Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“Which tells me nothing.”

Foddrell’s gaze fixed out the window, as if something suddenly caught his attention.

“There a problem?” Malone asked.

“Just checking.”

“Why sit by the window for all to see?”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

The question declared a growing annoyance at being dismissed so easily, but Malone could not care less. “I’m trying to understand.”

“Since you’ve read the website, you know that Eliza Larocque has started a new Paris Club. Same idea. Different time, different people. They meet in a building on the Rue l’Araignée. I know that for a fact. I’ve seen them there. I know a guy who works for one of the members. He contacted me through the website and told me about it. These people are plotting. They’re going to do what the Rothschilds did two hundred years ago. What Napoleon wanted to do. It’s all a grand conspiracy. The New World Order, coming of age. Economics their weapon.”

Sam had sat silent during the exchange. Malone realized that he must see that Jimmy Foddrell existed light-years past any semblance of reality. But he couldn’t resist, “For somebody who’s paranoid, you never even asked my name.”

“Cotton Malone. Sam told me in his email.”

“You don’t know anything about me. What if I’m here to kill you? Like you say, they’re everywhere, watching. They know what you view on the Internet, what books you check out from the library, your blood type, your medical history, your friends.”

Foddrell began to study the bistro, the tables busy with patrons, as though it were a cage. “I gotta go.”

“What about your pan-fried kidneys?”

“You eat them.”

Foddrell sprang from the table and darted for the door.

“He deserved that,” Sam said.

Malone watched as the goofy fellow fled the eatery, studied the crowded sidewalk, then rushed ahead. He was ready to leave, too. Especially before the food arrived.

Then something caught his attention.

Across the busy pedestrian-only street, at one of the art stalls.

Two men in dark wool coats.

Their attention had instantly alerted when Foddrell appeared. Then they followed their gaze, walking swiftly, hands in their pockets, straight after Jimmy Foddrell.

“They’re not tourists,” Sam said.

“You got that right.”

SALEN HALL

ASHBY LED CAROLINE THROUGH THE LABYRINTH OF GROUND-floor corridors to the mansion’s northernmost wing. There they entered one of the many parlors, this one converted into Caroline’s study. Inside, books and manuscripts lay scattered across several oak tables. Most of the volumes were more than two hundred years old, bought at considerable expense, located in private collections from as far away as Australia. Some, though, had been stolen by Mr. Guildhall. All were on the same subject.

Napoleon.

“I found the reference yesterday,” Caroline said as she searched the stacks. “In one of the books we bought in Orleans.”

Unlike himself, Caroline was fluent in both modern and old French.

“It’s a late 19th-century treatise, written by a British soldier who served on St. Helena. I’m amused how these people so admired Napoleon. It’s beyond hero worship, as if he could do no wrong. And this one’s by a Brit, no less.”

She handed him the book. Strips of paper protruding from its frayed edges marked pages. “There are so many of these accounts it’s hard to take any of them seriously. But this one is actually interesting.”

He wanted her to know that he may have found something, too. “In the book from Corsica that led to the gold, there’s a mention of Sens.”

Her face lit up. “Really?”

“Contrary to what you might think, I can also discover things.”

She grinned. “And how do you know what I think?”

“It’s not hard to comprehend.”

He told her about the book’s introduction and what Saint-Denis had bequeathed to the city of Sens, especially the specific mention of one volume, The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D .

He saw that something about that title seemed significant. Immediately, she stepped to another of the tables and rummaged through more stacks. The sight of her, so deep in thought, but dressed so provocatively, excited him.

“Here it is,” she said. “I knew that book was important. In Napoleon’s will. Item VI. Four hundred volumes, selected from those in my library of which I have been accustomed to use most, including my copy of The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D., I direct Saint-Denis to take care of them and to convey them to my son when he shall attain the age of sixteen years.”

They were slowly piecing together a puzzle that had not been meant to be deciphered in such a backward manner.

“Saint-Denis was loyal,” she said. “We know he faithfully kept those four hundred books. Of course, there was no way to ever deliver them. He lived in France after Napoleon’s death, and the son stayed a prisoner of the Austrians until he died in 1832.”

“Saint-Denis died in 1856,” he said, recalling what he’d read. “Thirty-five years he stored those books. Then he bequeathed them to the city of Sens.”

She threw him a sly smile. “This stuff charges you, doesn’t it?”

“You charge me.”

She pointed at the book he held. “Before I gladly perform my mistress responsibilities, read what’s at the first marker. I think it might enhance your enjoyment.”

He parted the book. Flakes of dried leather from the brittle binding fluttered to the floor.

Abbé Buonavita, the elder of the two priests on St. Helena, had been for some months crippled to the point where he was really not able to leave his room. One day Napoleon sent for him and explained that it would be better and more prudent for him to return to Europe than to remain at St. Helena, whose climate must be injurious to his health, while that of Italy would probably prolong his days. The Emperor had a letter written to the imperial family requesting payment to the priest of a pension of three thousand francs. When the abbé thanked the Emperor for his goodness he expressed his regret at not ending his days with him to whom he had meant to devote his life. Before he left the island, Buonavita made a last visit to the Emperor, who gave him various instructions and letters to be transmitted to the Emperor’s family and the pope.

“Napoleon was already sick when Buonavita left St. Helena,” Caroline said. “And he died a few months later. I’ve seen the letters Napoleon wanted delivered to his family. They’re in a museum on Corsica. The Brits read everything that came to and from St. Helena. Those letters were deemed harmless, so they allowed the abbé to take them.”

“What’s so special about them now?”

“Would you like to see?”

“You have them?”

“Photos. No sense going all the way to Corsica and not taking pictures. I snapped a few shots when I was there last year researching.”

He studied her piquant nose and chin. Her raised eyebrows. The swell of her breasts. He wanted her.

But first things first.

“You brought me gold bars,” she said. “Now I have something for you.” She lifted a photo of a one-page letter, written in French, and asked, “Notice anything?”

He studied the jagged script.

“Remember,” she said. “Napoleon’s handwriting was atrocious. Saint-Denis rewrote everything. That was known to everyone on St. Helena. But this letter is far from neat. I compared the writing with some we know Saint-Denis penned.”

He caught the mischievous glow in her eyes.

“This one was written by Napoleon himself.”

“Is that significant?

“Without question. He wrote these words without Saint-Denis’ intervention. That makes them even more important, though I didn’t realize how important until earlier.”