The Paris Vendetta

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 sagging 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.”

Her dark eyes displayed a peculiar mixture of curiosity and caution. She was clearly uneasy, and trying hard to conceal it. His detectives had informed him of her jet’s arrival. They’d then tracked her from Orly Airport until sure of her destination. So while Malone and Sam trawled for information in Paris, he’d headed south to do some fishing of his own.

“I have to say, Herre Thorvaldsen,” she said, keeping to English, “I agreed to see you out of curiosity. I flew from New York last night, so I’m a bit fatigued and not up to visitors.”

He watched her face, a pleasant composition of graceful curves, noticing the corners of her mouth as they angled into another smile of an accomplished manipulator.

“Is this your family’s country estate?” he asked, trying to keep her off guard, and he caught a momentary flush of annoyance.

She nodded. “Built in the 16th century. Modeled after Chenonceau, which stands not far from here. Another idyllic wonder.”

He admired a dark oak mantelpiece across the room. Unlike other French homes he’d visited, which were bare and suggestive of tombs, this house was clearly no sepulcher.

“You realize, Madame Larocque, that my financial resources are substantially greater than yours. Perhaps by as much as ten billion euros.”

He studied her high cheekbones, serious eyes, and firm mouth. He thought the stark contrast between her creamy patina and her ebony hair intentional. Given her age, he doubted if the hair color was natural. She was, without question, an attractive woman. Confident and smart, too. Accustomed to having her way-unaccustomed to bluntness.

“And how would the fact of your obvious wealth interest me?”

He allowed a measured pause to break the natural flow between them, then said, “You’ve insulted me.”

Puzzlement crept into her eyes. “How is that possible? We just met.”

“I control one of the largest and most successful corporations in Europe. My ancillary businesses, which include oil and gas, telecommunications, and manufacturing, stretch globally. I employ more than eighty thousand people. My annual revenues far exceed those of all your entities combined. Yet you insult me.”

“Herre Thorvaldsen, you must explain yourself.”

She was off guard. But that was the beauty of blind attacks. The advantage always lay with the attacker. True in Mexico City two years ago-equally true here today.

“I want to be a part of what you’re planning,” he declared.

“And what is that?”

“Though I wasn’t on your jet last evening, I can only surmise Robert Mastroianni-a friend of mine, by the way-has been extended an invitation. Yet I am to be shunned.”

She kept her face as stone cold as a grave marker. “An invitation to what?”

“The Paris Club.”

He decided to not allow her the luxury of a response. “You have a fascinating ancestry. Directly descended from Carlo Andrea Pozzo di Borgo, who was born near Ajaccio, Corsica, on March 8, 1764. He became the implacable foe of Napoleon Bonaparte. With marvelous skill, he manipulated international politics to the eventual undoing of his lifelong enemy. A classic Corsican vendetta. His weapons not guns or bombs, but the intrigues of diplomacy. Its coup de grâce, the destiny of nations.”

He paused while her mind chewed on his facts.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “I’m not an enemy. Quite the contrary. I admire what you are doing, and want to be a part.”

“Assuming for a moment that what you say is even partly true, why would I entertain such a request?”

Her voice was warm and lazy, signaling not the slightest hint of alarm. So he allowed his face to take on an equal look of shrewdness. “The answer to that is quite simple.”

She was listening.

“You have a security leak.”

TWENTY-ONE

PARIS

MALONE FOLLOWED SAM BACK DOWNSTAIRS, WHERE THEY LOCATED a row of cluttered shelves marked BUSINESS.

“Foddrell and I email each other a lot,” Sam said. “He’s big against the Federal Reserve system. Calls it a giant conspiracy that will be the downfall of America. Some of what he says makes sense, but most of his views are really out there.”

He smiled. “Good to see you have limits.”

“Contrary to what you think, I’m not a fanatic. I just think that there are people out there who can manipulate our financial systems. Not to take over the planet or destroy the world. Just for greed. An easy way to get, or stay, rich. What they do can affect national economies in a lot of ways, none of which are good.”

He didn’t disagree, but there was still the matter of proof. Before they’d left Christiangade he’d perused both Sam’s and Jimmy Foddrell’s websites. Not all that dissimilar, except, as Sam noted, Foddrell’s predicted global gloom and doom in a more radical tone.

