Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“Any security?” Stephanie asked.

“Now, how would I know that? But I’m betting you do.”

Stephanie seemed to relish the crisp bite of Meagan’s pronouncement. “The city owns the tower, but the Société Nouvelle d’Exploitation de la Tour Eiffel operates the site. They have a private firm that provides security, along with the Paris police and French military.”

Sam had noticed a police station beneath the south tower entrance, along with some serious-looking men, dressed in combat fatigues, toting automatic rifles.

“I checked,” Stephanie said. “There is a group scheduled in that room tomorrow, for that time frame, which contracted for some additional security. The meeting hall itself will be closed off. The tower is closed until one PM. After that, there should be as many people visiting then as today, which is a considerable number.”

“Like I said,” Meagan made clear. “It’s the first time the club has ventured out of its house in the Marais. The one I showed Sam yesterday.”

“And you think that’s significant?” Stephanie asked Meagan.

“Has to be. This club is trouble.”

MALONE LEFT LE GRAND VÉFOUR AND GRABBED A TAXI OUTSIDE the restaurant for a short hop south to the Louvre. He paid the driver and crossed beneath a grand archway into the Cour Napoleon, immediately spotting the signature geometric glass pyramid that served as a skylight for the museum’s entrance below. The classical façade of the Louvre engulfed the massive parade ground on three sides, while the Arc du Carousel, a pastiche of a Roman arch with rose marble columns, stood guard at the open east end.

Seven triangular granite basins surrounded the glass pyramid. On the edge of one sat a slender man with thin features and thick sandy hair touched by gray at the temples. He wore a dark wool coat and black gloves. Though the afternoon air had warmed from the morning chill, Malone estimated it was maybe the high 40s at the most. Thorvaldsen had told him the man would be waiting here, once he obtained the book. So he walked over and sat on the cold edge.

“You must be Cotton Malone,” Professor Murad said in English.

Taking a cue from Jimmy Foddrell, he’d been carrying the book out in the open, so he handed it over. “Fresh from the Invalides.”

“Was it easy to steal?”

“Just sitting there waiting, like I was told it would be.”

He watched as Murad thumbed through the brittle pages. He’d already studied them during the two cab rides and knew where the perusing would stop. The first halt came halfway through, where the manuscript divided itself into two parts. On a blank page, which acted as a divider, was written:

He watched as the professor’s forehead crinkled and a frown signaled reluctance. “I didn’t expect that.”

Malone blew warmth into his ungloved hands and watched the frenetic hustle and bustle in the courtyard as hundreds of tourists came and went from the Louvre.

“Care to explain?”

“It’s a Moor’s Knot. A code Napoleon was known to use. These Roman numerals refer to a specific text. Page and line, since there are only two sets. We would need to know the text he used in order to reveal the specific words that form a message. But there’s no third line of numerals. The ones that would identify the right word on the right line.”

“How did I know this wasn’t going to be easy?”

Murad grinned. “Nothing ever was with Napoleon. He loved drama. This museum is a perfect example. He exacted tributes from every place he conquered and brought them here, making this, at the time, the world’s richest collection.”

“Unfortunately, the Allies took it all back-at least what was here to find-after 1815.”

“You know your history, Mr. Malone.”

“I try. And it’s Cotton. Please.”

“Such an unusual name. How did you acquire it?”

“Like Napoleon, too much drama in that explanation. What about the Moor’s Knot? Any way to solve it?”

“Not without knowing what text was used to generate the numbers. The idea was that the sender and receiver would have the same manuscript to compare. And that missing third set of numerals could be a real problem.”

Thorvaldsen had fully briefed him on Napoleon’s will and the relevance of the book that Murad held to that final testament. So he waited while the professor finished his appraisal of the remaining pages.

“Oh, my,” Murad said when he reached the end flaps. The older man glanced up at him. “Fascinating.”

He’d already studied the curiously twisted handwriting, in faded black ink, same as the ink used to pen the Roman numerals.

“You happen to know what that is?” he asked.

Murad shook his head. “I have no idea.”

SAM CAME TO MEAGAN’S DEFENSE. “APPARENTLY, SHE DOESN’T need much proof of anything. I’d say you being here is more than enough.”

“Well, well,” Stephanie said. “Mr. Collins has finally started thinking like a Secret Service agent.”

He did not appreciate her condescending attitude, but he wasn’t in a position to protest. She was right-he did need to start using his brain. So he said, “You’ve been monitoring her website. Mine, too. God knows how many others. So there has to be something going on here. Something that has caught everyone’s attention.”

“It’s simple,” Stephanie said. “We want the members of this Paris Club in jail.”

He didn’t believe her. “There’s more here than that, and you know it.”

Stephanie Nelle did not answer him, which only reinforced what he believed. But he couldn’t blame her. No need to tell them anything more than was necessary.

He watched as people bundled to the cold kept streaming up from below on the stairs. More paraded in and out of elevators that rose through the open ironworks to the second platform. A boisterous lunch crowd entered the nearby restaurant. A frigid breeze eased through the brownish gray metal that spiderwebbed up all around them.

“If you want to be privy to that meeting tomorrow,” Meagan said, “I doubt you’re going to get any listening devices installed. My source tells me that the club sweeps their rooms clean before, during, and after meetings.”

“We won’t need them,” Stephanie made clear.

Sam stared at her, and she returned his glare with a grin he did not like.

“You two ever waited tables?”

ELIZA WAS ACTUALLY ENJOYING HER LUNCH CONVERSATION with Henrik Thorvaldsen. He was an intelligent, quick-witted man who did not waste time on small talk. He seemed an eager listener, a person who absorbed facts, cataloged them in proper order, then swiftly drew conclusions.

Just like herself.

“Napoleon realized,” she said, “that war was good for society. Like nothing else, it mobilized his best thinkers to think better. He discovered that scientists were more creative when a threat was real. Manufacturing became more innovative and productive. The people more obedient. He discovered that the citizenry, if threatened, would allow just about any violation from government, so long as they were protected. But too much war is destructive. People will only tolerate so much, and his enemies made sure there was far more than he ever intended, and he ultimately lost all ability to govern.”