by Steve Berry
He switched off the phone and handed it to Sam. The younger man and Meagan Morrison had stood silent, watching him through concerned eyes.
“Will you betray me, too?” he asked Sam.
“No.”
The answer came quick. Perhaps too quick. But this eager soul was anxious to prove himself.
“Something’s happening,” Meagan said.
He turned and focused across the boulevard at the hotel.
Ashby appeared out front and spoke to the doorman, who quickly motioned for a cab. Thorvaldsen turned away and faced the buildings behind them. His face might be seen.
“He’s in the cab,” Sam said.
“Flag us one, too.”
SIXTY-THREE
Ashby stepped off the dock at Pont de l’Alma and onto the tour boat. Off to the east a carillon of bells pealed for three PM. He’d never toured the Seine by boat, though he assumed the cruises were quite popular. Today only about twenty strangers filled the seats under a sooty Plexiglas canopy, the boat not quite half full. He wondered why Peter Lyon insisted on meeting in such tacky surroundings. The call had come an hour ago, a gruff voice instructing him on the time and place. He’d told Caroline to keep working on what she’d discovered and that he’d return shortly. He’d debated ignoring Lyon’s summons, but knew better. Besides, Lyon had been the one who failed, not him. And there was the matter of the fee already paid, and the balance owed.
He settled into a seat on the last row and waited ten minutes until the engines revved and the flat hull glided out into the river, heading east toward the Île de la Cité. Through a loudspeaker a woman’s voice described, in English, the two banks and the sights while cameras clicked.
A tap on the shoulder diverted his attention and he turned to see a tall, urbane-looking man with blond hair. He appeared to be midsixties, the face drawn and shielded by a bushy beard and mustache. A vastly different look from the other day, yet the eyes remained the same amber color. The man was dressed in a tweed coat and corduroy slacks, appearing, as usual, quite European.
Ashby followed him toward the stern, outside the Plexiglas enclosure, where they stood in the cold. The tour guide inside continued to hold the crowd’s attention.
“What do I call you today?” he asked.
“How about Napoleon?” The voice was husky, throaty, more American this time.
The boat eased past the Grand Palais on the Right Bank.
“May I ask what happened?”
“No, you may not,” Lyon said.
He wasn’t about to accept that rebuke. “You are the one who failed. Not only that, you caused me to be exposed. The Americans are applying pressure. Do you have any idea the situation you have generated?”
“The Americans are the ones who interfered.”
“And that was a surprise? You knew they were involved. I paid three times your fee to compensate for their involvement.” His exasperation showed, but he did not care. “You said it would be quite a show.”
“I don’t know, as yet, who to blame,” Lyon said. “My planning was precise.”
He registered the same condescending tone he’d grown to hate. Since he could not reveal that he’d been using Lyon to do his dirty work, he asked, “What can be done to rectify the situation?”
“That will be your problem. I’m done.”
He could not believe what he was hearing. “You’re—”
“I want to know,” Lyon said, interrupting. “What did you hope to gain from killing those people at the tower?”
“How do you know I wanted to kill them?”
“The same way I know about the Americans.”
This man knew an awful lot. But he sensed that Lyon was not nearly as confident today. Good to know that even the devil failed occasionally. He decided not to rub the disaster in the man’s face. He still needed Lyon.
“I would have never been rid of them,” he said. “Larocque, especially. So I decided to terminate the relationship, in a way she would appreciate.”
“And how much money was involved?”
He chuckled. “You like to come to the point, don’t you?”
Lyon shifted on his feet as he stood, propped against the aft railing. “It’s always about money.”
“I have access to millions in club funds deposited in my bank. That’s how you were paid. I could not have cared less what you charge. Of course, that money, or what’s left of it, would have been mine, if your flight had been successful.” He allowed his words to linger, conveying again who was responsible for the botched attack. He was tiring of theatrics, gaining courage by the second, annoyed with this man’s arrogance.
“What was really at stake, Lord Ashby?”
That he was not going to share. “More than you could ever imagine. Plenty to compensate for the risks involved in killing those people.”
Lyon said nothing.
“You’ve been paid,” Ashby made clear, “but I did not receive the service, as promised. You like to talk about character and how almighty important that is to you. Do you fail, then keep a person’s money?”
“You still want them dead?” Lyon paused. “Assuming I’m interested in continuing our association.”
“You don’t have to kill them all. How about just Larocque. For what you’ve already been paid, and for the remaining payment owed to you.”
