by Steve Berry
This fool was offering far too much information to Peter Lyon.
Then again.
“You’re mistaken. I have a wealth of assets. Just not where you can discover them. Only in the past few days I’ve acquired a hundred million euros in gold.”
He wanted Lyon to know that there were a lot of reasons why he should not be shot.
“I don’t want your money,” Thorvaldsen spit out.
“But I do,” Lyon said as he emerged from the shadows and shot Henrik Thorvaldsen.
SAM STOPPED AT THE REPORT OF WHAT HAD TO BE A SOUND-suppressed weapon. He hadn’t been able to hear what was being said as he was some fifty feet away from the conversation.
He glanced into the nave.
Peter Lyon was gone.
THORVALDSEN DID NOT FEEL THE BULLET ENTER HIS CHEST but its exit produced excruciating pain. Then all coordination among brain, nerves, and muscles failed. His legs gave way as a fresh rush of agony flooded his brain.
Was this what Cai had felt? Had his boy been consumed by such intensity? What a terrible thing.
His eyes rolled upward.
His body sagged.
His right hand released its grip on the gun and he crashed down in a palpitating mass, the side of his head slamming the pavement.
Each breath tore at his lungs.
He tried to master the stabs at his chest.
Sound muffled.
Location failed.
Then all color drained from the world.
SEVENTY-SIX
MALONE CAUGHT SIGHT OF THE SAINT-DENIS BASILICA through the rain, about a mile ahead. No police vehicles were outside, and the plaza before the church was deserted. Everything around the church was dark and still, as if the plague had struck.
He found his Beretta and two spare magazines.
He was ready.
Just get this damn helicopter on the ground.
ASHBY WAS RELIEVED. “ABOUT TIME YOU SAVED ME FROM THAT.”
Thorvaldsen lay on the floor, blood gushing from a chest wound. Ashby could not care less about the idiot. Lyon was all that mattered.
“A hundred million euros of gold?” Lyon asked.
“Rommel’s treasure. Lost since the war. I found it.”
“And you think that will buy your life?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
A new sound intruded on the monotonous drone of the storm.
Thump, thump, thump.
Growing louder.
Lyon noticed it, too.
A helicopter.
SAM CREPT CLOSE TO WHERE ASHBY AND LYON STOOD AND SAW the gun in Lyon’s hand. Then he spotted Thorvaldsen on the floor, blood pumping out in heavy gushes.
Oh, God.
No.
“WHERE IS THIS GOLD?” LYON ASKED ASHBY
“In a vault. That only I can access.”
That should buy him a reprieve.
“I never liked you,” Lyon said. “You’ve been manipulating this entire situation from the beginning.”
“What do you care? You were hired, I paid you. What does it matter what I intended?”
“I haven’t survived by being a fool,” Lyon declared. “You negotiated with the Americans. Brought them into our arrangement. They didn’t like you, either, but would do anything to capture me.”
Rotors grew louder, as if right overhead.
“We need to leave,” Ashby said. “You know who that is.”
An evil light gathered in the amber eyes. “You’re right. I need to leave.”
Lyon fired the gun.
THORVALDSEN OPENED HIS EYES.
Black spots faded, yet the world around him seemed in a haze. He heard voices and saw Ashby standing close to another man, who was holding a gun.
Peter Lyon.
He watched as the murdering SOB shot Ashby.
Damn him.
He tried to move, to find his gun, but not a muscle in his body would respond. Blood poured from his chest. His strength waned. He heard wind, rain, and the pump of a deep bass tone thumping through the air.
Then another pop.
He focused. Ashby winced, as if in pain.
Two more pops.
A red ooze seeped from two holes in the forehead of the man who’d butchered his son.
Peter Lyon had finished what Thorvaldsen had started.
As Ashby collapsed to the floor, Thorvaldsen allowed the surprising calm coursing through his nerves to take him over.
SAM CAUGHT HIS BREATH AND STOOD. HIS LEGS WERE FROZEN. Was he afraid? No, more than that. A mortal terror had seized his muscles, gripping his mind with panic.
Lyon had shot Ashby four times.
Just like that.
Bam, bam, bam, bam.
Ashby was certainly dead. But what about Thorvaldsen? Sam thought the Dane had moved, just before Ashby died. He needed to get to his friend. Blood flooded the marble flooring at an alarming rate.
But his legs would not move.
A scream rang through the church.
Meagan sprang from the darkness and tackled Peter Lyon.
“PAPA, PAPA.”
Thorvaldsen heard Cai’s voice, as it had been years ago in the final telephone call.
“I’m here, Papa.”
“Where, son?”
“Everywhere. Come to me.”
