, and fascinated by his indignation.

  “I came for Graham Ashby,” he made clear. “I used you to get close to him. At first, I thought what you were concocting was worth stopping. Maybe it is. But I don’t care any longer. Not after what Ashby just tried.”

  “I assure you, Herre Thorvaldsen, I am not one to be trifled with. As Lord Ashby will soon learn.”

  He allowed his voice to assume an icy determination. “Madame, let me make something clear. You should be grateful that I no longer have any interest in your mischief. If I did, I’d stop you. But I could not give a damn. It’s not my concern. You, though, have several problems. The first is Ashby. The second is the American government. That plane was being flown by a former Justice Department agent named Cotton Malone. His boss, from that same department, is here and, I assume, knows exactly what you’re doing. Your plans are no longer secret.”

  He turned to leave.

  She grabbed him by the arm. “Who do you think you are? I am not a person to be lightly dismissed.”

  He clung to the anger that coursed through him. The enormity of all that had happened struck him hard. As he’d watched the plane draw closer to the tower summit, he’d realized that his lack of focus could have cost him his ultimate goal. In one respect, he was glad Malone had stopped the plane. On the other hand, the sick, numbing realization that his friend had betrayed him hurt more than he’d ever imagined.

  He needed to find Malone, Stephanie, and Ashby and finish things. The Paris Club was no longer part of the equation. Neither was this ridiculous woman who glared at him with eyes full of hate.

  “Let go of my arm,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She did not release her grip.

  He wrenched himself free.

  “Stay out of my way,” he ordered.

  “As if I take orders from you.”

  “If you want to stay alive, you had better. Because if you interfere with me, in any way, I’ll shoot you dead.”

  And he walked away

  ASHBY SPOTTED THE CAR WITH CAROLINE INSIDE WAITING AT the curb. Traffic was beginning to congeal on the boulevards that paralleled the Champs de Mars. Car doors had opened and people pointed skyward.

  Ripples of concern ebbed through him.

  He needed to be away.

  The plane had not destroyed the Eiffel Tower. Worse, Eliza Larocque now realized that he’d tried to murder them all.

  How could she not?

  What happened? Had Lyon double-crossed him? He’d paid the first half of the extorted fee. The South African had to know that. Why would he have not performed? Especially considering that something clearly had happened at the Church of the Dome, smoke curling up from the east confirming that the fire there still raged.

  And there was the matter of the remaining payment.

  Three times the usual fee. A bloody well lot of money.

  He entered the car.

  Caroline sat in the rear seat across from him, Mr. Guildhall in the front, driving. He’d need to keep Guildhall near him.

  “Did you see how close that plane came to the tower?” Caroline asked.

  “I did.” He was glad that he did not have to explain anything further.

  “Is your business finished?”

  He wished. “For now.” He stared at her smiling face. “What is it?

  “I solved Napoleon’s riddle.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  MALONE LAY ON GRASS THAT WINTER HAD CHILLED INTO brown hay and watched the helicopter land. The rear compartment door slid open and Stephanie leaped out, followed by the corpsman. He released the parachute’s harness and came to his feet. He caught the worry, plain in her eyes, hoping he was okay.

  He freed himself from the chute. “Tell the French that we’re even.”

  She smiled.

  “Better yet,” he said. “Tell them they owe me.”

  He watched as the corpsman gathered up the billowing chute.

  “Lyon’s arrogant as hell,” he said, “flaunting it in our faces. He was ready with the little towers in London, and he made no effort to conceal his amber eyes. He actually went out of his way to confront me. Either way was a win–win for him. We stop the plane, he sticks it to Ashby. We miss the plane, he makes the client happy. I doubt he really cared which was the ultimate outcome.” Which, he knew, explained the diversions at the Invalides and the other planes. “We need to find Ashby.”

  “There’s a bigger problem,” she said. “When we passed the top of the tower, I saw Henrik.”

  “He had to have seen me in that cockpit.”

  “My thought exactly.”

  The corpsman grabbed Stephanie’s attention and pointed to her handheld radio. She stepped away and spoke into the unit, then quickly returned.

  “We caught a break,” she said, motioning for the chopper. “They triangulated the signals being sent to those planes. We have a ground location.”

  SAM HAD FLED THE SUMMIT AS A SECURITY DETAIL UNLOCKED the exit doors for the observation deck, mindful of Stephanie’s instruction that he must not be compromised. He’d made it back to the first platform long before the Paris Club descended and the members re -entered the meeting room. He’d watched as Eliza Larocque and Henrik confronted each other. Though he could not hear what they were saying it wasn’t hard to sense the tension, especially when Henrik yanked himself free of her grip. He’d heard nothing from Stephanie and there was no way he could sneak himself back into the meeting room, so he decided to leave.

  Somebody had tried to crash a plane into the Eiffel Tower, and nearly succeeded. The military was obviously aware, as the chopper riding herd over the plane proved.

  He needed to contact Stephanie.

  He freed the tie from around his neck and released the top button of his shirt. His clothes and coat were below in the police station, beneath the south pylon, where he and Meagan had changed.

