The Paris Vendetta

“You do a lot for Henrik,” he said to Jesper over the outboard’s roar.

“Herre Thorvaldsen has done a lot for me.”

“Killing people is a little above and beyond, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not if they deserve it.”

The waters were choppy from a stiff northerly breeze. Luckily, Jesper had provided him with a thick wool coat, insulated gloves, and scarf.

“Is he going to kill Cabral and Ashby?” he asked.

“Senor Cabral is dead.”

He didn’t understand. “When did that happen?”

Jesper motioned to the boat they were towing. “He underestimated Herre Thorvaldsen.”

He stared back at the dark hull containing two corpses. He hadn’t liked being dismissed, and now wondered even more what Thorvaldsen and Malone were discussing. Jesper still had not answered his question about killing Ashby, and Sam realized he wasn’t going to. This man was absolutely loyal, and replying would mean breaching that commitment to Thorvaldsen.

But his silence said it all.

“ASHBY IS ON A TREASURE HUNT,” THORVALDSEN SAID. “A TREASURE that has eluded people for a long time.”

“So what?”

“It matters. I’m not sure how, just yet. But it matters.”

Malone waited.

“Young Sam is right about a conspiracy. I haven’t told him, but my investigators confirmed numerous recent meetings of five people, who gather in Paris.”

“His Paris Club?”

Thorvaldsen shrugged.

“People have a right to meet.”

He noticed a light sweat on Thorvaldsen’s forehead, even though the room was not warm.

“Not these people. I determined they’ve been experimenting. In Russia last year, they affected the national banking system. In Argentina, they artificially devalued stocks, bought low, then reversed everything and sold for huge profits. More of the same in Colombia and Indonesia. Small manipulations. It’s as if they’re testing the waters, seeing what can be done.”

“How much harm could they do? Most nations have more than adequate protections on their financial systems.”

“Not really, Cotton. That’s a boast most governments ca

“You think that matters?”

“I do. These financiers are well schooled. I’ve checked them out. And they’re well led.”

He caught a note of mockery.

“Elena Rico was targeting Ashby and Cabral. I’ve learned a lot about Graham Ashby. He would have handled Rico’s death more discreetly. But his ally was tasked with the kill, and did it his way. I imagine Ashby wasn’t pleased with that slaughter in the plaza, but he had no room to complain about it, either. It did the job.”

Malone did not like the hollow feeling in his stomach, which seemed to worsen by the minute. “You going to kill him? Like Cabral?”

Thorvaldsen simply stared at the photographs.

“Ashby is unaware of Cabral’s attacks on me tonight. The last thing Cabral would have wanted is for Ashby to know he’s been exposed. That’s why he came himself.”

Thorvaldsen spoke mechanically, as if all had been decided. But there was still something else. Malone could sense it. “What’s really happening here, Henrik?”

“It’s a complicated tale, Cotton. One that started the day Napoleon Bonaparte died.”

SIXTEEN

ASHBY WAS THRILLED. ROMMEL’S GOLD WAS NOW SAFELY STORED aboard Archimedes. A quick estimate, applying the current price, told him the stash was worth at least sixty to seventy million euros, maybe as much as a hundred million. The lying Corsican’s prediction had proven correct. He’d off-load the bullion in Ireland, where it could be kept in one of his banks, safe from British inspectors. No need to convert hard metal into cash. Not yet, anyway. The worldwide price was still rising, the forecasts promising more increases, and besides, gold was always a good investment. He now possessed more than enough collateral to secure any immediate financing he may need.

All in all, an excellent evening.

He entered Archimedes’ grand salon. The Corsican’s rum still lay on the table between the sofas. He lifted the tumbler, stepped out onto the deck, and tossed the glass into the sea. The thought of drinking from the same tumbler as that lying cheat disgusted him. The Corsican had every intention of confiscating the gold and being paid a million euros. Even in the face of irrefutable exposure, the lying bureaucrat had continued the charade.

“Sir.”

He turned. Guildhall stood just inside the salon.

“She’s on the phone.”

He’d been expecting the call, so he walked into an adjacent lounge, a warm room adorned with polished woods, soft fabrics, and split-straw marquetry papering the walls. He sat in a club chair and lifted the phone.

“Bonsoir, Graham,” Eliza Larocque said.

“Are you still in the air?” he asked in French.

“We are. But the flight has been a good one. Signor Mastroia

“Your instincts proved correct.”

“He’ll make a fine addition. He and I have had a wonderful conversation.”

If nothing else, Eliza Larocque was persuasive. She’d appeared at his English estate and spent three days tantalizing him with the possibilities. He’d investigated and learned that she was descended from a long line of wealth, her Corsican ancestors first rebels then aristocracy who wisely fled the French Revolution-then smartly returned when the time was right. Economics was her passion. She held degrees from three European universities. She headed her family concerns with hands-on management, dominant in wireless communication, petrochemicals, and real estate. Forbes had estimated her wealth at nearly twenty billion. He’d always thought that figure high, but noticed that Larocque never corrected its quotation. She lived both in Paris and to the south, on a family estate in the Loire Valley, and had never married, which he’d thought odd, too. Her voiced passions were classical art and contemporary music. Strange, those contradictions.

And her flaw?

Too quick to violence.

She saw it as the means to almost every end.

Personally, he wasn’t opposed to its use-tonight had demonstrated the inherent need-but he tempered its application.

“How has your weekend been so far?” Larocque asked him.

“I’ve enjoyed a peaceful cruise on the Mediterranean. I love my boat. It’s a pleasure I so rarely savor.”

“Far too slow for me, Graham.”

They each loved their toys. Larocque cherished planes-he’d heard about her new Gulfstream.

“You’ll be at the meeting Monday?” she asked.

“We are cruising toward Marseille now. I’ll fly out from there.”

“And so I shall see you then.”

He hung up the phone.

He and Larocque had become quite the team. He’d joined her group four years ago, anteing up his twenty-million-euro initiation fee. Unfortunately, ever since, his financial portfolio had taken a massive beating, which had forced him to tap deep into his family reserves. His grandfather would have chastised him for taking such foolish risks. His father would have said, So what, take more. That dichotomy accounted, in many ways, for his present financial precariousness. Both men were long dead, yet he continued to try to please each.

When the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities had been exposed, it had taken all he could muster to keep Europol at bay. Luckily, proof had been scarce and his political co