The Paris Vendetta

THORVALDSEN HAD CALLED MALONE’S CELL PHONE SEVEN times, each try diverting to voice mail, each failure escalating his anguish.

He needed to speak with Malone.

More important, he needed to find Graham Ashby. He hadn’t ordered his investigators to tail the Brit after he left England earlier this morning. He assumed that Ashby would be within his sight at the Eiffel Tower, until late afternoon. By then, his men would be in France ready to go.

But Ashby had formulated a different plan.

Thorvaldsen sat alone in his room at the Ritz. What to do now? He was at a loss. He’d pla

Which made him think again about Malone, the book, and Murad.

Perhaps the professor knew something?

His cell phone rang.

The screen displayed BLOCKED NUMBER but he answered anyway.

“Henrik,” Sam Collins said, “I need your help.”

He wanted to know if everyone around him was a liar. “What have you been doing?”

The other end of the phone stayed silent. Finally, Sam said, “I’ve been recruited by the Justice Department.”

He was pleased that the young man had told him the truth. So he reciprocated. “I saw you at the Eiffel Tower. In the meeting hall.”

“I thought you might.”

“What’s happening Sam?”

“I’m following Ashby.”

The best news he’d heard. “For Stephanie Nelle?”

“Not really. But I had no choice.”

“Do you have a way to contact her?”

“She gave me a direct number, but I’ve been hesitant to call. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Tell me where you are.”

MALONE APPROACHED THE LAPTOP AS STEPHANIE SEARCHED the apartment’s two remaining rooms.

“Empty,” she called out.

He knelt. The screen continued to count down, approaching one minute. He noticed a data card inserted into a side USB port-the source of the wireless co

41 seconds.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” Stephanie asked.

“Lyon knew we’d come. Just like at the Invalides, if he wanted to kill us there are easier ways.”

28 seconds.

“You realize Peter Lyon is an amoral bastard.”

19 seconds.

“Henrik called seven times,” he said to her as they both watched the screen.

“He’s got to be dealt with,” she said.

“I know.”

12 seconds.

“You could be wrong about there not being a bomb here,” she muttered.

9 seconds.

“I’ve been wrong before.”

6 seconds.

“That’s not what you said back in the Court of Honor.”

A 5 appeared, then 4, 3, 2, 1.

SIXTY-ONE

ASHBY WAITED FOR CAROLINE TO EXPLAIN. SHE WAS CLEARLY enjoying herself.

“If the legend is to be believed,” she said, “only Napoleon knew the location of his cache. He trusted that information to no one we know of. Once he realized that he was going to die on St. Helena, he had to communicate the location to his son.”

She pointed to the fourteen lines of writing. “‘To King Dagobert and to Sion belongs the treasure and he is there dead.’ It’s quite simple.”

Perhaps to someone with multiple degrees in history, but not to him.

“Dagobert was a Merovingian who ruled in the early part of the 7th century. He unified the Franks and made Paris his capital. He was the last Merovingian to wield any real power. After that, the Merovingian kings became ineffective rulers who inherited the throne as young children and lived only long enough to produce a male heir. Real power lay in the hands of the noble families.”

His mind was still on Peter Lyon and Eliza Larocque and the threat they posed. He wanted to be acting, not listening. But he told himself to remain patient. She’d never disappointed him before.

“Dagobert built the basilica at Saint-Denis, north of Paris. He was the first king to be buried there.” She paused. “He’s still there.”

He tried to recall what he could about the cathedral. The building had first been constructed over the tomb of St. Denis, a local bishop martyred by the Romans in the 3rd century, and revered by Parisians. An exceptional building in both construction and design, regarded as one of the first examples of Gothic architecture on the planet. He remembered a French acquaintance once boasting that the world’s greatest assembly of royal funerary monuments lay there. Like he cared. But maybe he should. Especially about one particular royal tomb.

“Nobody knows if Dagobert is actually buried there,” she made clear. “The building was first erected in the 5th century. Dagobert ruled in the mid-7th century. He donated so much wealth to the basilica’s enhancement that, by the 9th century, he was credited as its founder. In the 13th century, the monks there dedicated a funerary niche in his honor.”

“Is Dagobert there or not?”

She shrugged. “What does it matter? That niche is still regarded as the tomb of Dagobert. Where he is. Dead.”

He caught the significance of what she was saying. “That’s what Napoleon would have believed?”

“I can’t see how he would have thought anything else.”

MALONE STARED AT THE LAPTOP AND THE SINGLE WORD, DISPLAYED in all caps, emphasized by three exclamation points.

BOOM!!!

“That’s interesting,” Stephanie said.

“Lyon has a bomb fetish.”

The screen changed and a new message appeared.

WHAT IS IT AMERICANS SAY?

A DAY LATE AND A DOLLAR SHORT.

MAYBE NEXT TIME.

“Now, that’s aggravating,” he said, but he saw more than frustration in Stephanie’s eyes and knew what she was thinking.

No Paris Club. No Lyon. Nothing.

“It’s not all that bad,” he said.

She seemed to catch the twinkle in his eye. “You have something in mind?”

He nodded. “A way for us to finally catch this shadow.”

ASHBY STARED AT A PHOTO OF DAGOBERT’S FUNERARY MONUMENT that Caroline found online. A Gothic flair dominated its busy design.

“It depicts the legend of John the Hermit,” she said. “He dreamed that the soul of Dagobert was stolen away by demons, eventually snatched from their clutches by Saints Denis, Maurice, and Martin.”

“And this sits inside the basilica at Saint-Denis?”

She nodded. “Adjacent to the main altar. It somehow escaped the wrath of the French Revolution. Prior to 1800, just about every French monarch was buried in Saint-Denis. But most of the bronze tombs were melted down during the French Revolution, the rest shattered and piled in a garden behind the building. The remains of every Bourbon king were dumped into a nearby cemetery pit.”

That wild vengeance made him think of Eliza Larocque. “The French take their anger quite to heart.”

“Napoleon stopped the vandalism and restored the church,” she said. “He again made it an imperial burying place.”

He caught the significance. “So he was familiar with the basilica?”

“The Merovingian co

The suite’s door opened and Guildhall reappeared. A discreet nod told Ashby that the Murrays were on their way. He’d feel better when surrounded by loyalists. Something would have to be done about Eliza Larocque. He could not be constantly glancing over his shoulder, wondering if today was the day she finally caught up to him. Perhaps he could make a deal? She was negotiable. But he’d tried to kill her, a fact she certainly now knew. No matter. He’d deal with her later. Right now-“All right, my dear. Tell me. What happens when we visit Saint-Denis?”