The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “Serbia was clearly oppressive and dangerous,” Thorvaldsen said.

  “Who says? The media? Were they any more oppressive than say, North Korea, China, Iran? Yet no one advocates war with them. Take a match and make a forest fire. That’s what one diplomat told me at the time. The aggressions on Serbia were heavily supported by the mainstream media, along with influential leaders all over the world. That aggression lasted for more than ten years. All of which, by the way, made it quite easy, and far less expensive, to buy the entire former Yugoslav economy.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “I know of many investors who took full advantage of that catastrophe.”

  “You’re saying all that happened in Serbia was contrived?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Not actively, but certainly tacitly. That situation proved that it’s entirely feasible to take advantage of destructive situations. There is profit in political and national discord. Provided, of course, that the discord ends at some point. It’s only then that a return can be made on any investment.”

  She was enjoying discussing theory. Rarely was she afforded an opportunity. She wasn’t saying anything incriminating, only repeating observations that many economists and historians had long noted.

  “The Rothschilds in the 18th and 19th centuries,” she said, “were masters of this technique. They managed to play all sides, generating enormous profit at a time when Europeans fought among themselves like children on a playground. The Rothschilds were wealthy, international, and independent. Three dangerous qualities. Royal governments could not control them. Popular movements hated them, because they were not answerable to the people. Constitutionalists resented them because they worked in secret.”

  “As you are attempting to do?”

  “Secrecy is essential for the success of any cabal. I’m sure, Herre Thorvaldsen, you understand how events can be quietly shaped by the simple granting or withholding of funds, or affecting the selection of key personnel, or just maintaining a daily intercourse with decision makers. Being behind the scenes avoids the brunt of public anger, which is directed, as it should be, to open political figures.”

  “Who are largely controlled.”

  “As if you don’t own a few.” She needed to steer the conversation back on point. “I assume you can produce evidence on Lord Ashby’s treachery?”

  “At the appropriate time.”

  “Until then, I am to take your word about Lord Ashby’s statements to these unknown financiers?”

  “How about this. Allow me to join your group and we shall together discover if I am truthful or a liar. If I am a liar, you can keep my twenty-million-euro admittance fee.”

  “But our secrecy would have been compromised.”

  “It already is.”

  Thorvaldsen’s sudden appearance was unnerving, yet it could also be a godsend. She’d meant what she’d said to Mastroianni—she believed in fate.

  Perhaps Henrik Thorvaldsen was meant to be a part of her destiny?

  “Might I show you something?” she asked.

  Malone watched as the waiter returned with bottled water, wine, and a breadbasket. He’d never been impressed with French bistros. Every one he’d ever visited was either overpriced, overrated, or both.

  “Do you really like pan-fried kidneys?” he asked Foddrell.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  He wasn’t about to explain the many reasons why ingesting an organ that rid the body of urine was bad. Instead, he said, “Tell me about the Paris Club.”

  “You know where the idea came from?”

  He saw that Foddrell was enjoying his superior status. “You were a little vague with that on your website.”

  “Napoleon. After he conquered Europe, what he really wanted was to settle back and enjoy. So he assembled a group of people and formed the Paris Club, which was designed to make it easier for him to rule. Unfortunately, he never was able to use the idea—too busy fighting war after war.”

  “Thought you said he wanted to stop fighting?”

  “He did, but others had different ideas. Keeping Napoleon fighting was the best way to keep him off guard. There were people who made sure he always had a crop of enemies at his doorstep. He tried to make peace with Russia, but the tsar told him to stuff it. So he invaded Russia in 1812, an act that nearly cost him his whole army. After that, it was all downhill. Three years later, bye-bye. Deposed.”

  “Which tells me nothing.”

  Foddrell’s gaze fixed out the window, as if something suddenly caught his attention.

  “There a problem?” Malone asked.

  “Just checking.”

  “Why sit by the window for all to see?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  The question declared a growing annoyance at being dismissed so easily, but Malone could not care less. “I’m trying to understand.”

  “Since you’ve read the website, you know that Eliza Larocque has started a new Paris Club. Same idea. Different time, different people. They meet in a building on the Rue l’Araignée. I know that for a fact. I’ve seen them there. I know a guy who works for one of the members. He contacted me through the website and told me about it. These people are plotting. They’re going to do what the Rothschilds did two hundred years ago. What Napoleon wanted to do. It’s all a grand conspiracy. The New World Order, coming of age. Economics their weapon.”

  Sam had sat silent during the exchange. Malone realized that he must see that Jimmy Foddrell existed light-years past any semblance of reality. But he couldn’t resist, “For somebody who’s paranoid, you never even asked my name.”

  “Cotton Malone. Sam told me in his email.”

  “You don’t know anything about me. What if I’m here to kill you? Like you say, they’re everywhere, watching. They know what you view on the Internet, what books you check out from the library, your blood type, your medical history, your friends.”

  Foddrell began to study the bistro, the tables busy with patrons, as though it were a cage. “I gotta go.”

