The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  He agreed.

  The tour boat was approaching the bridge. He’d watched as the source of the smoke had been tossed overboard, then two men had jumped into a smaller craft—one of them had been Ashby—which roared away in the opposite direction, following the current, as the Seine wound deeper into Paris.

  The tour boat glided past beneath the bridge and he caught sight of Sam and Cotton Malone standing at the aft railing, surrounded by people. The upward angle and the fact that Sam and Malone were facing away, watching the retreating motorboat, made it impossible for them to see him.

  Meagan and Stephanie saw them, too.

  “Now do you see what you’re interfering with?” Stephanie asked as she stopped a meter away.

  “How did you know we were here?” Meagan asked.

  “Your cell phones,” Stephanie said. “They have embedded trackers. When Henrik came on the line earlier, I realized there’d be trouble. We’ve been watching.”

  Stephanie faced him. “What were you going to do? Shoot Ashby from here?”

  He threw her a fierce, indignant stare. “Seemed like a simple thing to do.”

  “You’re not going to allow us to handle this, are you?”

  He knew exactly what was meant by us. “Cotton seems not to have the time to answer my calls, but plenty of time to be a part of your operation.”

  “He’s trying to solve all of our problems. Yours included.”

  “I don’t require his assistance.”

  “Then why did you involve him?”

  Because, at the time, he’d thought him a friend. One who’d be there for him. As he’d been for Malone.

  “What was happening on that boat?” he asked.

  Stephanie shook her head. “As if I’m going to explain that to you. And you,” she added, pointing at Meagan. “Were you going to just let him kill a man?”

  “I don’t work for you.”

  “You’re right.” She motioned to one of the French policemen standing beside the car. “Get her out of here.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Thorvaldsen made clear. “We’ll leave together.”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  He’d already anticipated that response, which was why he’d slipped his right hand back into his pocket and regripped the gun.

  He withdrew the weapon.

  “What do you plan to do? Shoot me?” Stephanie quietly asked.

  “I wouldn’t recommend you push me. At the moment, I seem nothing more than an obedient participant in my own humiliation, but it’s my problem, Stephanie, not yours, and I intend to finish what I started.”

  She did not reply.

  “Get us a cab,” he ordered Meagan.

  She ran to the bridge’s end and flagged down the first one that passed on the busy boulevard. Stephanie remained silent, but he saw it in her eyes. An introspective yet alert defensiveness. And something else. She had no intention of halting him.

  He was acting on impulse, more panic than design, and she seemed to sympathize with his quandary. This woman, full of expertise and caution, could not help him, but in her heart she did not want to stop him, either.

  “Just go,” she whispered.

  He scampered toward the waiting cab, as fast as his crooked spine would allow. Once inside he asked Meagan, “Your cell phone.”

  She handed the unit over.

  He lowered the window and tossed it away

  Ashby was terrified.

  The motorboat was making its escape past the Île de la Cité, threading a quick path around other boats coming their way.

  Everything had happened so fast.

  He was talking to Peter Lyon, then a tidal wave of smoke had burst over him. The man in the green coat now held a gun, quickly displaying it the instant he’d leaped from the tour boat. Who was he? One of the Americans?

  “You are truly a fool,” the man said to him.

  “Who are you?”

  The gun came level.

  Then he saw amber eyes.

  “The man you owe a great deal of money.”

  Malone peeled the remaining hair and adhesive from his face. He held open each eyelid and plucked out amber-colored contacts.

  The tour boat had stopped at the nearest dock and allowed frightened patrons to leave. Malone and Sam debarked last, Stephanie waiting ashore, up a stone stairway, at street level.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “A royal mess,” Malone said. “Didn’t go as planned.”

  Sam seemed perplexed.

  “We had to corner Ashby,” Malone said. “So I called, as Lyon, and arranged a meeting.”

  “And the getup?”

  “The French helped us out there. Their intelligence people found us a makeup artist. I was also wired, getting admissions on tape. Peter Lyon, though, had other ideas.”

  “That was him?” Sam asked. “In the green coat?”

  Malone nodded. “Apparently he wants Ashby, too. And good job clearing the smoke bomb.”

  “Henrik was here,” she said to him.

  “How pissed is he?”

  “He’s hurt, Cotton. He’s not thinking clearly.”

  He should talk with his friend, but there hadn’t been a free moment all day. He found his cell phone, which he’d silenced before boarding the tour boat, and noted more missed calls from Henrik and three from a number he recognized.

  Dr. Joseph Murad.

  He punched REDIAL. The professor answered on the first ring.

  “I did it,” Murad said. “I figured it out.”

  “You know the location?”

  “I think so.”

  “Have you called Henrik?”

  “I just did. I couldn’t reach you, so I called him. He wants me to meet him.”

  “You can’t do that, Professor. Just tell me where and I’ll handle it.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  3:40 PM

  Ashby was led from the boat at gunpoint near the Île Saint Germain, south of the old city center. He now knew that the man who held him was Peter Lyon and the man on the tour boat had most likely been an American agent. A car waited up from the river, at street level. Two men sat inside. Lyon signaled and they exited. One opened the rear door and yanked Caroline out into the afternoon.