“I failed, son.”
“Your vendetta is not necessary, Papa. Not anymore. He’s dead. As certain as if you had killed him yourself.”
“I’ve missed you, son.”
“Henrik.”
A female voice. One he hadn’t heard in a long time.
Lisette.
“My darling,” he said. “Is that you?”
“I’m here, too, Henrik. With Cai. We’ve been waiting.”
“How do I find you?”
“You have to let go.”
He considered what they were saying. What it meant. But the implications that their request carried frightened him. He wanted to know, “What’s it like there?”
“Peaceful,” Lisette said.
“It’s wonderful,” Cai added. “No more loneliness.”
He could barely recall a time that loneliness had not consumed him. But there was Sam. And Meagan. They remained in the church. With Lyon.
A scream invaded his peace.
He struggled to see what was happening.
Meagan had attacked Lyon.
They were struggling on the floor.
Still, though, he could not move. His arms lay extended on either side of his bleeding chest. His legs were as if they did not exist. His hands and fingers were frozen. Nothing functioned. Hot pain gushed up behind his eyes.
“Henrik.”
It was Lisette.
“You can’t help.”
“I have to help them.”
SAM WATCHED AS MEAGAN AND LYON ROLLED ACROSS THE floor, struggling.
“You son of a bitch,” he heard Meagan yell.
He needed to join the fray. Help her. Do something. But fear kept him frozen. He felt puny, peevish, cowardly. He was afraid. Then he straightened up from his conflicting thoughts and forced his legs to move.
Lyon vaulted Meagan off him. She thudded into the thick base on one of the tombs.
Sam searched the darkness and spotted Thorvaldsen’s gun. Ten feet away from his friend, who still had not moved.
He rushed forward and grabbed the weapon.
MALONE UNBUCKLED HIS HARNESS JUST AS THE CHOPPER’S wheels kissed the pavement. Stephanie did the same. He reached for the door handle and wrenched the panel open.
Beretta in hand, he leaped out.
Cold rain stung his cheeks.
SAM LIFTED THE WEAPON, HIS BLOODY FINGER FINDING THE trigger. He was deep in the shadows, beyond where Henrik and Ashby lay. He turned just as Lyon jammed a fist into Meagan’s face, knocking her head against the base of one of the tombs, her body settling at a contorted angle on the floor.
Lyon searched for his gun.
The thump of roto
rs outside had subsided, which meant the chopper had found the plaza. Lyon must have realized that fact, too, as he grabbed his gun, stood, and darted toward freedom.
Sam fought the pain in his left shoulder, stepped from the dimness and raised his weapon. “That’s it.”
Lyon halted but did not turn around. “The third voice.”
“Don’t move.” He kept his gun trained on Lyon’s head.
“I imagine you’ll pull the trigger if I so much as twitch?” Lyon asked.
He was impressed at how Lyon clearly sensed the gun.
“You found the old man’s weapon.”
“That head of yours makes a wonderful target.”
“You sound young. Are you an American agent?”
“Shut up,” he made clear.
“How about I drop my weapon?”
The gun remained in the man’s right hand, barrel pointed to the floor.
“Let it fall.”
Lyon released his grip and the gun clanged away.
“That better?” Lyon asked, his back still to him.
Actually, it was.
“You’ve never shot a man before, have you?” Lyon asked.
“Shut the hell up,” Sam said.
“That’s what I thought. Let’s see if I am right. I’m going to leave. You won’t shoot an unarmed man, with his back to you.”
He was tired of the banter. “Turn around.”
Lyon ignored the command and took a step forward.
Sam fired into the floor just ahead of him. “The next bullet will be to your head.”
“I don’t think so. I saw you before I shot Ashby. You just watched. You stood there and did nothing.”
Lyon stole another step.
Sam fired again.
MALONE HEARD TWO SHOTS FROM INSIDE THE CHURCH.
He and Stephanie darted for an opening in the plywood barrier that wrapped the church’s exterior, this one facing south. They had to find the doors everyone else had used to enter.
The three sets in front were closed tight.
Cold rain continued to slash his brow
THE SECOND BULLET RICOCHETED OFF THE FLOOR
“I told you to stop,” Sam yelled.
Lyon was right. He’d never shot anybody before. He’d been trained in the mechanics, but not in how to be mentally prepared for something so horrific. He yanked his thoughts into some semblance of disciplined ranks.
And readied himself.
Lyon moved again.
Sam advanced two steps and sighted his aim. “I swear to you. I’ll shoot you.” He kept his voice calm, though his heart raced.
Lyon crept ahead. “You can’t shoot me.”
“You don’t know me.”
