The Paris Vendetta (34 page)

SIXTY-FOUR

A
SHBY WAITED FOR PETER
L
YON TO TELL HIM WHAT HE WANTED
to hear.

“I can eliminate Larocque,” the South African made clear, in a hushed tone.

They stood facing the river, watching the boat’s foamy wake dissolve into the brown-gray water. Two more canopied tourist boats and a handful of private craft followed.

“That needs to happen,” Ashby made clear, “today. Tomorrow at the latest. She’s going to be most disagreeable.”

“She wants the treasure, too?”

He decided to be blunt. “More than you can imagine. It’s a matter of family honor.”

“This treasure. I want to know more.”

He did not want to answer, but had no choice. “It’s Napoleon’s lost wealth. An incredible cache. Gone for two hundred years. But I think I’ve found it.”

“Lucky for you treasure doesn’t interest me. I prefer modern legal tender.”

They motored past the Palais de Justice and passed beneath a bridge busy with traffic.

“I assume I don’t have to pay the balance,” he said, “until you fully perform on Larocque.”

“To show you that I am a man of character, that will be fine. But she’ll be dead by tomorrow.” Lyon paused. “And know this, Lord Ashby. I don’t fail often. So I don’t appreciate reminders.”

He caught the message. But he had something he wanted to emphasize, too.

“Just kill her.”

S
AM DECIDED TO EASE INTO THE LAST ROW OF SEATS BENEATH
the canopy. He spied the familiar shape of Notre Dame approaching ahead on the left. On his right, the Latin Quarter and Shakespeare & Company, where yesterday all this had begun. The tour guide, not seen, only heard over the loudspeaker, droned bilingually about the Conciergerie, on the far Right Bank, where Marie Antionette was imprisoned before her execution.

He stood and casually walked toward the rear row, gazing out at the sights. He caught the chatter, picture taking, and pointing among the tourists aboard. Except for one man. Who sat at the end of an aisle, three rows from the end. Withered mushy face, long-eared, nearly chinless, he wore a pea-green coat over black jeans and boots. Blue-black hair was tied in a ponytail. He sat with both hands in his pockets, eyes ahead, disinterested, seemingly enjoying the ride.

Sam hugged the outer wall and crossed an invisible barrier where cold seeping in from the rear overcame warm air beneath the enclosure. He stared ahead and spotted another bridge spanning the Seine, coming closer.

Something rolled across the deck and clanged against the boat’s side.

He gazed down at a metal canister.

He’d been taught about armaments during his Secret Service training, enough to recognize that this was not a grenade.

No.

A smoke bomb.

His gaze shot toward Green Coat, who was staring straight at him, lips curled into a smile.

Purple smoke escaped from the canister.

A
N ODOR FILLED
A
SHBY’S NOSTRILS
.

He whirled around and saw that the space beneath the Plexiglas canopy had filled with smoke.

Shouts. Screams.

People escaped the foggy shroud, fleeing toward him, onto the open portion of the deck, coughing away the remnants from inside.

“What in the world?” he muttered.

T
HORVALDSEN PAID THE CABDRIVER AND STEPPED OUT ON THE
Pont de l’Archevêché. Meagan Morrison was right. Not much traffic on the two-lane stone bridge, and only a handful of pedestrians had paused to enjoy a picturesque view of Notre Dame’s backside.

He included an extra fifty euros to the driver and said, “Take this young lady wherever she wants to go.” He stared into the rear seat though the open door. “Good luck to you. Farewell.”

He slammed the door closed.

The cab eased back into the road, and he approached an iron railing that guarded the sidewalk from a ten-meter drop to the river. Inside his coat pocket he fingered the gun, shipped by Jesper yesterday from Christiangade, along with spare magazines.

He’d watched as Graham Ashby and another man had stood outside the tour boat enclosure, propped against the aft railing, just as Sam had reported. The boat was two hundred meters away, cruising toward him against the current. He should be able to shoot Ashby, drop the gun into the Seine, then walk away before anyone realized what happened.

Weapons were no stranger. He could make this kill.

