The Paris Vendetta Read online

The full extent of Malone’s duplicity struck hard.

  “Whatever is at Saint-Denis, you’re going to have to find it without him,” Malone made clear.

  He grabbed hold of his emotions. “Goodbye, Cotton. We shall never speak again.”

  He clicked off the phone.

  MALONE CLOSED HIS EYES.

  The acid declaration—we shall never speak again—burned his gut. A man like Henrik Thorvaldsen did not make statements like that lightly.

  He’d just lost a friend.

  Stephanie watched from the other side of the car’s rear seat. They were headed away from Notre Dame, toward Gare du Nord, a busy rail terminal, following the first set of instructions Lyon had called back to them after his initial contact.

  Rain peppered the windshield.

  “He’ll get over it,” she said. “We can’t be concerned with his feelings. You know the rules. We have a job to do.”

  “He’s my friend. And besides, I hate rules.”

  “You’re helping him.”

  “He doesn’t see it that way.”

  Traffic was thick, the rain compounding the confusion. His eyes drifted from railings to balconies to roofs, the stately façades on both sides of the street receding upward into a graying sky. He noticed several secondhand-book shops, their stock displayed in windows of advertising posters, hackneyed prints, and arcane volumes.

  He thought of his own business.

  Which he’d bought from Thorvaldsen—his landlord, his friend. Their Thursday-evening dinners in Copenhagen. His many trips to Christiangade. Their adventures. They’d spent a lot of time together.

  “Sam’s going to have his hands full,” he muttered.

  A spate of taxis signaled the approach of the Gare du Nord. Lyon’s instructions had been to call when they were in sight of the train station.

  Stephanie dialed her phone.

  SAM STEPPED FROM THE MÉTRO STATION AND TROTTED through the rain, using the overhangs from the closed shops as an umbrella, racing toward a plaza identified as PL. JEAN JAURèS. To his left rose Saint-Denis basilica, its medieval aesthetic harmony marred by a curiously missing spire. He’d taken advantage of the Métro as the fastest way north, avoiding the late-afternoon holiday traffic.

  He searched the frigid plaza for Thorvaldsen. Wet pavement, like black patent leather, reflected street lamps in javelins of yellow light.

  Had he gone inside the church?

  He stopped a young couple, passing on their way to the Métro, and asked about the basilica, learning that the building had been closed since summer for extensive repairs, that fact confirmed by scaffolding braced against the exterior.

  Then he saw Thorvaldsen and Meagan, near one of the trailers parked off to the left, maybe two hundred feet away.

  He headed their way

  ASHBY FOLDED HIS COAT COLLAR UP AGAINST THE RAIN AND walked down the deserted street with Caroline and Peter Lyon. An overcast sky draped the world in a pewter cloth. They’d used the boat and motored west on the Seine until the river started its wind north, out of Paris. Eventually, they’d veered onto a canal, stopping at a concrete dock near a highway overpass, a few blocks south of Saint-Denis basilica.

  They’d passed a columned building identified as LE MUSÉE D’ART ET D’HISTOIRE, and Lyon led them beneath the portico.

  Their captor’s phone rang.

  Lyon answered, listened a moment, then said, “Take Boulevard de Magenta north and turn on Boulevard de Rochechouart. Call me back when you find Place de Clichy.”

  Lyon ended the connection.

  Caroline was still terrified. Ashby wondered if she might panic and try to flee. It would be foolish. A man like Lyon would shoot her dead in an instant—treasure or no treasure. The smart play, the only play, was to hope for a mistake. If none occurred, perhaps he could offer this monster something that could prove useful, like a bank through which to launder money where no one asked questions.

  He’d deal with that when necessary.

  Right now, he simply hoped Caroline knew the answers to Lyon’s coming questions.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  THORVALDSEN AND MEAGAN TRUDGED DOWN A GRAVELED PATH adjacent to the basilica’s north side, away from the plaza.

