The Paris Vendetta

  Anger crept into his voice. For all his faults, every account ever written acknowledged how much Napoleon loved his son. He’d divorced his beloved Josephine and married Marie Louise of Austria simply because he needed a legitimate male heir, one that Josephine could not supply. The boy was but four when Napoleon had been exiled to St. Helena.

  “It is said that within those books was the key to finding Napoleon’s cache—what the emperor skimmed for himself. He supposedly secreted that wealth away, in a place only he knew. The amount was enormous.”

  He paused again.

  “Napoleon possessed a plan, Cotton. Something he was counting on. You’re right, he played a game of wills with Lowe on St. Helena, but nothing was ever resolved. Saint-Denis was his most loyal servant, and I’m betting Napoleon trusted him with the most important bequest of all.”

  “What does this have to do with Graham Ashby?”

  “He’s after that lost cache.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Suffice it to say that I do. In fact, Ashby desperately needs it. Or, more accurately, this Paris Club needs it. Its founder is a woman named Eliza Larocque, and she holds information that may lead to its discovery.”

  He glanced away from the dresser, toward the bed where Cai had slept all his life.

  “Is all this necessary?” Malone asked. “Can’t you let it go?”

  “Was finding your father necessary?”

  “I didn’t do it to kill anyone.”

  “But you had to find him.”

  “It’s been a long time, Henrik. Things have to end.” The words carried a somber tone.

  “Since the day I buried Cai, I swore that I would discover the truth about what happened that day.”

  “I’m going to Mexico,” Cai said to him. “I’m to be chief deputy of our consulate there.”

  He saw the excitement in the young man’s eyes, but had to ask, “And when does all this end? I need you to take over the family concerns.”

  “As if you’d actually let me decide anything.”

  He admired his son, whose wide shoulders stretched straight as a soldier’s, his body lithe as an athlete’s. The eyes were identical to his from long ago, brittle blue, boyish at first glance, disconcertingly mature on further acquaintance. In so many ways he was like Lisette. Many times he felt as if he were actually talking to her again.

  “I would allow you to make decisions,” he made clear. “I’m ready to retire.”

  Cai shook his head. “Papa, you will never retire.”

  He’d taught his son what his father had taught him. People can be read by gauging what they wanted in life. And his son knew him well.

  “How about only another year with public service,” he said. “Then home. Is that acceptable?”

  A feeling of remorse filled him.

  Another year.

  He faced Malone.

  “Cotton, Amando Cabral killed my only child. He’s now dead. Graham Ashby likewise will be held accountable.”

  “So kill him and be done with it.”

  “Not good enough. First I want to take from him all that is precious. I want him humiliated and disgraced. I want him to feel the pain I feel every day.” He paused. “But I need your help.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  He reached out and clasped his friend’s shoulder.

  “What about Sam and his Paris Club?” Malone asked.

  “We’re going to deal with that, too. It can’t be ignored. We have to see what’s there. Sam derived much of his information from a friend in Paris. I’d like for you two to pay that man a visit. Learn what you can.”

  “And when we do, are you going to kill all of them, too?”

  “No. I’m going to join them.”

  EIGHTEEN

  PARIS, FRANCE

  1:23 PM

  MALONE LOVED PARIS. HE REGARDED IT AS A DELIGHTFUL CONJUNCTION of old and new, every corner volatile and alive. He’d visited the city many times when he worked with the Magellan Billet, and knew his way around its medieval hovels. He wasn’t happy, though, with this assignment.

  “How did you get to know this guy?” he asked Sam.

  They’d flown from Copenhagen on a midmorning flight directly to Charles de Gaulle Airport and taken a taxi downtown into the boisterous Latin Quarter, named long ago for the only language then permitted within the university precinct. Like almost everything else, Napoleon abolished the use of Latin, but the name stuck. Officially known as the fifth arrondissement, the quarter remained a haven for artists and intellectuals. Students from the nearby Sorbonne dominated its cobblestones, though tourists were drawn to both the ambience and the staggering array of shops, cafés, galleries, bookstalls, and nightclubs.

  “We met online,” Sam said.

  He listened as Sam told him about Jimmy Foddrell, an American expatriate who’d come to Paris to study economics and decided to stay. Foddrell had started a website three years ago—GreedWatch.net—that became popular among the New Age/world conspiratorialist crowd. The Paris Club was one of its more recent obsessions.

  You never know, Thorvaldsen had said earlier. Foddrell is getting his information somewhere, and there might be something we can use.

  Since Malone couldn’t argue with that logic, he’d agreed to come.

  “Foddrell has a master’s in global economics from the Sorbonne,” Sam told him.

  “And what has he done with it?”

  They stood before a squatty-looking church labeled ST.-JULIENLE-PAUVRE, supposedly the oldest in Paris. Down Rue Galande, off to their right, Malone recognized the line of old houses and steeples as one of the most painted scenes of the Left Bank. To their left, just across a busy boulevard and the tranquil Seine, stood Notre Dame, busy with Christmastime visitors.

  “Nothing I know of,” Sam said. “He seems to work on his website—big into worldwide economic conspiracies.”

  “Which makes it tough to get a real job.”