He heard a car brake and turned.

The cab had stopped.

Its rear door opened and Meagan Morrison popped out. She buttoned her coat and trotted straight toward him.

“Old man,” she called out. “You’re about to do something really stupid, aren’t you?”

“Not to me it isn’t.”

“If you’re hell-bent, at least let me help.”

S
AM RUSHED AFT WITH EVERYONE ELSE, SMOKE BILLOWING FROM
the boat as if it were ablaze.

But it wasn’t.

He fought his way clear of the enclosure and spotted Green Coat, elbowing his way through the panic, toward the railing where Ashby and Tweed still stood.

T
HORVALDSEN GRIPPED THE GUN IN HIS POCKET AND SPOTTED
smoke rushing from the tour boat.

Meagan saw it, too. “Now, that’s not something you see every day.”

He heard more brakes squeal and turned to see a car block traffic at each end of the bridge on which he stood.

Another car roared past and skidded to a stop in the center of the bridge.

The passenger-side door opened

Stephanie Nelle emerged.

A
SHBY WATCHED AS A MAN IN A GREEN COAT LUNGED FROM THE
crowd and jammed a fist into Peter Lyon’s gut. He heard the breath leave the South African, as he crumbled to the deck.

A gun appeared in Green Coat’s hand, and the man said to Ashby, “Over the side.”

“You must be joking.”

“Over the side.” The man motioned toward the water.

Ashby turned to see a small craft, outfitted with a single outboard, nestled close to the tour boat, a driver at its helm.

He turned back and stared hard at Green Coat.

“I won’t say it again.”

Ashby pivoted over the railing, then dropped a meter or so from the side into the second boat.

Green Coat hoisted himself up to follow, but never made it down.

Instead his body was yanked backward.

SIXTY-FIVE

S
AM WATCHED AS
T
WEED SPRANG TO HIS FEET AND YANKED THE
man in the pea-green coat from the railing. Ashby had already leaped over the side. He wondered what was down there. The river would be nearly freezing. Certainly the fool had not plunged into the water.

Tweed and Green Coat slammed onto the deck.

Frightened passengers gave them room.

He decided to do something about the smoke. He stole a breath and rushed back beneath the enclosure. He found the smoke canister, lifted it from the deck, and, just past the last row of seats where the canopy ended, tossed it overboard.

The two men were still scuffling on the deck, the remaining smoke dissipating quickly in the cold, dry air.

He wanted to do something, but he was at a loss.

Engines dimmed. A door in the forward compartment opened and a crewman rushed out. Tweed and Green Coat continued to wrestle, neither man gaining an advantage. Tweed broke free, rolled away, and pushed himself up from the deck. Green Coat, too, was coming to his feet. But instead of rushing his opponent, the man in the green coat pushed through the surrounding onlookers and leaped over the side.

Tweed lunged after him, but the other man was gone.

Sam crossed the deck and spotted a small boat losing speed, drifting to their stern, then motoring away in the opposite direction.

Tweed watched, too.

Then the man peeled off a wig and ripped facial hair from his cheeks and chin.

He instantly recognized the face beneath.

Cotton Malone.

T
HORVALDSEN ALLOWED HIS GRIP ON THE GUN IN HIS POCKET
to relax. He casually withdrew his hand and watched as Stephanie Nelle stepped toward him.

“This can’t be good,” Meagan muttered.

He agreed.

The tour boat was approaching the bridge. He’d watched as the source of the smoke had been tossed overboard, then two men had jumped into a smaller craft—one of them had been Ashby—which roared away in the opposite direction, following the current, as the Seine wound deeper into Paris.

The tour boat glided past beneath the bridge and he caught sight of Sam and Cotton Malone standing at the aft railing, surrounded by people. The upward angle and the fact that Sam and Malone were facing away, watching the retreating motorboat, made it impossible for them to see him.

Meagan and Stephanie saw them, too.

“Now do you see what you’re interfering with?” Stephanie asked as she stopped a meter away.

“How did you know we were here?” Meagan asked.

