Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

Give me my rightful due .

Oh, yes.

That she would.

Leather heels clicked off the floor from the gallery. She turned and watched as her chamberlain walked her way. She’d been expecting the call and knew who was on the other end of the line.

Her acolyte handed her the phone, then withdrew.

“Good evening, Graham,” she said into the unit.

“I have excellent news,” Ashby said. “The research and investigation have paid off. I think I may have found a link, one that could lead us directly to the cache.”

Her attention was piqued.

“I require some assistance, though,” he said.

She listened, her mind cautious and suspicious, but stimulated by the possibilities his enthusiasm promised.

Finally, he said, “Some information on the Invalides would be helpful. Do you have a way to make that happen?”

Her mind raced through the possibilities. “I do.”

“I thought you might. I’m coming in the morning.”

She soaked in more details, then said, “Well done, Graham.”

“This could be it.”

“And what of our Christmas presentation?” she asked.

“On schedule, as you requested.”

That was exactly what she wanted to hear. “Then I shall see you on Monday.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

They said their goodbyes.

Thorvaldsen had teased her with the possibility that Ashby may be a traitor. But the Brit was doing everything she’d recruited him to do, and doing it rather well.

Still, doubt clouded her thoughts.

Two days.

She’d have to juggle these unstable balls, at least until then.

SAM CAME TO HIS FEET AS STEPHANIE NELLE ENTERED THE apartment and Meagan closed the door. Ice-cold perspiration burst out on his forehead.

“This isn’t the United States,” Meagan said, her passions clearly aroused. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“That’s true. But at the moment, the only thing stopping the Paris police from arresting you is me. Would you prefer I leave, allow them to take you, so we can talk while you’re in custody?”

“What did I do?”

“Carrying a weapon, discharging a firearm within the municipal limits, inciting a riot, destruction of state property, kidnapping, assault. I leave anything out?”

Meagan shook her head. “You’re all alike.”

Stephanie smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She faced Sam. “Needless to say, you’re in a world of trouble. But I understand part of the problem. I know Henrik Thorvaldsen. I assume he’s at least partly to blame for why you’re here.”

He didn’t know this woman, so he wasn’t about to sell out the only person who’d treated him with a measure of respect. “What do you want?”

“I need you both to cooperate. If you do, Ms. Morrison, you’ll stay out of jail. And you, Mr. Collins, you might still have a career.”

He didn’t like her condescending attitude. “What if I don’t want a career?”

She threw him a look he’d seen from his superiors-people who enforced petty rules and imposed time-honored barriers that made it next to impossible for anyone to leap ahead.

“I thought you wanted to be a field agent. That’s what the Secret Service told me. I’m simply offering you the chance.”

“What is it you want me to do?” he asked.

“That all depends on Ms. Morrison here.” The older woman stared at Meagan. “Whether you believe it or not, I’m here to help. So tell me, besides spouting off on your website about world conspiracies that may or may not exist, what tangible evidence do you have that I might find interesting?”

“Cocky bitch, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

Meagan smiled. “You remind me of my mother. She was tough as nails, too.”

“That just means I’m old. You’re not endearing yourself to me.”

“You’re still the one holding a gun.”

Stephanie stepped around them and approached the kitchen table, where Meagan’s gun lay. She lifted the weapon. “Two men died at the Cluny. Another is in the hospital.”

“The guard?” Sam asked.

Stephanie nodded. “He’ll make it.”

He was glad to hear that.

“How about you, Ms. Morrison? Glad to hear it, too?”

“It’s not my problem,” Meagan said.

“You started it.”

“No. I exposed it.”

“Do you have any idea who the two dead men worked for?”

Meagan nodded. “The Paris Club.”

“That’s not exactly correct. Actually, Eliza Larocque employed them to follow your decoy.”

“You’re a little behind the curve.”

“So tell me something I don’t know.”

“All right, smart lady. How about this? I know what’s going to happen in two days.”

THORVALDSEN SAT ALONE IN HIS SUITE AT THE RITZ, HIS HEAD resting against the back of a chair. Malone was gone, having assured him that tomorrow he’d retrieve the book from the Invalides. He had confidence in his friend, more so at the moment than in himself.

He nursed a brandy, sipping from a crystal snifter, trying to calm his nerves. Thankfully, all of the bantering spirits clamoring within him had retreated for the night. He’d been in a lot of fights, but this one was different-beyond personal, clearly obsessive-and that frightened him. He may come in contact with Graham Ashby as soon as tomorrow, and he knew that moment would be difficult. He must appear cordial, shaking the hand of the man who’d murdered his son, extending every courtesy. Not a hint could be revealed until the right moment.

He sipped more alcohol.

Cai’s funeral flashed through his mind.

The casket had been closed because of the irreparable damage the bullets had done, but he’d seen what was left of his son’s face. He’d insisted. He needed that horrific image burned into his memory because he knew that he’d never rest until that death was fully explained.

Now, after two years, he knew the truth.

And he was within hours of revenge.

He’d lied to Malone. Even if he managed to incite Eliza Larocque into moving on Ashby, he’d still kill the bastard himself.

No one else would do it.

Just him.

Same as last night when he’d stopped Jesper and shot Amando Cabral and his cohort. What was he becoming? A murderer? No. An avenger. But was there really a difference?

He held his glass against the light and admired the alcohol’s rich color. He savored another swallow of brandy, longer this time, more satisfying.

He closed his eyes.

Scattered recollections flickered through his mind, faded a moment, then reappeared. Each came in a smooth, silent process, like shifting images from a projector.

His lips quivered.

Memories he’d nearly forgotten-from a life he hadn’t known for many years-swam into view, blurred, then disappeared.

He’d buried Cai on the estate, in the family cemetery, beside Lisette, among other Thorvaldsens who’d rested there for centuries, his son wearing a simple gray suit and a yellow rose. Cai had loved yellow roses, as had Lisette.

He remembered the peculiar smell from within the casket-a little acidic, a little dank-the smell of death.

His loneliness returned in a fresh surge.

He emptied the snifter of the remaining brandy.

A rush of sadness broke over him with an intolerable force.

No more doubts nagged him.

Yes, he’d kill Graham Ashby himself.

PARIS

MONDAY, DECEMBER 24

11:00 AM

MALONE ENTERED THE CHURCH OF THE DOME, ATTACHED LIKE a stray appendage to the south end of the imposing Hôtel des Invalides. The baroque edifice, with a façade of Doric columns and a single pediment, was capped by an imposing gilded dome-the second tallest structure in Paris-crowned by a lantern and spire. Originally a royal place of worship, erected by Louis XIV to extol the glory of the French monarchy, it had been converted by Napoleon into a warriors’ tomb. Three of the greatest names in French military history-Turene, Vaubon, Foch-rested here. In 1861 Napoleon himself was buried beneath the dome, and eventually his two brothers and son joined him.