He grabbed Sam by the shoulder. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“That note upstairs is talking about a book, written by a certified financial planner, who’s also into the same kind of things Foddrell and I talk about. A few months ago, I found a copy and read it.”

He released his grip and watched as Sam scanned the crowded shelves.

Malone’s trained eye also assessed the books. He saw that they were a hodgepodge of titles, most of which he would have never bought from people who lugged them into his shop by the crateful. He assumed that since they were for sale in Paris, on the Left Bank, a few hundred yards from the Seine and Notre Dame, their value elevated.

“Here it is.”

Sam removed an oversized gold-colored paperback, titled The Creature from Jekyll Island: A Second Look at the Federal Reserve.

“Foddrell had to leave this here,” Sam said. “There’s no way there just happened to be a copy. It’s pretty obscure.”

People continued to browse. More wandered in from the cold. Malone casually searched for Skinny, but didn’t see him. He was reasonably sure what was happening, but decided patience was the call of this day.

He relieved Sam of the book and thumbed through the pages until he spotted a slip of paper pressed inside.

Back to the mirror.

He shook his head.

They returned to the upper floor and saw written on the same pink note that had led them downstairs:

Café d’Argent, 34 Rue Dante

Thirty minutes

Malone stepped back across the upper floor to the casement window. The plane trees below stood lifeless, limbs bare as brooms, their spindly shadows already lengthening in the midafternoon sun. Three years ago he and Gary had visited the International Spy Museum in Washington, DC. Gary had wanted to learn about what his father did for a living, and the museum turned out to be fascinating. They’d enjoyed the exhibits and he’d bought Gary a book, Handbook of Practical Spying, a lighthearted look at spy craft. One of the chapters, titled “Keeping Caution from the Wind,” explained how contacts could be safely approached.

So he waited, knowing what was coming.

Sam stepped close.

He heard the door below open, then close, and he spotted Skinny leaving the shop holding what appeared, in color and shape, to be the Jekyll Island book from downstairs.

“It’s an old ploy that nobody ever uses,” he said. “A way to check out who wants to meet you. Your friend has been watching too many spy movies.”

“He was here?”

He nodded. “He seemed interested in us when we were out front, then came inside and, I assume, hid behind the shelves downstairs while we found the book. Since you sent him your picture, he knew who to look for. Once satisfied that I looked okay, he came back up here before we did, and went back down a minute ago.”

“You think that’s Foddrell?” Sam asked, pointing.

“Who else could it be?”

ELIZA CAME ALERT. NOT ONLY DID HENRIK THORVALDSEN KNOW her business, he apparently knew something she didn’t. “A security leak?”

“One of the individuals, part of your Paris Club, is not what he appears to be.”

“I haven’t said that any club exists.”

“Then you and I have nothing more to talk about.”

Thorvaldsen rose.

“I’ve enjoyed my visit to your estate. If you ever come to Denmark, I would be pleased to host you at my home, Christiangade. I’ll leave you now so you may rest from your trip.”

She gave a cautious laugh. “Are you always so grandiose?”

He shrugged. “Today, two days before Christmas, I took the time to travel here and speak with you. If you insist that there is nothing for us to discuss, then I shall leave. The presence of your security problem will eventually become obvious. Hopefully, the damage will be minimal.”

She’d acted so carefully, choosing her members with deliberate care, limiting the total to seven, herself included. Each recruit had signaled acceptance by anteing a twenty-million-euro initiation. Each had also taken an oath of secrecy. Early efforts in South America and Africa had generated unprecedented profits, and secured everyone’s continued allegiance, since nothing fortified a conspiracy better than success. Yet this Dane of immense wealth and influence, an outsider, seemed to know everything.

“Tell me, Herre Thorvaldsen, are you seriously interested in joining?”

His eyes twinkled for a moment. She’d struck a chord.

He was a squat man, made even shorter by a crooked spine and bent knees. He wore a baggy sweater, oversized corduroy trousers, and dark sneakers, perhaps as a way to mask the deformity. His thick silver hair hung long, unkempt. His tufted eyebrows flared bushy, like wire brushes. Wrinkles in his face had evolved into deep clefts. He could have easily been mistaken for a homeless person, but maybe that was the whole idea.

“Can we stop the pretense?” he asked. “I came for a specific reason. One, I hoped, was to our mutual benefit.”