Thorvaldsen had not been able to board the tour boat with Ashby. His operatives were on the way from England and should arrive within the next few hours, so they were of no help. Instead, he’d opted to follow the slow-moving vessel, paralleling the Seine in a taxi, on a busy boulevard.
He’d first considered sending Sam or Meagan, but was concerned Ashby might recognize their faces from the meeting. Now he realized there was no choice. He faced Sam. “I want you to get aboard at the next stop and see what Ashby is doing. Also, find out the route and call that to me immediately.”
“Why me?”
“You were able to masquerade for Stephanie Nelle, surely you can do this for me.”
He saw that his rebuke bit into the young man, as intended.
Sam nodded. “I can do it. But Ashby may have seen me in the meeting room.”
“It’s a chance we have to take. But I doubt if he pays much attention to hired help.”
The road ahead passed between the Louvre on the left and the Seine on the right. He saw the tour boat ease toward a dock just below the roadway. He signaled for the driver to stop at the curb.
He opened the door and Sam jumped out into the cold afternoon.
“Be safe,” he said, then he slammed the door and told the driver to go, but slowly, and not to lose the boat.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Lyon said to Ashby. “What’s at stake here?”
He decided that to secure Lyon’s continued help he was going to have to give a little. “A treasure beyond measure. One far greater than the fee you extorted from me.” He wanted this demon to know that he wasn’t intimidated any longer.
“And you needed Larocque and the others gone to acquire it?”
He shrugged. “Just her. But I decided that since you were killing people, why not kill them all.”
“I so underestimated you, Lord Ashby.”
No kidding.
“And what of the Americans? You deceived them, too?”
“I told them what I had to and, I might add, I never would have sacrificed you. If things had evolved properly, I would have had my freedom, the treasure, the club’s money, and you would have been on to the next client—richer by three times your usual fee.”
“The Americans were smarter than I anticipated.”
“Seems that was your mistake. I performed my part, and I’m ready to pay the remainder of the fee. Provided—”
The boat eased to a stop at the Louvre. New riders stepped aboard and dutifully took their seats beneath the canopy. Ashby kept silent until the engines revved and they motored back into the swift Seine.
“I’m waiti
ng,” he said.
Sam decided against sitting too far aft He chose instead to merge himself into the sparse camera-toting crowd. Beneath the canopy there was a measure of comfort provided by warm air from the boat’s heaters. Ashby and the other man—the stranger dressed in English tweeds and sporting imperiously coiffed blond hair—stood beyond the enclosure where, he imagined, it was downright cold.
He focused his attention on the riverbanks as a tour guide spouted over a loudspeaker about the Île de la Cité and its many attractions, which lay directly ahead. He feigned sightseeing as a way to keep an eye on what was happening. The guide mentioned that they would be taking the Left Bank route around the Île, past Notre Dame, then on to the Bibliothèque François Mitterand.
He dialed his phone and quickly reported the route.
Thorvaldsen listened clicked off, and studied the road ahead.
“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.”
SIXTY-FOUR
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.
SIXTY-FIVE
Sam watched as Tweed sprang to his feet and yanked the man in the pea-green coat from the railing. Ashby had already leaped over the side. He wondered what was down there. The river would be nearly freezing. Certainly the fool had not plunged into the water.
Tweed and Green Coat slammed onto the deck.
Frightened passengers gave them room.
He decided to do something about the smoke. He stole a breath and rushed back beneath the enclosure. He found the smoke canister, lifted it from the deck, and, just past the last row of seats where the canopy ended, tossed it overboard.
The two men were still scuffling on the deck, the remaining smoke dissipating quickly in the cold, dry air.
He wanted to do something, but he was at a loss.
Engines dimmed. A door in the forward compartment opened and a crewman rushed out. Tweed and Green Coat continued to wrestle, neither man gaining an advantage. Tweed broke free, rolled away, and pushed himself up from the deck. Green Coat, too, was coming to his feet. But instead of rushing his opponent, the man in the green coat pushed through the surrounding onlookers and leaped over the side.
Tweed lunged after him, but the other man was gone.
Sam crossed the deck and spotted a small boat losing speed, drifting to their stern, then motoring away in the opposite direction.
Tweed watched, too.
Then the man peeled off a wig and ripped facial hair from his cheeks and chin.
He instantly recognized the face beneath.
Cotton Malone.
Thorvaldsen allowed his grip on the gun in his pocket to relax. He casually withdrew his hand and watched as Stephanie Nelle stepped toward him.
“This can’t be good,” Meagan muttered.