The Paris Vendetta (35 page)

SIXTY-SIX

3:40 PM

A
SHBY WAS LED FROM THE BOAT AT GUNPOINT NEAR THE
Î
LE
S
AINT
G
ERMAIN
, south of the old city center. He now knew that the man who held him was Peter Lyon and the man on the tour boat had most likely been an American agent. A car waited up from the river, at street level. Two men sat inside. Lyon signaled and they exited. One opened the rear door and yanked Caroline out into the afternoon.

“Your Mr. Guildhall won’t be joining us,” Lyon said. “I’m afraid he’s been permanently detained.”

He knew what that meant. “There was no need to kill him.”

Lyon chuckled. “On the contrary. It was the only option.”

The situation had just gravitated from serious to desperate. Obviously, Lyon had been monitoring everything Ashby had been doing, since he knew exactly where Caroline and Guildhall could be found.

He spied unrestrained fear on Caroline’s lovely face.

He was scared, too.

Lyon led him forward and whispered, “I thought you might need Miss Dodd. That’s the only reason she’s still alive. I would suggest that you don’t waste the opportunity I’ve offered her.”

“You want the treasure?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“You told me last night in London that things like that didn’t interest you.”

“A source of wealth unknown to any government, with no accounting. There’s so much I could do with that at my disposal—and I wouldn’t have to deal with cheats like you.”

They stood beyond a busy street, the car parked among a patch of trees bleached from winter. No one was in sight, the area largely a commercial center and boat repair facility, closed for the holiday. Lyon again withdrew the gun from beneath his coat and screwed a sound suppressor to the short barrel.

“Set her back in the car,” Lyon directed as they approached.

Caroline was shoved across the rear seat. Lyon stepped to the open door and thrust his arm inside, aiming the gun directly at her.

She gasped. “Oh, God. No.”

“Shut up,” Lyon said.

Caroline started to cry.

“Lord Ashby,” Lyon said. “And you, too, Miss Dodd. I’m only going to ask this once. If a truthful answer is not immediately forthcoming, clear and concise, then I will fire. Does everyone understand?”

Ashby said nothing.

Lyon stared straight at him. “I didn’t hear you, Lord Ashby.”

“What’s not to understand?”

“Tell me where the treasure is located,” Lyon said.

When Ashby had left Caroline earlier she was still developing the particulars, though she’d at least determined an initial starting point. He hoped, for both their sakes, she knew a lot more now.

“It’s in the cathedral, at Saint-Denis,” Caroline quickly said.

“You know where?” Lyon asked, his eyes locked on Ashby, the gun inside the car, still aimed.

“I believe so. But I need to go there to be sure. I have to see. I just figured all this out—”

Lyon withdrew his arm and lowered the weapon. “I hope, for your sake, you can determine the location.”

Ashby stood still.

Lyon aimed the gun his way. “Your turn. Two questions, and I want simple answers. Do you have a direct line of communication to the Americans?”

That was easy. He nodded.

“Do you have a phone with you?”

He nodded again.

“Give me the phone and the number.”

M
ALONE STOOD WITH
S
AM, TRYING TO DECIDE ON THE NEXT
course of action, when Stephanie’s cell phone sprang to life. She checked the display and said, “Ashby.”

He knew better. “Apparently Lyon wants to talk to you.”

She hit
SPEAKER
.

“I understand that you are the person in charge,” a male voice said.

“The last time I looked,” Stephanie said.

“You were in London last night?”

“That was me.”

“Did you enjoy the show today?”

“We’ve had great fun chasing after you.”

Lyon chuckled. “It kept you sufficiently occupied so I could deal with Lord Ashby. He is untrustworthy, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”

“He’s probably thinking the same thing about you at the moment.”

“You should be grateful. I did you a favor. I allowed you to monitor my conversation with Ashby at Westminster. I appeared at the Ripper tour so you could follow. I left the little towers for you to find. I even attacked your agent. What else did you need? But for me, you would have never known that the tower was Ashby’s true target. I assumed you’d find a way to stop it.”

“And if we hadn’t, what would it have mattered? You’d still have your money, off to the next job.”

“I had faith in you.”

“I hope you don’t expect anything for it.”