  “There’s a former abbey,” Meagan told him, “located on the south side. Not as old as the basilica. Nineteenth century, though parts date way back. It’s some kind of college now. The abbey is at the heart of the legend that surrounds this place. After being beheaded in Montmartre, the evangelist St. Denis, the first bishop of Paris, supposedly started to walk, carrying his head. He was buried where he fell by a saintly woman. An abbey developed at that spot, which eventually became”—she motioned at the church—“this monstrosity.”

  He was trying to determine how to get inside. The north façade contained three portals, all iron-barred on the outside. Ahead, he spotted what was surely the ambulatory, a half circle of stone pierced with colored-glass windows.

  Rain continued to fall.

  They needed to find shelter.

  “Let’s round the corner up ahead,” he said, “and try the south side.”

  ASHBY ADMIRED THE BASILICA, CLEARLY A MARVEL OF SKILL and craftsmanship. They were walking down a graveled path on the south side of the building, having gained entrance to the church grounds through an opening in a makeshift construction barrier.

  His hair and face were soaking wet, his ears burning from the cold. Thank goodness he’d worn a heavy coat, thick leather gloves, and long underwear. Caroline, too, had dressed for the weather, but her blond hair was matted to her head. Piles of broken masonry, blocks of travertine, and marble fragments lay just off the path, which cut a route between the basilica and a stone wall that separated the church from some adjacent buildings. A construction trailer stood ahead on concrete blocks, scaffolding rising behind it up the articulated walls. On the trailer’s far side, up a few dozen stone steps, rose a Gothic portal, narrowed from front to back through the thickness of the walls toward two double doors clamped tight with plates of blue-washed iron.

  Lyon climbed the steps and tested the latch.

  Locked.

  “See that piece of iron pipe?” Lyon said, pointing to the rubble pile. “We need it.”

  He wanted to know, “Are you going to smash your way inside?”

  Lyon nodded. “Why not?”

  MALONE WATCHED AS STEPHANIE DIALED ASHBY’S MOBILE NUMBER one more time. They’d arrived at the Place de Clichy, an interchange busy with activity.

  “South down Rue d’Amsterdam, past Gare St. Lazare,” Lyon instructed through the speakerphone. “The church you seek is across from that train station. I’d hurry. It’s going to happen within the next thirty minutes. And don’t call again. I won’t answer.”

  The driver heard the location and sped ahead. Gare St. Lazare appeared in less than three minutes.

  Two churches lay across from the busy station, side by side.

  “Which one?” Stephanie muttered.

  SAM SKIRTED THE BASILICA’S NORTH SIDE, FOLLOWING HENRIK and Meagan through the rain. They’d already rounded the corner a hundred feet ahead. This far side of the basilica was rounded, full of curves, different from the straight edges on the plaza side.

  He carefully advanced, not wanting to alert Thorvaldsen to his presence.

  He followed the church’s half circle and swung around to the building’s south side.

  Immediately he spotted Thorvaldsen and Meagan, huddled beneath a covered section that jutted from the basilica and connected with an adjacent structure. He heard something clang from farther down, past where Thorvaldsen stood.

  Then more clangs.

  ASHBY CRASHED THE HEAVY METAL PIPE ONTO THE LATCH. ON the fourth blow, the handle gave way.

  Another swipe and the black iron lever tumbled down the stone steps.

  Lyon eased the door open. “That was easy.”

  Ashby tossed the pipe away.

  Lyon held his gun, incentive enough not to try anythin
g stupid, and motioned with it toward Caroline.

  “Time to find out if her suspicions prove correct.”

  MALONE MADE A DECISION. “YOU DIDN’T THINK LYON WOULD make it simple, did you? You take the church on the right, I’ll go left.”

  The car stopped and they both leaped out into the rain.

  ASHBY WAS GLAD TO BE INSIDE. THE BASILICA’S INTERIOR WAS both warm and dry. Only a handful of overhead light fixtures burned, but they were enough for him to appreciate the lofty nave’s majesty. Soaring fluted columns, perhaps thirty meters high, graceful arches, and pointed vaulting conveyed an awe-inspiring sense. Stained-glass windows, too many to even count, dark to the dismal day, projected none of the sensuous power their luminous tones surely could convey. But the impression of seemingly weightless walls was heightened by the lack of any visible feature holding something so tall upright. He knew, of course, that the supports were outside in the form of flying buttresses. He was forcing himself to concentrate on details as a way to relieve his mind of stress. He needed to think. To be ready to act when the moment was right.

