The Paris Vendetta (25 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

SALEN HALL
11:40 PM

A
SHBY WATCHED AS
C
AROLINE EXAMINED THE BOOK STEPHANIE
Nelle had so conveniently provided. He’d lied and told Caroline that he’d spoken to Larocque and she’d finally agreed to give it to him, promptly ferrying it across the channel by personal courier.

“It’s Napoleon’s handwriting,” she said, excitement in her voice. “No doubt.”

“And this is significant?”

“It has to be. We have information that we didn’t have before. Much more than Pozzo di Borgo ever amassed. I’ve been through every writing Eliza Larocque provided. Not much there, really. Di Borgo worked more off rumor and gossip than historical fact. I think his hatred of Napoleon clouded his ability to effectively study the problem for an answer.”

Hate could well affect judgment. That was why he rarely allowed that emotion to overtake him. “It’s getting late and I have to be in Paris tomorrow.”

“Do I get to go along?”

“This is club business. And it is Christmas Day, so the shops will be closed.”

He knew that one of her favorite pastimes was roaming down Avenue Montaigne and its parade of designer stores. Ordinarily, he’d indulge her, but not tomorrow.

She continued to study the Merovingian book. “I can’t help but think that we have all the pieces.”

But he was still unnerved by Peter Lyon. He’d already made the additional money transfer, as demanded, terrified of the consequences if he balked. Incredibly, the South African was completely aware of the Americans.

“I’m sure you will be able to join these pieces,” he told her.

“Now you’re just trying to get my clothes off.”

He smiled. “The thought had occurred to me.”

“Can I go with you tomorrow?”

He caught the mischief in her eye and knew he had no choice. “All right. Provided I’m… fully satisfied tonight.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

But he saw that her mind was still on the book and Napoleon’s message. She pointed at the handwritten text. “It’s Latin. From the Bible. It deals with the story of Jesus and the disciples eating on the Sabbath. There are three versions of that story, one each in Luke, Matthew, and Mark. I’ve written the fourteen lines out so we can read them.

ET FACTUM EST EUM IN
SABBATO SECUNDO PRIMO A
BIRE PER SCCETES DISCIPULI AUTEM ILLIRIS COE
PERUNT VELLER SPICAS ET FRINCANTES MANIBUS + MANDU
CABANT QUÍDAM AUTEM DE FARISAEIS DI
CEBANT El ECCE QUIA FACIUNT DISCIPULI TUI SAB
BAUS + QUOD NON LICET RESPONDENS AUTEM INS
SE IXIT AD EOS NUMQUAM HOC
LECISTIS QUOD FECIT DAVID QUANDO
ESURUT IPSE EL QUI CUM EO ERAI + INTROIBOT IN DOMUM
DEI EE PANES PROPOSITIONIS
MANDUCA VIL EL DEDIL EL QUI
CUM ERANT UXIIO QUIBOS NO
N LICEBAT MANDUCARE SI NON SOLIS SACERDOTIBUS

“There’s a multitude of errors.
Díscípulí
is spelled with a
c
, not
a g
, so I corrected that from the original here in the book. Napoleon also made a complete muddle
of ípse díxít
. And the letters
uxíío
make no sense at all. But given all that, here’s what it means.

“‘And it came about that on the second Sabbath he walked through a cornfield. But his disciples began to pluck the ears and rubbing them in their hands ate them. Some of the Pharisees said to him, “Behold because your disciples are doing on the Sabbath that which is not lawful.” Replying, he said to them, “Have you never read what David did when he was hungry? He and those who were with him entered into the house of God and ate the bread of the sacrament and gave it to those who were with him, for whom it was not lawful to eat, except only for priests.”

She glanced up at him. “Damn strange, wouldn’t you say?”

“To say the least.”

“It doesn’t match any of the three biblical verses. More a composite. But there’s something even stranger.”

He waited.

“Napoleon knew no Latin.”

T
HORVALDSEN SAID GOODBYE TO
P
ROFESSOR
M
URAD AND RETIRED
upstairs to his suite. The time was approaching midnight, but Paris seemed never to sleep. The Ritz’s lobby bustled with activity, people streaming in and out of the noisy salons. As he exited the elevator on his floor, he spotted a dour-faced man with a fleshy complexion and straight dark hair waiting on a settee.

He knew him well, having two years ago hired the man’s Danish firm to investigate Cai’s death. Their contacts were usually by phone, and he actually thought him in England, supervising Ashby’s surveillance.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

“I flew over from London earlier. But I’ve been monitoring what’s happening there.”

Something was wrong. “Walk with me.”

They strolled down the quiet corridor.

“There’s some information you should be aware of.”

He stopped and faced his investigator.

“We followed Ashby from the time he left Paris. He went home for a few hours, then out, after dark. He took a walking tour about Jack the Ripper.”

He realized the oddity of that for a Londoner.

He was handed a photo. “He met with this woman. We managed to snap a picture.”

Only an instant was needed to recognize the face.

Stephanie Nelle.

Alarm bells sounded in his brain, and he fought hard to keep his concern to himself.

“Malone was there, too.”

Had he heard right? “Malone?”

His investigator nodded and showed him another photo. “In the crowd. He left when the woman did.”

“Did Malone talk with Ashby?”

“No, he headed off following a man who did speak with Ashby. We decided to let them both go, so as not to cause a problem.”

He did not like the look in the man’s eye. “It gets worse?”

The investigator nodded.

“That woman in the photo, she gave Ashby a book.”

