Steve Berry - The Paris Vendetta

He looped the rope around the base of one of the columns a few feet away and tested its strength. He tossed the remainder of the rope into the chute, followed by the sledgehammer, which might be needed. He clipped the lamp to his belt. Using his rubber soles and the rope, he eased down the chute, into the black earth.

At the bottom he aimed the light at rock the shade of driftwood. The chilly, dusty environs extended for as far as the beam would shine. He knew that Paris was littered with tunnels. Miles and miles of underground passages hewed from limestone that had been hauled, block by block, to the surface, the city literally built from the ground up.

He groped for the contours, the crevices, the protruding shards, and followed the twisting passage for maybe two hundred feet. A smell similar to warm peaches, which he recalled from his Georgia childhood, made his stomach queasy. Grit crunched beneath his feet. Only cold seemed to occupy this bareness, easy to become lost in the silence.

He assumed he was well clear of the basilica, east of the building itself, perhaps beneath the expanse of trees and grass that extended past the nearby abbey, toward the Seine.

Ahead he spotted a shallow recess in the right-hand wall. Rubble filled the passageway where somebody had pounded their way through the limestone.

He stopped and searched the scene with his light. Etched into the rough surface of one of the rocky chunks was a symbol, one he recognized from the writing Napoleon had left in the Merovingian book, part of the fourteen lines of scribble.

Someone had propped the stone atop the pile like a marker, one that had patiently waited underground for more than two hundred years. In the exposed recess he spied a metal door, swung half open. An electrical cable snaked a path out the doorway, turned ninety degrees, then disappeared into the tunnel ahead.

Glad to know he’d been right.

Napoleon’s clues led the way down. Then the etched symbol showed exactly where things awaited.

He shone the light inside, found an electrical box, and flipped the switch.

Yellow, incandescent fixtures strewn across the floor revealed a chamber maybe fifty by forty feet, with a ten-foot ceiling. He counted at least three dozen wooden chests and saw that several were hinged open.

Inside, he spied a neat assortment of gold and silver bars. Each bore a stamped N topped by an imperial crown, the official mark of the Emperor Napoleon. Another held gold coins. Two more contained silver plate. Three were filled to the brim with what appeared to be precious stones. Apparently the emperor had chosen his hoard with great care, opting for hard metal and jewels.

He surveyed the room and allowed his eyes to examine the ancient and abandoned possessions of a crushed empire.

Napoleon’s cache.

“You must be Cotton Malone,” a female voice said.

He turned. “And you must be Eliza Larocque.”

The woman who stood in the doorway was tall and stately, with an obvious leonine quality about her that she did little to conceal. She wore a knee-length wool coat, classy and elegant. Beside her stood a thin, gnarled man with a Spartan vigor. Both faces were wiped clean of expression.

“And your friend is Paolo Ambrosi,” Malone said. “Interesting character. An ordained priest who served briefly as papal secretary to Peter II, but disappeared after that papacy abruptly ended. Rumors abounded about his-” Malone paused. “-morality. Now here he is.”

Larocque seemed impressed. “You don’t seem surprised that we are here.”

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“Really? I’ve been told that you were quite an agent.”

“I had my moments.”

“And, yes, Paolo performs certain tasks that I require from time to time,” Larocque said. “I thought it best he stay close to me, after all that happened last week.”

“Henrik Thorvaldsen is dead because of you,” Malone declared.

“How is that possible? I never knew the man until he interjected himself in my business. He left me at the Eiffel Tower and I never saw him again.” She paused. “You never said. How did you know I’d be here today?”

“There are people smarter than you in this world.”

He saw she did not appreciate the insult.

“I’ve been watching,” he said. “You found Caroline Dodd faster than I thought. How long did it take to learn about this place?”

“Miss Dodd was quite forthcoming. She explained the clues, but I decided to find another way beneath the basilica. I assumed there were other paths in and out, and I was right. We found the correct tunnel a few days ago, unsealed the chamber, and tapped into an electrical line not far from here.”

“And Dodd?”

Larocque shook her head. “She reminded me far too much of Lord Ashby’s treachery, so Paolo dealt with her.”

A gun appeared in Ambrosi’s right hand.

“You still have not answered my question,” Larocque said.

“When you left your residence earlier,” Malone said. “I assumed you were coming here. Time to claim your prize, right? You’ve been working on some contract help to transport this fortune out of here.”

“Which has been difficult,” she said. “Luckily, there are people in this world who will do anything for money. We’ll have to break all this down into smaller, sealed crates, then hand-carry it out of here.”

“You’re not afraid they’ll talk?”

“The crates will be sealed before they arrive.”

A slight nod of his head acknowledged the wisdom of her foresight.

“How did you get down here?” she asked.

He pointed above. “Through the front door.”

“Are you still working for the Americans?” she asked. “Thorvaldsen did tell me about you.”

“I’m working for me.” He motioned around him. “I came for this.”

“You don’t strike me as a treasure hunter.”

He sat atop one of the chests and rested nerves dulled by insomnia and its unfortunate companion, despondency. “That’s where you’re wrong. I love treasure. Who wouldn’t? I especially enjoy denying it to worthless pieces of crap like you.”

She laughed off his touch of drama. “I’d say you’re the one who’s going to be denied.”

He shook his head. “Your game is over. No more Paris Club. No more financial manipulation. No treasure.”

“I can’t imagine that is the case.”

He ignored her. “Unfortunately, there are no witnesses left alive, and precious little other evidence, to actually try you for a crime. So take this talk as your one and only get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Larocque smiled at his ridicule. “Are you always so gregarious in the face of your own death?”

He shrugged. “I’m a carefree kind of guy.”

“Do you believe in fate, Mr. Malone?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not really.”

“I do. In fact, I govern my life by fate. My family has done the same for centuries. When I learned that Ashby was dead, I consulted an oracle I possess, and asked a simple question. Will my name be immortalized and will posterity applaud it? Would you like to hear the answer I was given?”

He humored her. “Sure.”

“A good-humored mate will be a treasure, which thine eyes will delight to look upon.” She paused. “The next day I found this.”

And she motioned at the lighted cavern.

He’d had enough.

He raised his right arm, pointed his index finger downward, and twirled, signaling Larocque should turn around.

She caught his message and stole a glance over her right shoulder. Behind her stood Stephanie Nelle and Sam Collins.

Both held guns.

“Did I mention that I didn’t come alone?” Malone said. “They waited until you arrived to come down.”