by Steve Berry
“They have trackers in them,” Meagan said, pointing to the unit. “They probably already know where you are.”
Not necessarily. Stephanie and Malone were busy dealing with whatever new threat Lyon had generated. But he’d been sent to babysit Thorvaldsen, not confront a wanted terrorist.
And another problem.
The trip here had taken twenty minutes—by subway. He was a long way from Paris central, in a nearly deserted suburb being drenched by a storm.
That meant this was his problem to deal with.
Never forget, Sam. Foolishness will get you killed. Norstrum was right—God bless him—but Henrik needed him.
He replaced the phone in his pocket.
“You’re not going in there, are you?” Meagan asked, seemingly reading his mind.
Even before he said it, he realized how stupid it sounded. But it was the truth. “I have to.”
“Like at the top of the Eiffel Tower? When you could have been killed with all the rest of them?”
“Something like that.”
“Sam, that old man wants to kill Ashby. Nothing’s going to stop him.”
“I am.”
She shook her head. “Sam. I like you. I really do. But you’re all insane. This is too much.”
She stood in the rain, her face twisting with emotion. He thought of their kiss, last night, underground. There was something between them. A connection. An attraction. Still, he saw it in her eyes.
“I can’t,” she said, her voice cracking.
And she turned and ran away
Thorvaldsen chose his moment with care. Ashby and his two companions were nowhere in sight, vanished into the gloomy nave. Darkness outside nearly matched the dusky interior, so he was able to slip inside, unnoticed, using the wind and rain as cover.
The entryway opened in nearly the center of the church’s long south side. He immediately angled left and crouched behind an elaborate funerary monument, complete with a triumphal arch, beneath which two figures, carved of time-stained marble, lay recumbent. Both were emaciated representations, as they would have appeared as corpses rather than living beings. A brass plate identified the effigies as those of 16th century François I and his queen.
He heard a clamor of thin voices, beyond the columns that sprouted upward in a soaring Gothic display. More tombs appeared in the weak light, along with empty chairs arranged in neat rows. Sound came in short gusts. His hearing was not as good as it once was, and the rain pounding the roof wasn’t helping.
He needed to move closer.
He fled his hiding place and scampered to the next monument, a delicate feminine sculpture, smaller than the first one. Warm air rushed up from a nearby floor grate. Water dripped from his coat onto the limestone floor. Carefully, he unbuttoned and shed the damp garment, but first freed the gun from one of the pockets.
He crept to a column a few meters away that separated the south transept from the nave, careful not to disturb any of the chairs.
One sound and his advantage would vanish.
Ashby listened as Caroline fought through her fear and told Peter Lyon what he wanted to know, fishing from her pocket a sheet of paper.
“These Roman numerals are a message,” she said. “It’s called a Moor’s Knot. The Corsicans learned the technique from Arab pirates who ravaged their coast. It’s a code.”
Lyon grabbed the paper.
“They usually refer to a page, line, and word of a particular manuscript,” she explained. “The sender and receiver have the same text. Since only they know which manuscript is being used, deciphering the code by someone else was next to impossible.”
“So how did you manage?”
“Napoleon sent these numbers to his son in 1821. The boy was only ten at the time. In his will, Napoleon left the boy 400 books and specifically named one in particular. But the son wasn’t even to receive the books until his sixteenth birthday. This code is odd in that it’s only two groups of numerals, so they have to be page and line only. To decipher them, the son, or more likely his mother, since that’s who Napoleon actually wrote, would have to know what text he used. It can’t be the one from the will, since they would not have known about the will when he sent this code. After all, Napoleon was still alive.”
She was rambling with fear, but Ashby let her go.
“So I made a guess and assumed Napoleon chose a universal text. One that would always be available. Easy to find. Then I realized he left a clue where to look.”
Lyon actually seemed impressed. “You’re quite the detective.”
The compliment did little to calm her anxiety.
Ashby had heard none of this and was as curious as Lyon seemed to be.
“The Bible,” Caroline said. “Napoleon used the Bible.”
SEVENTY
Malone studied the congregation, face after face. His gaze drifted toward the processional doors at the main entrance, where more people ambled inside. At a decorative font many stopped to wet a finger and cross themselves. He was about to turn away when a man brushed past, ignoring the font. Short, fair-skinned, with dark hair and a long, aquiline nose. He wore a knee-length black coat, leather gloves, his face frozen in a bothersome solemnity. A bulky backpack hung from his shoulders.
A priest and two acolytes appeared before the high altar.
A lecturer assumed the pulpit and asked for the worshipers’ attention, the female voice resounding through a PA system.
The crowd quieted.
Malone advanced toward the altar, weaving around people who stood beyond the pews, in the transept, listening to the services. Luckily, neither of the transepts was jammed. He caught sight of Long Nose edging his way forward, through the crowd, in the opposite transept, the image winking in and out among the columns.