“Heavens, no. I just didn’t want to see that fool Ashby succeed.”

Malone realized they were witnessing Peter Lyon’s infamous arrogance. It wasn’t enough that he was two steps ahead of his pursuers, he needed to rub that fact in their faces.

“I have another piece of information for you,” Lyon said. “And this one is quite real. No distraction. You see, the French fanatics whom this entire endeavor was to be blamed on had a condition to their involvement. One I never mentioned to Lord Ashby. They are separatists, upset over the unfair treatment they have received at the hands of the French government. They loathe the many oppressive regulations, which they regard as racist. They’re also tired of protesting. Seems it accomplishes little, and several of their mosques have been closed in Paris over the past few years as punishment for their activism. In return for assisting me at the Invalides, they want to make a more poignant statement.”

Malone did not like what he was hearing.

“A suicide bombing is about to occur,” Lyon said.

Chilly fingers caressed Malone’s spine.

“During Christmas services in a Paris church. They thought this fitting, since
their
houses of worship are being closed every day.”

There were literally hundreds of churches in Paris.

After three duds, it’s hard to take you seriously,” she made clear.

“I see your point, but this one is real. And you can’t rush there with police. The attack would occur before anyone could stop it. In fact, it’s nearly imminent. Only
you
can prevent it.”

“Bullshit,” Stephanie said. “You’re just buying more time for yourself.”

“Of course I am. But can you afford to gamble that what I’m saying is a lie?”

Malone saw in Stephanie’s eyes what he was thinking, too.

We have no choice
.

“Where?” she asked.

Lyon laughed. “Not that easy. It’s going to be a bit of a hunt. Of course, a churchful of people are counting on you making it there in time. Do you have ground transportation?”

“We do.”

“I’ll be in touch shortly.”

She clicked the phone off.

Exasperation swept across her face, then vanished into the confidence that twenty-five years in the intelligence business had bestowed.

She faced Sam. “Go after Henrik.”

Professor Murad had already told them that the Cathédrale de Saint-Denis was Thorvaldsen’s destination.

“Try to keep him under control until we can get there.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Figure it out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Malone smiled at his sarcasm. “That’s how I used to say it, too, when she’d cut my tail. You can handle him. Just hold the line, keep things under control.”

“That’s easier said than done with Henrik.”

He laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “He likes you. He’s in trouble. Help him.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

E
LIZA
L
AROCQUE WANDERED AROUND HER
P
ARIS APARTMENT
and tried to restore order to her chaotic thoughts. She’d already consulted the oracle, asking the specific question,
Will my enemies succeed?
The answer that her slashes had produced seemed baffling.
The prisoner will soon be welcomed home, although he now smarts under the power of his enemies
.

What in the world?

Paolo Ambrosi was waiting for her call, ready to act. She wanted Graham Ashby dead, but not before she obtained answers to her many questions. She had to know the extent of Ashby’s betrayal. Only then could she assess the potential damage. Things had changed. The sight of that airplane, powering toward her atop the Eiffel Tower, remained fresh in her thoughts. She also needed to wrestle back control of the hundreds of millions of Paris Club euros that Ashby maintained in his bank.

But today was a holiday. No way to make that happen. She would handle it first thing in the morning.

Way too much trust had been placed in Ashby. And what of Henrik Thorvaldsen? He’d told her that the Americans were aware of all that had happened. Did that mean complete exposure? Was everything in jeopardy? If a connection had been established to Ashby, surely it reached to her?

The phone on the side table rang. Her landline. Few possessed the number besides some friends and senior staff.

And Ashby.

She answered.

“Madame Larocque, I am the man Lord Ashby hired to handle your exhibition this morning.”

She said nothing.

“I’d be cautious, too,” the voice said. “I called to tell you that I have Lord Ashby in my custody. He and I have some unfinished business. After that is completed, I plan to kill him. So rest assured that your debt to him will be satisfied.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’d like to be able to offer my services to you in the future. I’m aware of who was actually paying the bill. Ashby was merely your agent. This is my way of apologizing for the unfortunate occurrence. Suffice it to say that our British acquaintance lied to me as well. He meant to kill you and your associates, and lay the blame on me. Luckily, no harm came to anyone.”

