The Paris Vendetta (8 page)

FOURTEEN

CORSICA

A
SHBY STEPPED ONTO THE DESOLATE
C
AP
C
ORSE SHORE, ITS
dirty sand grass-strewn, its rocks invested with prickly maquis. On the eastern horizon, far across the water, he spied the lights of Elba. The crumbling Tour de Santa Maria sprang from the surf twenty meters away, the shadowy ruin torn and convulsed with the look of something utterly besieged. The winter night was a balmy 18° Celsius, typical for the Mediterranean, and the main reason why so many tourists flocked to the island this time of year.

“We are going to the convent?” the Corsican asked him.

He motioned and the tender motored away. He carried a radio and would contact the ship later.
Archimedes
rested at anchor, in a calm expanse, just offshore.

“Indeed we are. I checked a map. It’s not far.”

He and his cohort carefully eased their way across the granite, following a defined footpath among the maquis. He caught the distinctive scent of the aromatic scrub, a blend of rosemary, lavender, cistus, sage, juniper, mastic, and myrtle. Not as strong this time of year as it was in spring and summer when Corsica erupted in a blaze of pink and yellow blossoms, but nonetheless pleasant. He recalled that Napoleon, while first exiled on nearby Elba, had remarked that on certain days, with a westerly wind, he could smell his homeland. He imagined himself one of the many Moorish pirates who’d raided this coastline for centuries, using the maquis to mask their trail and shield a retreat. To defend against those raids, the Genoese had erected watchtowers. The Tour de Santa Maria was one of many—each round, nearly twenty meters high, with walls over a meter thick, a cistern in the lower part, living section in the middle, an observatory and fighting platform on top.

Quite an engineering achievement.

Something about history stirred him.

He liked following in its footsteps.

On a dark night in 1943 five men had managed something extraordinary, something that he had only in the past three weeks been able to comprehend. Unfortunately, the fool of small stature, with a devil-may-care personality, walking ahead of him, had interfered with success. This venture needed to end. Here. Tonight. Ventures far more critical lay ahead.

They abandoned the rocky shoreline and crossed a ridge into a forest of oak, chestnut, and olive trees. Silence had settled about them. Ahead rose the Chapelle Santa Maria. The convent had stood since the 11th century, a tall, gunpowder-gray rectangle of vitrified stone, with a plank roof and a belfry.

The Corsican stopped. “Where do we go? I’ve never been here.”

“Never visited this national preserve? Seems a must for any resident of this island.”

“I live in the south. We have our own natural wonders.”

He motioned left, through the trees. “I am told there’s a cemetery behind the convent.”

He now led the way, a nearly full moon illuminating the path. Not a light shone anywhere. The nearest village was miles away.

They rounded the ancient building and found an iron archway that opened into a graveyard. His research had revealed that the medieval lords of Cap Corse had been afforded a certain latitude by their Genoese masters. Positioned so far north, on a mountainous, inhospitable strip of land that cleaved the sea, those Corsican lords had profited from both the French and the Italians. Two local families once shared territorial control. The da Gentiles and da Mares. Some of the da Mares were buried here, behind the convent, in graves centuries old.

Three beams of light suddenly appeared from the blackness. Electric torches, switched on at their approach.

“Who’s there?” the Corsican called out.

One of the beams revealed a stiff face. Guildhall.

The Corsican faced Ashby. “What is this?”

Ashby motioned ahead. “I’ll show you.”

They walked toward the lights, threading a path through crumbling stone markers, maybe fifty or so overgrown with more fragrant maquis. As they came closer the lights revealed a rectangle dug into the earth, maybe a meter and a half deep. Two younger men stood with Guildhall, holding shovels. Ashby produced his own flashlight and shone its beam on a gravestone, which revealed the name
MéNéVAL
.

“He was a da Mare, from the 17th century. Those four German soldiers used his grave as their hiding place. They buried six crates here, just as the Moor’s Knot revealed from the book.
Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval.”

He adjusted the angle of the light and revealed the inside of the freshly excavated grave.

Empty.

“No crates. No Ménéval. Nothing. Can you explain that?”

The Corsican did not offer a reply.

Ashby had not expected one. With his light, he revealed the faces of the other two men, then said, “These gentlemen have worked for me a long time. As has their father. Once, so did their uncles. They are absolutely loyal. Sumner,” he called out.

From the darkness more forms appeared, and a new torch beam revealed two more men.

“Gustave,” the Corsican said, recognizing one of the faces as his co-conspirator. “What are you doing here?”

“This man, Sumner, brought me.”

“You sold me out, Gustave.”

The other man shrugged. “You would have done the same.”