FORTY-EIGHT

PARIS
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25
10:30 AM

M
ALONE EXPLORED THE
C
HURCH OF THE
D
OME AT THE
H
ÔTEL
des Invalides. Six chapels jutted from a central core, each housing their respective military heroes and dedicated to either the Virgin Mary or one of the fathers of the Roman Catholic Church. He was patrolling downstairs, twenty feet below the main level, circling Napoleon’s tomb. He still hadn’t called Gary and was mad at himself for it, but last night had been long.

“Anything?” he heard Stephanie call down from above.

She was standing at a marble balustrade, staring at him.

“There’s nowhere to hide anything, much less a bomb, in this mausoleum.”

Dogs had already swept every niche. Nothing had been found. The Invalides itself was now being searched. Nothing, so far. But since Ashby had said the church was the primary target, another careful sweep of every square inch was happening.

He stood at the entrance to a small gallery lit by antique brass lamps. Inside, a floor monument identified the crypt of Napoleon II, King of Rome, 1811–1832. Towering above the son’s grave was a white marble statue of the father, decked out in coronation robes, bearing a scepter and globe with a cross.

Stephanie glanced at her watch. “It’s approaching meeting time. This building is clean, Cotton. Something’s wrong.”

They’d entered the hangar at Heathrow last night, after Peter Lyon fled the terminal, and examined the plane. The Cessna’s registration was to a nondescript Belgium corporation, owned by a fictitious Czech concern. Europol attempted to tag a human being, but all the names and addresses followed a trail to nowhere. The hangar itself was leased to the same Czech corporation, the rental paid three months in advance.

“Lyon confronted me for a reason,” he said. “He wanted us to know that he knew we were there. He left those little Eiffel Towers for us. Hell, he didn’t even shield his eyes with glasses. The question is, does Ashby know we know?”

She shook her head. “He’s at the Eiffel Tower. Arrived a few minutes ago. We would have heard about it by now, if he did know. I’m told by his handlers that he’s never been bashful about expressing himself.”

His mind rifled through the possibilities. Thorvaldsen had tried to call, three times, but he hadn’t answered or returned the calls. Malone had stayed in London last night to avoid the many questions about the book that he simply could not answer. Not now. They’d talk later. The Paris Club had gathered for its meeting. The Eiffel Tower was closed until one
PM.
Only club members, serving staff, and security would be on the first platform. Malone knew that Stephanie had decided against overly infecting the security detail with loaners from French intelligence. Instead, she’d snuck two sets of eyes and ears into the meeting room.

“Are Sam and Meagan in place?” he asked.

He saw her nod. “Both quite eager, I might add.”

“That’s always a problem.”

“I doubt they’re in any danger there. Larocque insisted that everyone be swept for weapons and listening devices.”

He stared at Napoleon’s monstrous tomb. “You know the thing isn’t even made of red porphyry? It’s aventurine quartzite from Finland.”

“Don’t tell the French,” she said. “But I guess it’s like the cherry tree and George Washington.”

He heard a ding and watched as Stephanie answered her cell phone, listened a moment, then ended the call.

“A new problem,” she said.

He stared up at her.

“Henrik’s at the Eiffel Tower, entering the club meeting.”

S
AM WORE THE SHORT JACKET AND BLACK TROUSERS OF THE
serving staff, all courtesy of Stephanie Nelle. Meagan was similarly attired. They were part of the eleven who’d set up the banquet room with only two circular tables, each clothed in gold linen and adorned with fine china. The hall itself was maybe seventy-five by fifty feet, with a stage at one end. It could have easily accommodated a couple hundred diners, so the two tables seemed lonely.

He was busy preparing coffee cups and condiments and making sure a steaming samovar worked properly. He had no idea how the machine functioned, but it kept him near where members were making their way into the gathering. To his right, courtesy of a long wall of plate-glass windows, was a spectacular view of the Seine and the Right Bank.

Three older men and two middle-aged women had already arrived, each greeted by a stately-looking woman in a gray business suit.

Eliza Larocque.

Three hours ago Stephanie Nelle had shown him photographs of the seven club members, and he connected a face to each picture. Three controlled major lending institutions, one served in the European parliament. Each had paid 20 million euros to be a part of what was happening—which, according to Stephanie, had already netted them far more than 140 million in illicit profits.

Here was the living embodiment of all he’d long suspected existed.

He and Meagan were to look and listen. Above all, Stephanie had cautioned, take no unnecessary chances that could compromise their identities.

He finished fiddling with the coffee machine and turned to leave.

Another guest arrived.

Dressed similarly to the other men in an expensive charcoal-gray business suit, white shirt, and pale yellow tie.

Henrik Thorvaldsen.

T
HORVALDSEN ENTERED
L
A
S
ALLE
G
USTAV
E
IFFEL AND WAS IMMEDIATELY
greeted by Eliza Larocque. He extended his hand, which she lightly shook.

“I am so glad you are here,” she said. “That suit looks quite elegant.”

“I rarely wear one. But I thought it best for today’s occasion.”

She nodded in gratitude. “I appreciate the consideration. It is an important day.”

He’d kept his gaze locked on Larocque. It was important for her to think him interested. He noted the small talk occurring elsewhere in the room as a few of the other members milled about. The serving staff were busy preparing the dining and refreshment stations. Long ago he’d taught himself a useful lesson. Within two minutes of entering any room, know if you are among friends or enemies.

He recognized at least half the faces. Men and women of business and finance. A couple were genuine surprises, as he’d never thought them conspiratorialists. They were all wealthy, but not enormously, certainly not in his league, so it made some sense they would latch on to a scheme that could possibly generate some fast, easy, and unaccounted-for profits.

Before he could fully assess his surroundings, a tall, swarthy man with a silver-streaked beard and intense gray eyes approached.

Larocque smiled and extended her arm, sweeping the newcomer close, and saying, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

She faced him.

“Henrik, this is Lord Graham Ashby.”