  “Your Mr. Guildhall won’t be joining us,” Lyon said. “I’m afraid he’s been permanently detained.”

  He knew what that meant. “There was no need to kill him.”

  Lyon chuckled. “On the contrary. It was the only option.”

  The situation had just gravitated from serious to desperate. Obviously, Lyon had been monitoring everything Ashby had been doing, since he knew exactly where Caroline and Guildhall could be found.

  He spied unrestrained fear on Caroline’s lovely face.

  He was scared, too.

  Lyon led him forward and whispered, “I thought you might need Miss Dodd. That’s the only reason she’s still alive. I would suggest that you don’t waste the opportunity I’ve offered her.”

  “You want the treasure?”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “You told me last night in London that things like that didn’t interest you.”

  “A source of wealth unknown to any government, with no accounting. There’s so much I could do with that at my disposal—and I wouldn’t have to deal with cheats like you.”

  They stood beyond a busy street, the car parked among a patch of trees bleached from winter. No one was in sight, the area largely a commercial center and boat repair facility, closed for the holiday. Lyon again withdrew the gun from beneath his coat and screwed a sound suppressor to the short barrel.

  “Set her back in the car,” Lyon directed as they approached.

  Caroline was shoved across the rear seat. Lyon stepped to the open door and thrust his arm inside, aiming the gun directly at her.

  She gasped. “Oh, God. No.”

  “Shut up,” Lyon said.

  Caroline started to cry.

 
“Lord Ashby,” Lyon said. “And you, too, Miss Dodd. I’m only going to ask this once. If a truthful answer is not immediately forthcoming, clear and concise, then I will fire. Does everyone understand?”

  Ashby said nothing.

  Lyon stared straight at him. “I didn’t hear you, Lord Ashby.”

  “What’s not to understand?”

  “Tell me where the treasure is located,” Lyon said.

  When Ashby had left Caroline earlier she was still developing the particulars, though she’d at least determined an initial starting point. He hoped, for both their sakes, she knew a lot more now.

  “It’s in the cathedral, at Saint-Denis,” Caroline quickly said.

  “You know where?” Lyon asked, his eyes locked on Ashby, the gun inside the car, still aimed.

  “I believe so. But I need to go there to be sure. I have to see. I just figured all this out—”

  Lyon withdrew his arm and lowered the weapon. “I hope, for your sake, you can determine the location.”

  Ashby stood still.

  Lyon aimed the gun his way. “Your turn. Two questions, and I want simple answers. Do you have a direct line of communication to the Americans?”

  That was easy. He nodded.

  “Do you have a phone with you?”

  He nodded again.

  “Give me the phone and the number.”

  Malone stood with Sam, trying to decide on the next course of action, when Stephanie’s cell phone sprang to life. She checked the display and said, “Ashby.”

  He knew better. “Apparently Lyon wants to talk to you.”

  She hit SPEAKER.

  “I understand that you are the person in charge,” a male voice said.

  “The last time I looked,” Stephanie said.

  “You were in London last night?”

  “That was me.”

  “Did you enjoy the show today?”

  “We’ve had great fun chasing after you.”

  Lyon chuckled. “It kept you sufficiently occupied so I could deal with Lord Ashby. He is untrustworthy, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”

  “He’s probably thinking the same thing about you at the moment.”

  “You should be grateful. I did you a favor. I allowed you to monitor my conversation with Ashby at Westminster. I appeared at the Ripper tour so you could follow. I left the little towers for you to find. I even attacked your agent. What else did you need? But for me, you would have never known that the tower was Ashby’s true target. I assumed you’d find a way to stop it.”

  “And if we hadn’t, what would it have mattered? You’d still have your money, off to the next job.”

  “I had faith in you.”

  “I hope you don’t expect anything for it.”

  “Heavens, no. I just didn’t want to see that fool Ashby succeed.”

  Malone realized they were witnessing Peter Lyon’s infamous arrogance. It wasn’t enough that he was two steps ahead of his pursuers, he needed to rub that fact in their faces.

  “I have another piece of information for you,” Lyon said. “And this one is quite real. No distraction. You see, the French fanatics whom this entire endeavor was to be blamed on had a condition to their involvement. One I never mentioned to Lord Ashby. They are separatists, upset over the unfair treatment they have received at the hands of the French government. They loathe the many oppressive regulations, which they regard as racist. They’re also tired of protesting. Seems it accomplishes little, and several of their mosques have been closed in Paris over the past few years as punishment for their activism. In return for assisting me at the Invalides, they want to make a more poignant statement.”

  Malone did not like what he was hearing.

  “A suicide bombing is about to occur,” Lyon said.

  Chilly fingers caressed Malone’s spine.

  “During Christmas services in a Paris church. They thought this fitting, since their houses of worship are being closed every day.”

  There were literally hundreds of churches in Paris.

  After three duds, it’s hard to take you seriously,” she made clear.

  “I see your point, but this one is real. And you can’t rush there with police. The attack would occur before anyone could stop it. In fact, it’s nearly imminent. Only you can prevent it.”

