The Paris Vendetta (33 page)

SIXTY-TWO

E
LIZA SAID HER GOODBYES TO THE LAST OF THE
P
ARIS
C
LUB AS
the members exited La Salle Gustav Eiffel. She’d managed to contain herself during the afternoon and alleviate the tidal wave of anxiety that had swept through the room. Thorvaldsen’s accusations had seemed forgotten, or at least addressed, by the time the session finished.

Her own fears, though, were another matter.

So two hours ago, during a break, she’d made a call.

The man she’d sought was pleased to hear from her. His flat tone conveyed no emotion, only the fact that he was available and ready to do business with her. She’d stumbled on to him a few years ago when she’d required some unorthodox assistance with a debtor—someone who thought friendship made defaulting on his obligation an option. She’d asked around, learned of the man’s abilities, met him, and four days later the debtor paid the several million euros owed, in full. She’d never asked how that was accomplished, simply pleased that it occurred. Since then there had been three other “situations.” Each time she’d made contact. Each time the task had been accomplished.

She hoped today would be no exception.

He lived in the Montmartre, within the shadow of the domes and campaniles that rose from Paris’ highest point. She found the building on the Rue Chappe, a shaded avenue of Second Empire homes, populated now with trendy shops, cafés, and expensive, upper-story flats.

She climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked lightly on the door marked with a brass 5. The man who answered was short and slender, with straw-thin gray hair. The crook of his nose and the cut of his jaw reminded her of a hawk, which seemed a fitting symbol for Paolo Ambrosi.

She was invited inside.

“What may I do for you today?” Ambrosi asked in a calm voice.

“Always straight to the point.”

“You are an important person. Time is valuable. I assume that you did not come here, on Christmas Day, for something trivial.”

She caught what was unspoken. “And pay the fees you command?”

He gave a slight nod of his head, which was at least a size too small for his frame.

“This one is special,” she said. “It must be done quickly.”

“Define
quickly.”

“Today.”

“I assume you have the information needed for a proper preparation.”

“I’ll lead you straight to the target.”

Ambrosi wore a black turtleneck, a black-and-gray-tweed coat, and dark corduroy trousers that sharply contrasted with his pale complexion. She wondered what drove the grim man but realized that this was, most likely, a long story.

“Is there a preference as to the method?” he asked.

“Only that it be painful and slow.”

His cool eyes were bereft of humor. “His betrayal must have been unexpected.”

She appreciated his ability to peer into her thoughts. “To say the least.”

“Your need for satisfaction is that great?”

“Beyond measure.”

“Then we shall obtain a full absolution.”

S
AM DIALED HIS CELL PHONE
. T
HE OTHER END OF THE LINE
was answered quickly.

“What is it, Sam?” Stephanie said.

“I have Ashby.”

He told her exactly what happened since leaving the Eiffel Tower.

“You weren’t supposed to follow him,” she made clear.

“And a plane wasn’t supposed to fly into us, either.”

“I appreciate your ingenuity. Stay where you are—”

Henrik relieved him of the phone. Clearly his friend wanted to speak with Stephanie Nelle, and he wanted to know why, so Sam stepped back and listened.

“I
T’S GOOD TO KNOW THAT THE
A
MERICAN GOVERNMENT IS DIRECTLY
atop things,” Thorvaldsen said.

“And it’s good to talk to you, too, Henrik,” Stephanie replied, in a tone that signaled she was ready for battle.

“You interfered in my business,” he said.

“On the contrary. You interfered in ours.”

“How is that possible? None of this concerns America.”

“Don’t be so sure. You’re not the only one who’s interested in Ashby.”

His stomach went hollow. He’d suspected as much, hoping he was wrong. “He’s valuable to you?”

“You realize I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

He didn’t require any admissions from her. What just happened at the Eiffel Tower explained everything. “It’s not hard to imagine what’s happening here.”

“Let’s just say that there’s more at stake here than your revenge.”

“Not to me.”

“Would it do any good if I said I understand? That I’d do the same, if the roles were reversed?”

“You still interfered.”

“We saved your life.”

“You gave Ashby the book.”

“Which was a good idea. It rocked him to sleep. Lucky for you, I might add, or you’d be dead right now.”

He wasn’t in the mood to be grateful. “Cotton betrayed me. I have not the time, at the moment, to deal with that disappointment. But I will.”

“Cotton used his brain. You should, too, Henrik.”

“My son is dead.”

“I don’t need a reminder.”