“Then, by all means, let us talk.”

His impatience seemed to recede as he sensed her concession.

He sat. “I learned of your Paris Club through careful investigation.”

“And what piqued your interest?”

“I became aware of some skillful manipulation occurring in certain foreign currency exchanges. Clearly, not natural occurrences. Of course, there are sites on the Internet that profess to know a lot more about you, and your activities, than I do.”

“I’ve read some of those. You surely know that such postings are nonsense.”

“I would agree.” He paused. “But one in particular caught my eye. I believe it’s called GreedWatch. That site has surely been striking a bit too close to home. I like the quotation at the top of its home page, from Sherlock Holmes. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”

She knew the site and its webmaster, and Thorvaldsen was correct. It had struck close. Which was why, three weeks ago, she’d ordered remedial measures. She wondered, did this man know about those, too? Why else mention that specific website?

Thorvaldsen reached into his trouser pocket, withdrew a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to her. “I printed that off GreedWatch yesterday.”

She unfolded and read.

Has an Antichrist Come?

If you analyze the current systematic conquering of the independent countries of the world you can easily find that, behind all of these aggressions, a pattern of unique power emerges that includes economy, military, media, and politicians. I will try to present that this power belongs to the world’s financiers. I think an Antichrist is at the head of these tyrants. Her name is Eliza Larocque. She wants to rule the world, totally invisibly, by the secretly possessed economic power her family has built through centuries.

There is no safer and more profitable business than lending money to countries. Like financiers joining together, refusing to compete with one another, and manipulating markets and currency to their collective advantage pose a grave threat. Larocque and her associates possess a hierarchically organized structure that buys or acquires shares in everything valuable in the global market. They may, for instance, possess Coca-Cola and PepsiCo and, from the top of their Olympus, watch these companies fight each other on the market. But thanks to the capitalist system and its secret business regulation policy, nobody except them is able to know. By controlling the governments in the Western countries, they control the whole Western world. If you follow global political policy you can easily see that democratically elected leaders of countries change, but policy follows the interests of the rich and therefore stays more or less the same. Numerous elements point out the fact that there is an invisible organization that rules the world. The facts I have collected about Eliza Larocque tells me that she leads that organization. I am talking here about a conspiracy that captures almost the whole world.

She smiled. “Antichrist?”

“Granted, the wording is unorthodox, the conclusions bold, but it is on the right track.”

“I assure you, Herre Thorvaldsen, the last thing I want is to rule the world. Far too much trouble.”

“I agree. You simply want to manipulate it to the mutual advantage of you and your colleagues. If that manipulation has some… political fallout… so what? It’s profit that matters.” Thorvaldsen paused. “That’s why I’m here. I’d like to share in those profits.”

“You couldn’t possibly need money.”

“Nor could you. But that’s not the point, is it?”

She asked, “And what would you have to offer, in return for that sharing?”

“One of your members is in financial trouble. His portfolio has been stretched to the breaking point. He’s heavily in debt. His lifestyle demands massive amounts of capital, money he simply does not have. A series of bad investments, overextensions, and carelessness have brought him to the verge of collapse.”

“Why does this man interest you?”

“He doesn’t. But in order to command your attention, I knew that I would have to provide something that you don’t already know. This seemed ideal for that purpose.”

“And why should I care about this man’s troubles?”

“Because he’s your security leak.”

Her spine shivered. Everything she’d envisioned could be in jeopardy if one of the chosen had sold out the others.

She needed to know, “Who is this man?”

“Lord Graham Ashby.”

TWENTY-TWO

ENGLAND

A LATE LUNCH WAS WAITING FOR ASHBY WHEN HE RETURNED to Salen Hall. His paternal family’s ancestral seat was a classical battlemented manor, perched amid twenty-four forested hectares to which Ashbys had held the title since 1660.

He entered the main dining room and took his customary seat at the north end of the table where a portrait of his great-grandfather, the sixth duke of Ashby, a close confidant of Queen Victoria I, watched his back. Outside, frigid December air swirled with white flakes-a prelude, he believed, to a coming snow and Christmas, just two days away.

“I heard you’d returned,” a female voice said.

He glanced up from the table at Caroline. She was wearing a full-length silk charmeuse gown, bare legs slipping in and out of a high-cut slit. A kimono-style robe covered her thin shoulders, open in front, the gown’s golden coloring matching her long, curly hair.