  “Miss Dodd,” Lyon said. “What now?”

  “I can’t think with that gun out,” Caroline blurted. “There’s no way. I don’t like guns. I don’t like you. I don’t like being here.”

  Lyon’s brutish eyes narrowed. “If it helps, then here.” He stuffed the weapon beneath his coat and displayed two empty, gloved hands. “That better?”

  Caroline fought to regain her composure. “You’re just going to kill us anyway. Why should I tell you anything?”

  All congeniality faded from Lyon’s face. “Once we find whatever there is to find, I might have a change of heart. Besides, Lord Ashby there is watching my every move, waiting for me to err. Then we’ll have a chance to see if he’s really a man.”

  Ashby clung to his last tatters of courage. “Perhaps I might have such an opportunity.”

  Lyon’s lips parted in an amused grin. “I do hope so. Now, Miss Dodd, where to?”

  THORVALDSEN LISTENED FROM THE HALF-OPEN DOOR THAT Ashby had battered. He and Meagan had crept forward after Ashby, Caroline Dodd, and the man in the green coat had slipped inside. He was reasonably sure that the third participant was the second man who’d leaped from the tour boat with Ashby.

  “What do we do?” Meagan breathed into his ear.

  He had to end this partnership. He motioned for them to retreat.

  They fled the portal, back into the rain, retreating to their previous position beneath a covered walk. He noticed restrooms and an admission office and assumed this was where people bought tickets to visit the basilica.

  He grabbed Meagan by the arm. “I want you out of here. Now.”

  “You’re not so tough, old man, I can handle myself.”

  “You don’t need to be involved.”

  “You going to kill the woman and the other man, too?”

  “If need be.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve lost it.”

  “That’s right. I have. So leave.”

  Rain continued to torrent down, spilling off the roofs, dashing the pavement just beyond their enclosure. Everything seemed to be happening in a hypnotic slow motion. A lifetime of rationality was about to be erased by immeasurable grief. How many substitutes for happiness he’d tried since Cai died. Work? Politics? Philanthropy? Lost souls? Like Cotton. And Sam. But none of those had satisfied the hysteria that seemed to constantly rage within him. This was his task. No others were to be involved.

  “I don’t want to get myself killed,” Meagan finally said to him.

  Scorn tinged her words.

  “Then leave.” He tossed her his cell phone. “I don’t need it.”

  He turned away.

  “Old man,” she said.

  He stopped but did not face her.

  “You take care.” Her voice, low and soft, hinted at genuine concern.

  “You too,” he said.

  And he stepped out into the rain.

  SIXTY-NINE

  MALONE PUSHED HIS WAY THROUGH A HEAVY SET OF OAK doors into the Church of St. André. Typical of Paris, gabled apses, crowned by a gallery, a high wall encircling the ambulatory. Sturdy flying buttresses supported the walls from the outside. Pure Gothic splendor.

  People filled the pews and congregated in the transepts on either side of a long, narrow nave. Though heated, the air bore enough of a chill that coats were worn in abundance. Many of the worshipers carried shopping bags, backpacks, and large purses. All of which meant that his task of finding a bomb, or any weapon, had just become a million times harder.

  He casually strolled through the edge of the crowd. The interior was a cadre of niches and shadows. Towering columns not only held up the roof, they provided even more cover for an assailant.

  He was armed and ready.

  But for what?

  His phone vibrated. He retreated behind one of the columns, into an empty side chapel, and quietly answered.

  “Services here are over,” Stephanie said. “People are leaving.”

  He had a feeling, one that had overtaken him the moment he entered.

  “Get over here,” he whispered.