“Your cell phones,” Stephanie said. “They have embedded trackers. When Henrik came on the line earlier, I realized there’d be trouble. We’ve been watching.”

Stephanie faced him. “What were you going to do? Shoot Ashby from here?”

He threw her a fierce, indignant stare. “Seemed like a simple thing to do.”

“You’re not going to allow us to handle this, are you?”

He knew exactly what was meant by
us
. “Cotton seems not to have the time to answer my calls, but plenty of time to be a part of your operation.”

“He’s trying to solve all of our problems. Yours included.”

“I don’t require his assistance.”

“Then why did you involve him?”

Because, at the time, he’d thought him a friend. One who’d be there for him. As he’d been for Malone.

“What was happening on that boat?” he asked.

Stephanie shook her head. “As if I’m going to explain that to you. And you,” she added, pointing at Meagan. “Were you going to just let him kill a man?”

“I don’t work for you.”

“You’re right.” She motioned to one of the French policemen standing beside the car. “Get her out of here.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Thorvaldsen made clear. “We’ll leave together.”

“You’re coming with me.”

He’d already anticipated that response, which was why he’d slipped his right hand back into his pocket and regripped the gun.

He withdrew the weapon.

“What do you plan to do? Shoot me?” Stephanie quietly asked.

“I wouldn’t recommend you push me. At the moment, I seem nothing more than an obedient participant in my own humiliation, but it’s my problem, Stephanie, not yours, and I intend to finish what I started.”

She did not reply.

“Get us a cab,” he ordered Meagan.

She ran to the bridge’s end and flagged down the first one that passed on the busy boulevard. Stephanie remained silent, but he saw it in her eyes. An introspective yet alert defensiveness. And something else. She had no intention of halting him.

He was acting on impulse, more panic than design, and she seemed to sympathize with his quandary. This woman, full of expertise and caution, could not help him, but in her heart she did not want to stop him, either.

“Just go,” she whispered.

He scampered toward the waiting cab, as fast as his crooked spine would allow. Once inside he asked Meagan, “Your cell phone.”

She handed the unit over.

He lowered the window and tossed it away

A
SHBY WAS TERRIFIED
.

The motorboat was making its escape past the Île de la Cité, threading a quick path around other boats coming their way.

Everything had happened so fast.

He was talking to Peter Lyon, then a tidal wave of smoke had burst over him. The man in the green coat now held a gun, quickly displaying it the instant he’d leaped from the tour boat. Who was he? One of the Americans?

“You are truly a fool,” the man said to him.

“Who are you?”

The gun came level.

Then he saw amber eyes.

“The man you owe a great deal of money.”

M
ALONE PEELED THE REMAINING HAIR AND ADHESIVE FROM HIS
face. He held open each eyelid and plucked out amber-colored contacts.

The tour boat had stopped at the nearest dock and allowed frightened patrons to leave. Malone and Sam debarked last, Stephanie waiting ashore, up a stone stairway, at street level.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“A royal mess,” Malone said. “Didn’t go as planned.”

Sam seemed perplexed.

“We had to corner Ashby,” Malone said. “So I called, as Lyon, and arranged a meeting.”

“And the getup?”

“The French helped us out there. Their intelligence people found us a makeup artist. I was also wired, getting admissions on tape. Peter Lyon, though, had other ideas.”

“That was him?” Sam asked. “In the green coat?”

Malone nodded. “Apparently he wants Ashby, too. And good job clearing the smoke bomb.”

“Henrik was here,” she said to him.

“How pissed is he?”

“He’s hurt, Cotton. He’s not thinking clearly.”

He should talk with his friend, but there hadn’t been a free moment all day. He found his cell phone, which he’d silenced before boarding the tour boat, and noted more missed calls from Henrik and three from a number he recognized.

Dr. Joseph Murad.

He punched
REDIAL
. The professor answered on the first ring.

“I did it,” Murad said. “I figured it out.”

“You know the location?”

“I think so.”

“Have you called Henrik?”

“I just did. I couldn’t reach you, so I called him. He wants me to meet him.”

“You can’t do that, Professor. Just tell me where and I’ll handle it.”