Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

She was shaking. True, the air was cold, but he wondered if it was more. He placed a hand on her back, steadying her, which she seemed to appreciate.

“You were at the top?” she asked.

He nodded.

“That was damn close, Sam.”

He agreed. But it was over. “What’s happening here?”

“Ashby and his entourage went inside the hotel.”

“I wonder what we’re supposed to do now.”

She seemed to steel herself and walked toward a narrow alley between two buildings. “You think about it, Sherlock, while I change.”

He smiled at her confidence, searching for some of his own. Calling Stephanie or Malone could prove problematic. His instructions had not been to follow anyone. Of course, Stephanie Nelle had not anticipated that a plane would be flown into the Eiffel Tower, either. He’d done what he thought best and, so far, had remained undetected.

Or maybe not.

Thorvaldsen may have seen him in the meeting room. But no one had mentioned that the Dane would be there.

So he made a decision.

To seek guidance from the one man who’d actually sought guidance from him.

MALONE SPRANG FROM THE CHOPPER AS IT LANDED BEHIND Notre Dame on a leafy green. A uniformed police captain waited for them as they cleared the rotor blades’ downwash.

“You were right,” the policeman told Stephanie. “The landlord of the building confirmed that a man with amber eyes let an apartment on the fourth floor, a week ago. He paid three months in advance.”

“Is the building secure?” she asked.

“We have it surrounded. Discreetly. As you requested.”

Malone again sensed the uneasy restraint that seemed to bind him and Stephanie. Nothing about this was good. Once again, Lyon had made no effort to mask his tracks.

He no longer wore the dirty flight suit, having redonned his leather jacket and reacquired his Beretta.

With little choice, he started off.

“Let’s see what the SOB has in store this time.”

ASHBY SAT IN ONE OF THE FOUR SEASONS’ ROYAL SUITES.

“Get the Murrays over here,” he ordered Guildhall. “I want them in France by nightfall.”

Caroline watched him with eyes that seemed to pry into his thoughts. His face was red and puffy from both the cold and his frayed nerves, his voice tired and throaty.

“What’s the problem, Graham?” she asked.

He wanted this woman as an ally, so he answered her with some truth. “A business arrangement has turned sour. I’m afraid Madame Larocque is going to be quite upset with me. Enough that she may want to do me harm.”

Caroline shook her head. “What have you done?”

He smiled. “Simply trying to rid myself of the incessant grasp of others.”

He allowed his eyes to play over her well-formed legs and the curve of her hips. Just watching those faultless lines freed his mind of the problem, if only for a moment.

“You can’t blame me for that,” he added. “We’re finally back in shallow water. I simply wanted to be done with Eliza. She’s mad, you know.”

“So we need the Murrays? And Mr. Guildhall?”

“And even more men possibly. That bitch is going to be angry.”

“Then let’s give her something to be totally irritated about.”

He’d been waiting for her to explain what she’d found.

She stood and retrieved a leather satchel from a nearby chair. Inside, she located a sheet of paper upon which was written the fourteen lines of letters from the Merovingian book, penned by Napoleon himself.

“It’s just like the one we found in Corsica,” she said. “The one with raised lettering that revealed Psalm 31 , written by Napoleon, too. When I laid a straightedge beneath the lines it became obvious.”

She produced a ruler and showed him.

He immediately noticed letters higher than the others.

“What does it say?”

She handed him another piece of paper, and he saw all of the raised letters.

ADOGOBERTROIETASIONESTCETRESORETILESTLAMORT

“It wasn’t hard to form the words,” she said. “All you need to add is a few spaces.”

She displayed another sheet.

A DOGOBERT ROI ET A SION EST CE TRESOR ET IL EST LA MORT

He translated the French. “‘To King Dagobert and to Sion belongs the treasure and he is there dead.’” He gave a pessimistic shrug. “What does it mean?”

A malicious grin formed on her inviting lips.

“A great deal.”

MALONE ENTERED THE BUILDING, GUN IN HAND AND CLIMBED the stairs.

Stephanie followed.

The Paris police waited outside.

Neither one of them was sure what was waiting, so the fewer people involved, the better. Containment was rapidly becoming a problem, particularly considering that two national landmarks had been attacked and planes had been shot from the sky. President Daniels had assured them that the French would deal with the press. Just concentrate on finding Lyon, he’d ordered.

They reached the fourth floor and found the door for the apartment that the amber-eyed man had let, the landlord having provided a passkey.

Stephanie positioned herself to one side, gun in hand. Malone angled his body against the opposite and banged on the door. He didn’t expect anyone to answer, so he inserted the key into the lock, turned the knob, and swung the door inward.

He waited a few seconds, then peered around the jamb.

The apartment was utterly bare, except for one item.

A laptop lying on the wood floor, the screen facing their way, a counter ticking down.

2:00 minutes.

1:59.

1:58.

THORVALDSEN HAD CALLED MALONE’S CELL PHONE SEVEN times, each try diverting to voice mail, each failure escalating his anguish.

He needed to speak with Malone.

More important, he needed to find Graham Ashby. He hadn’t ordered his investigators to tail the Brit after he left England earlier this morning. He assumed that Ashby would be within his sight at the Eiffel Tower, until late afternoon. By then, his men would be in France ready to go.

But Ashby had formulated a different plan.

Thorvaldsen sat alone in his room at the Ritz. What to do now? He was at a loss. He’d planned carefully, anticipating nearly everything-except the mass murder of the Paris Club. Innovative, he’d give Ashby that. Eliza Larocque had to be in turmoil. Her well-ordered plans were in shambles. At least she realized that he’d been telling the truth about her supposedly trustworthy British lord. Now Ashby had two people intent on his demise.

Which made him think again about Malone, the book, and Murad.

Perhaps the professor knew something?

His cell phone rang.

The screen displayed BLOCKED NUMBER but he answered anyway.

“Henrik,” Sam Collins said, “I need your help.”

He wanted to know if everyone around him was a liar. “What have you been doing?”

The other end of the phone stayed silent. Finally, Sam said, “I’ve been recruited by the Justice Department.”

He was pleased that the young man had told him the truth. So he reciprocated. “I saw you at the Eiffel Tower. In the meeting hall.”

“I thought you might.”

“What’s happening Sam?”

“I’m following Ashby.”

The best news he’d heard. “For Stephanie Nelle?”

“Not really. But I had no choice.”

“Do you have a way to contact her?”