Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“Who slammed a chair into a glass case to get a sword and shield?”

“I see you were watching.”

“The French want you,” she made clear.

“Which means I owe you-” He caught himself. “No. I probably owe President Daniels. Right?”

“He personally intervened, once I reported that all hell had broken loose.”

“What about the museum guard who was shot?”

“On the way to the hospital. He should make it.”

“The guy outside. Secret Service?”

She nodded. “On loan.”

He’d known Stephanie a long time, having worked for her twelve years at the Justice Department in the Magellan Billet. They’d been through a lot together, especially over the past two years, ever since he’d supposedly retired.

“I’m sorry about your father,” she told him.

He hadn’t thought about the last two weeks in a few hours. “Thanks for what you did on your end.”

“It needed to be done.”

“Why are you here?

“Sam Collins. I understand you two have met.”

He sat on one of the benches and allowed the tapestries to draw his gaze. Each comprised a dark blue rounded isle, strewn with flowery plants, in vibrant colors that ranged from deep red to bright pink. A noble lady with a unicorn and a lion was depicted on all six, in varying scenes. He knew the allegory-representations of the five senses, mythical enchantment. Subtle messages from long ago, which he’d had more than his share of lately.

“Is Sam in trouble?” he asked.

“He was in trouble the moment he connected with Thorvaldsen.”

She told him about a meeting with Danny Daniels yesterday, in the Oval Office, where the president of the United States made clear that something important was happening in Copenhagen.

“Daniels knew about Sam. He’d been briefed by the Secret Service.”

“Seems like a trivial matter for the president to be concerned with.”

“Not once he was told that Thorvaldsen is involved.”

Good point.

“Cotton, this Paris Club is real. Our people have been watching it for over a year. Nothing alarming, until lately. But I need to know what Thorvaldsen is doing.”

“So is this about Sam? Or Henrik?”

“Both.”

“How did we jump from the Paris Club to Henrik?”

“Like I’m an idiot. You’re sitting there with the vacuum cleaner turned on, sucking in whatever info I’m willing to offer. That’s not why I’m here. I need to know what that crazy Dane is doing.”

He knew that Henrik and Stephanie enjoyed a relationship born of mutual distrust, though they’d been forced, on more than one occasion of late, to actually rely on each other. He decided that since he really didn’t have a dog in this fight, other than helping his best friend, for once he’d tell the truth. “He’s after Cai’s killer.”

Stephanie shook her head. “I knew it was probably something like that. He’s about to screw up a major intelligence operation, along with compromising a critical source.”

More dots instantly connected. His face tightened in speculation. “Graham Ashby works for our side?”

She nodded. “He’s been providing a lot of vital intel.”

A wave of unease broke over him. “Henrik’s going to kill him.”

“You have to stop him.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Cotton, there’s more happening here. The Paris Club is planning something spectacular. What? We don’t know. At least not yet. A woman named Eliza Larocque heads the group. She’s the brains. Ashby is part of the administrative arm. He does what she says, but he’s been keeping our side informed. That club comprises seven of the wealthiest people in the world. Of course, we’re not sure that the members all know what Larocque is planning.”

“Why not tell them?”

“Because the decision has been made to take them all down at once. They’re into corruption, bribery, extortion, and massive amounts of financial and securities fraud. They’ve disrupted currency exchanges and may be responsible for weakening the dollar internationally. We’re going to send a message by taking them out in one swoop.”

He knew the score. “They go down, while Ashby walks free.”

“It’s the price to be paid. We wouldn’t have known about any of this without him.”

He again focused on one of the tapestries. A young woman, surrounded by a lion and a unicorn, choosing a sweet from a dish while a parakeet held another in its claw.

“Do you have any idea the mess this is?” he asked.

“I do now. Our people recently learned that Thorvaldsen has Ashby under surveillance. He’s even bugged the man’s estate. That is probably only possible since Ashby’s guard is down. He thinks he’s okay with us and Eliza Larocque. He hasn’t a clue Thorvaldsen is watching. But the president wants Thorvaldsen out of the picture.”

“Henrik killed two men last night. One of them was involved with Cai’s death.”

“I can’t blame him there. Nor am I going to interfere, except to the extent it jeopardizes Ashby.”

He wanted to know, “What is the Paris Club planning?”

“That’s the thing. Ashby hasn’t told us yet. Just that it’s coming, and soon. Within days. I assume it’s his way to ensure a continued value.”

“So who are the two dead men out there in the museum?”

“They work for Eliza Larocque. The other woman, the one in the blue smock, spooked them and they overreacted.”

“How mad are the French?”

“It’s not good.”

“This is not my fault.”

“The Secret Service has had this museum under watch for over a month.” She hesitated. “With no problem.”

“The girl in the blue smock started it.”

“I learned on the flight over that Eliza Larocque has been investigating the GreedWatch website. I assume that’s what those two were doing following your man, Foddrell.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“He’s been taken. I watched it happen on the security cameras.”

“Police?”

She shook her head. “The girl in the blue smock.”

“You think you should have helped him.”

“It’s not a problem.”

He knew Stephanie well. They’d worked together a long time. He’d been one of the original twelve lawyer-agents at the Magellan Billet, personally hired by her. So his next question was easy, “You know all about her, don’t you?”

“Not exactly. I had no idea what she was going to do, but I’m damn glad she did it.”

SAM HAD BEEN LED FROM THE MUSEUM’S TOP FLOOR, DOWN THE same stairway he’d initially climbed, to the ground. There he and the woman had descended another stairway into the closed frigidarium , where Jimmy Foddrell waited. Together they’d all passed through a stone archway, barred by an iron gate that the woman opened with a key.

He was a little unnerved by the gun. Never had one been pointed directly at him, so close, so direct, the threat of harm so immediate. Still, he sensed that he wasn’t in danger. Instead, he may well be on the right trail.

He decided to follow it. He wanted to be a field agent. So , he told himself, be one. Improvise. That’s what Malone would do .

Foddrell relocked the gate behind them.

Walls scabbed of brick and stone rose fifty feet around him. Light trickled in from windows high up, near a vaulted ceiling, the space chilly, with the look and feel of a dungeon. Some repair work was ongoing, as scaffolding had been erected against one of the rough-hewn walls.

“You can go or stay,” the woman said to him. “But I really need you to stay.”

“Who are you?”

“Meagan Morrison. GreedWatch is my website.”

“Not his?” he asked, pointing at Foddrell.