Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

Terror apparently could be profitable.

He came to the last flight of stairs. He was winded, but glad to be on solid earth. He told himself to calm down and walk slow. Several virile-looking males dressed in camouflage fatigues and toting automatic rifles patrolled the pavement. Beneath the iron base hundreds of people, in long lines, awaited the elevators opening at one PM.

Unfortunately, that would not happen today.

The Eiffel Tower was about to be no more.

In his altered version of Eliza Larocque’s plan, he’d arranged with Lyon for the Invalides to be a diversion, a way to create as much confusion as possible. Lyon had always been told the tower was his primary target. He didn’t need to know that he’d be killing the entire Paris Club-Larocque included. Not important. And what would Lyon care? He only provided the services a client requested. And to Lyon, Ashby was the client. It should be an easy matter to blame Lyon for everything that was about to happen. His explanation to the Americans as to why he hadn’t been with the others on the summit was simple. Larocque had excused him from the rest of the day’s gathering. Sent him on a mission.

Who would contradict him?

He passed beneath the southeast arch and cleared the tower. He kept walking, ticking off the seconds in his head. He checked his watch. Noon.

He had no idea where the plane was coming from, only that it should be here any moment.

He crossed the Avenue Gustave Eiffel and entered the Champs de Mars.

He was well clear, so he told himself to relax. Peter Lyon was one of the most experienced murderers in the world. Sure, the Americans were involved, but they’d never get near Lyon. And now, with the tragedy that was about to unfold, they’d have plenty extra to deal with. He’d reported about the Invalides, kept his part of the bargain. The burning vehicle he’d seen earlier in front of the Church of the Dome was surely part of Lyon’s show, which should also provide him the perfect excuse for the Americans. Lyon had changed the plan. Apparently, the South African deceived everyone, himself included.

And the end result?

He’d be free of the Americans and Eliza Larocque, and, if all went well, he’d retain all of the club’s deposits and find Napoleon’s lost cache, which he could also now keep for himself.

Quite a payout.

His father and grandfather would both be proud.

He kept walking, waiting for the explosion, prepared to react as any shocked bystander would.

He heard the drone of a plane, growing louder.

And the dull thump of rotors.

A helicopter?

He stopped, turned, and gazed skyward just as a single-engine plane, its wings banked nearly perpendicular to the ground, missed the third-level platform by a few hundred meters.

A military chopper followed, in hot pursuit.

His eyes widened in alarm.

THORVALDSEN EXITED THE ELEVATOR WITH THE OTHER PARIS Club members. Everyone was now back on the first-level platform. The security men who’d opened the glass doors high above had offered no explanation as to how they became locked. But he knew the answer. Graham Ashby had planned another mass murder.

He watched as the others made their way into the meeting room. Most of the members were shaken, but maintaining a confident façade. He’d purposefully not kept his comments at the summit to himself and had seen the reaction of the others to his observations about Graham Ashby. He’d also noted Larocque’s anger-at both he and Ashby.

He stood near the outer railing, gloved hands in his coat pockets, and watched as Larocque marched toward him.

“The time for pretense between us is over,” he said to her. “I have no more patience to humor you.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?”

“Graham Ashby tried to kill us all.”

“I’m aware of that. Was it necessary to share those thoughts with everyone?”

He shrugged. “They should know what’s in store for them. But I wonder, what were you planning? We weren’t up there to simply enjoy the view.”

She threw him a quizzical look.

“You can’t seriously think that I would have been a party to your madness. Those ideas you tossed out earlier. Insanity, all of it.”

She seemed at once amazed, appalled, repelled, and fascinated by his indignation.

“I came for Graham Ashby,” he made clear. “I used you to get close to him. At first, I thought what you were concocting was worth stopping. Maybe it is. But I don’t care any longer. Not after what Ashby just tried.”

“I assure you, Herre Thorvaldsen, I am not one to be trifled with. As Lord Ashby will soon learn.”

He allowed his voice to assume an icy determination. “Madame, let me make something clear. You should be grateful that I no longer have any interest in your mischief. If I did, I’d stop you. But I could not give a damn. It’s not my concern. You, though, have several problems. The first is Ashby. The second is the American government. That plane was being flown by a former Justice Department agent named Cotton Malone. His boss, from that same department, is here and, I assume, knows exactly what you’re doing. Your plans are no longer secret.”

He turned to leave.

She grabbed him by the arm. “Who do you think you are? I am not a person to be lightly dismissed.”

He clung to the anger that coursed through him. The enormity of all that had happened struck him hard. As he’d watched the plane draw closer to the tower summit, he’d realized that his lack of focus could have cost him his ultimate goal. In one respect, he was glad Malone had stopped the plane. On the other hand, the sick, numbing realization that his friend had betrayed him hurt more than he’d ever imagined.

He needed to find Malone, Stephanie, and Ashby and finish things. The Paris Club was no longer part of the equation. Neither was this ridiculous woman who glared at him with eyes full of hate.

“Let go of my arm,” he said through clenched teeth.

She did not release her grip.

He wrenched himself free.

“Stay out of my way,” he ordered.

“As if I take orders from you.”

“If you want to stay alive, you had better. Because if you interfere with me, in any way, I’ll shoot you dead.”

And he walked away

ASHBY SPOTTED THE CAR WITH CAROLINE INSIDE WAITING AT the curb. Traffic was beginning to congeal on the boulevards that paralleled the Champs de Mars. Car doors had opened and people pointed skyward.

Ripples of concern ebbed through him.

He needed to be away.

The plane had not destroyed the Eiffel Tower. Worse, Eliza Larocque now realized that he’d tried to murder them all.

How could she not?

What happened? Had Lyon double-crossed him? He’d paid the first half of the extorted fee. The South African had to know that. Why would he have not performed? Especially considering that something clearly had happened at the Church of the Dome, smoke curling up from the east confirming that the fire there still raged.

And there was the matter of the remaining payment.

Three times the usual fee. A bloody well lot of money.

He entered the car.

Caroline sat in the rear seat across from him, Mr. Guildhall in the front, driving. He’d need to keep Guildhall near him.

“Did you see how close that plane came to the tower?” Caroline asked.

“I did.” He was glad that he did not have to explain anything further.

“Is your business finished?”

He wished. “For now.” He stared at her smiling face. “What is it?

“I solved Napoleon’s riddle.”