“Apparently, you do.” He paused, grabbed a breath, and steadied himself. “This is my affair, not yours, not Cotton’s, not the U.S. government’s.”

“Henrik, listen to me. This is not about you. There’s a terrorist involved here. A man named Peter Lyon. We’ve been trying to nail him for a decade. He’s finally out in the open where we can see him. You have to let us finish this. But we need Ashby in order to do that.”

“And when it’s over? What of my son’s murderer?”

The other end of the phone remained silent. Which told him what he already knew. “That’s what I thought. Goodbye, Stephanie.”

“What are you going to do?”

He switched off the phone and handed it to Sam. The younger man and Meagan Morrison had stood silent, watching him through concerned eyes.

“Will you betray me, too?” he asked Sam.

“No.”

The answer came quick. Perhaps too quick. But this eager soul was anxious to prove himself.

“Something’s happening,” Meagan said.

He turned and focused across the boulevard at the hotel.

Ashby appeared out front and spoke to the doorman, who quickly motioned for a cab. Thorvaldsen turned away and faced the buildings behind them. His face might be seen.

“He’s in the cab,” Sam said.

“Flag us one, too.”

SIXTY-THREE

A
SHBY STEPPED OFF THE DOCK AT
P
ONT DE L
’A
LMA AND ONTO
the tour boat. Off to the east a carillon of bells pealed for three
PM.
He’d never toured the Seine by boat, though he assumed the cruises were quite popular. Today only about twenty strangers filled the seats under a sooty Plexiglas canopy, the boat not quite half full. He wondered why Peter Lyon insisted on meeting in such tacky surroundings. The call had come an hour ago, a gruff voice instructing him on the time and place. He’d told Caroline to keep working on what she’d discovered and that he’d return shortly. He’d debated ignoring Lyon’s summons, but knew better. Besides, Lyon had been the one who failed, not him. And there was the matter of the fee already paid, and the balance owed.

He settled into a seat on the last row and waited ten minutes until the engines revved and the flat hull glided out into the river, heading east toward the Île de la Cité. Through a loudspeaker a woman’s voice described, in English, the two banks and the sights while cameras clicked.

A tap on the shoulder diverted his attention and he turned to see a tall, urbane-looking man with blond hair. He appeared to be midsixties, the face drawn and shielded by a bushy beard and mustache. A vastly different look from the other day, yet the eyes remained the same amber color. The man was dressed in a tweed coat and corduroy slacks, appearing, as usual, quite European.

Ashby followed him toward the stern, outside the Plexiglas enclosure, where they stood in the cold. The tour guide inside continued to hold the crowd’s attention.

“What do I call you today?” he asked.

“How about Napoleon?” The voice was husky, throaty, more American this time.

The boat eased past the Grand Palais on the Right Bank.

“May I ask what happened?”

“No, you may not,” Lyon said.

He wasn’t about to accept that rebuke. “You are the one who failed. Not only that, you caused me to be exposed. The Americans are applying pressure. Do you have any idea the situation you have generated?”

“The Americans are the ones who interfered.”

“And that was a surprise? You knew they were involved. I paid three times your fee to compensate for their involvement.” His exasperation showed, but he did not care. “You said it would be quite a show.”

“I don’t know, as yet, who to blame,” Lyon said. “My planning was precise.”

He registered the same condescending tone he’d grown to hate. Since he could not reveal that he’d been using Lyon to do his dirty work, he asked, “What can be done to rectify the situation?”

“That will be your problem. I’m done.”

He could not believe what he was hearing. “You’re—”

“I want to know,” Lyon said, interrupting. “What did you hope to gain from killing those people at the tower?”

“How do you know I wanted to kill them?”

“The same way I know about the Americans.”

This man knew an awful lot. But he sensed that Lyon was not nearly as confident today. Good to know that even the devil failed occasionally. He decided not to rub the disaster in the man’s face. He still needed Lyon.

“I would have never been rid of them,” he said. “Larocque, especially. So I decided to terminate the relationship, in a way she would appreciate.”

“And how much money was involved?”

He chuckled. “You like to come to the point, don’t you?”

Lyon shifted on his feet as he stood, propped against the aft railing. “It’s always about money.”

“I have access to millions in club funds deposited in my bank. That’s how you were paid. I could not have cared less what you charge. Of course, that money, or what’s left of it, would have been mine, if your flight had been successful.” He allowed his words to linger, conveying again who was responsible for the botched attack. He was tiring of theatrics, gaining courage by the second, annoyed with this man’s arrogance.

“What was really at stake, Lord Ashby?”