The Corsican laughed. “That I would. But we have both been made rich.”

Ashby noticed they spoke Corsican, so he added, in their language, “I apologize for this inconvenience. But we needed privacy to conclude our business. And I needed to know if there was, indeed, anything to find.”

The Corsican motioned to the empty hole. “As you can see, Lord Ashby, there are no crates. No treasure. As you feared.”

“Which is entirely understandable, given you both recently found the crates and carted them away.”

“That’s preposterous,” the Corsican said. “Completely, utterly false.”

Time for all pretense to end. “I have spent three years searching for Rommel’s gold. It has cost me much time and money. Six months ago I finally located that fifth German’s family. He lived a long life and died in Bavaria a decade ago. His widow, for a fee of course, allowed me inside her home. Among his belongings, I found the Roman numerals.”

“Lord Ashby,” the Corsican said. “We have not betrayed you.”

“Sumner, if you please, inform these gentlemen what you found.”

The shadowy form motioned at Gustave with his light. “Buried in this bugger’s backyard. Six crates.” The voice paused. “Full of gold bars bearing the swastika.”

Ashby savored the revelation. He hadn’t known, to this moment, what they’d discovered. While he’d hosted the Corsican, Sumner Murray and his sons had located Gustave, outside Bastia, and determined whether his suspicions proved correct. And while they’d sailed north, the Murrays had driven up the coast highway. Then Mr. Guildhall had come ashore and excavated the grave.

“I dealt with you in good faith,” Ashby told the two liars. “I offered you a percentage of the find, and I would have honored that agreement. You chose to deceive me, so I owe you nothing. I withdraw the one million euros I extended you both.”

He’d read of the famed Corsican
vendettas—
blood feuds that erupted between families and generated body counts normally associated with national civil wars. Usually begun over trivial matters of honor, the murderous fights could smolder for decades. The da Gentiles and da Mares had, for centuries, fought each other, some of the victims of those feuds decaying in the ground around him. Officially,
vendettas
no longer existed, but Corsican politics continued to be riddled with remnants. Assassination and violence were common. The political tactic even had a name.
Règlement de comte
. Settling of scores.

Time to settle this score.

“Normally I would have my solicitor deal with you.”

“A lawyer? You plan to sue us?” the Corsican asked.

“Heavens, no.”

The Corsican laughed. “I was beginning to wonder. Can’t we make some sort of arrangement? We did, after all, supply part of the answer. Can we keep the money you have already given us in return?”

“To do that, I would have to forgive your deceit.”

“It’s my nature,” the Corsican said. “I can’t help it. How about half the money for our trouble?”

He watched as Guildhall slowly backed away from the two men. Sumner and the two younger Murrays had already retreated, sensing what was about to happen.

“Half seems a bit much to me,” he said. “How about—”

Two pops disturbed the night.

Both Corsicans lurched as bullets from Guildhall’s gun pierced their skulls. Their bodies went limp, then flesh and bones collapsed forward, tumbling into the open grave.

Problem solved.

“Cover this up and make sure it’s unnoticed.” He knew the Murrays would handle things.

Mr. Guildhall came close, and Ashby asked, “How long will it take to retrieve the gold?”

“We have it already. It’s in the truck.”

“Excellent. Load it on
Archimedes
. We need to leave. Tomorrow, I have business elsewhere.”

FIFTEEN

DENMARK

M
ALONE AND
T
HORVALDSEN LEFT THE BEDROOM AND WALKED
toward Christiangade’s main foyer. There Thorvaldsen climbed a staircase to the next floor, where he followed a wide corridor adorned with Danish art and antiques to a closed door. Malone knew where they were headed.

Cai’s room.

Inside was an intimate chamber, with high ceilings, soft-colored plaster walls, and a four-poster English bed.

“He always called this his
thinking space,”
Thorvaldsen said, switching on three lamps. “This room was redecorated many times. It went from a nursery, to a little boy’s room, to a young man’s haven, to a grown man’s retreat. Lisette loved changing it.”

He knew the subject of Thorvaldsen’s late wife was taboo. In the two years they’d been together they’d discussed her but once, and then only fleetingly. Her portrait remained downstairs, more photographs of her scattered throughout the house. It seemed only visual reminders were permitted of this sacred memory.

He’d never before been allowed in Cai’s room, and he noticed more visual reminders here, too—shelves littered with knickknacks.

“I come here often,” Thorvaldsen said.

He had to ask, “Is that healthy?”

“Probably not. But I have to hold on to something, and this room is all I have left.”

He wanted to know what was happening so he kept his mouth shut and his ears open and indulged his friend. Thorvaldsen stooped against a dresser adorned with family photographs. An abyss of unfathomable grief seemed to engulf him.