“I see you’ve dressed as a good mistress should.” She smiled. “Isn’t that my job? To please the master?” He liked their give-and-take. His wife’s prudish ways had long ago become tiresome. She lived in London, her apartment filled with pyramids under which she lay for hours each day, hoping their magical power would cleanse her soul. He hoped the apartment would burn, with her inside it, but no such luck had come his way. He’d been lucky, though, in that they were childless, estranged for years, which explained his many mistresses, Caroline the latest and longest lasting.

Three things, though, distinguished Caroline from all of the others.

First, she was extraordinarily beautiful-a collection of the best physical attributes he’d ever seen gathered around one spine. Second, she was brilliant. Her degrees, one from the University of Edinburgh, the other from University College of London, were in medieval literature and applied ancient history. Her master’s thesis had been devoted to the Napoleonic Age and its effects on modern political thought, especially as it impacted European unification. Finally, he genuinely liked this woman. Her sensuous ways stimulated him in ways he’d never thought possible.

“I missed you last night,” she said as she sat at the table.

“I was on the boat.”

“Business or pleasure?”

She knew her place, he’d give her that. No jealousies. No demands. Strangely, though, he’d never cheated on her. And he often wondered if she was equally as loyal. But he realized the path of privacy flowed two ways. They were each free to do as they pleased.

“Business,” he said, then added, “as always.”

A footman appeared and laid a plate on the table before him. He was delighted to see a celery heart wrapped in ham, smothered in the tart cheese sauce he loved.

He lapped his napkin and lifted a fork.

“No, thank you,” Caroline said to him. “I’m not hungry. None for me.”

He caught the sarcasm but kept eating. “You’re a big girl. I assume you’d have something brought if you wanted it.”

She had the run of the estate, the staff at her complete disposal. His wife never visited the house anymore. Thank goodness. Unlike her, Caroline treated the employees with kindness. She actually did a good job looking after things, which he appreciated.

“I ate a couple of hours ago,” she said.

He finished his celery and was pleased by the entrée the footman presented. Roasted partridge with sweet dressing. He acknowledged his pleasure with a nod and signaled for another pat of butter for his roll.

“Did you find the damn gold?” she finally asked.

He’d intentionally kept silent about his success in Corsica, waiting for her to inquire. More of their give-and-take.

Which he knew she liked, too.

He gripped another fork. “Right where you said it would be.”

She’d been the one who’d discovered the connection between Gustave’s and the Corsican’s books and the Roman numerals. She’d also discovered, from some research conducted in Barcelona a few weeks ago, the Moor’s Knot. He was glad to have her on his side, and knew what was now expected of him.

“I’ll have a few bars set aside for you.”

She nodded her appreciation. “And I’ll see to it that you have a lovely evening tonight.”

“I could use some relaxation.”

The charmeuse in her gown shimmered as she edged closer to the table. “That solves your money problems.”

“For the foreseeable future. I estimated as much as a hundred million euros in gold.”

“And my few bars?”

“A million. Maybe more, depending on how lovely my evening is tonight.”

She laughed. “How about dress-up? The schoolgirl sent to the headmaster’s office? That’s always fun.”

He was feeling good. After a disastrous couple of years, things were finally starting to go right. The bad times had begun when Amando Cabral had grown careless in Mexico and nearly brought them both down. Thankfully, Cabral solved that problem. Then a combination of poor investments, failing markets, and inattention cost him millions. With near-perfect timing, Eliza Larocque had appeared at his estate and offered salvation. It had taken all he could do to amass the twenty million euros needed to buy his admittance, but he’d managed.

Now he’d finally generated room to breathe.

He finished his entrée.

“I have a surprise for you,” Caroline said.

This woman was a rare combination. Part tramp, part academician, and quite good at both.

“I’m waiting,” he said.

“I think I may have discovered a new link.”

He caught her amused expression and asked, “Think?”

“Actually, I know I have.”

TWENTY-THREE

PARIS

SAM FOLLOWED MALONE AS THEY FLED THE BOOKSTORE INTO the brisk afternoon. Foddrell had turned away from the Seine and plunged deeper into the Latin Quarter’s chaotic streets, each one crowded with excited holiday revelers.

“There’s no way to know if anyone’s on your tail in this crowd,” Malone said. “But he knows our faces, so let’s stay back.”

