Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

Now it consumed him.

But through the dense cloud of bitterness that seemed to envelop his every thought, a faint voice of reason could still be heard. One that told him to slow down and think. So he faced Sam and said, “Cotton stopped that disaster from happening. He was flying the plane.”

He caught the incredulous look in the younger man’s eyes.

“You’ll learn that both he and Stephanie are most resourceful. Luckily, they were on top of the matter.” He paused. “As were you, apparently. That was a brave thing you did. I appreciate it.” He came to the point of his visit. “You said you have a way of contacting Stephanie Nelle?”

Sam nodded.

“You know her?” Meagan asked him.

“She and I have worked together several times. We’re-acquaintances.”

The younger woman clearly was not impressed. “She’s a bitch.”

“That she can be.”

“I’ve been reluctant to call her,” Sam said.

“You shouldn’t be. She must know about Ashby. Dial the phone and we’ll talk with her together.”

ELIZA SAID HER GOODBYES TO THE LAST OF THE PARIS CLUB AS the members exited La Salle Gustav Eiffel. She’d managed to contain herself during the afternoon and alleviate the tidal wave of anxiety that had swept through the room. Thorvaldsen’s accusations had seemed forgotten, or at least addressed, by the time the session finished.

Her own fears, though, were another matter.

So two hours ago, during a break, she’d made a call.

The man she’d sought was pleased to hear from her. His flat tone conveyed no emotion, only the fact that he was available and ready to do business with her. She’d stumbled on to him a few years ago when she’d required some unorthodox assistance with a debtor-someone who thought friendship made defaulting on his obligation an option. She’d asked around, learned of the man’s abilities, met him, and four days later the debtor paid the several million euros owed, in full. She’d never asked how that was accomplished, simply pleased that it occurred. Since then there had been three other “situations.” Each time she’d made contact. Each time the task had been accomplished.

She hoped today would be no exception.

He lived in the Montmartre, within the shadow of the domes and campaniles that rose from Paris’ highest point. She found the building on the Rue Chappe, a shaded avenue of Second Empire homes, populated now with trendy shops, cafés, and expensive, upper-story flats.

She climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked lightly on the door marked with a brass 5. The man who answered was short and slender, with straw-thin gray hair. The crook of his nose and the cut of his jaw reminded her of a hawk, which seemed a fitting symbol for Paolo Ambrosi.

She was invited inside.

“What may I do for you today?” Ambrosi asked in a calm voice.

“Always straight to the point.”

“You are an important person. Time is valuable. I assume that you did not come here, on Christmas Day, for something trivial.”

She caught what was unspoken. “And pay the fees you command?”

He gave a slight nod of his head, which was at least a size too small for his frame.

“This one is special,” she said. “It must be done quickly.”

“Define quickly.”

“Today.”

“I assume you have the information needed for a proper preparation.”

“I’ll lead you straight to the target.”

Ambrosi wore a black turtleneck, a black-and-gray-tweed coat, and dark corduroy trousers that sharply contrasted with his pale complexion. She wondered what drove the grim man but realized that this was, most likely, a long story.

“Is there a preference as to the method?” he asked.

“Only that it be painful and slow.”

His cool eyes were bereft of humor. “His betrayal must have been unexpected.”

She appreciated his ability to peer into her thoughts. “To say the least.”

“Your need for satisfaction is that great?”

“Beyond measure.”

“Then we shall obtain a full absolution.”

SAM DIALED HIS CELL PHONE. THE OTHER END OF THE LINE was answered quickly.

“What is it, Sam?” Stephanie said.

“I have Ashby.”

He told her exactly what happened since leaving the Eiffel Tower.

“You weren’t supposed to follow him,” she made clear.

“And a plane wasn’t supposed to fly into us, either.”

“I appreciate your ingenuity. Stay where you are-”

Henrik relieved him of the phone. Clearly his friend wanted to speak with Stephanie Nelle, and he wanted to know why, so Sam stepped back and listened.

“IT’S GOOD TO KNOW THAT THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT IS DIRECTLY atop things,” Thorvaldsen said.

“And it’s good to talk to you, too, Henrik,” Stephanie replied, in a tone that signaled she was ready for battle.

“You interfered in my business,” he said.

“On the contrary. You interfered in ours.”

“How is that possible? None of this concerns America.”

“Don’t be so sure. You’re not the only one who’s interested in Ashby.”

His stomach went hollow. He’d suspected as much, hoping he was wrong. “He’s valuable to you?”

“You realize I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

He didn’t require any admissions from her. What just happened at the Eiffel Tower explained everything. “It’s not hard to imagine what’s happening here.”

“Let’s just say that there’s more at stake here than your revenge.”

“Not to me.”

“Would it do any good if I said I understand? That I’d do the same, if the roles were reversed?”

“You still interfered.”

“We saved your life.”

“You gave Ashby the book.”

“Which was a good idea. It rocked him to sleep. Lucky for you, I might add, or you’d be dead right now.”

He wasn’t in the mood to be grateful. “Cotton betrayed me. I have not the time, at the moment, to deal with that disappointment. But I will.”

“Cotton used his brain. You should, too, Henrik.”

“My son is dead.”

“I don’t need a reminder.”

“Apparently, you do.” He paused, grabbed a breath, and steadied himself. “This is my affair, not yours, not Cotton’s, not the U.S. government’s.”

“Henrik, listen to me. This is not about you. There’s a terrorist involved here. A man named Peter Lyon. We’ve been trying to nail him for a decade. He’s finally out in the open where we can see him. You have to let us finish this. But we need Ashby in order to do that.”

“And when it’s over? What of my son’s murderer?”

The other end of the phone remained silent. Which told him what he already knew. “That’s what I thought. Goodbye, Stephanie.”

“What are you going to do?”

He switched off the phone and handed it to Sam. The younger man and Meagan Morrison had stood silent, watching him through concerned eyes.

“Will you betray me, too?” he asked Sam.

“No.”

The answer came quick. Perhaps too quick. But this eager soul was anxious to prove himself.

“Something’s happening,” Meagan said.

He turned and focused across the boulevard at the hotel.

Ashby appeared out front and spoke to the doorman, who quickly motioned for a cab. Thorvaldsen turned away and faced the buildings behind them. His face might be seen.

“He’s in the cab,” Sam said.

“Flag us one, too.”

ASHBY STEPPED OFF THE DOCK AT PONT DE L’ALMA AND ONTO the tour boat. Off to the east a carillon of bells pealed for three PM. He’d never toured the Seine by boat, though he assumed the cruises were quite popular. Today only about twenty strangers filled the seats under a sooty Plexiglas canopy, the boat not quite half full. He wondered why Peter Lyon insisted on meeting in such tacky surroundings. The call had come an hour ago, a gruff voice instructing him on the time and place. He’d told Caroline to keep working on what she’d discovered and that he’d return shortly. He’d debated ignoring Lyon’s summons, but knew better. Besides, Lyon had been the one who failed, not him. And there was the matter of the fee already paid, and the balance owed.