The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  She glanced up at him. “Damn strange, wouldn’t you say?”

  “To say the least.”

  “It doesn’t match any of the three biblical verses. More a composite. But there’s something even stranger.”

  He waited.

  “Napoleon knew no Latin.”

  Thorvaldsen said goodbye to Professor Murad and retired upstairs to his suite. The time was approaching midnight, but Paris seemed never to sleep. The Ritz’s lobby bustled with activity, people streaming in and out of the noisy salons. As he exited the elevator on his floor, he spotted a dour-faced man with a fleshy complexion and straight dark hair waiting on a settee.

  He knew him well, having two years ago hired the man’s Danish firm to investigate Cai’s death. Their contacts were usually by phone, and he actually thought him in England, supervising Ashby’s surveillance.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

  “I flew over from London earlier. But I’ve been monitoring what’s happening there.”

  Something was wrong. “Walk with me.”

  They strolled down the quiet corridor.

  “There’s some information you should be aware of.”

  He stopped and faced his investigator.

  “We followed Ashby from the time he left Paris. He went home for a few hours, then out, after dark. He took a walking tour about Jack the Ripper.”

  He realized the oddity of that for a Londoner.

  He was handed a photo. “He met with this woman. We managed to snap a picture.”

  Only an instant was needed to recognize the face.

  Stephanie Nelle.

  Alarm bells sounded in his brain, and he fought hard to keep his concern to himself.

  “Malone was there, too.”

  Had he heard right? “Malone?”

  His investigator nodded and showed him another photo. “In the crowd. He left when the woman did.”

  “Did Malone talk with Ashby?”

  “No, he headed off following a man who did speak with Ashby. We decided to let them both go, so as not to cause a problem.”

  He did not like the look in the man’s eye. “It gets worse?”

  The investigator nodded.

  “That woman in the photo, she gave Ashby a book.”

  FORTY-EIGHT

  PARIS

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25

  10:30 AM

  Malone explored the Church of the Dome at the Hôtel des Invalides. Six chapels jutted from a central core, each housing their respective military heroes and dedicated to either the Virgin Mary or one of the fathers of the Roman Catholic Church. He was patrolling downstairs, twenty feet below the main level, circling Napoleon’s tomb. He still hadn’t called Gary and was mad at himself for it, but last night had been long.

  “Anything?” he heard Stephanie call down from above.

  She was standing at a marble balustrade, staring at him.

  “There’s nowhere to hide anything, much less a bomb, in this mausoleum.”

  Dogs had already swept every niche. Nothing had been found. The Invalides itself was now being searched. Nothing, so far. But since Ashby had said the church was the primary target, another careful sweep of every square inch was happening.

  He stood at the entrance to a small gallery lit by antique brass lamps. Inside, a floor monument identified the crypt of Napoleon II, King of Rome, 1811–1832. Towering above the son’s grave was a white marble statue of the father, decked out in coronation robes, bearing a scepter and globe with a cross.

  Stephanie glanced at her watch. “It’s approaching meeting time. This building is clean, Cotton. Something’s wrong.”

  They’d entered the hangar at Heathrow last night, after Peter Lyon fled the terminal, and examined the plane. The Cessna’s registration was to a nondescript Belgium corporation, owned by a fictitious Czech concern. Europol attempted to tag a human being, but all the names and addresses followed a trail to nowhere. The hangar itself was leased to the same Czech corporation, the rental paid three months in advance.

  “Lyon confronted me for a reason,” he said. “He wanted us to know that he knew we were there. He left those little Eiffel Towers for us. Hell, he didn’t even shield his eyes with glasses. The question is, does Ashby know we know?”

  She shook her head. “He’s at the Eiffel Tower. Arrived a few minutes ago. We would have heard about it by now, if he did know. I’m told by his handlers that he’s never been bashful about expressing himself.”

  His mind rifled through the possibilities. Thorvaldsen had tried to call, three times, but he hadn’t answered or returned the calls. Malone had stayed in London last night to avoid the many questions about the book that he simply could not answer. Not now. They’d talk later. The Paris Club had gathered for its meeting. The Eiffel Tower was closed until one PM. Only club members, serving staff, and security would be on the first platform. Malone knew that Stephanie had decided against overly infecting the security detail with loaners from French intelligence. Instead, she’d snuck two sets of eyes and ears into the meeting room.

  “Are Sam and Meagan in place?” he asked.

  He saw her nod. “Both quite eager, I might add.”

  “That’s always a problem.”

  “I doubt they’re in any danger there. Larocque insisted that everyone be swept for weapons and listening devices.”

  He stared at Napoleon’s monstrous tomb. “You know the thing isn’t even made of red porphyry? It’s aventurine quartzite from Finland.”

  “Don’t tell the French,” she said. “But I guess it’s like the cherry tree and George Washington.”

  He heard a ding and watched as Stephanie answered her cell phone, listened a moment, then ended the call.

  “A new problem,” she said.

  He stared up at her.

  “Henrik’s at the Eiffel Tower, entering the club meeting.”