Another target aroused his curiosity. Also in the opposite transept. Olive-skinned, short hair, he wore an oversized coat with no gloves. Malone cursed himself for allowing any of this to happen. No preparation, no thought, being played by a mass murderer. Chasing ghosts, which could well prove illusory. Not the way to run any operation.
He refocused his attention on Olive Skin.
The man’s right hand remained in his coat pocket, left arm at his side. Malone did not like the look of the anxious eyes, but he wondered if he was leaping to irrational conclusions.
A loud voice disturbed the solemnity.
A woman. Midthirties, dark hair, rough face. She stood in one of the pews, spewing out something to the man beside her. He caught a little of the French.
A quarrel.
She screamed something else, then rushed from the pew
Sam entered Saint-Denis, staying low and hoping no one spotted him. All quiet inside. No sign of Thorvaldsen, or Ashby, or Peter Lyon.
He was unarmed, but he could not allow his friend to face this danger alone. It was time to return the favor the Dane had extended him.
He could distinguish little in the bleak light, the wind and rain outside making it difficult to hear. He glanced left and caught sight of the familiar shape of Thorvaldsen’s bent form standing fifty feet away, near one of the massive columns.
He heard voices from the center of the church.
Words came in snatches.
Three forms moved in the light.
He could not risk heading toward Thorvaldsen, so he stayed low and advanced a few feet straight ahead.
Ashby waited for Caroline to explain what Napoleon had done.
“More specifically,” she said. “He used Psalms.” She pointed to the first set of Roman numerals.
“Psalm 135, verse 2,” she said. “I wrote the line down.”
She searched her coat pocket and located another sheet of paper.
“‘You who stand in the house of the Lord, in the courts of the house of our God.’”
Lyon smiled. “Clever. Go on.”
“The next two numerals refer to Psalm 142, verse 4. ‘Look to my right and see.’”
“How do you know
—” Lyon started, but a noise, near the main altar and the door through which they’d entered, arrested their captor’s attention.
Lyon’s right hand found the gun and he whirled to face the challenge.
“Help us,” Caroline cried out. “Help us. There’s a man here with a gun.”
Lyon aimed the weapon straight at Caroline.
Ashby had to act.
Caroline crept backward, as if she could avoid the threat by retreating, her eyes alight with uncommon fear.
“Shooting her would be stupid,” Ashby tried. “She’s the only one who knows the location.”
“Tell her to stand still and shut up,” Lyon ordered, the gun aimed at Caroline.
Ashby’s gaze locked on his lover. He raised a hand to halt her. “Please, Caroline. Stop.”
She seemed to sense the urgency of the request and froze.
“Treasure or no treasure,” Lyon said. “If she makes one more sound, she’s dead.”
Thorvaldsen watched as Caroline Dodd tempted fate. He’d heard the noise, too, from the portal where he’d entered. About fifteen meters away, past an obstacle course of tombs.
Somebody had come inside.
And announced their presence.
Sam turned at the noise behind him, from the doorway. He caught sight of a black form near the outer wall, approaching a set of stairs that led up to another level behind the main altar.
The size and shape of the shadow confirmed its identity.
Meagan.
Ashby noticed that the rush of wind and rain from outside had increased, as if the doors they’d broken through had opened wider.
“There is a storm out there,” he said to Lyon.
“You shut up, too.”
Finally, Lyon was agitated. He wanted to smile, but he knew better.
Lyon’s amber eyes were as alert as a Doberman’s, scouring the cavern of faint light that enclosed them, his gun leading the way as he slowly pivoted.
Ashby saw it at the same time Lyon did.
Movement, thirty meters away, on the stairway right of the altar, leading up to the chancel and the ambulatory.
Somebody was there.
Lyon fired. Twice. A sound, like two balloons popping, thanks to the sound suppressor, echoed through the nave.
Then a chair flew through the air and crashed into Lyon.
Followed by another.
SEVENTY-ONE
Malone kept his attention on the woman, who elbowed her way out of the pew. The man she’d argued with fled the pew, too, and headed after her, both walking away from the altar, toward the main doors. He wore a thin, nylon coat, open in the front, and Malone spotted nothing suspicious.
His gaze again raked the crowd.
He spotted Long Nose, with the backpack, entering a half-full pew toward the front, crossing himself and kneeling to pray.
He spotted Olive Skin, emerging from the shadows, near the altar, still in the opposite transept. The man pushed through the last of the onlookers and stopped at velvet ropes that blocked any further forward access.
Malone did not like what he saw.
His hand slipped beneath his jacket and found the gun.
Sam saw Lyon fire toward where Meagan had headed. He heard bullets ping off stone and hoped to heaven that meant the rounds missed.
A new noise clattered through the church.
Followed by another.
Ashby watched as the two folding chairs pounded into Lyon, who was caught off guard by the assault, his balance affected as he staggered. Caroline had tossed both of them just as Lyon had been distracted by whoever had entered the church.
Then she had escaped into the gloom.
Lyon recovered and realized Caroline was gone.
The gun came level, pointed Ashby’s way.
