The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  For the last few days he’d hidden inside his loneliness, remembering the past two years. Feelings had leaped and writhed within him, flickering between dream and reality. Thorvaldsen’s face was indelibly engraved in his mind, and he would forever recall every feature—the dark eyes under thick eyebrows, straight nose, flared nostrils, strong jaw, resolute chin. Forget the crooked spine. It meant nothing. That man had always stood straight and tall.

  He glanced around at the lofty nave. Forms, figures, and designs produced an overwhelming effect of serenity, the church aglow with the radiant flood of light pouring in through stained-glass windows. He admired the various saintly figures, robed in dark sapphire, lighted with turquoise—heads and hands emerging from skillfully crafted sepia shadows through olive green, to pink, and finally to white. Hard not to have thoughts of God, nature’s beauty, and lives gone, ended too soon.

  Like Henrik’s.

  But he told himself to focus on the task.

  He found the paper in his pocket and unfolded it.

  Professor Murad had told him exactly what to search for—the clues Napoleon concocted, then left for his son. He began with Psalm 135, verse 2. You who stand in the house of the Lord, in the courts of the house of our God.

  Then Psalm 2, verse 8. I will make the nations your inheritance.

  Typical Napoleonic grandeur.

  Next came Psalm 142, verse 4. Look to my right and see.

  The precise starting point—from where to look right and see—had been difficult to determine. Saint-Denis was massive, a football field long and nearly half that wide. But the next verse solved that dilemma. Psalm 52, verse 8. But I am like an olive tree flourishing in the house of God.

  Murad’s quick class on Psalms had made Malone think of one that more than aptly described the past week. Psalm 144, verse 4. Man is like a breath, his days are like a fleeting shadow. He hoped Henrik had found peace.

  But I am like an olive tree flourishing in the house of God.

  He glanced right and spotted a monument. Designed in a Gothic tradition, elements of an ancient-style temple sprang from its sculpture, the upper platform decorated with praying figures. Two stone effigies, portrayed in the last moments of their life, lay flat atop. Its base was figured with Italian-inspired reliefs.

  He approached, his rubber-soled shoes both sure and silent. Immediately to the right of the monument, in the flooring, he spotted a marble slab with a solitary olive tree carved into the marker. A notation explained that the grave was from the 15th century. Murad had told him that its occupant was supposedly Guillaume du Chastel. Charles VII had so loved his servant that he’d bestown on him the honor of being buried in Saint-Denis.

  Psalm 63, verse 9, was next. They who seek my life will be destroyed, they will go down to the depths of the earth. They will be given over to the sword and become food for jackals.

  He’d already received permission from the French government to do whatever was necessary to solve the riddle. If that meant destroying something within the church, then so be it. Most of it was 19th and 20th century repairs and reproductions anyway. He’d asked for some tools and equipment to be left inside, anticipating what may be required, and saw them near the west wall.

  He walked across the nave and retrieved a sledgehammer.

  When Professor Murad related to him the clues, the possibility that what they sought lay below the church became all too real. Then, when he’d read the verses, he was sure.

  He walked back to the olive tree carved in the floor.

  The final clue, Napoleon’s last message to his son. Psalm 17, verse 2. May my vindication come from you; may your eyes see what is right.

  He swung the hammer.

  The marble did not break, but his suspicions were confirmed. The hollow sound told him that solid stone did not lie beneath. Three more blows and the rock cracked. Another two and marble crashed away into a black rectangle that opened beneath the church.

  A chilled draft rushed upward.

  Murad had told him how Napoleon, in 1806, halted the desecration of Saint-Denis and proclaimed it, once again, an imperial burial place. He’d also restored the adjacent abbey, established a religious order to oversee the basilica’s restoration, and commissioned architects to repair the damages. It would have been an easy matter for him to adjust the site to his personal specifications. How this hole in the floor had remained secret was fascinating, but perhaps the chaos of post-Napoleonic France was the best explanation, as nothing and nobody remained stable once the emperor had been ensconced on St. Helena.

  He discarded the sledgehammer and retrieved a coil of rope and a flashlight. He shone the light into the void and noted that it was more a chute, about three feet by four, that extended straight down about twenty feet. Remnants of a wooden ladder lay scattered on the rock floor. He’d studied the basilica’s geography and knew that a crypt once extended below the church—parts of it were still there, open to the public—but nothing had ever stretched this far toward the west façade. Perhaps long ago it had, and Napoleon had discovered the oddity.

  At least that’s what Murad thought.

  He looped the rope around the base of one of the columns a few feet away and tested its strength. He tossed the remainder of the rope into the chute, followed by the sledgehammer, which might be needed. He clipped the lamp to his belt. Using his rubber soles and the rope, he eased down the chute, into the black earth.

  At the bottom he aimed the light at rock the shade of driftwood. The chilly, dusty environs extended for as far as the beam would shine. He knew that Paris was littered with tunnels. Miles and miles of underground passages hewed from limestone that had been hauled, block by block, to the surface, the city literally built from the ground up.