“Maybe not. But I know fear.”
“Who says I’m afraid?”
“I hear it.”
Meagan stirred with a grunt of pain.
“There are those of us who can end a life without a thought and those, like yourself, who can’t bring themselves to it, unless provoked. And I am not provoking you.”
“You shot Henrik.”
Lyon stopped. “Ah. That’s his name. Henrik. Yes, I did. A friend?”
“Stay still.” He hated the element of a plea that laced his words.
Ten feet separated Lyon from the open doors.
His adversary eased another step forward, his movements as controlled as his voice.
“Not to worry,” Lyon said. “I won’t tell anyone you didn’t fire.”
Five feet to the threshold.
“PAPA. COME TO US,” CAI CALLED OUT THROUGH A TREMULOUS BLUE radiance.
Strange and wonderful thoughts stole upon him. But Thorvaldsen couldn’t be talking to his wife and son. The conversation had to be the rambles of a mind in shock.
“Sam needs me,” he called out.
“You can’t help him, my darling,” Lisette made clear.
A white curtain descended in a muted fall. The last remnants of his strength ebbed away.
He fought to breathe.
“It’s time, Papa. Time for us all to be together.”
SAM WAS BEING ANTAGONIZED, HIS CONSCIENCE CHALLENGED.
Clever, actually, on Lyon’s part. Goad a reaction, knowing that doing so could well prevent anything from happening. Lyon was apparently a student of character. But that didn’t necessarily make him right. And besides, Sam had ruined his career by defying authority.
Lyon kept approaching the door.
Three feet.
Two.
Screw you, Lyon.
He pulled the trigger.
MALONE SAW A BODY CAREER FORWARD, OUT AN OPEN SET OF double doors and thud to the wet pavement with a splash.
He and Stephanie rushed up slick stone steps, and she rolled the body over. The face was that of the man from the boat, the one who’d abducted Ashby. Peter Lyon.
With a hole through his head.
Malone glanced up.
Sam appeared in the doorway, holding a gun, one shoulder bleeding.
“You okay?” Malone asked.
The younger man nodded, but a dire expression crushed all hope from Malone’s heart.
Sam stepped back. He and Stephanie rushed inside. Meagan was staggering to her feet and Stephanie came to her aid. Malone’s eyes focused on a body—Ashby—then another.
Thorvaldsen.
“We need an ambulance,” he called out.
“He’s dead,” Sam quietly said.
A chill ran across Malone’s shoulders and up his neck. He urged his legs into tentative, stumbling movements. His eyes told him that Sam was right.
He approached and knelt beside his friend.
Stickly blood clung to flesh and clothes. He checked for a pulse and found none.
He shook his head in utter sadness.
“We need to at least try to get him to a hospital,” he said again.
“It won’t matter,” Sam said.
Dread punctuated the statement, which Malone knew to be true. But he still couldn’t accept it. Stephanie helped Meagan, as they stepped close.
Thorvaldsen’s eyes stared out blindly.
“I tried to help,” Meagan said. “The crazy old fool … he was determined to kill Ashby. I tried … to get there—”
Choking sobs pulsed from her throat. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
Thorvaldsen had interjected himself into Malone’s life when he really needed a friend, appearing in Atlanta two years ago, offering a new beginning in Denmark, one he’d readily accepted and never regretted. Together they’d shared the past twenty-four months, but the past twenty-four hours had been so different.
We shall never speak again.
The last words spoken between them.
His right hand clutched at his throat, as if trying to reach through to his heart.
Despair flooded his gut.
“That’s right, old friend,” he whispered. “We will never speak again.”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
PARIS
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 30
2:40 PM
MALONE ENTERED SAINT-DENIS BASILICA. THE CHURCH HAD remained closed to both the public and construction crews since Christmas Day, the entire site treated as a crime scene.
Three men had died here.
Two he could not give a rat’s ass about.
The third death had been more painful than he could have ever imagined.
His father had passed thirty-eight years ago. He’d been ten years old, the loss more loneliness than pain. Thorvaldsen’s death was different. Pain filled his heart with an unrelenting, deep regret.
They’d buried Henrik beside his wife and son in a private service at Christiangade. A handwritten note attached to his last will had expressly stated that he wanted no public funeral. His death, though, made news throughout the world and expressions of sympathy poured in. Thousands of cards and letters arrived from employees of his various companies, a glowing testament of how they felt about their employer. Cassiopeia Vitt had come. Me
agan Morrison, too. Her face still carried a bruise and as she, Malone, Cassiopeia, Stephanie, Sam, and Jesper filled the grave, each one shoveling dirt onto a plain pine box, not a word had been uttered.
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.