Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

MALONE LAY ON GRASS THAT WINTER HAD CHILLED INTO brown hay and watched the helicopter land. The rear compartment door slid open and Stephanie leaped out, followed by the corpsman. He released the parachute’s harness and came to his feet. He caught the worry, plain in her eyes, hoping he was okay.

He freed himself from the chute. “Tell the French that we’re even.”

She smiled.

“Better yet,” he said. “Tell them they owe me.”

He watched as the corpsman gathered up the billowing chute.

“Lyon’s arrogant as hell,” he said, “flaunting it in our faces. He was ready with the little towers in London, and he made no effort to conceal his amber eyes. He actually went out of his way to confront me. Either way was a win-win for him. We stop the plane, he sticks it to Ashby. We miss the plane, he makes the client happy. I doubt he really cared which was the ultimate outcome.” Which, he knew, explained the diversions at the Invalides and the other planes. “We need to find Ashby.”

“There’s a bigger problem,” she said. “When we passed the top of the tower, I saw Henrik.”

“He had to have seen me in that cockpit.”

“My thought exactly.”

The corpsman grabbed Stephanie’s attention and pointed to her handheld radio. She stepped away and spoke into the unit, then quickly returned.

“We caught a break,” she said, motioning for the chopper. “They triangulated the signals being sent to those planes. We have a ground location.”

SAM HAD FLED THE SUMMIT AS A SECURITY DETAIL UNLOCKED the exit doors for the observation deck, mindful of Stephanie’s instruction that he must not be compromised. He’d made it back to the first platform long before the Paris Club descended and the members re -entered the meeting room. He’d watched as Eliza Larocque and Henrik confronted each other. Though he could not hear what they were saying it wasn’t hard to sense the tension, especially when Henrik yanked himself free of her grip. He’d heard nothing from Stephanie and there was no way he could sneak himself back into the meeting room, so he decided to leave.

Somebody had tried to crash a plane into the Eiffel Tower, and nearly succeeded. The military was obviously aware, as the chopper riding herd over the plane proved.

He needed to contact Stephanie.

He freed the tie from around his neck and released the top button of his shirt. His clothes and coat were below in the police station, beneath the south pylon, where he and Meagan had changed.

He paused at the first-level platform’s open center and gazed down at the people below. Hundreds were waiting in line. An explosive crash nine hundred feet above them would have been horrific. Interesting that the authorities were not evacuating the site. In fact, the chaos from above had been replaced with utter calm. As if nothing had happened. He sensed Stephanie Nelle’s involvement with that decision.

He fled the railing and started down the metal risers for the ground. Henrik Thorvaldsen was gone. Sam had decided not to confront him. He couldn’t, not here.

Halfway down, the cell phone in his pocket vibrated.

Stephanie had given one to both him and Meagan, programming the numbers of each, along with hers, into the memory.

He found the unit and answered.

“I’m in a cab,” Meagan said. “Following Ashby. I was lucky to snag one. He ran, but stopped long enough to watch the plane fly by. He was shocked, Sam.”

“We all were.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Surprise laced her voice. “He was shocked it missed.”

ELIZA FACED THE GROUP, BUT HER MIND SWIRLED WITH SO many conflicting thoughts it was hard to concentrate.

“What happened up there?” one of the members asked.

“The security people are investigating, but it appears the plane malfunctioned. Thankfully, the problem was rectified in time.”

“Why were the exit doors locked?”

She could not tell them the truth. “We should soon know the answer to that as well.”

“What did Herre Thorvaldsen mean when he said that plane was our fate-we were meant to die-and Lord Ashby was involved?”

She’d been dreading the inquiry. “There is apparently a private feud between Lord Ashby and Herre Thorvaldsen. One I was unaware of until a few moments ago. Because of that animosity, I’ve asked Herre Thorvaldsen to withdraw his membership, and he agreed. He apologized for any fear or inconvenience he may have caused.”

“That doesn’t explain what he said on that deck,” Robert Mastroianni said.

“I think it was more his imagination talking. He has a personal dislike for Lord Ashby.”

Her newest recruit did not seem satisfied. “Where is Ashby?”

She manufactured another lie. “He left, at my request, to handle another matter of vital importance. He may or may not make it back for the rest of the meeting.”

“That’s not what you said at the top of the tower,” one of them noted. “You wanted to know where he was.”

She told herself that these men and women were not stupid. Don’t treat them as so . “I knew he would be leaving, I was simply unaware that he’d already left.”

“Where did he go?”

“That cache of unaccounted-for wealth I told you about. Lord Ashby is searching for it, and he has located a new lead. Earlier, he asked to be excused so he could explore its possibilities.”

She kept her voice calm and firm, having learned long ago that it was not only what you said, but how you said it that mattered.

“We’re going to continue on?” one of the others asked.

She caught the surprise in the question. “Of course. Why not?”

“How about that we were all nearly killed?” Mastroianni said.

She had to alleviate their fears, and the best way to quell speculation was focus on the future. “I’m sure that each of you experience risk every day. But that’s precisely why we’re all here. To minimize that risk. We still have much to discuss, and many millions of euros to realize. How about we focus our efforts and prepare for a new day?”

MALONE SAT IN THE CHOPPER’S REAR COMPARTMENT AND ENJOYED the heater’s blast.

“The signal to the planes originated from a rooftop near Notre Dame,” Stephanie said through his headphones. “On the Île St. Louis, one island behind the cathedral. Paris police have the building under surveillance. We used NATO monitoring posts to pinpoint the location.”

“Which begs the question.”

He saw she understood.

“I know,” she said. “Too damn easy. Lyon is two full steps ahead of us. We’re chasing his shadows.”

“No. Worse. We’re being led by shadows.”

“I understand. But it’s all we have.”

SAM STEPPED FROM THE CAB AND PAID THE DRIVER. HE WAS A block from the Champs-Elysées, in the heart of an upscale shopping district that played host to the likes of Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Dior, and Chanel. He’d followed directions that Meagan had called in to him, and was now standing before the Four Seasons, an eight-story hotel marked by 1920s architecture.

He glanced around and spotted Meagan across the street. He hadn’t taken the time to change, though he had retrieved his coat and clothes before fleeing the Eiffel Tower. She was still dressed in the shirt and slacks of their serving uniform. He’d also brought her clothes.

“Thanks,” she said, as she donned the coat.