“As you mentioned,” Lyon said. “She’s the only one who knows the location. You I don’t need.”
A point Caroline had not seemed to consider.
“Get. Her. Back.”
“Caroline,” he called out. “You need to return.” He’d never had a gun aimed at him before. A terrifying sensation, actually.
One he did not like.
“Now. Please.”
Thorvaldsen saw Caroline Dodd toss the chairs at Lyon, then disappear into the darkness of the west transept. She had to be working her way forward, using the tombs, the columns, and the darkness for cover, moving his way. There was no other route, since the far transept was too close to Peter Lyon and much more illuminated.
His eyes were accustomed to the dimness, so he stood his ground, keeping one eye on Lyon and Ashby, the other on the stillness to his left.
Then he saw her.
Inching stealthily his way. Most likely headed for the south portal’s open doors, where the wind and rain continued to announce their presence.
Toward the only way out.
Trouble was, Lyon would know that, too.
Malone’s fingers wrapped around the Beretta. he didn’t want to, but he’d shoot Olive Skin, right here, if he had to.
His target stood thirty feet away and he waited for the man to make a move. A woman approached Olive Skin and intertwined her arm with his. She gently kissed him on the cheek and there was clear surprise on his face, then recognition as the two started to chat.
They turned and walked back toward the main entrance.
Malone’s grip on the gun relaxed.
False alarm.
His gaze returned to the nave as mass began. He caught sight of Long Nose as he eased his way out of the pew toward the center aisle.
Malone continued to search for problems. He should order the whole place evacuated, but this could well be another nothing.
A woman stood in the pew Long Nose had abandoned, holding a backpack. She motioned to the man, signaling he’d left something. Long Nose waved her off and kept walking. The woman stepped out into the center aisle and hustled after him.
Malone remained in the transept.
Long Nose turned, saw the woman coming for him, backpack in hand. He rushed toward her, wrenched the black nylon bundle from her grip, and tossed it forward. It slid across the marble floor, stopping at the base of two short risers that led up to the altar.
Long Nose turned and ran for the exit.
Thoughts of Mexico City flooded Malone’s brain.
This was it.
Do something.
SEVENTY-TWO
Thorvaldsen waited for Caroline Dodd to creep closer. She was skillfully using the wall’s nooks, shielding her advance toward the basilica’s south portal. He crouched and eased himself into position, waiting for her to pass. One hand clutched the gun, the other ready to snag his target. He could not allow her to leave. Over the past year he’d listened to tape after tape of her and Ashby conspiring. Though she may well be ignorant of all that Ashby did, she was no innocent.
He hugged the short side of a marble sarcophagus topped with an elaborate Renaissance carving. Dodd made her way down the tomb’s long side, the monument itself, and one of the massive columns shielding them both from view. He waited until she tried to make a dash for the next monument, then wrapped an arm around her neck, his palm finding her mouth.
Yanking her down, he jammed the gun into her neck and whispered, “Quiet, or I’ll let the man out there know where you are. I need you to nod your head if you understand.”
She did, and he released his grip.
She pushed back.
“Who the hell are you?” she whispered.
He heard the hope in her question that he was perhaps a friend. He decided to use that to his advantage.
“The person who can save your life.”
Ashby kept a tight grip on his expression and stared at the gun, wondering if this would be the end of his life.
Lyon had no reason to keep him alive.
“Caroline,” Ashby called out. “You must return. I implore you. This man will kill me if you don’t.”
Thorvaldsen could not allow Pe
ter Lyon to do what he’d come to do.
“Tell Lyon to come and get you,” he whispered.
Caroline Dodd shook her head no.
She needed reassurance. “He won’t come. But it will buy Ashby time.”
“How do you know who we are?”
He had no time for explanations, so he aimed his gun at her. “Do it, or I’ll shoot you.”
Sam decided to make a move. He had to know if Meagan was okay. He’d seen no movement from the top of the stairs, behind the altar. Lyon seemed more concerned with Caroline Dodd, forcing Ashby to have her return to where they stood, at the nave’s far west end.
While Lyon was distracted, this might be the time to act.
“Hey, asshole,” Meagan called out through the dark, “you missed.”
What in the world?
“And who are you?” Lyon asked the darkness.
Ashby wanted to know the answer to that question, too.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
The echo off the stone walls made it impossible to pinpoint the woman’s location, but Ashby assumed it was the same figure they’d spotted climbing the stairs into the ambulatory.
“I’m going to kill you,” Lyon said.
“You have to find me first. And that means you have to shoot the good Lord Ashby there.”
She knew his name. Who was this?
“Do you know who I am, too?”
“Peter Lyon. Terrorist extraordinaire.”
“Are you with the Americans?” Lyon asked.
“I’m with me.”
Ashby watched Lyon. The man was clearly rattled. The gun remained pointed directly at him, but Lyon’s attention was on the voice.
“What do you want?” Lyon asked.
“Your hide.”
Lyon chuckled. “Many covet that prize.”
“That’s what I hear. But I’m the one who’s going to get it.”