  “What about your pan-fried kidneys?”

  “You eat them.”

  Foddrell sprang from the table and darted for the door.

  “He deserved that,” Sam said.

  Malone watched as the goofy fellow fled the eatery, studied the crowded sidewalk, then rushed ahead. He was ready to leave, too. Especially before the food arrived.

  Then something caught his attention.

  Across the busy pedestrian-only street, at one of the art stalls.

  Two men in dark wool coats.

  Their attention had instantly alerted when Foddrell appeared. Then they followed their gaze, walking swiftly, hands in their pockets, straight after Jimmy Foddrell.

  “They’re not tourists,” Sam said.

  “You got that right.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  SALEN HALL

  Ashby led Caroline through the labyrinth of ground-floor corridors to the mansion’s northernmost wing. There they entered one of the many parlors, this one converted into Caroline’s study. Inside, books and manuscripts lay scattered across several oak tables. Most of the volumes were more than two hundred years old, bought at considerable expense, located in private collections from as far away as Australia. Some, though, had been stolen by Mr. Guildhall. All were on the same subject.

  Napoleon.

  “I found the reference yesterday,” Caroline said as she searched the stacks. “In one of the books we bought in Orleans.”

  Unlike himself, Caroline was fluent in both modern and old French.

  “It’s a late 19th-century treatise, written by a British soldier who served on St. Helena. I’m amused how these people so admired Napoleon. It’s beyond hero worship, as if he could do no wrong. And this one’s by a Brit, no less.”

  She handed him the book. Strips of paper protruding from its frayed edges marked pages. “There are so many of these accounts it’s hard to take any of them seriously. But th
is one is actually interesting.”

  He wanted her to know that he may have found something, too. “In the book from Corsica that led to the gold, there’s a mention of Sens.”

  Her face lit up. “Really?”

  “Contrary to what you might think, I can also discover things.”

  She grinned. “And how do you know what I think?”

  “It’s not hard to comprehend.”

  He told her about the book’s introduction and what Saint-Denis had bequeathed to the city of Sens, especially the specific mention of one volume, The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D.

  He saw that something about that title seemed significant. Immediately, she stepped to another of the tables and rummaged through more stacks. The sight of her, so deep in thought, but dressed so provocatively, excited him.

  “Here it is,” she said. “I knew that book was important. In Napoleon’s will. Item VI. Four hundred volumes, selected from those in my library of which I have been accustomed to use most, including my copy of The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D., I direct Saint-Denis to take care of them and to convey them to my son when he shall attain the age of sixteen years.”

  They were slowly piecing together a puzzle that had not been meant to be deciphered in such a backward manner.

  “Saint-Denis was loyal,” she said. “We know he faithfully kept those four hundred books. Of course, there was no way to ever deliver them. He lived in France after Napoleon’s death, and the son stayed a prisoner of the Austrians until he died in 1832.”

  “Saint-Denis died in 1856,” he said, recalling what he’d read. “Thirty-five years he stored those books. Then he bequeathed them to the city of Sens.”

  She threw him a sly smile. “This stuff charges you, doesn’t it?”

  “You charge me.”

  She pointed at the book he held. “Before I gladly perform my mistress responsibilities, read what’s at the first marker. I think it might enhance your enjoyment.”

  He parted the book. Flakes of dried leather from the brittle binding fluttered to the floor.

  Abbé Buonavita, the elder of the two priests on St. Helena, had been for some months crippled to the point where he was really not able to leave his room. One day Napoleon sent for him and explained that it would be better and more prudent for him to return to Europe than to remain at St. Helena, whose climate must be injurious to his health, while that of Italy would probably prolong his days. The Emperor had a letter written to the imperial family requesting payment to the priest of a pension of three thousand francs. When the abbé thanked the Emperor for his goodness he expressed his regret at not ending his days with him to whom he had meant to devote his life. Before he left the island, Buonavita made a last visit to the Emperor, who gave him various instructions and letters to be transmitted to the Emperor’s family and the pope.

  “Napoleon was already sick when Buonavita left St. Helena,” Caroline said. “And he died a few months later. I’ve seen the letters Napoleon wanted delivered to his family. They’re in a museum on Corsica. The Brits read everything that came to and from St. Helena. Those letters were deemed harmless, so they allowed the abbé to take them.”

  “What’s so special about them now?”

  “Would you like to see?”

  “You have them?”

  “Photos. No sense going all the way to Corsica and not taking pictures. I snapped a few shots when I was there last year researching.”

  He studied her piquant nose and chin. Her raised eyebrows. The swell of her breasts. He wanted her.

  But first things first.

  “You brought me gold bars,” she said. “Now I have something for you.” She lifted a photo of a one-page letter, written in French, and asked, “Notice anything?”

  He studied the jagged script.

  “Remember,” she said. “Napoleon’s handwriting was atrocious. Saint-Denis rewrote everything. That was known to everyone on St. Helena. But this letter is far from neat. I compared the writing with some we know Saint-Denis penned.”