That he was not going to share. “More than you could ever imagine. Plenty to compensate for the risks involved in killing those people.”

Lyon said nothing.

“You’ve been paid,” Ashby made clear, “but I did not receive the service, as promised. You like to talk about character and how almighty important that is to you. Do you fail, then keep a person’s money?”

“You still want them dead?” Lyon paused. “Assuming I’m interested in continuing our association.”

“You don’t have to kill them all. How about just Larocque. For what you’ve already been paid, and for the remaining payment owed to you.”

T
HORVALDSEN HAD NOT BEEN ABLE TO BOARD THE TOUR BOAT
with Ashby. His operatives were on the way from England and should arrive within the next few hours, so they were of no help. Instead, he’d opted to follow the slow-moving vessel, paralleling the Seine in a taxi, on a busy boulevard.

He’d first considered sending Sam or Meagan, but was concerned Ashby might recognize their faces from the meeting. Now he realized there was no choice. He faced Sam. “I want you to get aboard at the next stop and see what Ashby is doing. Also, find out the route and call that to me immediately.”

“Why me?”

“You were able to masquerade for Stephanie Nelle, surely you can do this for me.”

He saw that his rebuke bit into the young man, as intended.

Sam nodded. “I can do it. But Ashby may have seen me in the meeting room.”

“It’s a chance we have to take. But I doubt if he pays much attention to hired help.”

The road ahead passed between the Louvre on the left and the Seine on the right. He saw the tour boat ease toward a dock just below the roadway. He signaled for the driver to stop at the curb.

He opened the door and Sam jumped out into the cold afternoon.

“Be safe,” he said, then he slammed the door and told the driver to go, but slowly, and not to lose the boat.

“Y
OU STILL HAVEN’T ANSWERED MY QUESTION,”
L
YON SAID TO
Ashby. “What’s at stake here?”

He decided that to secure Lyon’s continued help he was going to have to give a little. “A treasure beyond measure. One far greater than the fee you extorted from me.” He wanted this demon to know that he wasn’t intimidated any longer.

“And you needed Larocque and the others gone to acquire it?”

He shrugged. “Just her. But I decided that since you were killing people, why not kill them all.”

“I so underestimated you, Lord Ashby.”

No kidding.

“And what of the Americans? You deceived them, too?”

“I told them what I had to and, I might add, I never would have sacrificed you. If things had evolved properly, I would have had my freedom, the treasure, the club’s money, and you would have been on to the next client—richer by three times your usual fee.”

“The Americans were smarter than I anticipated.”

“Seems that was your mistake. I performed my part, and I’m ready to pay the remainder of the fee. Provided—”

The boat eased to a stop at the Louvre. New riders stepped aboard and dutifully took their seats beneath the canopy. Ashby kept silent until the engines revved and they motored back into the swift Seine.

“I’m waiting,” he said.

S
AM DECIDED AGAINST SITTING TOO FAR AFT
H
E CHOSE INSTEAD
to merge himself into the sparse camera-toting crowd. Beneath the canopy there was a measure of comfort provided by warm air from the boat’s heaters. Ashby and the other man—the stranger dressed in English tweeds and sporting imperiously coiffed blond hair—stood beyond the enclosure where, he imagined, it was downright cold.

He focused his attention on the riverbanks as a tour guide spouted over a loudspeaker about the Île de la Cité and its many attractions, which lay directly ahead. He feigned sightseeing as a way to keep an eye on what was happening. The guide mentioned that they would be taking the Left Bank route around the Île, past Notre Dame, then on to the Bibliothèque François Mitterand.

He dialed his phone and quickly reported the route.

T
HORVALDSEN LISTENED CLICKED OFF, AND STUDIED THE ROAD
ahead.

“Cross the river,” he told the driver, “then go left, toward the Latin Quarter. But stay close.”

He did not want to lose sight of the tour boat.

“What are you doing?” Meagan Morrison asked.

“How long have you lived in Paris?”

She seemed taken aback by his question, realizing he was ignoring hers.

“Years.”

“Then tell me, are there any bridges across the river past Notre Dame, leading to and from the Left Bank?”

She hesitated, considering his inquiry. He realized that it wasn’t that she didn’t know the answer, she just wanted to know why the information was important.

“There’s a bridge just past. The Pont de l’Archevêché.”

“Crowded?”

She shook here head. “Mainly pedestrians. A few cars traveling over to the Île St. Louis, behind the cathedral.”

“Go there,” he told the driver.

“What are you going to do, old man?”

He ignored her goad and coolly said, “What must be done.”