The Paris Vendetta

SIXTY-SEVEN

ELIZA LAROCQUE WANDERED AROUND HER PARIS APARTMENT and tried to restore order to her chaotic thoughts. She’d already consulted the oracle, asking the specific question, Will my enemies succeed? The answer that her slashes had produced seemed baffling. The prisoner will soon be welcomed home, although he now smarts under the power of his enemies.

What in the world?

Paolo Ambrosi was waiting for her call, ready to act. She wanted Graham Ashby dead, but not before she obtained answers to her many questions. She had to know the extent of Ashby’s betrayal. Only then could she assess the potential damage. Things had changed. The sight of that airplane, powering toward her atop the Eiffel Tower, remained fresh in her thoughts. She also needed to wrestle back control of the hundreds of millions of Paris Club euros that Ashby maintained in his bank.

But today was a holiday. No way to make that happen. She would handle it first thing in the morning.

Way too much trust had been placed in Ashby. And what of Henrik Thorvaldsen? He’d told her that the Americans were aware of all that had happened. Did that mean complete exposure? Was everything in jeopardy? If a co

The phone on the side table rang. Her landline. Few possessed the number besides some friends and senior staff.

And Ashby.

She answered.

“Madame Larocque, I am the man Lord Ashby hired to handle your exhibition this morning.”

She said nothing.

“I’d be cautious, too,” the voice said. “I called to tell you that I have Lord Ashby in my custody. He and I have some unfinished business. After that is completed, I plan to kill him. So rest assured that your debt to him will be satisfied.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’d like to be able to offer my services to you in the future. I’m aware of who was actually paying the bill. Ashby was merely your agent. This is my way of apologizing for the unfortunate occurrence. Suffice it to say that our British acquaintance lied to me as well. He meant to kill you and your associates, and lay the blame on me. Luckily, no harm came to anyone.”

Not physically, she thought. But there’d been harm.

“No need to speak, madame. Know that the problem will be handled.”

The phone went silent.

ASHBY LISTENED AS PETER LYON TAUNTED LAROCQUE, CHILLED by the words I plan to kill him. Caroline heard the pronouncement, too. Her fear instantly evolved into terror, but he silenced her with a look that seemed to reassure.

Lyon closed the cell phone and smiled. “You wanted her off your back. She’s off. There’s nothing she can do, and she knows it.”

“You underestimate her.”

“Not really. I underestimated you. And that mistake I won’t make again.”

“You don’t have to kill us,” Caroline blurted out.

“That all depends on your level of cooperation.”

“And what’s to stop you from killing us once we fully cooperate?” Ashby asked.

Lyon’s face seemed like that of a chess master, waiting coolly for his opponent’s next move, already knowing his own. “Not a thing. But unfortunately for you both, cooperation is your only option.”

HENRIK STEPPED FROM THE CAB BEFORE THE BASILICA OF SAINT-Denis and stared up at the church’s single lateral tower, its twin missing, the building looking like an amputee, missing an appendage.

“The other tower burned in the 19th century,” Meagan told him. “Struck by lightning. It was never replaced.”

She’d explained on the ride north that this was where French kings had been buried for centuries. Begun in the 12th century, fifty years before Notre Dame, the church was a national landmark. Gothic architecture had been born here. During the French Revolution many of the tombs were destroyed, but they’d been restored. Now it was owned by the government.

Scaffolding clung to the outer walls, wrapping what appeared to be the north and west façades at least three-quarters of the way up. A hastily erected plywood barrier encircled the base, which blocked access to the main doors. Two construction trailers were parked on either side of the makeshift fence.

“Seems they’re working on the place,” he said.

“They’re always working on something in this city.”

He glanced at the sky. Gunmetal-gray clouds now shielded the sun, creating dense shadows and lowering the temperature.

A winter storm was coming.

The neighborhood lay about ten kilometers from Paris, traversed by both the Seine and a canal. The suburb was apparently an industrial center, as they’d passed several manufacturing facilities.

A mist began to build.

“The weather is about to get nasty,” Meagan said.

People in the paved plaza before the church hurried off.

“This is a blue-collar area,” Meagan noted. “Not a section of town where the tourists like to come. That’s why you don’t hear much about Saint-Denis, though I think it’s more interesting than Notre Dame.”

He wasn’t interested in history, except as it related to Ashby’s search. Professor Murad had told him some of what he’d deciphered-what Ashby surely knew by now as well, considering that Caroline Dodd was every bit the expert Murad was.

Mist turned to rain.

“What do we do now?” Meagan asked. “The basilica is closed.”

He wondered why Murad wasn’t already here. The professor had called nearly an hour ago and said he was leaving then.

He reached for his phone but, before he could place a call, the unit rang. Thinking it might be Murad, he studied the screen. COTTON MALONE.

He answered.

“Henrik, you’ve got to listen to what I have to say.”

“Why would I have to do that?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“You have an odd way of doing that. Giving that book to Stephanie was uncalled for. All you did was aid Ashby.”

“You know better than that.”

“No, I don’t.”

His voice rose, which startled Meagan. He told himself to remain composed. “All I know is that you gave her the book. Then you were on the boat, with Ashby, doing whatever it is you and your old boss think is right. None of which included me. I’m done with what’s right, Cotton.”

“Henrik, let us handle it.”

“Cotton, I thought you my friend. Actually, I thought you were my best friend. I’ve always been there for you, no matter what. I owed you that.” He fought a wave of emotion. “For Cai. You were there. You stopped his murderers. I admired and respected you. I went to Atlanta two years ago to thank you, and found a friend.” He paused again. “But you haven’t treated me with the same respect. You betrayed me.”

“I did what I had to.”

He didn’t want to hear rationalizations. “Is there anything else you want?”

“Murad’s not coming.”

The full extent of Malone’s duplicity struck hard.

“Whatever is at Saint-Denis, you’re going to have to find it without him,” Malone made clear.

He grabbed hold of his emotions. “Goodbye, Cotton. We shall never speak again.”

He clicked off the phone.

MALONE CLOSED HIS EYES.

The acid declaration-we shall never speak again-burned his gut. A man like Henrik Thorvaldsen did not make statements like that lightly.

He’d just lost a friend.

Stephanie watched from the other side of the car’s rear seat. They were headed away from Notre Dame, toward Gare du Nord, a busy rail terminal, following the first set of instructions Lyon had called back to them after his initial contact.

Rain peppered the windshield.

“He’ll get over it,” she said. “We can’t be concerned with his feelings. You know the rules. We have a job to do.”