The Paris Vendetta

He hoped so.

Corsica was not one of his favorite places. Nothing but a mountain springing from the sea, 115 miles long, 52 miles wide, 5,500 square miles, 600 miles of coast. Its geography varied from alpine peaks to deep gorges, pine forests, glacial lakes, pastures, fertile valleys, and even some desert. At one time or another Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Aragonese, Italians, Brits, and the French had conquered, but none had ever subjugated the island’s rebellious spirit.

Another reason why he’d passed on investing. Far too many variables in this unruly French département.

The industrious Genoese founded Bastia in 1380 and built fortresses to protect it, his tower perch one of the last remaining. The town had served as the capital of the island until 1791, when Napoleon decided that his birthplace, Ajaccio, in the south, would be better. He knew the locals had still not forgiven the little emperor for that transgression.

He buttoned his Armani overcoat and stood close to a medieval parapet. His tailored shirt, trousers, and sweater clung to his fifty-eight-year-old frame with a reassuring feel. He bought all his ensembles at Kingston & Knight, as had his father and grandfather. Yesterday a London barber had spent half an hour trimming his gray mane, eliminating those pale waves that seemed to make him look older. He was proud at how he retained the appearance and vigor of a more youthful man and, as he continued to gaze out past a dark Bastia, at the Tyrrhenian Sea, he savored the satisfaction of a man who’d truly arrived.

He glanced at his watch.

He’d come to solve a mystery, one that had tantalized treasure hunters for more than sixty years, and he detested tardiness.

He heard footsteps from the nearby staircase that angled its way twenty meters upward. During the day, tourists climbed to gawk at the scenery and snap pictures. At this hour no one visited.

A man appeared in the weak light.

He was small, with a headful of bushy hair. Two deep lines cut the flesh from above the nostrils to his mouth. His skin was as brown as a walnut shell, the dark pigments heightened by a white mustache.

And he was dressed like a cleric.

The skirts of a black soutane swished as he walked closer.

“Lord Ashby, I apologize for my lateness, but it could not be helped.”

“A priest?” he asked, pointing to the robe.

“I thought a disguise best for tonight. Few ask questions of them.” The man grabbed a few breaths, winded from the climb.

Ashby had selected this hour with great care and timed his arrival with English precision. But everything was now out of kilter by nearly half an hour.

“I detest unpleasantness,” he said, “but sometimes a frank, face-to-face discussion is necessary.” He pointed a finger. “You, sir, are a liar.”

“That I am. I freely admit.”

“You cost me time and money, neither of which I like to expend.”

“Unfortunately, Lord Ashby, I find myself in short supply of both.” The man paused. “And I knew you needed my help.”

Last time he’d allowed this man to learn too much.

A mistake.

Something had happened in Corsica on September 15, 1943. Six crates were brought west from Italy by boat. Some said they were dumped into the sea, near Bastia, others believed they were hauled ashore. All accounts agreed that five Germans participated. Four of them were court-martialed for leaving the treasure in a place that would soon be in Allied hands, and they were shot. The fifth was exonerated. Unfortunately he was not privy to the final hiding place, so he searched in vain for the rest of his life.

As had many others.

“Lies are all the weapons I possess,” the Corsican made clear. “It’s what keeps powerful men like you at bay.”

“Old man-”

“I dare say, I’m not much older than you. Though my status is not as infamous. Quite a reputation you have, Lord Ashby.”

He acknowledged the observation with a nod. He understood what an image could do to, and for, a person. His family had, for three centuries, possessed a controlling interest in one of England’s oldest lending institutions. He was now the sole holder of that interest. The British press once described his luminous gray eyes, Roman nose, and flick of a smile as the visage of an aristocrat. A reporter a few years ago labeled him imposing, while another described him as swarthy and saturnine. He didn’t necessarily mind the reference to his dark complexion-something his half-Turkish mother had bestowed upon him-but it bothered him that he might be regarded as sullen and morose.

“I assure you, good sir,” he said. “I am not a man you should fear.”

The Corsican laughed. “I should hope not. Violence would accomplish nothing. After all, you seek Rommel’s gold. Quite a treasure. And I might know where it waits.”

This man was as obtrusive as he was observant. But he was also an admitted liar. “You led me on a tangent.”

The dark form laughed. “You were pushing hard. I can’t afford any public attention. Others could know. This is a small island and, if we find this treasure, I want to be able to keep my portion.”

This man worked for the Assemblée de Corse, out of Ajaccio. A minor official in the Corsican regional government, who possessed convenient access to a great deal of information.

“And who would take what we find from us?” he asked.

“People here, in Bastia, who continue to search. More who live in France and Italy. Men have died for this treasure.”

This fool apparently preferred conversations to move slowly, offering mere hints and suggestions, leading by tiny degrees to his point.

But Ashby did not have the time.

He signaled and another man exited the stairway. He wore a charcoal overcoat that blended well with his stiff gray hair. His eyes were piercing, his thin face tapered to a pointed chin. He walked straight to the Corsican and stopped.

“This is Mr. Guildhall,” Ashby said. “Perhaps you recall him from our last visit?”

The Corsican extended his hand, but Guildhall kept his hands in his coat pockets.

“I do,” the Corsican said. “Does he ever smile?”

Ashby shook his head. “Terrible thing. A few years ago Mr. Guildhall was involved in a nasty altercation, during which his face and neck were slashed. He healed, as you can see, but the lasting effect was nerve damage that prevents the muscles in his face from fully functioning. Hence, no smile.”

“And the person who slashed him?”

“Ah, an excellent inquiry. Quite dead. Broken neck.”

He saw that his point had been made, so he turned to Guildhall and asked, “What did you find?”

His employee removed a small volume from his pocket and handed it over. In the weak light he noted the faded title, in French. Napoleon, From the Tuileries to St. Helena. One of countless memoirs that had appeared in print after Napoleon died in 1821.

“How… did you get that?” the Corsican asked.

He smiled. “While you made me wait here atop the tower, Mr. Guildhall searched your house. I’m not a total fool.”

The Corsican shrugged. “Just a dull memoir. I read a lot on Napoleon.”

“That’s what your co-conspirator said, too.”

He saw that he now commanded his listener’s total attention. “He and I, and Mr. Guildhall, had a great talk.”

“How did you know of Gustave?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t hard to determine. You and he have searched for Rommel’s gold a long time. You are each, perhaps, the two most knowledgeable people on the subject.”

“Have you harmed him?”

He caught the alarm in the question. “Heavens no, my good man. Do you take me for a villain? I am of an aristocratic family. A lord of the realm. A respectable financier. Not a hoodlum. Of course, your Gustave lied to me as well.”

A flick of his wrist and Guildhall grabbed the man by a shoulder and one trouser leg projecting from the soutane. The tiny Corsican was vaulted upward between the parapets, Guildhall sliding him out and adjusting his grip to both ankles, the body now upside down outside the wall, twenty meters above stone pavement.