  He paused at the first-level platform’s open center and gazed down at the people below. Hundreds were waiting in line. An explosive crash nine hundred feet above them would have been horrific. Interesting that the authorities were not evacuating the site. In fact, the chaos from above had been replaced with utter calm. As if nothing had happened. He sensed Stephanie Nelle’s involvement with that decision.

  He fled the railing and started down the metal risers for the ground. Henrik Thorvaldsen was gone. Sam had decided not to confront him. He couldn’t, not here.

  Halfway down, the cell phone in his pocket vibrated.

  Stephanie had given one to both him and Meagan, programming the numbers of each, along with hers, into the memory.

  He found the unit and answered.

  “I’m in a cab,” Meagan said. “Following Ashby. I was lucky to snag one. He ran, but stopped long enough to watch the plane fly by. He was shocked, Sam.”

  “We all were.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Surprise laced her voice. “He was shocked it missed.”

  ELIZA FACED THE GROUP, BUT HER MIND SWIRLED WITH SO many conflicting thoughts it was hard to concentrate.

  “What happened up there?” one of the members asked.

  “The security people are investigating, but it appears the plane malfunctioned. Thankfully, the problem was rectified in time.”

  “Why were the exit doors locked?”

  She could not tell them the truth. “We should soon know the answer to that as well.”


  “What did Herre Thorvaldsen mean when he said that plane was our fate—we were meant to die—and Lord Ashby was involved?”

  She’d been dreading the inquiry. “There is apparently a private feud between Lord Ashby and Herre Thorvaldsen. One I was unaware of until a few moments ago. Because of that animosity, I’ve asked Herre Thorvaldsen to withdraw his membership, and he agreed. He apologized for any fear or inconvenience he may have caused.”

  “That doesn’t explain what he said on that deck,” Robert Mastroianni said.

  “I think it was more his imagination talking. He has a personal dislike for Lord Ashby.”

  Her newest recruit did not seem satisfied. “Where is Ashby?”

  She manufactured another lie. “He left, at my request, to handle another matter of vital importance. He may or may not make it back for the rest of the meeting.”

  “That’s not what you said at the top of the tower,” one of them noted. “You wanted to know where he was.”

  She told herself that these men and women were not stupid. Don’t treat them as so. “I knew he would be leaving, I was simply unaware that he’d already left.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “That cache of unaccounted-for wealth I told you about. Lord Ashby is searching for it, and he has located a new lead. Earlier, he asked to be excused so he could explore its possibilities.”

  She kept her voice calm and firm, having learned long ago that it was not only what you said, but how you said it that mattered.

  “We’re going to continue on?” one of the others asked.

  She caught the surprise in the question. “Of course. Why not?”

  “How about that we were all nearly killed?” Mastroianni said.

  She had to alleviate their fears, and the best way to quell speculation was focus on the future. “I’m sure that each of you experience risk every day. But that’s precisely why we’re all here. To minimize that risk. We still have much to discuss, and many millions of euros to realize. How about we focus our efforts and prepare for a new day?”

  MALONE SAT IN THE CHOPPER’S REAR COMPARTMENT AND ENJOYED the heater’s blast.

  “The signal to the planes originated from a rooftop near Notre Dame,” Stephanie said through his headphones. “On the Île St. Louis, one island behind the cathedral. Paris police have the building under surveillance. We used NATO monitoring posts to pinpoint the location.”

  “Which begs the question.”

  He saw she understood.

  “I know,” she said. “Too damn easy. Lyon is two full steps ahead of us. We’re chasing his shadows.”

  “No. Worse. We’re being led by shadows.”

  “I understand. But it’s all we have.”

  SAM STEPPED FROM THE CAB AND PAID THE DRIVER. HE WAS A block from the Champs-Elysées, in the heart of an upscale shopping district that played host to the likes of Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Dior, and Chanel. He’d followed directions that Meagan had called in to him, and was now standing before the Four Seasons, an eight-story hotel marked by 1920s architecture.

  He glanced around and spotted Meagan across the street. He hadn’t taken the time to change, though he had retrieved his coat and clothes before fleeing the Eiffel Tower. She was still dressed in the shirt and slacks of their serving uniform. He’d also brought her clothes.

  “Thanks,” she said, as she donned the coat.

  She was shaking. True, the air was cold, but he wondered if it was more. He placed a hand on her back, steadying her, which she seemed to appreciate.

  “You were at the top?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “That was damn close, Sam.”

  He agreed. But it was over. “What’s happening here?”

  “Ashby and his entourage went inside the hotel.”

  “I wonder what we’re supposed to do now.”

  She seemed to steel herself and walked toward a narrow alley between two buildings. “You think about it, Sherlock, while I change.”

  He smiled at her confidence, searching for some of his own. Calling Stephanie or Malone could prove problematic. His instructions had not been to follow anyone. Of course, Stephanie Nelle had not anticipated that a plane would be flown into the Eiffel Tower, either. He’d done what he thought best and, so far, had remained undetected.

  Or maybe not.

  Thorvaldsen may have seen him in the meeting room. But no one had mentioned that the Dane would be there.