  Sam wore the short jacket and black trousers of the serving staff, all courtesy of Stephanie Nelle. Meagan was similarly attired. They were part of the eleven who’d set up the banquet room with only two circular tables, each clothed in gold linen and adorned with fine china. The hall itself was maybe seventy-five by fifty feet, with a stage at one end. It could have easily accommodated a couple hundred diners, so the two tables seemed lonely.

  He was busy preparing coffee cups and condiments and making sure a steaming samovar worked properly. He had no idea how the machine functioned, but it kept him near where members were making their way into the gathering. To his right, courtesy of a long wall of plate-glass windows, was a spectacular view of the Seine and the Right Bank.

  Three older men and two middle-aged women had already arrived, each greeted by a stately-looking woman in a gray business suit.

  Eliza Larocque.

  Three hours ago Stephanie Nelle had shown him photographs of the seven club members, and he connected a face to each picture. Three controlled major lending institutions, one served in the European parliament. Each had paid 20 million euros to be a part of what was happening—which, according to Stephanie, had already netted them far more than 140 million in illicit profits.

  Here was the living embodiment of all he’d long suspected existed.

  He and Meagan were to look and listen. Above all, Stephanie had cautioned, take no unnecessary chances that could compromise their identities.

  He finished fiddling with the coffee machine and turned to leave.

  Another guest arrived.

  Dressed similarly to the other men in an expensive charcoal-gray business suit, white shirt, and pale yellow tie.

  Henrik Thorvaldsen.

  Thorvaldsen entered La Salle Gustav Eiffel and was immediately greeted by Eliza Larocque. He extended his hand, which she lightly shook.

  “I am so glad you are here,” she said. “That suit looks quite elegant.”

  “I rarely wear one. But I thought it best for today’s occasion.”

  She nodded in gratitude. “I appreciate the
consideration. It is an important day.”

  He’d kept his gaze locked on Larocque. It was important for her to think him interested. He noted the small talk occurring elsewhere in the room as a few of the other members milled about. The serving staff were busy preparing the dining and refreshment stations. Long ago he’d taught himself a useful lesson. Within two minutes of entering any room, know if you are among friends or enemies.

  He recognized at least half the faces. Men and women of business and finance. A couple were genuine surprises, as he’d never thought them conspiratorialists. They were all wealthy, but not enormously, certainly not in his league, so it made some sense they would latch on to a scheme that could possibly generate some fast, easy, and unaccounted-for profits.

  Before he could fully assess his surroundings, a tall, swarthy man with a silver-streaked beard and intense gray eyes approached.

  Larocque smiled and extended her arm, sweeping the newcomer close, and saying, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  She faced him.

  “Henrik, this is Lord Graham Ashby.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Malone ascended from Napoleon’s crypt by way of a marble staircase, flanked at the top by two bronze funerary spirits. One bore the crown and hand of justice, the other a sword and globe. Stephanie waited for him, standing before the church’s great altar with its canopy of twisted columns reminiscent of Bernini’s in St. Peter’s Basilica.

  “Seems Henrik’s efforts were successful,” she said. “He managed an invitation to the club.”

  “He’s on a mission. You can understand that.”

  “That I can. But I’m on one too, and you can understand that. I want Peter Lyon.”

  He glanced around at the deserted church. “This whole thing feels wrong. Lyon knows we’re on to him. That plane at Heathrow was useless to him from the start.”

  “But he also knows that we can’t tip our hand.”

  Which was why the Church of the Dome was not surrounded by police. Why the Invalides’ hospital and retirement center had not been evacuated. Its ultramodern surgical unit catered to veterans, and about a hundred lived there full-time in buildings that flanked the Church of the Dome. The search for explosives had started there quietly, last night. Nothing to alert anyone that there may be a problem. Just a calm search. A full-scale alarm would have ended any chance of nailing Lyon or the Paris Club.

  But the task had proven daunting.

  The Invalides comprised hundreds of thousands of square feet, spread over dozens of multistory buildings. Far too many places to hide an explosive.

  The radio Stephanie carried crackled with her name, then a male voice said, “We have something.”

  “Where?” she answered.

  “In the cupola.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  Thorvaldsen shook Graham Ashby’s hand, forced his lips to smile, and said, “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you as well. I’ve known of your family for many years. I also admire your porcelain.”

  He nodded at the compliment.

  He realized Eliza Larocque was watching his every move, performing her own assessment of both he and Ashby, so he summoned all of his charm and continued to play the role.

  “Eliza tells me,” Ashby said, “that you want to join.”

  “This seems like a worthwhile endeavor.”

  “I think you’ll find us a good group. We are only beginning, but we have a grand time at these gatherings.”

  He surveyed the room again and counted seven members, including Ashby and Larocque. Serving staff wandered about like stray ghosts, finishing their tasks, one by one withdrawing through a far doorway.

  Bright sunshine flooded in from a wall of windows and bathed the red carpet and plush surroundings in a mellow glow.

  Larocque encouraged everyone to find a seat.

  Ashby walked off.