  He caught the mischievous glow in her eyes.

  “This one was written by Napoleon himself.”

  “Is that significant?

  “Without question. He wrote these words without Saint-Denis’ intervention. That makes them even more important, though I didn’t realize how important until earlier.”

  He continued to gaze at the photo. “What does it say? My French is not nearly as good as yours.”

  “Just a personal note. Speaks of his love and devotion and how much he misses his son. Not a thing to arouse the suspicion of any nosy Brit.”

  He allowed himself a grin, then a chuckle. “Why don’t you explain yourself, so we can move on to other business.”

  She relieved him of the photo and laid it on the table. She grabbed a ruler and positioned the straightedge beneath one line of the text.

  “You see?” she asked. “It’s clearer with the ruler underneath.”

  And he saw. A few of the letters were raised from the others. Subtle, but there.

  “It’s a code Napoleon used,” she said. “The Brits on St. Helena never noticed. But when I found that account of how Napoleon sent the letters through the abbé, ones he wrote himself, I started looking at these more closely. Only this one has the raised lettering.”

  “What do the letters spell?”

  “Psaume trente et un.”

  That he could translate. “Psalm thirty-one.” Though he did not understand the significance.

  “It’s a specific reference,” she said. “I have it here.” She lifted an open Bible from the table. “Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue; be my rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me. Since you are my rock and my fortress, for the sake of your name lead and guide me. Free me from the trap that is set for me.” She glanced up from the book. “That fits Napoleon’s exile perfectly. Listen to this part. My life is consumed by anguish and my years by groaning; my strength fails because of my affliction, and my bones grow weak. Because of all my enemies, I am in utter contempt of my neighbors; I am a dread to my friends—those who see me on the street flee from me. I am forgotten by them as though I were dead.”

  “The lament of a man defeated,” he said.

  “By the time he wrote the letter he knew the end was near.”

  His gaze immediately locked on the copy of Napoleon’s will, lying on the table. “So he left the books to Saint-Denis and told him to hold them until the son was sixteen. Then he mentioned the one book specifically and sent out a coded letter feeling sorry for himself.”

  “That book about the Merovingians,” she said, “could be the key.”

  He agreed. “We must find it.”

  She stepped close, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “Time for you to take care of your mistress.”

  He started to speak, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.

  “After, I’ll tell you where the book is located.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  PARIS

  Sam couldn’t believe that two men were actually following Jimmy Foddrell. Malone had been right in the bistro to attack the pedantic moron. He wondered if his superiors at the Secret Service viewed him in the same bewildered way. He’d never been that extreme, or that paranoid, though he had defied authority and advocated similar beliefs. Something about him and rules just didn’t mix.

  He and Malone kept pace through the warren of tight streets filled with heads burrowed into heavy coats and sweaters. Restaurateurs braved the cold, hawking their menus, trying to attract diners. He savored the noises, smells, and movements, fighting their hypnotic effect.

  “Who do you think those two guys are?” he finally asked.

  “That’s the problem with fieldwork, Sam. You never know. It’s all about improvising.”

  “Could there be more of them around?”

  “Unfortunately, there’s no way to know in all this chaos.”

  He recalled movies and TV shows where
the hero always seemed to sense danger, no matter how crowded or how far away. But in the hubbub assaulting them from every angle, he realized there’d be no way to perceive anything as a threat until it was upon them.

  Foddrell kept walking.

  Ahead the pedestrian-only way ended at a busy thoroughfare identified as Boulevard St. Germain—a turmoil of taxis, cars, and buses. Foddrell stopped until a nearby signal thickened traffic to a standstill, then he rushed across the four lanes, thick with a clot of people.

  The two men followed.

  “Come on,” Malone said.

  They raced forward, reaching the curb as traffic signals to their right cycled back to green. Not stopping, he and Malone darted across the boulevard, finding the other side just as motors accelerated past them in high, eager tones.

  “You cut it close,” Sam said.

  “We can’t lose them.”

  The sidewalk’s inner edge was now lined by a waist-high stone wall that supported a wrought-iron fence. People hustled in both directions, their faces bright with energy.

  Having no immediate family had always made the holiday season lonely for Sam. The past five Christmases he’d spent on a Florida beach, alone. He never knew his parents. He was raised at a place called the Cook Institute—just a fancy name for an orphanage. He’d come as an infant, his last day a week after his eighteenth birthday.

  “I have a choice?” he asked.

  “You do,” Norstrum said.

  “Since when? There’s nothing here but rules.”

  “Those are for children. You’re now a man, free to live your life as you please.”

  “That’s it? I’m can go? Bye-bye. See you later.”

  “You owe us nothing, Sam.”

  He was glad to hear that. He had nothing to give.

  “Your choice,” Norstrum said, “is simple. You can stay and become a larger part of this place. Or you can leave.”

  That was no choice. “I want to go.”