  He groped for the contours, the crevices, the protruding shards, and followed the twisting passage for maybe two hundred feet. A smell similar to warm peaches, which he recalled from his Georgia childhood, made his stomach queasy. Grit crunched beneath his feet. Only cold seemed to occupy this bareness, easy to become lost in the silence.

  He assumed he was well clear of the basilica, east of the building itself, perhaps beneath the expanse of trees and grass that extended past the nearby abbey, toward the Seine.

  Ahead he spotted a shallow recess in the right-hand wall. Rubble filled the passageway where somebody had pounded their way through the limestone.

  He stopped and searched the scene with his light. Etched into the rough surface of one of the rocky chunks was a symbol, one he recognized from the writing Napoleon had left in the Merovingian book, part of the fourteen lines of scribble.

  Someone had propped the stone atop the pile like a marker, one that had patiently waited underground for more than two hundred years. In the exposed recess he spied a metal door, swung half open. An electrical cable snaked a path out the doorway, turned ninety degrees, then disappeared into the tunnel ahead.

  Glad to know he’d been right.

  Napoleon’s clues led the way down. Then the etched symbol showed exactly where things awaited.

  He shone the light inside, found an electrical box, and flipped the switch.

  Yellow, incandescent fixtures strewn across the floor revealed a chamber maybe fifty by forty feet, with a ten-foot ceiling. He counted at least three dozen wooden chests and saw that several were hinged open.

  Inside, he spied a neat assortment of gold and silver bars. Each bore a stamped N topped by an imperial crown, the official mark of the Emperor Napoleon. Another held gold coins. Two more contained silver plate. Three were filled to the brim with what appeared to be precious stones. Apparently the emperor had chosen his hoard with great care, opting for hard metal and jewels.

  He surveyed the room and allowed his eyes to examine the ancient and abandoned possessions of a crushed empire.

  Napoleon’s cache.

  “You must be Cotton Malone,” a female voice said.

  He turned. “And you must be Eliza Larocque.”

  The wo
man who stood in the doorway was tall and stately, with an obvious leonine quality about her that she did little to conceal. She wore a knee-length wool coat, classy and elegant. Beside her stood a thin, gnarled man with a Spartan vigor. Both faces were wiped clean of expression.

  “And your friend is Paolo Ambrosi,” Malone said. “Interesting character. An ordained priest who served briefly as papal secretary to Peter II, but disappeared after that papacy abruptly ended. Rumors abounded about his—” Malone paused. “—morality. Now here he is.”

  Larocque seemed impressed. “You don’t seem surprised that we are here.”

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Really? I’ve been told that you were quite an agent.”

  “I had my moments.”

  “And, yes, Paolo performs certain tasks that I require from time to time,” Larocque said. “I thought it best he stay close to me, after all that happened last week.”

  “Henrik Thorvaldsen is dead because of you,” Malone declared.

  “How is that possible? I never knew the man until he interjected himself in my business. He left me at the Eiffel Tower and I never saw him again.” She paused. “You never said. How did you know I’d be here today?”

  “There are people smarter than you in this world.”

  He saw she did not appreciate the insult.

  “I’ve been watching,” he said. “You found Caroline Dodd faster than I thought. How long did it take to learn about this place?”

  “Miss Dodd was quite forthcoming. She explained the clues, but I decided to find another way beneath the basilica. I assumed there were other paths in and out, and I was right. We found the correct tunnel a few days ago, unsealed the chamber, and tapped into an electrical line not far from here.”

  “And Dodd?”

  Larocque shook her head. “She reminded me far too much of Lord Ashby’s treachery, so Paolo dealt with her.”

  A gun appeared in Ambrosi’s right hand.

  “You still have not answered my question,” Larocque said.

  “When you left your residence earlier,” Malone said. “I assumed you were coming here. Time to claim your prize, right? You’ve been working on some contract help to transport this fortune out of here.”

  “Which has been difficult,” she said. “Luckily, there are people in this world who will do anything for money. We’ll have to break all this down into smaller, sealed crates, then hand-carry it out of here.”

  “You’re not afraid they’ll talk?”

  “The crates will be sealed before they arrive.”

  A slight nod of his head acknowledged the wisdom of her foresight.

  “How did you get down here?” she asked.

  He pointed above. “Through the front door.”

  “Are you still working for the Americans?” she asked. “Thorvaldsen did tell me about you.”

  “I’m working for me.” He motioned around him. “I came for this.”

  “You don’t strike me as a treasure hunter.”

  He sat atop one of the chests and rested nerves dulled by insomnia and its unfortunate companion, despondency. “That’s where you’re wrong. I love treasure. Who wouldn’t? I especially enjoy denying it to worthless pieces of crap like you.”

  She laughed off his touch of drama. “I’d say you’re the one who’s going to be denied.”

  He shook his head. “Your game is over. No more Paris Club. No more financial manipulation. No treasure.”

  “I can’t imagine that is the case.”

