The Paris Vendetta

Ahead he spotted a shallow recess in the right-hand wall. Rubble filled the passageway where somebody had pounded their way through the limestone.

He stopped and searched the scene with his light. Etched into the rough surface of one of the rocky chunks was a symbol, one he recognized from the writing Napoleon had left in the Merovingian book, part of the fourteen lines of scribble.

Someone had propped the stone atop the pile like a marker, one that had patiently waited underground for more than two hundred years. In the exposed recess he spied a metal door, swung half open. An electrical cable snaked a path out the doorway, turned ninety degrees, then disappeared into the tu

Glad to know he’d been right.

Napoleon’s clues led the way down. Then the etched symbol showed exactly where things awaited.

He shone the light inside, found an electrical box, and flipped the switch.

Yellow, incandescent fixtures strewn across the floor revealed a chamber maybe fifty by forty feet, with a ten-foot ceiling. He counted at least three dozen wooden chests and saw that several were hinged open.

Inside, he spied a neat assortment of gold and silver bars. Each bore a stamped N topped by an imperial crown, the official mark of the Emperor Napoleon. Another held gold coins. Two more contained silver plate. Three were filled to the brim with what appeared to be precious stones. Apparently the emperor had chosen his hoard with great care, opting for hard metal and jewels.

He surveyed the room and allowed his eyes to examine the ancient and abandoned possessions of a crushed empire.

Napoleon’s cache.

“You must be Cotton Malone,” a female voice said.

He turned. “And you must be Eliza Larocque.”

The woman who stood in the doorway was tall and stately, with an obvious leonine quality about her that she did little to conceal. She wore a knee-length wool coat, classy and elegant. Beside her stood a thin, gnarled man with a Spartan vigor. Both faces were wiped clean of expression.

“And your friend is Paolo Ambrosi,” Malone said. “Interesting character. An ordained priest who served briefly as papal secretary to Peter II, but disappeared after that papacy abruptly ended. Rumors abounded about his-” Malone paused. “-morality. Now here he is.”

Larocque seemed impressed. “You don’t seem surprised that we are here.”

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“Really? I’ve been told that you were quite an agent.”

“I had my moments.”

“And, yes, Paolo performs certain tasks that I require from time to time,” Larocque said. “I thought it best he stay close to me, after all that happened last week.”

“Henrik Thorvaldsen is dead because of you,” Malone declared.

“How is that possible? I never knew the man until he interjected himself in my business. He left me at the Eiffel Tower and I never saw him again.” She paused. “You never said. How did you know I’d be here today?”

“There are people smarter than you in this world.”

He saw she did not appreciate the insult.

“I’ve been watching,” he said. “You found Caroline Dodd faster than I thought. How long did it take to learn about this place?”

“Miss Dodd was quite forthcoming. She explained the clues, but I decided to find another way beneath the basilica. I assumed there were other paths in and out, and I was right. We found the correct tu

“And Dodd?”

Larocque shook her head. “She reminded me far too much of Lord Ashby’s treachery, so Paolo dealt with her.”

A gun appeared in Ambrosi’s right hand.

“You still have not answered my question,” Larocque said.

“When you left your residence earlier,” Malone said. “I assumed you were coming here. Time to claim your prize, right? You’ve been working on some contract help to transport this fortune out of here.”

“Which has been difficult,” she said. “Luckily, there are people in this world who will do anything for money. We’ll have to break all this down into smaller, sealed crates, then hand-carry it out of here.”

“You’re not afraid they’ll talk?”

“The crates will be sealed before they arrive.”

A slight nod of his head acknowledged the wisdom of her foresight.

“How did you get down here?” she asked.

He pointed above. “Through the front door.”

“Are you still working for the Americans?” she asked. “Thorvaldsen did tell me about you.”

“I’m working for me.” He motioned around him. “I came for this.”

“You don’t strike me as a treasure hunter.”

He sat atop one of the chests and rested nerves dulled by insomnia and its unfortunate companion, despondency. “That’s where you’re wrong. I love treasure. Who wouldn’t? I especially enjoy denying it to worthless pieces of crap like you.”

She laughed off his touch of drama. “I’d say you’re the one who’s going to be denied.”

He shook his head. “Your game is over. No more Paris Club. No more financial manipulation. No treasure.”

“I can’t imagine that is the case.”

He ignored her. “Unfortunately, there are no witnesses left alive, and precious little other evidence, to actually try you for a crime. So take this talk as your one and only get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Larocque smiled at his ridicule. “Are you always so gregarious in the face of your own death?”

He shrugged. “I’m a carefree kind of guy.”

“Do you believe in fate, Mr. Malone?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not really.”

“I do. In fact, I govern my life by fate. My family has done the same for centuries. When I learned that Ashby was dead, I consulted an oracle I possess, and asked a simple question. Will my name be immortalized and will posterity applaud it? Would you like to hear the answer I was given?”

He humored her. “Sure.”

“A good-humored mate will be a treasure, which thine eyes will delight to look upon.” She paused. “The next day I found this.”

And she motioned at the lighted cavern.

He’d had enough.

He raised his right arm, pointed his index finger downward, and twirled, signaling Larocque should turn around.

She caught his message and stole a glance over her right shoulder. Behind her stood Stephanie Nelle and Sam Collins.

Both held guns.

“Did I mention that I didn’t come alone?” Malone said. “They waited until you arrived to come down.”

Larocque faced him. Anger in her eyes confirmed what he already knew. So he said what she was surely thinking, “Delight to look upon it, madame, because that’s all you get.”

Sam relieved Ambrosi of his gun. No resistance was offered.

“And I’d keep it that way,” Malone said to Ambrosi. “Sam there got dinged with a bullet. Hurt like hell, but he’s okay. He’s the one who shot Peter Lyon. His first kill. I told him the second would be a whole lot easier.”

Ambrosi said nothing.

“He also watched Henrik Thorvaldsen die. He’s still in a piss-poor mood. So am I, and Stephanie. We’d all three just as soon shoot you both dead. Lucky for you, we aren’t murderers. Too bad neither of you can say the same.”

“I’ve killed no one,” Larocque said.

“No, you just encourage others to do it and profit from the acts.” He stood. “Now get the hell out.”

Larocque stood her ground. “What will happen to this?”

He cleared his throat of emotion. “That’s not for me or you to decide.”

“You realize this is my family’s birthright. My ancestor was instrumental in destroying Napoleon. He searched for this treasure until the day he died.”

“I told you to get out.”

He’d like to think this was how Thorvaldsen would have handled the matter, and the thought provided a small measure of comfort.

Larocque seemed to accept his rebuke with the knowledge that she had little bargaining power. So she motioned for Ambrosi to lead the way. Stephanie and Sam stepped aside and allowed them both to leave.