Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

And he succeeded.

Which cemented him a sainted place in French history.

“He was one of the first to understand the power of money,” he said. “He liked to buy men, as opposed to fighting them.”

“You are a student,” she said, clearly impressed. “He grasped the importance of commerce as a political tool, and laid the foundations for the modern nation-state. One where an economy would be more important than an army.”

She motioned and they entered another of the rooms, this one with walls sheathed in warm leather and windows screened by draperies the color of port wine. An impressive Renaissance hearth sheltered no fire. Little furniture existed, other than a few upholstered chairs and wooden tables. In the center stood a stainless-steel glass case, out of place with the room’s antiquity.

“Napoleon’s 1798 invasion of Egypt was a military and political fiasco,” she told him. “The French Republic sent its greatest general to conquer, and he did. But ruling Egypt was another matter. In that, Napoleon did not succeed. Still, there is no denying that his Egyptian occupation changed the world. For the first time the splendor of that mysterious and forgotten civilization was revealed. Egyptology was born. Napoleon’s savants literally discovered, beneath the millennial sands, pharaonic Egypt. Typical Napoleon-an utter failure masked by partial success.”

“Spoken like a true descendant of Pozzo di Borgo.”

She shrugged. “While he lies in glory at the Invalides, my ancestor, who quite possibly saved Europe, is forgotten.”

He knew this was a sore point so, for the moment, he left the subject alone.

“While in Egypt, though, Napoleon did manage to discover a few things of immense value.” She motioned at the display case. “These four papyri. Encountered by accident one day, after Napoleon’s troops shot a murderer on the side of the road. If not for Pozzo di Borgo, Napoleon may have used these to consolidate power and effectively rule most of Europe. Thankfully, he was never allowed the chance.”

His investigators had not mentioned this anomaly. On Ashby, he’d spared no expense, learning everything. But on Eliza Larocque he’d targeted his inquiries. Perhaps he’d made a mistake?

“What do these papyri say?” he casually asked.

“They are the reason for the Paris Club. They explain our purpose and will guide our path.”

“Who wrote them?”

She shrugged. “No one knows. Napoleon believed them from Alexandria, lost when the library there disappeared.”

He had some experience with that artifact, which wasn’t as lost as most people thought. “Lots of faith you place in an unknown document, written by an unknown scribe.”

“Similar to the Bible, I believe. We know virtually nothing of its origin, yet billions model their lives on its words.”

“Excellent point.”

Her eyes beamed with the confidence of a guileless heart. “I’ve shown you something dear to me. Now I want to see your proof on Ashby.”

PARIS

MALONE WATCHED AS TWO MEN, GARBED IN RUMPLED BLUE blazers and ties, museum ID badges draped around their necks, rushed into the exhibit space. One of the men who’d followed Foddrell, a burly fellow with shocks of unkempt hair, reacted to the assault and punched the lead Blazer in the face. The other minder, with gnomic, flat features, kicked the second Blazer to the floor.

Guns appeared in the hands of Flat Face and Burly.

The woman above, who’d started the melee, fled the balustrade.

Patrons noticed the weapons and voices rose. Visitors rushed past where Malone and Sam stood, back toward the main entrance.

Two more Blazers appeared on the opposite side.

Shots were fired.

Stone walls, a tile floor, and a glass ceiling did little to deaden the sound and the bangs pounded into Malone’s ears with the force of an explosion.

One of the Blazers collapsed.

More people raced past him.

The other Blazer disappeared from sight.

Flat Face and Burly vanished.

The museum’s geography flashed through Malone’s brain. “I’m going to double back around. There’s only one other way out of the building. I’ll cut them off there. You stay here.”

“And do what?”

“Try not to get shot.”

He assumed that museum security would close the exits and the police would arrive shortly. All he had to do was occupy the two gunmen long enough for all that to happen.

He raced back toward the main entrance.

SAM HAD LITTLE TIME TO THINK. THINGS WERE HAPPENING fast. He immediately decided that he wasn’t going to sit still-no matter what Malone ordered-so he bolted through the towering, sunlit exhibit room, where the shooting had occurred, to the man in a blue blazer, lying facedown, bleeding, his body limp as a rag.

He knelt down.

Eyes glassed over in a distant stare barely blinked. He’d never before seen someone actually shot. Dead? Yes. Last night. But this man was still alive.

His gaze raked the scene around him as he inventoried more capitals, statues, and sculptures. Plus two exits-one a door, locked with an iron hasp, the other an open archway that led into a windowless space. He spotted a tapestry hanging from that room’s far wall and saw a stairway that led up.

All visitors had fled, the museum unnervingly quiet. He wondered about security personnel, employees, or police. Surely the authorities had been called.

Where was everyone?

He heard footsteps. Running. His way. Back from where he and Malone had entered-where Malone had gone.

He did not want to be detained. He wanted to be a part of what was happening.

“Help’s on the way,” he said to the downed man.

Then he ran into the next room, leaping up the steps to the upper floor.

MALONE RETURNED TO THE GIFT SHOP AND ELBOWED HIS WAY through the crowds that were clamoring to exit through the museum’s entrance.

Excited voices boomed in several languages.

He kept shouldering his way through the throng and fled the gift shop, entering an adjacent chamber that the museum brochure had identified as the location for luggage lockers and a stairway that visitors used to descend from the upper floor. At the top, he should be able to backtrack and intercept Burly and Flat Face as they advanced through the museum.

He bounded up the wooden staircase two steps at a time and entered an empty hall that displayed armor, knives, and swords. A tapestry depicting a hunting scene adorned one of the walls. Locks sealed all of the glass cases. He needed a weapon, so he hoped the museum would understand.

He grabbed hold of a chair that abutted another wall and slammed its metal leg into the case.

Glass shards clattered to the floor.

He tossed the chair aside, reached in, and removed one of the short swords. Its edges had been sharpened, most likely to enhance its display. A card inside the case informed visitors that it was a 16th century weapon. He also removed a hand shield identified as from the 1500s.

Both sword and shield were in excellent condition.

He gripped them, looking like a gladiator ready for the arena.

Better than nothing, he reasoned.

SAM RACED UP THE STAIRS, ONE HAND SLIDING ACROSS A SLICK brass banister. He listened at the landing, then climbed the final flight to the museum’s top floor.

No sound. Not even from below.

He kept his steps light and his right hand firm on the railing. He wondered what he was going to do. He was unarmed and scared to death, but Malone might need help, just like in the bookstore last night.