  He ignored her. “Unfortunately, there are no witnesses left alive, and precious little other evidence, to actually try you for a crime. So take this talk as your one and only get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  Larocque smiled at his ridicule. “Are you always so gregarious in the face of your own death?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a carefree kind of guy.”

  “Do you believe in fate, Mr. Malone?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Not really.”

  “I do. In fact, I govern my life by fate. My family has done the same for centuries. When I learned that Ashby was dead, I consulted an oracle I possess, and asked a simple question. Will my name be immortalized and will posterity applaud it? Would you like to hear the answer I was given?”

  He humored her. “Sure.”

  “A good-humored mate will be a treasure, which thine eyes will delight to look upon.” She paused. “The next day I found this.”

  And she motioned at the lighted cavern.

  He’d had enough.

  He raised his right arm, pointed his index finger downward, and twirled, signaling Larocque should turn around.

  She caught his message and stole a glance over her right shoulder. Behind her stood Stephanie Nelle and Sam Collins.

  Both held guns.

  “Did I mention that I didn’t come alone?” Malone said. “They waited until you arrived to come down.”

  Larocque faced him. Anger in her eyes confirmed what he already knew. So he said what she was surely thinking, “Delight to look upon it, madame, because that’s all you get.”

  Sam relieved Ambrosi of his gun. No resistance was offered.

  “And I’d keep it that way,” Malone said to Ambrosi. “Sam there got dinged with a bullet. Hurt like hell, but he’s okay. He’s the one who shot Peter Lyon. His first kill. I told him the second would be a whole lot easier.”

  Ambrosi said nothing.

  “He also watched Henrik Thorvaldsen die. He’s still in a piss-poor mood. So am I, and Stephanie. We’d all three just as soon shoot you both dead. Lucky for you, we aren’t murderers. Too bad neither of you can say the same.”

  “I’ve killed no one,” Larocque said.

  “No, you just encourage others to do it and profit from the acts.” He stood. “Now get the hell out.”

  Larocque stood her ground. “What will happen to this?”

  He cleared his throat of emotion. “That’s not for me or you to decide.”

  “You realize this is my family’s birthright. My ancestor was instrumental in destroying Napoleon. He searched for this treasure until the day he died.”

  “I told you to get out.”

  He’d like to think this was how Thorvaldsen would have handled the matter, and the thought provided a small measure of comfort.

  Larocque seemed to accept his rebuke with the knowledge that she had little bargaining power. So she motioned for Ambrosi to lead the way. Stephanie and Sam stepped aside and allowed them both to leave.

  At the doorway, Larocque hesitated, then turned toward Malone. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

  “Wouldn’t that be fun.”

  “Know that that encounter will be quite different from today’s.”

  And she left.

  “She’s trouble,” Stephanie said.

  “I assume you have people out there?”

  Stephanie nodded. “The French police will escort them out of the tunnel and seal it off.”

  He realized it was over. Finally. The past three weeks had been some of the most horrific of his life.

  He needed a rest.

  “I understand you have a new career,” he said to Sam.

  The younger man nodded. “I’m now officially working for the Magellan Billet, as an agent. I hear I have you to thank for that.”

  “You have yourself to thank. Henrik would be proud.”

  “I hope so.” Sam motioned at the chests. “What is going to happen with all this treasure?”

  “The French get it,” Stephanie said. “No way to know where it came from. Here it sits, in their soil, so it’s theirs. Besides, they say it’s compensation for all the property damage Cotton inflicted.”

  Malone wasn’t really listening. Instead he kept his attention on the doorway. Eliza Larocque had sheathed her parting threat in a warm cloak of politeness—a calm declaration that if their paths ever crossed again, things would be different. But he’d been threatened before. Besides, Larocque was partl
y responsible both for Henrik’s death and for the guilt that he feared would forever swirl inside him. He owed her, and he always paid his debts.

  “You okay about Lyon?” he asked Sam.

  The younger man nodded. “I still see his head exploding, but I can live with it.”

  “Don’t ever let it get easy. Killing is serious business, even if they deserve it.”

  “You sound like somebody else I once knew.”

  “He a smart fellow, too?”

  “More so than I ever realized, until lately.”

  “You were right, Sam,” he said. “The Paris Club. Those conspiracies. At least a few of them were real.”

  “As I recall, you thought I was a nut.”

  He chuckled. “Half the people I meet think I’m one, too.”

  “Meagan Morrison made sure I knew she was right,” Stephanie said. “She’s a handful.”

  “You going to see her again?” Malone asked Sam.

  “Who says I’m interested?”

  “I heard it in her voice when she left the message on my phone. She went back in there for you. And I saw how you looked at her after Henrik’s funeral. You’re interested.”

  “I don’t know. I might. You have any advice on that one?”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Women are not my strong point.”

  “You can say that again,” Stephanie added. “You throw ex-wives out of planes.”

  He smiled.

  “We need to go,” Stephanie said. “The French want control of this.”

  They headed for the exit.

  “Something’s been bothering me,” Malone said to Sam. “Stephanie told me that you were raised in New Zealand, but you don’t talk like a Kiwi. Why’s that?”