  So he made a decision.

  To seek guidance from the one man who’d actually sought guidance from him.

  MALONE SPRANG FROM THE CHOPPER AS IT LANDED BEHIND Notre Dame on a leafy green. A uniformed police captain waited for them as they cleared the rotor blades’ downwash.

  “You were right,” the policeman told Stephanie. “The landlord of the building confirmed that a man with amber eyes let an apartment on the fourth floor, a week ago. He paid three months in advance.”

  “Is the building secure?” she asked.

  “We have it surrounded. Discreetly. As you requested.”

  Malone again sensed the uneasy restraint that seemed to bind him and Stephanie. Nothing about this was good. Once again, Lyon had made no effort to mask his tracks.

  He no longer wore the dirty flight suit, having redonned his leather jacket and reacquired his Beretta.

  With little choice, he started off.

  “Let’s see what the SOB has in store this time.”

  SIXTY

  ASHBY SAT IN ONE OF THE FOUR SEASONS’ ROYAL SUITES.

  “Get the Murrays over here,” he ordered Guildhall. “I want them in France by nightfall.”

  Caroline watched him with eyes that seemed to pry into his thoughts. His face was red and puffy from both the cold and his frayed nerves, his voice tired and throaty.

  “What’s the problem, Graham?” she asked.

  He wanted this woman as an ally, so he answered her with some truth. “A business arrangement has turned sour. I’m afraid Madame Larocque is going to be quite upset with me. Enough that she may want to do me harm.”

  Caroline shook her head. “What have you done?”

  He smiled. “Simply trying to rid myself of the incessant grasp of others.”

  He allowed his eyes to play over her well-formed legs and the curve of her hips. Just watching those faultless lines freed his mind of the problem, if only for a moment.

  “You can’t blame me for that,” he added. “We’re finally back in shallow water. I simply wanted to be done with Eliza. She’s mad, you know.”

  “So we need the Murrays? And Mr. Guildhall?”

  “And even more men possibly. That bitch is going to be angry.”

  “Then let’s give her something to be totally irritated about.”

  He’d been waiting for her to explain what she’d found.

  She stood and retrieved a leather satchel from a nearby chair. Inside, she located a sheet of paper upon which was written the fourteen lines of letters from the Merovingian book, penned by Napoleon himself.

  “It’s just like the one we found in Corsica,” she said. “The one with raised lettering that revealed Psalm 31, written by Napoleon, too. When I laid a straightedge beneath the lines it became obvious.”

  She produced a ruler and showed him.

  He immediately noticed letters higher than the others.

  “What does it say?”

  She handed him another piece of paper, and he saw all of the raised letters.

  ADOGOBERTROIETASIONESTCETRESORETILESTLAMORT

  “It wasn’t hard to form the words,” she said. “All you need to add is a few spaces.”

  She displayed another sheet.

  A DOGOBERT ROI ET A SION EST CE TRESOR ET IL EST LA MORT

  He translated the French. “‘To King Dagobert and to Sion belongs the treasure and he is there dead.’” He gave a pessimistic shrug. “What does it mean?”

  A malicious grin formed on her inviting lips.

  “A great deal.”


  MALONE ENTERED THE BUILDING, GUN IN HAND AND CLIMBED the stairs.

  Stephanie followed.

  The Paris police waited outside.

  Neither one of them was sure what was waiting, so the fewer people involved, the better. Containment was rapidly becoming a problem, particularly considering that two national landmarks had been attacked and planes had been shot from the sky. President Daniels had assured them that the French would deal with the press. Just concentrate on finding Lyon, he’d ordered.

  They reached the fourth floor and found the door for the apartment that the amber-eyed man had let, the landlord having provided a passkey.

  Stephanie positioned herself to one side, gun in hand. Malone angled his body against the opposite and banged on the door. He didn’t expect anyone to answer, so he inserted the key into the lock, turned the knob, and swung the door inward.

  He waited a few seconds, then peered around the jamb.

  The apartment was utterly bare, except for one item.

  A laptop lying on the wood floor, the screen facing their way, a counter ticking down.

  2:00 minutes.

  1:59.

  1:58.

  THORVALDSEN HAD CALLED MALONE’S CELL PHONE SEVEN times, each try diverting to voice mail, each failure escalating his anguish.

  He needed to speak with Malone.

  More important, he needed to find Graham Ashby. He hadn’t ordered his investigators to tail the Brit after he left England earlier this morning. He assumed that Ashby would be within his sight at the Eiffel Tower, until late afternoon. By then, his men would be in France ready to go.

  But Ashby had formulated a different plan.

  Thorvaldsen sat alone in his room at the Ritz. What to do now? He was at a loss. He’d planned carefully, anticipating nearly everything—except the mass murder of the Paris Club. Innovative, he’d give Ashby that. Eliza Larocque had to be in turmoil. Her well-ordered plans were in shambles. At least she realized that he’d been telling the truth about her supposedly trustworthy British lord. Now Ashby had two people intent on his demise.

  Which made him think again about Malone, the book, and Murad.