by Steve Berry
He translated the French. “‘To King Dagobert and to Sion belongs the treasure and he is there dead.’” He gave a pessimistic shrug. “What does it mean?”
A malicious grin formed on her inviting lips.
“A great deal.”
Malone entered the building, gun in hand and climbed the stairs.
Stephanie followed.
The Paris police waited outside.
Neither one of them was sure what was waiting, so the fewer people involved, the better. Containment was rapidly becoming a problem, particularly considering that two national landmarks had been attacked and planes had been shot from the sky. President Daniels had assured them that the French would deal with the press. Just concentrate on finding Lyon, he’d ordered.
They reached the fourth floor and found the door for the apartment that the amber-eyed man had let, the landlord having provided a passkey.
Stephanie positioned herself to one side, gun in hand. Malone angled his body against the opposite and banged on the door. He didn’t expect anyone to answer, so he inserted the key into the lock, turned the knob, and swung the door inward.
He waited a few seconds, then peered around the jamb.
The apartment was utterly bare, except for one item.
A laptop lying on the wood floor, the screen facing their way, a counter ticking down.
2:00 minutes.
1:59.
1:58.
Thorvaldsen had called Malone’s cell phone seven times, each try diverting to voice mail, each failure escalating his anguish.
He needed to speak with Malone.
More important, he needed to find Graham Ashby. He hadn’t ordered his investigators to tail the Brit after he left England earlier this morning. He assumed that Ashby would be within his sight at the Eiffel Tower, until late afternoon. By then, his men would be in France ready to go.
But Ashby had formulated a different plan.
Thorvaldsen sat alone in his room at the Ritz. What to do now? He was at a loss. He’d planned carefully, anticipating nearly everything—except the mass murder of the Paris Club. Innovative, he’d give Ashby that. Eliza Larocque had to be in turmoil. Her well-ordered plans were in shambles. At least she realized that he’d been telling the truth about her supposedly trustworthy British lord. Now Ashby had two people intent on his demise.
Which made him think again about Malone, the book, and Murad.
Perhaps the professor knew something?
His cell phone rang.
The screen displayed BLOCKED NUMBER but he answered anyway.
“Henrik,” Sam Collins said, “I need your help.”
He wanted to know if everyone around him was a liar. “What have you been doing?”
The other end of the phone stayed silent. Finally, Sam said, “I’ve been recruited by the Justice Department.”
He was pleased that the young man had told him the truth. So he reciprocated. “I saw you at the Eiffel Tower. In the meeting hall.”
“I thought you might.”
“What’s happening Sam?”
“I’m following Ashby.”
The best news he’d heard. “For Stephanie Nelle?”
“Not really. But I had no choice.”
“Do you have a way to contact her?”
“She gave me a direct number, but I’ve been hesitant to call. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Tell me where you are.”
Malone approached the laptop as Stephanie searched the apartment’s two remaining rooms.
“Empty,” she called out.
He knelt. The screen continued to count down, approaching one minute. He noticed a data card inserted into a side USB port—the source of the wireless connection. At the screen’s top right portion, the battery indicator read 80 percent. The machine had not been on long.
41 seconds.
“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” Stephanie asked.
“Lyon knew we’d come. Just like at the Invalides, if he wanted to kill us there are easier ways.”
28 seconds.
“You realize Peter Lyon is an amoral bastard.”
19 seconds.
“Henrik called seven times,” he said to her as they both watched the screen.
“He’s got to be dealt with,” she said.
“I know.”
12 seconds.
“You could be wrong about there not being a bomb here,” she muttered.
9 seconds.
“I’ve been wrong before.”
6 seconds.
“That’s not what you said back in the Court of Honor.”
A 5 appeared, then 4, 3, 2, 1.
SIXTY-ONE
Ashby waited for Caroline to explain. She was clearly enjoying herself.
“If the legend is to be believed,” she said, “only Napoleon knew the location of his cache. He trusted that information to no one we know of. Once he realized that he was going to die on St. Helena, he had to communicate the location to his son.”
She pointed to the fourteen lines of writing. “‘To King Dagobert and to Sion belongs the treasure and he is there dead.’ It’s quite simple.”
Perhaps to someone with multiple degrees in history, but not to him.
“Dagobert was a Merovingian who ruled in the early part of the 7th century. He unified the Franks and made Paris his capital. He was the last Merovingian to wield any real power. After that, the Merovingian kings became ineffective rulers who inherited the throne as young children and lived only long enough to produce a male heir. Real power lay in the hands of the noble families.”
His mind was still on Peter Lyon and Eliza Larocque and the threat they posed. He wanted to be acting, not listening. But he told himself to remain patient. She’d never disappointed him before.
