Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“I see you’ve dressed as a good mistress should.” She smiled. “Isn’t that my job? To please the master?” He liked their give-and-take. His wife’s prudish ways had long ago become tiresome. She lived in London, her apartment filled with pyramids under which she lay for hours each day, hoping their magical power would cleanse her soul. He hoped the apartment would burn, with her inside it, but no such luck had come his way. He’d been lucky, though, in that they were childless, estranged for years, which explained his many mistresses, Caroline the latest and longest lasting.

Three things, though, distinguished Caroline from all of the others.

First, she was extraordinarily beautiful-a collection of the best physical attributes he’d ever seen gathered around one spine. Second, she was brilliant. Her degrees, one from the University of Edinburgh, the other from University College of London, were in medieval literature and applied ancient history. Her master’s thesis had been devoted to the Napoleonic Age and its effects on modern political thought, especially as it impacted European unification. Finally, he genuinely liked this woman. Her sensuous ways stimulated him in ways he’d never thought possible.

“I missed you last night,” she said as she sat at the table.

“I was on the boat.”

“Business or pleasure?”

She knew her place, he’d give her that. No jealousies. No demands. Strangely, though, he’d never cheated on her. And he often wondered if she was equally as loyal. But he realized the path of privacy flowed two ways. They were each free to do as they pleased.

“Business,” he said, then added, “as always.”

A footman appeared and laid a plate on the table before him. He was delighted to see a celery heart wrapped in ham, smothered in the tart cheese sauce he loved.

He lapped his napkin and lifted a fork.

“No, thank you,” Caroline said to him. “I’m not hungry. None for me.”

He caught the sarcasm but kept eating. “You’re a big girl. I assume you’d have something brought if you wanted it.”

She had the run of the estate, the staff at her complete disposal. His wife never visited the house anymore. Thank goodness. Unlike her, Caroline treated the employees with kindness. She actually did a good job looking after things, which he appreciated.

“I ate a couple of hours ago,” she said.

He finished his celery and was pleased by the entrée the footman presented. Roasted partridge with sweet dressing. He acknowledged his pleasure with a nod and signaled for another pat of butter for his roll.

“Did you find the damn gold?” she finally asked.

He’d intentionally kept silent about his success in Corsica, waiting for her to inquire. More of their give-and-take.

Which he knew she liked, too.

He gripped another fork. “Right where you said it would be.”

She’d been the one who’d discovered the connection between Gustave’s and the Corsican’s books and the Roman numerals. She’d also discovered, from some research conducted in Barcelona a few weeks ago, the Moor’s Knot. He was glad to have her on his side, and knew what was now expected of him.

“I’ll have a few bars set aside for you.”

She nodded her appreciation. “And I’ll see to it that you have a lovely evening tonight.”

“I could use some relaxation.”

The charmeuse in her gown shimmered as she edged closer to the table. “That solves your money problems.”

“For the foreseeable future. I estimated as much as a hundred million euros in gold.”

“And my few bars?”

“A million. Maybe more, depending on how lovely my evening is tonight.”

She laughed. “How about dress-up? The schoolgirl sent to the headmaster’s office? That’s always fun.”

He was feeling good. After a disastrous couple of years, things were finally starting to go right. The bad times had begun when Amando Cabral had grown careless in Mexico and nearly brought them both down. Thankfully, Cabral solved that problem. Then a combination of poor investments, failing markets, and inattention cost him millions. With near-perfect timing, Eliza Larocque had appeared at his estate and offered salvation. It had taken all he could do to amass the twenty million euros needed to buy his admittance, but he’d managed.

Now he’d finally generated room to breathe.

He finished his entrée.

“I have a surprise for you,” Caroline said.

This woman was a rare combination. Part tramp, part academician, and quite good at both.

“I’m waiting,” he said.

“I think I may have discovered a new link.”

He caught her amused expression and asked, “Think?”

“Actually, I know I have.”

PARIS

SAM FOLLOWED MALONE AS THEY FLED THE BOOKSTORE INTO the brisk afternoon. Foddrell had turned away from the Seine and plunged deeper into the Latin Quarter’s chaotic streets, each one crowded with excited holiday revelers.

“There’s no way to know if anyone’s on your tail in this crowd,” Malone said. “But he knows our faces, so let’s stay back.”

“He doesn’t seem to care if anyone’s following. He hasn’t looked back once.”

“He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”

“He’s going to the Café d’Argent?”

“Where else?”

They kept a normal pace, submerged within the sweeping tide of commerce. Cheese, vegetables, fruit, chocolate, and other delicacies, displayed in wooden bins, spilled into the street. Sam noticed fish lying on gleaming beds of ice, and meat, boned and rolled, chilling in refrigerated cases. Farther on, an ice-cream shop offered Italian gelato in a variety of tempting flavors.

Foddrell stayed a hundred feet ahead.

“What do you really know about this guy?” Malone asked.

“Not a whole lot. He latched on to me maybe a year ago.”

“Which, by the way, is another reason the Secret Service doesn’t want you doing what you’re doing. Too many crazies, too many risks.”

“Then why are we here?” he asked.

“Henrik wanted us to make contact. You tell me, why is that?”

“Are you always so suspicious?”

“It’s a healthy affliction. One that’ll prolong your life.”

They passed more cafés, art galleries, boutiques, and souvenir shops. Sam was pumped. Finally, he was in the field, doing what agents did.

“Let’s split up,” Malone said. “Less chance of him recognizing us. That is if he bothers to look back.”

Sam drifted to one side of the street. He’d been an accounting major at college and almost a CPA. But a government recruiter, who’d visited the campus during his senior year, steered him toward the Secret Service. After graduation, he’d applied and passed the Treasury test, a polygraph exam, complete physical, eye test, and drug screen.

But he was rejected.

Five years later he made it the second time around, after working as an accountant at several national firms, one of which became heavily implicated in a corporate reporting scandal. At the Secret Service’s training center he’d been schooled in firearms, use of force, emergency medical techniques, evidence protection, crime detection, even open-water survival. Then he’d been assigned to the Philadelphia field office, working credit card abuse, counterfeiting, identity theft, and bank fraud.

He knew the score.

Special agents spent their first six to eight years in a field office. After that, depending on performance, they were transferred to a protective detail, where they stayed for another three to five years. Following that, most returned to the field, or transferred to headquarters, or a training office, or some other DC-based assignment. He could have possibly worked overseas in one of the international offices, since he was reasonably fluent in French and Spanish.