  ASHBY WALKED TOWARD THE MAIN ALTAR. THEY’D ENTERED the basilica through a side entrance, near one inside staircase that led up to the chancel and another that dropped to a crypt. Row after row of wooden chairs stretched from the altar toward the north transept and the main entrances, the north wall perforated by an immense rose window, dark to the disappearing day. Tombs lay everywhere among the chairs and in the transepts, most adorned with inlaid marbles. Monuments extended from one end of the nave to the other, perhaps a hundred meters of enclosed space.

  “Napoleon wanted his son to have the cache,” Caroline said, her words sputtering with fear. “He hid his wealth carefully. Where no one would find it. Except those he wanted to find it.”

  “As any person of power should,” Lyon said.

  Rain continued to fall, the constant patter off the copper roof echoing through the nave.

  “After five years in exile, he realized that he would never return to France. He also knew he was dying. So he tried to communicate the location to his son.”

  “The book that the American gave you in London,” Lyon said to Ashby. “It’s relevant?”

  He nodded.

  “I thought you told me Larocque gave you the book,” Caroline said.

  “He lied,” Lyon made clear. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. Why is the book important?”

  “It has a message,” Caroline said.

  She was offering too much, too fast, but Ashby had no way of telling her to slow down.

  “I think I may have deciphered Napoleon’s final message,” she said.

  “Tell me,” Lyon said.

  SAM WATCHED AS THORVALDSEN ABANDONED MEAGAN AND she plunged back into the rain, running toward where he stood hidden by one of the many juts from the outer wall. He pressed his back against cold, wet stone and waited for her to round the corner. He should be freezing, but his nerves were supercharged, numbing all feeling, the weather the least of his concerns.

  Meagan appeared.

  “Where are you going?” he quietly asked.

  She stopped short and whirled, clearly startled. “Damn, Sam. You scared me to death.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Your friend is about to do something really stupid.”

  He assumed as much. “What was that clamor I heard?”

  “Ashby and two others broke into the church.”

  He wanted to know who was with Ashby, so he asked. She described the woman, whom he did not know, but the second man matched the man from the tour boat. Peter Lyon. He needed to call Stephanie. He fumbled in his coat pocket and found his phone.

  “They have trackers in them,” Meagan said, pointing to the unit. “They probably already know where you are.”

  Not necessarily. Stephanie and Malone were busy dealing with whatever new threat Lyon had
generated. But he’d been sent to babysit Thorvaldsen, not confront a wanted terrorist.

  And another problem.

  The trip here had taken twenty minutes—by subway. He was a long way from Paris central, in a nearly deserted suburb being drenched by a storm.

  That meant this was his problem to deal with.

  Never forget, Sam. Foolishness will get you killed. Norstrum was right—God bless him—but Henrik needed him.

  He replaced the phone in his pocket.

  “You’re not going in there, are you?” Meagan asked, seemingly reading his mind.

  Even before he said it, he realized how stupid it sounded. But it was the truth. “I have to.”

  “Like at the top of the Eiffel Tower? When you could have been killed with all the rest of them?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sam, that old man wants to kill Ashby. Nothing’s going to stop him.”

  “I am.”

  She shook her head. “Sam. I like you. I really do. But you’re all insane. This is too much.”

  She stood in the rain, her face twisting with emotion. He thought of their kiss, last night, underground. There was something between them. A connection. An attraction. Still, he saw it in her eyes.

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice cracking.

  And she turned and ran away

  THORVALDSEN CHOSE HIS MOMENT WITH CARE. ASHBY AND HIS two companions were nowhere in sight, vanished into the gloomy nave. Darkness outside nearly matched the dusky interior, so he was able to slip inside, unnoticed, using the wind and rain as cover.

  The entryway opened in nearly the center of the church’s long south side. He immediately angled left and crouched behind an elaborate funerary monument, complete with a triumphal arch, beneath which two figures, carved of time-stained marble, lay recumbent. Both were emaciated representations, as they would have appeared as corpses rather than living beings. A brass plate identified the effigies as those of 16th century François I and his queen.

  He heard a clamor of thin voices, beyond the columns that sprouted upward in a soaring Gothic display. More tombs appeared in the weak light, along with empty chairs arranged in neat rows. Sound came in short gusts. His hearing was not as good as it once was, and the rain pounding the roof wasn’t helping.