“Dagobert built the basilica at Saint-Denis, north of Paris. He was the first king to be buried there.” She paused. “He’s still there.”
He tried to recall what he could about the cathedral. The building had first been constructed over the tomb of St. Denis, a local bishop martyred by the Romans in the 3rd century, and revered by Parisians. An exceptional building in both construction and design, regarded as one of the first examples of Gothic architecture on the planet. He remembered a French acquaintance once boasting that the world’s greatest assembly of royal funerary monuments lay there. Like he cared. But maybe he should. Especially about one particular royal tomb.
“Nobody knows if Dagobert is actually buried there,” she made clear. “The building was first erected in the 5th century. Dagobert ruled in the mid–7th century. He donated so much wealth to the basilica’s enhancement that, by the 9th century, he was credited as its founder. In the 13th century, the monks there dedicated a funerary niche in his honor.”
“Is Dagobert there or not?”
She shrugged. “What does it matter? That niche is still regarded as the tomb of Dagobert. Where he is. Dead.”
He caught the significance of what she was saying. “That’s what Napoleon would have believed?”
“I can’t see how he would have thought anything else.”
Malone stared at the laptop and the single word, displayed in all caps, emphasized by three exclamation points.
BOOM!!!
“That’s interesting,” Stephanie said.
“Lyon has a bomb fetish.”
The screen changed and a new message appeared.
WHAT IS IT AMERICANS SAY?
A DAY LATE AND A DOLLAR SHORT.
MAYBE NEXT TIME.
“Now, that’s aggravating,” he said, but he saw more than frustration in Stephanie’s eyes and knew what she was thinking.
No Paris Club. No Lyon. Nothing.
“It’s not all that bad,” he said.
She seemed to catch the twinkle in his eye. “You have something in mind?”
He nodded. “A way for us to finally catch this shadow.”
Ashby stared at a photo of Dagobert’s funerary monument that Caroline f
ound online. A Gothic flair dominated its busy design.
“It depicts the legend of John the Hermit,” she said. “He dreamed that the soul of Dagobert was stolen away by demons, eventually snatched from their clutches by Saints Denis, Maurice, and Martin.”
“And this sits inside the basilica at Saint-Denis?”
She nodded. “Adjacent to the main altar. It somehow escaped the wrath of the French Revolution. Prior to 1800, just about every French monarch was buried in Saint-Denis. But most of the bronze tombs were melted down during the French Revolution, the rest shattered and piled in a garden behind the building. The remains of every Bourbon king were dumped into a nearby cemetery pit.”
That wild vengeance made him think of Eliza Larocque. “The French take their anger quite to heart.”
“Napoleon stopped the vandalism and restored the church,” she said. “He again made it an imperial burying place.”
He caught the significance. “So he was familiar with the basilica?”
“The Merovingian connection surely attracted his interest. Several Merovingians are buried there. Including, to his mind, Dagobert.”
The suite’s door opened and Guildhall reappeared. A discreet nod told Ashby that the Murrays were on their way. He’d feel better when surrounded by loyalists. Something would have to be done about Eliza Larocque. He could not be constantly glancing over his shoulder, wondering if today was the day she finally caught up to him. Perhaps he could make a deal? She was negotiable. But he’d tried to kill her, a fact she certainly now knew. No matter. He’d deal with her later. Right now—“All right, my dear. Tell me. What happens when we visit Saint-Denis?”
“How about I answer that question once we’re there.”
“Do you have the answer?”
“I think I do.”
Thorvaldsen exited the cab and spotted Sam and a woman standing across the street. He stuffed his bare hands into his coat pockets and crossed. Little traffic filled the tree-lined boulevard, all of the nearby upscale boutiques closed for Christmas.
Sam seemed anxious. He immediately introduced the woman and explained who she was.
“You two seem to have been drafted into quite a mess,” he said.
“We didn’t have a whole lot of choice,” Meagan Morrison said.
“Is Ashby still inside?” he asked, motioning toward the hotel.
Sam nodded. “As long as he decided not to leave by another exit.”
He stared across at the Four Seasons and wondered what his schemer was planning next.
“Henrik, I was on top of the tower,” Sam said. “I came up after Ashby came down. That plane—was coming for the club, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “Indeed it was. What were you doing up there?”
“I came to see about you.”
The words made him think of Cai. Sam was near the age Cai would have been, if he’d lived. Lots about this young American reminded him of his son. Perhaps that’s why he’d gravitated toward him. Misplaced love and all that other psychological nonsense that, prior to two years ago, meant nothing to him.
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.”
SIXTY-TWO
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.
&nb
sp; “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?”