Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“Now, mark four more rows of vertical lines, one line each, under the first. Don’t think about it, just do it.”

“At least twelve?”

She shook her head. “No. Any number you like.”

She watched as he marked the page.

“Now count all five rows. If the number is even, place two dots to the side. If it’s odd, one dot.”

He took a moment and made the calculation, ending up with a column of five rows of dots.

She examined the results. “Two odds, three evens. Random enough for you?”

He nodded his head.

She opened the book to a chart.

“You chose question 32.” She pointed to the bottom and a row marked 32. “Here, at the top of the page are the dot possibilities. In the column for your chosen combination, two odd, three even, for question 32, the answer is R.”

She thumbed through and stopped at a page with a capital R at the top.

“On the answer page are the same dot combinations. The oracle’s reply to the two odd, three even combination is the third one down.”

He accepted the book and read. A look of astonishment came to his face. “That’s quite remarkable.”

She’d allowed herself a smile.

“‘A son will be born who, if he receives not timely correction, may prove a source of trouble to thee.’ I am, indeed, having a son. In fact, we only learned that a few days ago. Some prenatal testing has revealed a developing problem that the doctors want to correct while the baby is in the womb. It’s risky to both mother and baby. We’ve told no one the situation, and are still debating the treatment.” His original dismay faded. “How is that possible?”

“Fate and destiny.”

“Might I try again?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The oracle warns that an inquirer may not ask two questions on the same day, or ask on the same subject within the same lunar month. Also, questions asked under the light of the moon are more likely to be accurate. It’s what, nearly midnight, as we head east toward the sun?”

“So there’s another day soon coming.”

She smiled.

“I must say, Eliza, that is impressive. There are thirty-two possible answers to my question. Yet I randomly chose the precise one that satisifed my inquiry.”

She slid the pad close and flipped to a clean page. “I haven’t consulted the oracle today. Let me try.”

She pointed to question 28.

Shall I be successful in my current undertaking?

“Does that refer to me?” His tone had clearly softened.

She nodded. “I came to New York specifically to see you.” She leveled her gaze. “You will make an excellent addition to our team. I choose carefully, and I chose you.”

“You are a ruthless woman. More than that, you’re a ruthless woman with a plan.”

She shrugged. “The world is a complicated place. Oil prices go up and down with no reason or predictability. Either inflation or recession runs rampant across the globe. Governments are helpless. They either print more money, which causes more inflation, or regulate the situation into another recession. Stability seems a thing of the past. I have a way to deal with all those problems.”

“Will it work?”

“I believe so.”

His swarthy face seemed as strong as an iron, his eager eyes finally conveying decisiveness. This entrepreneur, affected by the same dilemmas that she and the others faced, understood. The world was indeed changing. Something had to be done. And she might have the solution.

“There is a price of admission,” she said. “Twenty million euros.”

He shrugged. “Not a problem. But surely you have other revenue sources?”

She nodded. “Billions. Untraced and untouched.”

He pointed to the oracle. “Go ahead, make your marks and let’s learn the answer to your question.”

She gripped the pencil and slashed five rows of vertical lines, then counted each row. All even numbers. She consulted the chart and saw that the answer was Q. She turned to the appropriate page and found the message that corresponded.

She resisted the urge to smile, seeing that his passions were now thoroughly aroused. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

He nodded.

“‘Examine strictly the disposition of thy intended partner and, if it is in accord with thine own, fear not but happiness will attend you both.’”

“Seems the oracle knows what I’m to do,” he said.

She sat silent and allowed the drone of jet engines to sweep through the cabin. This skeptical Italian had just learned what she’d known for all of her adult life-what her Corsican mother and grandmother had taught her-that the direct transmission of provenance was the most empowering form of knowledge.

Mastroianni extended his hand.

They shook, his grip light and sweaty.

“You may count me a part of whatever you have in mind.”

But she wanted to know, “Still don’t like me?”

“Let’s reserve judgment on that one.”

M ALONE DECIDED A STROLL IN THE PLAZA WOULD CLEAR HIS HEAD . Court had started early and not recessed till well after the noon hour. He wasn’t hungry, but he was thirsty, and he spotted a café on the far side of the expanse. This was an easy assignment. Something different. Observe and make sure the conviction of a drug-smuggler-turned-murderer happened without a hitch. The victim, a DEA supervisor out of Arizona, had been shot execution-style in northern Mexico. The agent had been a personal friend of Danny Daniels, president of the United States, so Washington was watching carefully. The trial was in its fourth day and probably would end tomorrow. So far, the prosecution had done a good job. The evidence was overwhelming. Privately, he’d been briefed about a turf war between the defendant and several of his Mexican competitors-the trial apparently an excellent way for some of the reef sharks to eliminate a deep-water predator .

From some nearby belfry came the fiendish clamor of bells, barely discernible over Mexico City’s daily drone. Around the grassy plaza, people sat in the shade of bushy trees, whose vibrant color tempered the severity of the nearby sooty buildings. A blue marble fountain shot slender columns of foamy water high into the warm air .

He heard a pop. Then another .

A black-skirted nun fifty yards away dropped to the ground .

Two more pops .

Another person, a woman, fell flat .

Screams pierced the air .

People fled in every direction, as if an air-raid warning had been issued .

He noticed little girls in sober, gray uniforms. More nuns. Women in bright-colored skirts. Men in somber business suits .

All fleeing .

His gaze raked the mayhem as bodies kept dropping. Finally, he spotted two men fifty yards away with guns-one kneeling, the other standing, both firing .

Three more people tumbled to the ground .

He reached beneath his suit jacket for his Beretta. The Mexicans had allowed him to keep it while in the country. He leveled the gun and ticked off two rounds, taking down both shooters .

He spotted more bodies. Nobody was helping anyone .

Everybody simply ran .

He lowered the gun .

Another crack rang loud and he felt something pierce his left shoulder. At first there was no sensation, then an electric charge surged through him and exploded into his brain with a painful agony he’d felt before .