  They left the church and walked toward the Seine, following a well-kept lane checkered by winter sunlight. A chilly breeze stirred leaves along the dry pavement. Sam had emailed Foddrell and requested a meeting, which led to another email exchange, which finally instructed them to go to 37 Rue de la Bûcherie, which Malone now saw was, of all things, a bookshop.

  Shakespeare & Company.

  He knew the place. Every Parisian guidebook noted this secondhand shop as a cultural landmark. More than fifty years old, started by an American who modeled it after and named it for Sylvia Beach’s famous Parisian store from the early 20th century. Beach’s kindness and free lending policies made her den mother to many a noted writer—Hemingway, Pound, Fitzgerald, Stein, and Joyce included. This reincarnation was little of that, yet it had managed to carve for itself a popular bohemian niche.

  “Your friend a book guy?” Malone asked.

  “He mentioned this place once. He actually lived here for a while, when he first came to Paris. The owner allows it. There are cots among the shelves inside. In return, you have to work around the store and read a book each day. Sounded a little goofy to me.”

  He grinned.

  He’d read about those boarders, who called themselves tumble-weeds, some staying for months at a time. And he’d visited the shop in years past, but he actually preferred another secondhand vendor, The Abbey Bookstore, a couple of blocks over, which had provided him with some excellent first editions.

  He stared at the eclectic wooden façade, alive with color, which seemed unsteady on its stone foundations. Empty wooden benches lined the storefront beneath rickety casement windows. Christmas being only forty-eight hours away explained why the sidewalk was busy, and why a steady flow of people paraded in and out of the shop’s main doors.

  “He told us to go upstairs,” Sam said, “to the mirror of love. Whatever that is.”

  They entered.

  Inside reeked of age, with twisted oak beams overhead and cracked tiles underfoot. Books were stacked haphazardly on sag
ging shelves that stretched across every wall. More books were piled on the floor. Light came from bare bulbs screwed into tacky brass chandeliers. People bundled in coats, gloves, and scarves browsed the shelves.

  He and Sam climbed a red staircase to the next floor. At the top, amid children’s books, he caught sight of a long wall mirror plastered with handwritten notes and photos. Most were thank-yous from people who’d resided in the shop over the years. Each loving and sincere, reflecting an admiration for their apparent once-in-a-lifetime experience. One card, a bright pink, taped near the center, caught his eye.

  Sam, remember our talk last year.

  Who I said was right.

  Check out his book in the Business section.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Malone muttered. “Is this guy on medication?”

  “I know. He’s paranoid as hell. Always has been. He dealt with me only after he confirmed that I worked with the Secret Service. Always with a password, though, which changed all the time.”

  Malone was seriously wondering if this was worth the trouble. But he wanted to confirm a hunch, so he stepped across the upper floor, ducked through a low doorway that bore the curious admonition BE NOT INHOSPITABLE TO STRANGERS LEST THEY BE ANGELS IN DISGUISE, to a casement window.

  When they’d left the churchyard and strolled toward the shop, he’d first noticed the man. Tall, rail-thin, dressed in baggy khaki pants, a waist-length navy coat, and black shoes. He’d stayed a hundred feet behind them and, as they’d loitered out front, their tail had stopped, too, near one of the cafés.

  Now Skinny was entering the shop below.

  Malone needed to be sure, so he turned from the window and asked, “Does Foddrell know what you look like?”

  Sam nodded. “I sent him a picture.”

  “I assume he did not reciprocate?”

  “I never asked.”

  He thought again of the mirror of love. “So tell me, who is it Foddrell said was right?”

  NINETEEN

  LONDON

  1:25 PM

  ASHBY STROLLED INTO WESTMINSTER ABBEY AMID A CROWD that had just emerged from several tour buses.

  His spine always tingled when he entered this shrine.

  Here was a place that could recount English history back more than a millennium. A former Benedictine monastery, now the seat of government and heart of the Anglican Church. Every English monarch, save two, since the time of William the Conqueror had been crowned here. Only its French influences bothered him, though understandable given that the design had been inspired by the great French cathedrals at Reims, Amiens, and Sainte-Chapelle. But he’d always agreed with how one British observer described Westminister.

  A great French thought expressed in excellent English.

  He stopped at the gate and paid his admission, then followed a throng into Poets’ Corner, where visitors congregated near wall monuments and statuary depicting images of Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Milton, and Longfellow. Many more of the greats lay around him, among them Tennyson, Dickens, Kipling, Hardy, Browning. His gaze surveyed the chaotic scene and finally settled on a man standing before Chaucer’s tomb, sporting a glen-plaid suit with a cashmere tie. A pair of caramel-colored gloves sheathed empty hands and a handsome style of Gucci loafers protected his broad feet.

  Ashby approached and, as he admired the tomb’s five-hundred-year-old stonework, asked, “Do you know the painter Godfrey Kneller?”

  The man scrutinized him with a pair of rheumy eyes whose amber color was both distinctive and disturbing. “I believe I do. A great court artist of the 18th century. He’s buried at Twickenham, I believe.”