“He doesn’t seem to care if anyone’s following. He hasn’t looked back once.”

“He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”

“He’s going to the Café d’Argent?”

“Where else?”

They kept a normal pace, submerged within the sweeping tide of commerce. Cheese, vegetables, fruit, chocolate, and other delicacies, displayed in wooden bins, spilled into the street. Sam noticed fish lying on gleaming beds of ice, and meat, boned and rolled, chilling in refrigerated cases. Farther on, an ice-cream shop offered Italian gelato in a variety of tempting flavors.

Foddrell stayed a hundred feet ahead.

“What do you really know about this guy?” Malone asked.

“Not a whole lot. He latched on to me maybe a year ago.”

“Which, by the way, is another reason the Secret Service doesn’t want you doing what you’re doing. Too many crazies, too many risks.”

“Then why are we here?” he asked.

“Henrik wanted us to make contact. You tell me, why is that?”

“Are you always so suspicious?”

“It’s a healthy affliction. One that’ll prolong your life.”

They passed more cafés, art galleries, boutiques, and souvenir shops. Sam was pumped. Finally, he was in the field, doing what agents did.

“Let’s split up,” Malone said. “Less chance of him recognizing us. That is if he bothers to look back.”

Sam drifted to one side of the street. He’d been an accounting major at college and almost a CPA. But a government recruiter, who’d visited the campus during his senior year, steered him toward the Secret Service. After graduation, he’d applied and passed the Treasury test, a polygraph exam, complete physical, eye test, and drug screen.

But he was rejected.

Five years later he made it the second time around, after working as an accountant at several national firms, one of which became heavily implicated in a corporate reporting scandal. At the Secret Service’s training center he’d been schooled in firearms, use of force, emergency medical techniques, evidence protection, crime detection, even open-water survival. Then he’d been assigned to the Philadelphia field office, working credit card abuse, counterfeiting, identity theft, and bank fraud.

He knew the score.

Special agents spent their first six to eight years in a field office. After that, depending on performance, they were transferred to a protective detail, where they stayed for another three to five years. Following that, most returned to the field, or transferred to headquarters, or a training office, or some other DC-based assignment. He could have possibly worked overseas in one of the international offices, since he was reasonably fluent in French and Spanish.

Boredom was the reason he’d turned to the Internet. His website had allowed him to explore avenues that he wanted to work as an agent. Investigating electronic fraud had little to do with safeguarding the world’s financial systems. His website provided a forum in which he could express himself. But his extracurricular activities had generated the one thing an agent could never afford. Attention to himself. Twice he was reprimanded. Twice he ignored his superiors. The third time he’d been officially questioned, just two weeks ago, which caused him to flee, flying to Copenhagen and Thorvaldsen. Now here he was, in the liveliest, most picturesque section of Paris, on a cold December day, following a suspect.

Ahead, Foddrell approached one of the quarter’s countless bistros, the quaint sign out front announcing Café d’Argent. Sam slowed and searched the crowd for Malone, finding him fifty feet away. Foddrell disappeared through the front door, then reappeared at an inside table that abutted a plate-glass window

Malone walked over. “All that paranoia and he ends up framed out for the world to see.”

Sam still wore the coat, gloves, and scarf Jesper had provided last night. He could also still see the two corpses. Jesper had cast them away with no ceremony, as if killing was routine. And maybe it was for Henrik Thorvaldsen. He actually knew little about the Dane, other than that he seemed interested in what Sam thought.

Which is a lot more than he could say for anyone else.

“Come on,” Malone said.

They entered the bistro’s brightly lit interior, decorated in a 1950s motif using chrome, vinyl, and neon. The climate was noisy and smoky. Sam caught Foddrell staring at them, clearly recognizing their faces, reveling in his anonymity.

Malone walked straight to where Foddrell sat and slid out one of the vinyl chairs. “You had enough fun?”

“How do you know who I am?” Foddrell asked.

Malone pointed at the book in Foddrell’s lap. “You really should have covered that up. Can we dispense with the drama and get on with this?”

THORVALDSEN LISTENED AS THE MANTELPIECE CLOCK STRUCK half past three, the hour confirmed by more clocks chiming throughout the château. He was making progress, maneuvering Eliza Larocque into a corner where she’d have no choice but to cooperate with him.