Not physically, she thought. But there’d been harm.

“No need to speak, madame. Know that the problem will be handled.”

The phone went silent.

A
SHBY LISTENED AS
P
ETER
L
YON TAUNTED
L
AROCQUE, CHILLED
by the words
I plan to kill him
. Caroline heard the pronouncement, too. Her fear instantly evolved into terror, but he silenced her with a look that seemed to reassure.

Lyon closed the cell phone and smiled. “You wanted her off your back. She’s off. There’s nothing she can do, and she knows it.”

“You underestimate her.”

“Not really. I underestimated you. And that mistake I won’t make again.”

“You don’t have to kill us,” Caroline blurted out.

“That all depends on your level of cooperation.”

“And what’s to stop you from killing us once we fully cooperate?” Ashby asked.

Lyon’s face seemed like that of a chess master, waiting coolly for his opponent’s next move, already knowing his own. “Not a thing. But unfortunately for you both, cooperation is your only option.”

H
ENRIK STEPPED FROM THE CAB BEFORE THE
B
ASILICA OF
S
AINT
-Denis and stared up at the church’s single lateral tower, its twin missing, the building looking like an amputee, missing an appendage.

“The other tower burned in the 19th century,” Meagan told him. “Struck by lightning. It was never replaced.”

She’d explained on the ride north that this was where French kings had been buried for centuries. Begun in the 12th century, fifty years before Notre Dame, the church was a national landmark. Gothic architecture had been born here. During the French Revolution many of the tombs were destroyed, but they’d been restored. Now it was owned by the government.

Scaffolding clung to the outer walls, wrapping what appeared to be the north and west façades at least three-quarters of the way up. A hastily erected plywood barrier encircled the base, which blocked access to the main doors. Two construction trailers were parked on either side of the makeshift fence.

“Seems they’re working on the place,” he said.

“They’re always working on something in this city.”

He glanced at the sky. Gunmetal-gray clouds now shielded the sun, creating dense shadows and lowering the temperature.

A winter storm was coming.

The neighborhood lay about ten kilometers from Paris, traversed by both the Seine and a canal. The suburb was apparently an industrial center, as they’d passed several manufacturing facilities.

A mist began to build.

“The weather is about to get nasty,” Meagan said.

People in the paved plaza before the church hurried off.

“This is a blue-collar area,” Meagan noted. “Not a section of town where the tourists like to come. That’s why you don’t hear much about Saint-Denis, though I think it’s more interesting than Notre Dame.”

He wasn’t interested in history, except as it related to Ashby’s search. Professor Murad had told him some of what he’d deciphered—what Ashby surely knew by now as well, considering that Caroline Dodd was every bit the expert Murad was.

Mist turned to rain.

“What do we do now?” Meagan asked. “The basilica is closed.”

He wondered why Murad wasn’t already here. The professor had called nearly an hour ago and said he was leaving then.

He reached for his phone but, before he could place a call, the unit rang. Thinking it might be Murad, he studied the screen.
COTTON MALONE
.

He answered.

“Henrik, you’ve got to listen to what I have to say.”

“Why would I have to do that?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“You have an odd way of doing that. Giving that book to Stephanie was uncalled for. All you did was aid Ashby.”

“You know better than that.”

“No, I don’t.”

His voice rose, which startled Meagan. He told himself to remain composed. “All I know is that you gave her the book. Then you were on the boat, with Ashby, doing whatever it is you and your old boss think is right. None of which included me. I’m done with what’s right, Cotton.”

“Henrik, let us handle it.”

“Cotton, I thought you my friend. Actually, I thought you were my best friend. I’ve always been there for you, no matter what. I owed you that.” He fought a wave of emotion. “For Cai. You were there. You stopped his murderers. I admired and respected you. I went to Atlanta two years ago to thank you, and found a friend.” He paused again. “But you haven’t treated me with the same respect. You betrayed me.”

“I did what I had to.”

He didn’t want to hear rationalizations. “Is there anything else you want?”

“Murad’s not coming.”

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.

M
ALONE 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.

S
AM STEPPED FROM THE
M
ÉTRO 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. T
o 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