  Thorvaldsen made his way to the nearest of the two tables, but not before he caught sight of a young man, one of the servers, storing away extra chairs behind the stage to his right. He’d thought at first he was mistaken, but when the worker returned for one more load he was certain.

  Sam Collins.

  Here.

  Malone and Stephanie climbed a cold metal ladder that led up into a space between the interior and exterior walls. The dome itself was not a single piece. Instead, only one of the two stories of windows visible on the drum’s exterior could be seen from inside. A second cupola, completely enclosed by the first, visible through the open top of the lower cupola, captured daylight through a second level of windows and illuminated the inside. It was an ingenious nesting design, only evident once high above everything.

  They found a platform that abutted the upper cupola, among the building’s crisscrossing exoskeleton of wooden timbers and more recent steel beams. Another metal ladder angled toward the center, between the supports, to a second platform that anchored one last ladder leading up into the lantern. They were near the church’s summit, nearly three hundred feet high. On the second platform, below the lantern, stood one of the French security personnel who’d slipped into the Invalides several hours ago.

  He was pointing upward.

  “There.”

  Eliza was pleased. All seven members, along with Henrik Thorvaldsen, had come. Everyone was finding a seat. She’d insisted on two tables so that no one would feel crowded. She hated to be crowded. Perhaps it came from living alone her entire adult life. Not that a man couldn’t occasionally provide a delightful distraction. But the thought of a close personal relationship, someone who’d want to share her thoughts and feelings, and would want her to share his? That repulsed her.

  She’d watched carefully as Thorvaldsen met Graham Ashby. Neither man showed any reaction. Clearly, two strangers meeting for the first time.

  She checked her watch.

  Time to begin.

  Before she could attract everyone’s attention, Thorvaldsen approached and quietly said, “Did you read this morning’s Le Parisien?”

  “It’s waiting for me later today. The morning was busy.”

  She watched as he reached into his suit pocket and removed a newspaper clipping. “Then you should see this. From page 12A. Top right column.”

  She quickly scanned the piece, which reported a theft yesterday at the Hôtel des Invalides and its Musée de l’Armée. In one of the galleries being renovated, thieves had taken an item from the Napoleon exhibit.

  A book.

  The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D.

  Significant only since it was specifically mentioned in the emperor’s will, but otherwise not all that valuable, which was one reason it had been left in the gallery. The museum staff was in the process of inventorying the remaining artifacts to ascertain if anything else had been stolen.

  She stared at Thorvaldsen. “How could you possibly know that this may be relevant to me?”

  “As I made clear at your château, I’ve studied you, and him, in great detail.”

  Thorvaldsen’s warning from yesterday rang in her ears.

  If I’m right about him, he’s going to tell you that he wasn’t able to retrieve whatever it is, that it wasn’t there, or some other such excuse.

  And that’s exactly what Graham Ashby had told her.

  FIFTY

  Malone climbed through an opening in the floor into the lantern. Frigid air and sunshine greeted him as he stood out in the bright midday, at the top of the church. The view in all directions was stunning. The Seine wound a path through the city to his north, the Louvre rose toward the northeast, the Eiffel Tower less than two miles to the west.

  Stephanie followed him up. The security man climbed up last, but remained on the ladder, only his head and shoulders visible.

  “I decided to examine the cupola myself,” the man said. “Nothing was there, but I wanted a cigarette, so I climbed up here and saw that.”

  Malone followed the man’s pointing finger and spotted a bl
ue box, maybe four inches square, affixed to the lantern’s ceiling. A decorative brass railing guarded each of the cupola’s four archways. Carefully, he hoisted himself onto one of the railings and stood within a few inches of the box. He spotted a thin wire, perhaps a foot long, extending from one side, dangling in the breeze.

  He stared down at Stephanie. “It’s a transponder. A beacon to draw that plane here.” He wrenched the unit free, held in place with strong adhesive. “Remote-activated. Has to be. But placing it up here took effort.”

  “Not a problem for Peter Lyon. He’s accomplished tougher things than this.”

  He hopped down, still holding the transponder, and clicked the unit off with a switch on its side. “That should complicate the matter for him.” He handed the device to Stephanie. “You realize this is way too easy.”

  He saw that she agreed.

  He stepped to another railing and gazed down to where streets converged at an empty plaza before the church’s southern façade. Christmas Day had siphoned away the vast majority of the daily traffic. So as not to alert anyone on the nearby Eiffel Tower, which offered an unobstructed view of the Invalides, no police had cordoned off the streets.

  He spotted a light-colored van, speeding northward, down the Boulevard des Invalides. Moving unusually fast. The van whipped left onto Avenue de Tourville, which ran perpendicular to the Church of the Dome’s main entrance.

  Stephanie noticed his interest.

  The van slowed, veered right, then abandoned the street and clunked its way up a short set of stone steps toward the church’s main doors.

  Stephanie found her radio.

  The van cleared the steps and sped forward on a walkway between patches of winter grass. It skidded to a halt at the base of more steps.

  The driver’s-side door opened.

  Stephanie activated her radio, calling for attention, but before she could utter a word a man fled the vehicle and raced toward a car that had appeared on the street.