“Lord Ashby is broke,” he made clear.

“You have facts to back this up?”

“I never speak without them.”

“Tell me about my security leak.”

“How do you think I learned what I know?”

She threw him a keen, dissecting glance. “Ashby?”

He shook his head. “Not directly. He and I have never met nor spoken. But there are others he’s spoken to, people he approached for financial assistance. They wanted assurances that their loans would be repaid, so he gave them a unique guarantee, one that involved explaining what he was part of. He was quite vocal about the profits to be made.”

“And you don’t plan to tell me any names?”

He assumed a rigid pose. “Why would I do such a thing? What value would I be then?” He knew she had no choice but to accept his offerings.

“You’re quite a problem, Herre Thorvaldsen.”

He chuckled. “That I am.”

“But I’m beginning to like you.”

“I was hoping we might find common ground.” He pointed at her. “As I mentioned earlier, I’ve studied you in detail. Especially your ancestor, Pozzo di Borgo. I found it fascinating how both the British and the Russians made use of his vendetta with Napoleon. I love what he said in 1811, on learning of the birth of the emperor’s heir. Napoleon is a giant who bends down the mighty oaks of the primeval forest. But some day the woodland spirits will break from their disgraceful bondage, then the oaks will suddenly rebound and dash the giant to the earth. Quite prophetic, as that’s precisely what happened.”

He knew this woman sought strength from her heritage. She spoke of it often, and with pride. In that respect they were similar.

“Unlike Napoleon,” she said, “di Borgo remained a true Corsican patriot. He loved his homeland and always placed its interests first. When Napoleon finally occupied Corsica for France, di Borgo’s name was specifically excluded from the list of those granted political amnesty. So he fled. Napoleon hunted him all over Europe. Di Borgo, though, managed to elude capture.”

“And, at the same time, maneuvered the emperor’s downfall. Quite a feat.”

Thorvaldsen had been schooled on how Pozzo di Borgo exerted pressure on the French court and cabinet, inflaming the jealousies of Napoleon’s many brothers and sisters, eventually becoming a conduit for any and all French opposition. He served with the British at their embassy in Vienna, becoming persona grata in Austrian political circles. Then his real opportunity came when he entered the Russian diplomatic service, as commissioner to the Prussian army. Eventually, he became the tsar’s right hand in all affairs connected with France and convinced Alexander not to make peace with Napoleon. For twelve years he skillfully kept France embroiled in controversy, knowing Napoleon could fight, and win, on only so many fronts. In the end his efforts worked, but his life was one of unrecognized success. History hardly mentioned him. He died in 1842, mentally deranged but incredibly wealthy. His assets were bequeathed to nephews, one of whom was Eliza Larocque’s ancestor, whose descendants multiplied that wealth a hundred times over, establishing one of the great European fortunes.

“Di Borgo carried the vendetta to its end,” he said, “but I wonder, madame, did your Corsican ancestor, in his hatred of Napoleon, have an ulterior purpose?”

Her cold eyes communicated a look of begrudging respect. “Why don’t you tell me what you already know.”

“You’re looking for Napoleon’s lost cache. That’s why Lord Ashby is part of your group. He is-shall we politely say-a collector.”

She smiled at the word. “I see I made a serious error not approaching you long ago.”

Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Thankfully, I do not hold a grudge.”

TWENTY-FOUR

PARIS

MALONE’S PATIENCE WITH JIMMY FODDRELL WAS WEARING thin. “All this cloak-and-dagger crap isn’t necessary. Who the hell’s after you?”

“You have no idea how many people I’ve riled up.”

Malone waved off the younger man’s fear. “News flash. Nobody gives a damn. I’ve read your site. It’s a bunch of garbage. And by the way, there’s medication you can take that’ll ease your paranoia.”

Foddrell faced Sam. “You said you had someone who wanted to learn. Who had an open mind. It’s not this guy, is it?”

“Teach me,” Malone said.

Foddrell’s thin lips parted to show the top of a gold tooth. “Right now, I’m hungry.”

Foddrell motioned for a waiter. Malone listened as the younger man ordered pan-fried veal kidneys in a mustard sauce. Just the thought of that turned his stomach. Hopefully, they’d be done talking before the food arrived. He declined ordering anything for himself.

“I’ll take the côte de boeuf,” Sam said.

