Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

“Cross the river,” he told the driver, “then go left, toward the Latin Quarter. But stay close.”

He did not want to lose sight of the tour boat.

“What are you doing?” Meagan Morrison asked.

“How long have you lived in Paris?”

She seemed taken aback by his question, realizing he was ignoring hers.

“Years.”

“Then tell me, are there any bridges across the river past Notre Dame, leading to and from the Left Bank?”

She hesitated, considering his inquiry. He realized that it wasn’t that she didn’t know the answer, she just wanted to know why the information was important.

“There’s a bridge just past. The Pont de l’Archevêché.”

“Crowded?”

She shook here head. “Mainly pedestrians. A few cars traveling over to the Île St. Louis, behind the cathedral.”

“Go there,” he told the driver.

“What are you going to do, old man?”

He ignored her goad and coolly said, “What must be done.”

ASHBY WAITED FOR PETER LYON TO TELL HIM WHAT HE WANTED to hear.

“I can eliminate Larocque,” the South African made clear, in a hushed tone.

They stood facing the river, watching the boat’s foamy wake dissolve into the brown-gray water. Two more canopied tourist boats and a handful of private craft followed.

“That needs to happen,” Ashby made clear, “today. Tomorrow at the latest. She’s going to be most disagreeable.”

“She wants the treasure, too?”

He decided to be blunt. “More than you can imagine. It’s a matter of family honor.”

“This treasure. I want to know more.”

He did not want to answer, but had no choice. “It’s Napoleon’s lost wealth. An incredible cache. Gone for two hundred years. But I think I’ve found it.”

“Lucky for you treasure doesn’t interest me. I prefer modern legal tender.”

They motored past the Palais de Justice and passed beneath a bridge busy with traffic.

“I assume I don’t have to pay the balance,” he said, “until you fully perform on Larocque.”

“To show you that I am a man of character, that will be fine. But she’ll be dead by tomorrow.” Lyon paused. “And know this, Lord Ashby. I don’t fail often. So I don’t appreciate reminders.”

He caught the message. But he had something he wanted to emphasize, too.

“Just kill her.”

SAM DECIDED TO EASE INTO THE LAST ROW OF SEATS BENEATH the canopy. He spied the familiar shape of Notre Dame approaching ahead on the left. On his right, the Latin Quarter and Shakespeare & Company, where yesterday all this had begun. The tour guide, not seen, only heard over the loudspeaker, droned bilingually about the Conciergerie, on the far Right Bank, where Marie Antionette was imprisoned before her execution.

He stood and casually walked toward the rear row, gazing out at the sights. He caught the chatter, picture taking, and pointing among the tourists aboard. Except for one man. Who sat at the end of an aisle, three rows from the end. Withered mushy face, long-eared, nearly chinless, he wore a pea-green coat over black jeans and boots. Blue-black hair was tied in a ponytail. He sat with both hands in his pockets, eyes ahead, disinterested, seemingly enjoying the ride.

Sam hugged the outer wall and crossed an invisible barrier where cold seeping in from the rear overcame warm air beneath the enclosure. He stared ahead and spotted another bridge spanning the Seine, coming closer.

Something rolled across the deck and clanged against the boat’s side.

He gazed down at a metal canister.

He’d been taught about armaments during his Secret Service training, enough to recognize that this was not a grenade.

No.

A smoke bomb.

His gaze shot toward Green Coat, who was staring straight at him, lips curled into a smile.

Purple smoke escaped from the canister.

AN ODOR FILLED ASHBY’S NOSTRILS.

He whirled around and saw that the space beneath the Plexiglas canopy had filled with smoke.

Shouts. Screams.

People escaped the foggy shroud, fleeing toward him, onto the open portion of the deck, coughing away the remnants from inside.

“What in the world?” he muttered.

THORVALDSEN PAID THE CABDRIVER AND STEPPED OUT ON THE Pont de l’Archevêché. Meagan Morrison was right. Not much traffic on the two-lane stone bridge, and only a handful of pedestrians had paused to enjoy a picturesque view of Notre Dame’s backside.

He included an extra fifty euros to the driver and said, “Take this young lady wherever she wants to go.” He stared into the rear seat though the open door. “Good luck to you. Farewell.”

He slammed the door closed.

The cab eased back into the road, and he approached an iron railing that guarded the sidewalk from a ten-meter drop to the river. Inside his coat pocket he fingered the gun, shipped by Jesper yesterday from Christiangade, along with spare magazines.

He’d watched as Graham Ashby and another man had stood outside the tour boat enclosure, propped against the aft railing, just as Sam had reported. The boat was two hundred meters away, cruising toward him against the current. He should be able to shoot Ashby, drop the gun into the Seine, then walk away before anyone realized what happened.

Weapons were no stranger. He could make this kill.

He heard a car brake and turned.

The cab had stopped.

Its rear door opened and Meagan Morrison popped out. She buttoned her coat and trotted straight toward him.

“Old man,” she called out. “You’re about to do something really stupid, aren’t you?”

“Not to me it isn’t.”

“If you’re hell-bent, at least let me help.”

SAM RUSHED AFT WITH EVERYONE ELSE, SMOKE BILLOWING FROM the boat as if it were ablaze.

But it wasn’t.

He fought his way clear of the enclosure and spotted Green Coat, elbowing his way through the panic, toward the railing where Ashby and Tweed still stood.

THORVALDSEN GRIPPED THE GUN IN HIS POCKET AND SPOTTED smoke rushing from the tour boat.

Meagan saw it, too. “Now, that’s not something you see every day.”

He heard more brakes squeal and turned to see a car block traffic at each end of the bridge on which he stood.

Another car roared past and skidded to a stop in the center of the bridge.

The passenger-side door opened

Stephanie Nelle emerged.

ASHBY WATCHED AS A MAN IN A GREEN COAT LUNGED FROM THE crowd and jammed a fist into Peter Lyon’s gut. He heard the breath leave the South African, as he crumbled to the deck.

A gun appeared in Green Coat’s hand, and the man said to Ashby, “Over the side.”

“You must be joking.”

“Over the side.” The man motioned toward the water.

Ashby turned to see a small craft, outfitted with a single outboard, nestled close to the tour boat, a driver at its helm.

He turned back and stared hard at Green Coat.

“I won’t say it again.”

Ashby pivoted over the railing, then dropped a meter or so from the side into the second boat.

Green Coat hoisted himself up to follow, but never made it down.

Instead his body was yanked backward.