The Paris Vendetta

“What now?” he asked.

“You and I are headed to London.”

SAM STUFFED HIS BARE HANDS INTO HIS COAT POCKETS AND stood in the crowd with Meagan. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless winter sky.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked her.

“Your lady friend there said I’d be arrested if I didn’t.”

“That’s not why.”

Her pleasant face showed no apprehension, something he’d noticed often since yesterday. No negativity in this personality, or at least not any she allowed to surface.

“We’re finally doing it,” she said. “No more talking. We’re here, Sam, doing something.”

He’d felt some of the same ebullience.

“We can stop them. I knew it was real. So did you. We’re not crazy, Sam.”

“You realize what Stephanie wants us to do is dangerous.”

She shrugged. “How bad could it be? Any worse than at the museum yesterday? What’s wrong with being a little cavalier?”

“What’s that word mean?” he asked Norstrum.

“Free. Offhand. Somewhat careless.”

He allowed his fifteen-year-old brain to absorb the definition. He’d broken another rule and risked a free climb up the rock face. Norstrum had told him to use a rope, but he hadn’t obeyed.

“Sam, we all take chances. That’s how you succeed. But never foolish ones. Success comes from minimizing risk, not making it greater.”

“But the rope wasn’t needed. I made it fine.”

“And what would have happened if your grip had not held? Or your foot slipped? Or a muscle cramped?” Norstrum’s terse questions were a clear indication that he was, if not displeased, certainly unhappy. “You would have fallen. Been maimed for life, maybe killed, and what would you have gained from taking such a risk?”

He tried to place the information into context, allowing the rebuke to float through his mind as he determined the right response. He did not like that he’d upset Norstrum. When he was younger he didn’t care, but as he’d grown older he’d come to want not to disappoint this man.

“I’m sorry. It was foolish.”

The older man grasped his shoulder. “Remember, Sam, foolishness will get you killed.”

Norstrum’s warning rang clear in his brain as he considered Meagan’s three questions. Seventeen years ago, when he’d scaled the rock face with no safety rope, he’d learned that Norstrum had been right.

Foolishness will get you killed.

Yesterday, in the museum, he’d forgotten that lesson.

Not today.

Stephanie Nelle had drafted him for a job. Did it entail risks? Plenty. But they should be measured and calculated.

Nothing cavalier.

“I want to be careful, Meagan. You should be, too.”

FORTY-TWO

ENGLAND

2:40 PM

ASHBY GLANCED AT HIS WATCH AND NOTED THAT IT HAD TAKEN the Bentley a little over an hour to make the drive from Heathrow Airport to Salen Hall. He also noticed that his estate workers were busy maintaining the grounds, though the seahorse fountain, canal pond, and cascade were silent for winter. Except for an enlarged stable and a kitchen and servant wing, the main house had remained unchanged since the 18th century. The same clumps of forest and pasture also remained. The surrounding land all had once been ancient moors, driven back by Ashby ancestors who’d tamed the valley with grass and fence. He prided himself on both its beauty and its independence, one of the last privately owned British manors that did not depend on tourism for revenue.

And it never would.

The Bentley stopped at the crown of a graveled cul-de-sac. Orange brick and diamond-paned windows glistened in the bright sun. Gargoyles leered down from the roofline, their axes poised, as if to warn invaders.

“I’m going to do a little research,” Caroline told him as they stepped inside the house.

Good. He needed to think. He and Mr. Guildhall headed straight for his study and Ashby sat behind the desk. This day had turned disastrous.

He’d kept quiet during the short flight back from Paris and delayed the inevitable. Now he lifted the phone and dialed Eliza Larocque’s mobile number.

“I hope you have more good news,” she said.

“Actually, no. The book wasn’t there. Perhaps it’s been moved during the renovation? I found the display case and the other items, but not the volume on the Merovingians.”

“The information provided to me was quite specific.”

“The book was not there. Can you check again?”

“Of course.”

“In the morning, once I return to Paris for our gathering, perhaps we can speak privately beforehand?”

“I will be at the tower by ten thirty.”

“Till then.”

He hung up the phone and checked his watch.

Four hours to go. That was when he was scheduled to meet with his American contact. He’d hoped that to be his last conversation, as he was tired of the juggling act. He wanted Napoleon’s cache and had hoped the book in the Invalides held the key. Now the bloody Americans controlled it.

He’d have to bargain tonight.

Tomorrow would be far too late.

ELIZA CLICKED OFF HER PHONE AND THOUGHT BACK TO WHAT Henrik Thorvaldsen had predicted. If I’m right about him, he’s going to tell you that he wasn’t able to retrieve whatever it is, that it wasn’t there, or some other such excuse. And to what he’d told her again, just before they concluded their lunch and he left the restaurant. It will be for you to judge whether that be truth or a lie.

She was safe inside her house in the Marais, not far from where the Paris Club gathered. Her family had owned the property since the mid-19th century. She’d grown up within these elegant walls and now spent the majority of her time here. Her sources within the French government had assured her that the book she sought was there, in the museum. A minor relic, of little historical significance, other than being from Napoleon’s personal library and mentioned in his will. Her sources had asked few questions, nor would they have once they learned the book was gone, since they’d learned long ago that to appreciate her generosity meant to keep their mouths shut.

She’d debated what to do about Thorvaldsen ever since leaving Le Grand Véfour. The Danish billionaire had appeared from nowhere with information that she simply could not ignore. He clearly knew her business, and the oracle had confirmed his intentions. Now Ashby himself had corroborated what Thorvaldsen predicted. She did not intend to ignore the warnings any longer.

She retrieved the telephone number Thorvaldsen had provided to her yesterday and dialed. When he answered, she told him, “I have decided to extend you an invitation to join our group.”

“Most generous. I assume, then, Lord Ashby disappointed you.”

“Let us say that he’s aroused my curiosity. Are you free tomorrow? The club is gathering for an important session.”

“I’m a Jew. Christmas is not a holiday for me.”

“Nor me. We meet in the morning, in La Salle Gustav Eiffel, on the first platform of the tower, at eleven. They have a lovely banquet room, and we have a lunch pla

“Sounds wonderful.”

“I shall see you then.”

She clicked off the phone.

Tomorrow.

A day she’d been anticipating for a long time. She pla