The Paris Vendetta

Having no immediate family had always made the holiday season lonely for Sam. The past five Christmases he’d spent on a Florida beach, alone. He never knew his parents. He was raised at a place called the Cook Institute-just a fancy name for an orphanage. He’d come as an infant, his last day a week after his eighteenth birthday.

“I have a choice?” he asked.

“You do,” Norstrum said.

“Since when? There’s nothing here but rules.”

“Those are for children. You’re now a man, free to live your life as you please.”

“That’s it? I’m can go? Bye-bye. See you later.”

“You owe us nothing, Sam.”

He was glad to hear that. He had nothing to give.

“Your choice,” Norstrum said, “is simple. You can stay and become a larger part of this place. Or you can leave.”

That was no choice. “I want to go.”

“I thought that would be the case.”

“It’s not that I’m not grateful. It’s just that I want to go. I’ve had enough of-”

“Rules.”

“That’s right. Enough of rules.”

He knew that many of the instructors and caretakers had been raised here, too, as orphans. But another rule forbid them from talking about that. Since he was leaving, he decided to ask, “Did you have a choice?”

“I chose differently.”

The information shocked him. He’d never known the older man had been an orphan, too.

“Would you do me one favor?” Norstrum asked.

They stood on the campus green, among buildings two centuries old. He knew every square inch of each one, down to their last detail, since everyone was required to help maintain things.

Another of those rules he’d come to hate.

“Be careful, Sam. Think before you act. The world is not as accommodating as we are.”

“Is that what you call it here? Accommodating?”

“We genuinely cared for you.” Norstrum paused. “I genuinely cared for you.”

Not once in eighteen years had he heard such sentiment from this man.

“You are a free spirit, Sam. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Just be carful.”

He saw that Norstrum, whom he’d known all his life, was being sincere.

“Perhaps you’ll find rules on the outside easier to follow. God knows, it was a challenge for you here.”

“Maybe it’s in my genes.”

He was trying to make light, but the comment only reminded him that he had no parents, no heritage. All he’d ever known lay around him. The only man who’d ever given a damn stood beside him. So out of respect, he extended his hand, which Norstrum politely shook.

“I had hoped you’d stay,” the older man quietly said.

Eyes filled with sadness stared back at him.

“Be well, Sam. Try to always do good.”

And he had.

Graduating college with honors, finally making it to the Secret Service. He sometimes wondered if Norstrum was still alive. It had been fourteen years since they’d last spoken. He’d never made contact simply because he did not want to disappoint the man any further.

I had hoped you’d stay.

But he couldn’t.

He and Malone turned a corner onto a side street, off the main boulevard. Ahead, the sidewalk rose toward the next intersection, and another wall with an iron fence stretched to their right. They followed the slow shuffle of feet to the corner and turned. A taller wall, topped with battlements, replaced the fence. Attached to its rough stone hung a colorful ba

Cluny Museum of Medieval History.

The building that rose beyond the wall was a crenellated Gothic structure topped with a sloping slate roof, dotted with dormers. Foddrell disappeared through an entrance, and the two men followed.

Malone kept pace.

“What are we doing?” Sam asked.

“Improvising.”

MALONE KNEW WHERE THEY WERE HEADED. THE CLUNY MUSEUM stood on the site of a Roman palace, the ruins of its ancient baths still inside. The present mansion was erected in the 15th century by a Benedictine abbot. Not until the 19th century had the grounds become state-owned, displaying an impressive collection of medieval artifacts. It remained one of the must-sees on any Parisian itinerary. He’d visited a couple of times and recalled the inside. Two stories, one exhibit room opening into the next, one way in and out. Tight confines. Not a good place to go u

He led the way as they entered a cloistered courtyard and caught sight of the two tails stepping through the main door. Maybe thirty camera-clad visitors milled in the courtyard.

He hesitated, then headed for the same entrance.

Sam followed.

The chamber beyond was a stone-walled anteroom converted into a reception center, with a cloakroom and stairway that led down to toilets. The two men were buying tickets from a cashier, then they turned and climbed stone risers into the museum. As they disappeared through a narrow doorway, he and Sam purchased their own tickets. They climbed the same risers and entered a crowded gift shop. No sign of Foddrell, but the two minders were already passing through another low doorway to their left. Malone caught sight of complimentary English brochures that explained the museum and grabbed one, quickly sca

Sam noticed. “Henrik says you have a photographic memory. Is that true?”

“Eidetic memory,” he corrected. “Just a good mind for detail.”

“Are you always so precise?”

He stuffed the brochure into his back pocket. “Hardly ever.”

They entered an exhibit room illuminated by both sunlight from a mullioned window and some strategically placed incandescent floods that accented medieval porcelain, glass, and alabaster.

Neither Foddrell nor his tails were there.

They hustled into the next space, containing more ceramics, and caught sight of the two men just as they were exiting at the far side. Both rooms, so far, had been active with talkative visitors and clicking cameras. Malone knew from the brochure that ahead lay the Roman baths.

At the exit he spotted the two as they passed through a tight corridor, painted blue and lined with alabaster plaques, that opened into a lofty stone hallway. Down a flight of stone steps was the frígídaríum. But a placard a

Left led deeper into the museum.

The two men turned that way.

He and Sam approached and cautiously peered inside the next room, which rose two stories, naturally lit from an opaque ceiling. Rough-hewn stone walls towered forty feet. Probably once another courtyard, between buildings, now enclosed and displaying ivories, capital fragments, and more statuary.

Foddrell was nowhere to be seen, but Tweedledum and Tweedledee were headed toward the next exhibit space, which opened at the top of more stone risers.

“Those two are after me,” someone yelled, disturbing the librarylike silence.

Malone’s head craned upward.

Standing at a balustrade, on what would be the upper floor of the next building, pointing downward at the two men they were following, was a woman. Perhaps early thirties, with short-cut brownish hair. She wore one of the blue smocks that Malone had already noticed on other museum employees.

“They’re after me,” the woman screamed. “Trying to kill me.”