“He was murdered, Cotton. Gunned down in the prime of his life for nothing more than the proving of a point.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“Cabral hired four shooters. Three went to that plaza—”

“And I killed them.” His vehemence at that reality alarmed him.

Thorvaldsen faced him. “Rightly so. I found the fourth. He told me what happened. He saw what you did. How you shot the two. He was to cover the third man, the one who shot you, but fled the plaza when you started firing. He was terrified of Cabral, so he disappeared.”

“So why not have Cabral prosecuted?”

“Not necessary. He’s dead.”

Then he knew. “He’s in one of those body bags?”

Thorvaldsen nodded. “He came to finish me himself.”

He caught what was not said. “Tell me the rest.”

“I didn’t want to speak in front of Sam. He’s so eager. Perhaps too eager. He believes himself right and wants vindication or, more correctly, validation. I hate that he was almost harmed.”

Thorvaldsen’s gaze returned to the dresser. Malone watched as emotions writhed within the older Dane.

“What did you discover?” Malone quietly asked.

“Something I never expected.”

S
AM CLIMBED ABOARD THE BOAT AS
J
ESPER TIED THE OTHER
craft to the stern. Cold Scandinavian winter air burned his face. They’d laid both bodies, outside the bags, in the other boat and were now towing the craft into the open sound. Jesper had already told him how strong currents would sweep the boat toward Sweden, where it would be found after the sun rose.

What an exhausting night.

So much was happening.

Three days ago Thorvaldsen had predicted that the situation would escalate, and it certainly had.

“You do a lot for Henrik,” he said to Jesper over the outboard’s roar.

“Herre Thorvaldsen has done a lot for me.”

“Killing people is a little above and beyond, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not if they deserve it.”

The waters were choppy from a stiff northerly breeze. Luckily, Jesper had provided him with a thick wool coat, insulated gloves, and scarf.

“Is he going to kill Cabral and Ashby?” he asked.

“Senor Cabral is dead.”

He didn’t understand. “When did that happen?”

Jesper motioned to the boat they were towing. “He underestimated Herre Thorvaldsen.”

He stared back at the dark hull containing two corpses. He hadn’t liked being dismissed, and now wondered even more what Thorvaldsen and Malone were discussing. Jesper still had not answered his question about killing Ashby, and Sam realized he wasn’t going to. This man was absolutely loyal, and replying would mean breaching that commitment to Thorvaldsen.

But his silence said it all.

“A
SHBY IS ON A TREASURE HUNT,”
T
HORVALDSEN SAID
. “A
TREASURE
that has eluded people for a long time.”

“So what?”

“It matters. I’m not sure how, just yet. But it matters.”

Malone waited.

“Young Sam is right about a conspiracy. I haven’t told him, but my investigators confirmed numerous recent meetings of five people, who gather in Paris.”

“His Paris Club?”

Thorvaldsen shrugged.

“People have a right to meet.”

He noticed a light sweat on Thorvaldsen’s forehead, even though the room was not warm.

“Not these people. I determined they’ve been experimenting. In Russia last year, they affected the national banking system. In Argentina, they artificially devalued stocks, bought low, then reversed everything and sold for huge profits. More of the same in Colombia and Indonesia. Small manipulations. It’s as if they’re testing the waters, seeing what can be done.”

“How much harm could they do? Most nations have more than adequate protections on their financial systems.”

“Not really, Cotton. That’s a boast most governments cannot support. Especially if those attacking the system know what they’re doing. And notice the countries they picked. Places with oppressive regimes, limited or no democracy, nations that flourish with centralized rule and few civil rights.”

“You think that matters?”

“I do. These financiers are well schooled. I’ve checked them out. And they’re well led.”

He caught a note of mockery.

“Elena Rico was targeting Ashby and Cabral. I’ve learned a lot about Graham Ashby. He would have handled Rico’s death more discreetly. But his ally was tasked with the kill, and did it his way. I imagine Ashby wasn’t pleased with that slaughter in the plaza, but he had no room to complain about it, either. It did the job.”

Malone did not like the hollow feeling in his stomach, which seemed to worsen by the minute. “You going to kill him? Like Cabral?”

Thorvaldsen simply stared at the photographs.

“Ashby is unaware of Cabral’s attacks on me tonight. The last thing Cabral would have wanted is for Ashby to know he’s been exposed. That’s why he came himself.”

Thorvaldsen spoke mechanically, as if all had been decided. But there was still something else. Malone could sense it. “What’s really happening here, Henrik?”

“It’s a complicated tale, Cotton. One that started the day Napoleon Bonaparte died.”