Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“I never asked.”

He thought again of the mirror of love. “So tell me, who is it Foddrell said was right?”

LONDON

1:25 PM

ASHBY STROLLED INTO WESTMINSTER ABBEY AMID A CROWD that had just emerged from several tour buses.

His spine always tingled when he entered this shrine.

Here was a place that could recount English history back more than a millennium. A former Benedictine monastery, now the seat of government and heart of the Anglican Church. Every English monarch, save two, since the time of William the Conqueror had been crowned here. Only its French influences bothered him, though understandable given that the design had been inspired by the great French cathedrals at Reims, Amiens, and Sainte-Chapelle. But he’d always agreed with how one British observer described Westminister.

A great French thought expressed in excellent English .

He stopped at the gate and paid his admission, then followed a throng into Poets’ Corner, where visitors congregated near wall monuments and statuary depicting images of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Milton, and Longfellow. Many more of the greats lay around him, among them Tennyson, Dickens, Kipling, Hardy, Browning. His gaze surveyed the chaotic scene and finally settled on a man standing before Chaucer’s tomb, sporting a glen-plaid suit with a cashmere tie. A pair of caramel-colored gloves sheathed empty hands and a handsome style of Gucci loafers protected his broad feet.

Ashby approached and, as he admired the tomb’s five-hundred-year-old stonework, asked, “Do you know the painter Godfrey Kneller?”

The man scrutinized him with a pair of rheumy eyes whose amber color was both distinctive and disturbing. “I believe I do. A great court artist of the 18th century. He’s buried at Twickenham, I believe.”

The reference to Twickenham signaled the correct response, the strained Irish accent an interesting touch. So he said, “I’m told Kneller harbored a great aversion toward this place, though there is a memorial dedicated to him near the east cloister door.”

The man nodded. “His exact words, I believe, were, By God I will not be buried in Westminster. They do bury fools there.”

The quotation confirmed that this was the man he’d talked with on the telephone. The voice then was different, more throaty, less nasal, no accent.

“Top of the morning to you, Lord Ashby,” the man said, adding a smile.

“And what should I call you?”

“How about Godfrey? In honor of the great painter. He was quite correct in his assessment of the souls laid to rest within these walls. There are a great many fools buried here.”

He took in the man’s coarse features, scrutinizing a cob nose, satchel mouth, and scrubby salt-and-pepper beard. But it was the reptilian amber eyes, framed by bushy eyebrows, that arrested his attention.

“I assure you, Lord Ashby, this is not my real appearance. So don’t waste your time memorizing it.”

He wondered why someone who went to so much trouble to be in disguise allowed his most noticeable feature-the eyes-to remain so startling. But all he said was, “I like to know about the men I do business with.”

“And I prefer to know nothing as to my clients. But you, Lord Ashby, are an exception. You, I have learned a great deal about.”

He wasn’t particularly interested in this demon’s mind games.

“You’re the sole shareholder of a great British banking institution, a wealthy man who enjoys life. Even the queen herself counts you as an adviser.”

“And surely, you possess an equally exciting existence.”

The man smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “I have no interests, other than pleasing you, my lord.”

He did not appreciate the sarcasm, but let it pass. “Are you prepared to carry through on what we discussed?”

The man ambled toward a row of monuments, gazing at the memorials like the other visitors surrounding them. “That depends if you’re prepared to deliver, as I requested.”

He reached into his pocket and removed a set of keys. “These open the hangar. The plane is there, waiting with a full tank of petrol. Its registration is Belgian, its owner fictitious.”

Godfrey accepted the keys. “And?”

The gaze from the amber eyes brought a new wave of uncomfortableness. He handed over a slip of paper. “The number and pass code for the Swiss account, as you requested. Half payment is there. The other half will come after.”

“The timetable you wanted is two days from now. Christmas Day. Is that still correct?”

Ashby nodded.

Godfrey pocketed the keys and the paper. “Things certainly will change then.”

“That’s the whole idea.”

The man gave a slight chuckle and they strolled farther into the cathedral, stopping before a plaque that indicated a date of death in 1669. Godfrey motioned to the wall and said, “Sir Robert Stapylton. Do you know him?”

He nodded. “A dramatic poet, knighted by Charles II.”

“As I recall, he was a French Benedictine monk who turned Protestant and became a servant of the Crown. Gentleman Usher of the Privy Chamber to Charles, I believe.”

“You know your English history.”

“He was an opportunist. A man of ambition. Someone who did not let principle interfere with objective. A lot like you, Lord Ashby.”

“And you.”

Another chuckle. “Hardly. As I’ve made clear, I am but hired help.”

“Expensive help.”

“Good help always is. Two days’ time. I’ll be there. You be sure to not forget your final obligation.”

He watched as the man called Godfrey disappeared into the south ambulatory. He’d dealt with many people in his life, but the amoral despot who’d just left genuinely made him uneasy. How long he’d been in Britain was unknown. The first call came a week ago, and the details of their relationship had subsequently been finalized through more unexpected calls. Ashby had easily arranged his end of the bargain, and he’d been patiently waiting for confirmation that Godfrey had done the same.

Now he knew.

Two days.

LOIRE VALLEY

2:45 PM

THORVALDSEN HAD BEEN DRIVEN SOUTH, FROM PARIS, TO A quiet French hollow sheltered by vine-clad hills. The château sat moored like a ship in the middle of the meandering Cher, about fifteen kilometers from where the muddy river entered the more majestic Loire. Bridging the waterway, its charming frontage of brick, stone, turrets, spires, and a conical slate roof bordered on the fantastical. Not gray, or severely constructed for defense, or decaying from neglect, instead it cast a whimsical air of medieval majesty.

He sat in the château’s main salon beneath chestnut rafters, magnificent in their centuries-old workmanship. Two wrought-iron electric candelabra provided harsh light. The paneled walls were dotted with superb canvases by Le Sueur, a work by Van Dyck, and some first-rate oil portraits of what he assumed were cherished ancestors. The château’s owner sat across from him in an exquisite Henri II leather armchair. She possessed a charming voice, quiet manners, and memorable features. From everything he knew about Eliza Larocque, she was clear-sighted and decisive, but also stubborn and obsessive.

He could only hope that the latter trait proved correct.

“I’m somewhat surprised by your visit,” she said to him.

Though her smile seemed sincere, it flashed too automatically.

“I’ve known of your family for many years,” he told her.

“And I know your porcelain. We have quite a collection in the dining room. Two circles, with a line beneath-that symbol represents the ultimate in quality.”

He bowed his head, acknowledging her compliment. “My family has worked for centuries to establish that reputation.”