  The reference to Twickenham signaled the correct response, the strained Irish accent an interesting touch. So he said, “I’m told Kneller harbored a great aversion toward this place, though there is a memorial dedicated to him near the east cloister door.”

  The man nodded. “His exact words, I believe, were, By God I will not be buried in Westminster. They do bury fools there.”

  The quotation confirmed that this was the man he’d talked with on the telephone. The voice then was different, more throaty, less nasal, no accent.

  “Top of the morning to you, Lord Ashby,” the man said, adding a smile.

  “And what should I call you?”

  “How about Godfrey? In honor of the great painter. He was quite correct in his assessment of the souls laid to rest within these walls. There are a great many fools buried here.”

  He took in the man’s coarse features, scrutinizing a cob nose, satchel mouth, and scrubby salt-and-pepper beard. But it was the reptilian amber eyes, framed by bushy eyebrows, that arrested his attention.

  “I assure you, Lord Ashby, this is not my real appearance. So don’t waste your time memorizing it.”

  He wondered why someone who went to so much trouble to be in disguise allowed his most noticeable feature—the eyes—to remain so startling. But all he said was, “I like to know about the men I do business with.”

  “And I prefer to know nothing as to my clients. But you, Lord Ashby, are an exception. You, I have learned a great deal about.”

  He wasn’t particularly interested in this demon’s mind games.

  “You’re the sole shareholder of a great British banking institution, a wealthy man who enjoys life. Even the queen herself counts you as an adviser.”

  “And surely, you possess an equally exciting existence.”

  The man smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “I have no interests, other than pleasing you, my lord.”

  He did not appreciate the sarcasm, but let it pass. “Are you prepared to carry through on what we discussed?”

  The man ambled toward a row of monuments, gazing at the memorials like the other visitors surrounding them. “That depends if you’re prepared to deliver, as I requested.”

  He reached into his pocket and removed a set of keys. “These open the hangar. The plane is there, waiting with a full tank of petrol. Its registration is Belgian, its owner fictitious.”

  Godfrey accepted the keys. “And?”

  The gaze from the amber eyes brought a new wave of uncomfortableness. He handed over a slip of paper. “The number and pass code for the Swiss account, as you requested. Half payment is there. The other half will come after.”

  “The timetable you wanted is two days from now. Christmas Day. Is that still correct?”

  Ashby nodded.

  Godfrey pocketed the keys and the paper. “Things certainly will change then.”

  “That’s the whole idea.”

  The man gave a slight chuckle and they strolled farther into the cathedral, stopping before a plaque that indicated a date of death in 1669. Godfrey motioned to the wall and said, “Sir Robert Stapylton. Do you know him?”

  He nodded. “A dramatic poet, knighted by Charles II.”

  “As I recall, he was a French Benedictine monk who turned Protestant and became a servant of the Crown. Gentleman Usher of the Privy Chamber to Charles, I believe.”

  “You know your English history.”

  “He was an opportunist. A man of ambition. Someone who did not let principle interfere with objective. A lot like you, Lord Ashby.”

  “And you.”

  Another chuckle. “Hardly. As I’ve made clear, I am but hired help.”

  “Expensive help.”

  “Good help always is. Two days’ time. I’ll be there. You be sure to not forget your final obligation.”

  He watched as the man called Godfrey disappeared into the south ambulatory. He’d dealt with many people in his life, but the amoral despot who’d just left genuinely made him uneasy. How long he’d been in Britain was unknown. The first call came a week ago, and the details of their relationship had subsequently been finalized through more unexpected calls. Ashby had easily arranged his end of the bargain, and he’d been patiently waiting for confirmation that Godfrey had done the same.

  Now he knew.

  Two days.

 
TWENTY

  LOIRE VALLEY

  2:45 PM

  THORVALDSEN HAD BEEN DRIVEN SOUTH, FROM PARIS, TO A quiet French hollow sheltered by vine-clad hills. The château sat moored like a ship in the middle of the meandering Cher, about fifteen kilometers from where the muddy river entered the more majestic Loire. Bridging the waterway, its charming frontage of brick, stone, turrets, spires, and a conical slate roof bordered on the fantastical. Not gray, or severely constructed for defense, or decaying from neglect, instead it cast a whimsical air of medieval majesty.

  He sat in the château’s main salon beneath chestnut rafters, magnificent in their centuries-old workmanship. Two wrought-iron electric candelabra provided harsh light. The paneled walls were dotted with superb canvases by Le Sueur, a work by Van Dyck, and some first-rate oil portraits of what he assumed were cherished ancestors. The château’s owner sat across from him in an exquisite Henri II leather armchair. She possessed a charming voice, quiet manners, and memorable features. From everything he knew about Eliza Larocque, she was clear-sighted and decisive, but also stubborn and obsessive.

  He could only hope that the latter trait proved correct.

  “I’m somewhat surprised by your visit,” she said to him.

  Though her smile seemed sincere, it flashed too automatically.

  “I’ve known of your family for many years,” he told her.

  “And I know your porcelain. We have quite a collection in the dining room. Two circles, with a line beneath—that symbol represents the ultimate in quality.”

  He bowed his head, acknowledging her compliment. “My family has worked for centuries to establish that reputation.”