The Paris Vendetta

“I love them, too,” his guest said. “I’ve collected books all my life.”

“What do you want?”

“Have you considered your future?”

He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”

“Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like it.”

He decided to play along. But there was something about the tight points of light in the older man’s eyes that told him his visitor was not joking. Hard hands searched a suit coat pocket and Thorvaldsen laid a business card on the sofa.

“My private number. If you’re interested, call me.”

That was two years ago. Now he was staring at Henrik Thorvaldsen, their roles reversed. His friend was the one in trouble.

Thorvaldsen remained perched on the edge of the bed, an assault rifle lying across his lap, his face cast with a look of utter defeat.

“I was dreaming about Mexico City earlier,” Malone said. “It’s always the same each time. I never can shoot the third guy.”

“But you did.”

“For some reason, I can’t in the dream.”

“Are you okay?” Thorvaldsen asked Sam Collins.

“I went straight to Mr. Malone-”

“Don’t start that,” he said. “It’s Cotton.”

“Okay. Cotton took care of them.”

“And my shop’s destroyed. Again.”

“It’s insured,” Thorvaldsen made clear.

Malone stared at his friend. “Why did those men come after Sam?”

“I was hoping they wouldn’t. The idea was for them to come after me. That’s why I sent him into town. They apparently were a step ahead of me.”

“What are you doing, Henrik?”

“I’ve spent the past two years searching. I knew there was more to what happened that day in Mexico City. That massacre wasn’t terrorism. It was an assassination.”

He waited for more.

Thorvaldsen pointed at Sam. “This young man is quite bright. His superiors don’t realize just how smart he is.”

Malone spotted tears glistening on the rims of his friend’s eyes. Something he’d never seen before.

“I miss him, Cotton,” Thorvaldsen whispered, still staring at Sam.

He laid a hand on the older man’s shoulders.

“Why did he have to die?” Thorvaldsen whispered.

“You tell me,” Malone said. “Why did Cai die?”

PAPA, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?

Thorvaldsen so looked forward to Cai’s weekly telephone calls and he liked that his son, though thirty-five years old, a part of Denmark’s elite diplomatic corp, still called him Papa.

“It’s lonely in this big house, but Jesper keeps things interesting. He’s trimming the garden, and he and I disagree on how much cutting he should do. He’s a stubborn one.”

“But Jesper is always right. We learned that long ago.”

He chuckled. “I shall never tell him. How are things across the ocean?”

Cai had asked for and received assignment to the Danish consulate in Mexico City. From an early age his son had been fascinated with Aztecs and was enjoying his time near that long-ago culture.

“Mexico is an amazing place. Hectic, cluttered, and chaotic, while at the same time fascinating, challenging, and romantic. I’m glad I came.”

“And what of the young lady you met?”

“Elena is quite wonderful.”

Elena Ramirez Rico worked for the federal prosecutor’s office in Mexico City, assigned to a special investigative unit. Cai had told him some about it, but much more about her. Apparently, his son was quite taken.

“You should bring her for a visit.”

“We talked about that. Maybe at Christmas.”

“That would be wonderful. She would like the way Danes celebrate, though she might find our weather uncomfortable.”

“She’s taken me to many archaeological sites. She’s so knowledgeable about this country’s history”

“You seem to like her.”

“I do, Papa. She reminds me of Mother. Her warmth. Her smile.”

“Then she has to be lovely.”

“Elena Ramirez Rico,” Thorvaldsen said, “prosecuted cultural crimes. Mainly art and artifact thefts. That’s big business in Mexico. She was about to indict two men. One a Spaniard, the other a Brit. Both major players in the stolen artifact business. She was murdered before that could happen.”

“Why would her death matter?” Malone asked him. “Another prosecutor would have been assigned.”

“And one was, who declined to pursue the case. All charges were dropped.”

Thorvaldsen studied Malone. He saw that his friend fully understood.

“Who were the two men she was prosecuting?” Malone asked.

“The Spaniard is Amando Cabral. The Brit is Lord Graham Ashby.”

TWELVE

CORSICA

ASHBY SAT ON THE SOFA, SIPPING HIS RUM, WATCHING THE CORSICAN as Archimedes continued its cruise up the coast, following Cap Corse’s rocky east shore.

“Those four Germans left something with the fifth,” Ashby finally said. “That has long been rumor. But I discovered it to be fact.”

“Thanks to information I provided, months ago.”

He nodded. “That’s right. You controlled the missing pieces. That’s why I came and generously offered what I knew, along with a percentage of the find. And you agreed to share.”

“That I did. But we’ve found nothing. So why have this conversation? Why am I a captive?”

“Captive? Hardly. We’re simply taking a short cruise aboard my boat. Two friends. Visiting.”

“Friends don’t assault each other.”

“And neither do they lie to each other.”

He’d approached this man over a year ago, after learning of his co

“That man,” Ashby said, “learned of the Moor’s Knot.” He pointed to the table. “So he created those letters. They were eventually discovered by that fifth participant, after the war, in confiscated German archives. Unfortunately, he never learned the book’s title. Amazingly, you managed to accomplish that feat. I rediscovered these letters and, the last time we met, provided them to you, which showed my good faith. But you didn’t mention anything about knowing the actual book title.”

“Who says I know it?”

“Gustave.”

He saw the shock on the man’s face.

“Have you harmed him?” the Corsican asked again.

“I paid him for the information. Gustave is a talkative individual, with an infectious optimism. He’s also now quite rich.”

He watched as his guest digested the betrayal.

Mr. Guildhall entered the salon and nodded. He knew what that meant. They were near. Engines dulled as the boat slowed. He motioned and his acolyte left.

“And if I decipher the Moor’s Knot?” the Corsican asked, after apparently co

“Then you, too, shall be rich.”

“How rich?”

“One million euros.”

The Corsican laughed. “The treasure is worth a hundred times that.”

Ashby stood from the sofa. “Provided there’s one to find. Even you admit that it may all be a tale.”

He stepped across the salon and retrieved a black satchel. He returned and poured out its contents on the sofa.

Bundles of euros.

The bureaucrat’s eyes widened.

“One million. Yours. No more hunting for you.”