  “Bullshit,” Stephanie said. “You’re just buying more time for yourself.”

  “Of course I am. But can you afford to gamble that what I’m saying is a lie?”

  Malone saw in Stephanie’s eyes what he was thinking, too.

  We have no choice.

  “Where?” she asked.

  Lyon laughed. “Not that easy. It’s going to be a bit of a hunt. Of course, a churchful of people are counting on you making it there in time. Do you have ground transportation?”

  “We do.”

  “I’ll be in touch shortly.”

  She clicked the phone off.

  Exasperation swept across her face, then vanished into the confidence that twenty-five years in the intelligence business had bestowed.

  She faced Sam. “Go after Henrik.”

  Professor Murad had already told them that the Cathédrale de Saint-Denis was Thorvaldsen’s destination.

  “Try to keep him under control until we can get there.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Figure it out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Malone smiled at his sarcasm. “That’s how I used to say it, too, when she’d cut my tail. You can handle him. Just hold the line, keep things under control.”

  “That’s easier said than done with Henrik.”

  He laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “He likes you. He’s in trouble. Help him.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Eliza Larocque wandered around her Paris apartment and tried to restore order to her chaotic thoughts. She’d already consulted the oracle, asking the specific question, Will my enemies succeed? The answer that her slashes had produced seemed baffling. The prisoner will soon be welcomed home, although he now smarts under the power of his enemies.

  What in the world?

  Paolo Ambrosi was waiting for her call, ready to act. She wanted Graham Ashby dead, but not before she obtained answers to her many questions. She had to know the extent of Ashby’s betrayal. Only then could she assess the potential damage. Things had changed. The sight of that airplane, powering toward her atop the Eiffel Tower, remained fresh in her thoughts. She also needed to wrestle back control of the hundreds of millions of Paris Club euros that Ashby maintained in his bank.

  But today was a holiday. No way to make that happen. She would handle it first thing in the morning.

  Way too much trust had been placed in Ashby. And what of Henrik Thorvaldsen? He’d told her that the Americans were aware of all that had happened. Did that mean complete exposure? Was everything in jeopardy? If a connection had been established to Ashby, surely it reached to her?

  The phone on the side table rang. Her landline. Few possessed the number besides some friends and senior staff.

  And Ashby.

  She answered.

  “Madame Larocque, I am the man Lord Ashby hired to handle your exhibition this morning.”

  She said nothing.

  “I’d be cautious, too,” the voice said. “I called to tell you that I have Lord Ashby in my custody. He and I have some unfinished business. After that is completed, I plan to kill him. So rest assured that your debt to him will be satisfied.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’d like to be able to offer my services to you in the future. I’m aware of who was actually paying the bill. Ashby was merely your agent. This is my way of apologizing for the unfortunate occurrence. Suffice it to say that our British acquaintance lied to me as well. He meant to kill you and your associates, and lay the blame on me. Luckily, no harm came to anyone.”

  Not physically, she thought. But there’d been harm.

  “No need to s
peak, madame. Know that the problem will be handled.”

  The phone went silent.

  Ashby listened as Peter Lyon taunted Larocque, chilled by the words I plan to kill him. Caroline heard the pronouncement, too. Her fear instantly evolved into terror, but he silenced her with a look that seemed to reassure.

  Lyon closed the cell phone and smiled. “You wanted her off your back. She’s off. There’s nothing she can do, and she knows it.”

  “You underestimate her.”

  “Not really. I underestimated you. And that mistake I won’t make again.”

  “You don’t have to kill us,” Caroline blurted out.

  “That all depends on your level of cooperation.”

  “And what’s to stop you from killing us once we fully cooperate?” Ashby asked.

  Lyon’s face seemed like that of a chess master, waiting coolly for his opponent’s next move, already knowing his own. “Not a thing. But unfortunately for you both, cooperation is your only option.”

  Henrik stepped from the cab before the Basilica of Saint-Denis and stared up at the church’s single lateral tower, its twin missing, the building looking like an amputee, missing an appendage.

  “The other tower burned in the 19th century,” Meagan told him. “Struck by lightning. It was never replaced.”

  She’d explained on the ride north that this was where French kings had been buried for centuries. Begun in the 12th century, fifty years before Notre Dame, the church was a national landmark. Gothic architecture had been born here. During the French Revolution many of the tombs were destroyed, but they’d been restored. Now it was owned by the government.

  Scaffolding clung to the outer walls, wrapping what appeared to be the north and west façades at least three-quarters of the way up. A hastily erected plywood barrier encircled the base, which blocked access to the main doors. Two construction trailers were parked on either side of the makeshift fence.

  “Seems they’re working on the place,” he said.

  “They’re always working on something in this city.”

  He glanced at the sky. Gunmetal-gray clouds now shielded the sun, creating dense shadows and lowering the temperature.

  A winter storm was coming.

  The neighborhood lay about ten kilometers from Paris, traversed by both the Seine and a canal. The suburb was apparently an industrial center, as they’d passed several manufacturing facilities.