“For what?” Malone asked.

“I’m hungry, too.”

He shook his head.

The waiter left and he again asked Foddrell, “Why are you so afraid?”

“There are some powerful people in this town who know all about me.”

Malone told himself to let the fool talk. Somewhere, somehow, they might stumble onto a nugget or two.

“They make us follow them,” Foddrell said. “Even though we don’t know it. They create policy, and we don’t know it. They create our needs and possess the means to satisfy them, and we don’t know it. We work for them, and, we don’t know it. We buy their products, and-”

“Who is they?” he asked.

“People like the U.S. Federal Reserve. One of the most powerful groups in the world.”

He knew he shouldn’t ask, but, “Why do you say that?”

“I thought you said this guy was cool,” Foddrell said to Sam. “He doesn’t know spit.”

“Look,” Malone answered, “I’ve been into the whole alien autopsy, Area 51 thing, for the past few years. This monetary stuff is new to me.”

Foddrell pointed a nervous finger. “Okay, you’re a funny man. You think this is all a big joke.”

“Why don’t you just explain yourself?”

“The Federal Reserve makes money from thin air. Then it loans it back to America and gets repaid by the taxpayers with interest. America owes the Federal Reserve trillions upon trillions. Just the annual interest on that debt, which by the way is mostly controlled by private investors, is approximately eight times bigger than the wealth of the richest man on the planet. It’ll never be paid off. A lot of people are getting filthy rich off that debt. And it’s all a cheat. If you or I printed money, then loaned it out, we’d go to jail.”

Malone recalled something he’d read earlier on Foddrell’s website. Supposedly, John Kennedy had wanted to end the Federal Reserve and signed Executive Order 11110, which instructed the U.S. government to retake control of the nation’s money supply from the Reserve. Three weeks later, Kennedy was dead. When Lyndon Johnson took office, he immediately rescinded that order. Malone had never heard such an accusation before, so he’d checked further and read Executive Order 11110, an innocuous directive whose effect, had it been carried through, would have actually strengthened, rather than weakened, the Federal Reserve system. Any relation to the signing of that order and Kennedy’s assassination was purely coincidental. And Johnson never rescinded the order. Instead, it was purged decades later along with a host of other outdated regulations.

More conspiratorial bullshit.

He decided to get to the point. “What do you know about the Paris Club?”

“Enough to know that we need to be afraid.”

ELIZA STARED AT THORVALDSEN AND SAID, “HAVE YOU EVER wondered what money can really do?”

Her guest shrugged. “My family has amassed so much, over such a long time, I never think about it. But it certainly can provide power, influence, and a comfortable life.”

She assumed a calm air. “It can also do much more. Yugoslavia is an excellent example.”

She saw he was curious.

“Supposedly, in the 1980s, the Yugoslavs were an imperial, fascist regime that committed crimes against humanity. After free elections in 1990, the people of Serbia chose the socialist party, while the people from other Yugoslav republics chose to implement more pro-Western governments. Eventually, the U.S. started a war with Serbia. Prior to that, though, I watched as world policy gradually weakened Yugoslavia, which, at that time, had one of the best economies in Eastern Europe. The U.S.-Serbian war, and subsequent dismantling of Yugoslavia, destroyed any idea that a socialist economy might be a good thing.”

“Serbia was clearly oppressive and dangerous,” Thorvaldsen said.

“Who says? The media? Were they any more oppressive than say, North Korea, China, Iran? Yet no one advocates war with them. Take a match and make a forest fire. That’s what one diplomat told me at the time. The aggressions on Serbia were heavily supported by the mainstream media, along with influential leaders all over the world. That aggression lasted for more than ten years. All of which, by the way, made it quite easy, and far less expensive, to buy the entire former Yugoslav economy.”

“Is that what happened?”

“I know of many investors who took full advantage of that catastrophe.”

“You’re saying all that happened in Serbia was contrived?”

“In a manner of speaking. Not actively, but certainly tacitly. That situation proved that it’s entirely feasible to take advantage of destructive situations. There is profit in political and national discord. Provided, of course, that the discord ends at some point. It’s only then that a return can be made on any investment.”

She was enjoying discussing theory. Rarely was she afforded an opportunity. She wasn’t saying anything incriminating, only repeating observations that many economists and historians had long noted.

“The Rothschilds in the 18th and 19th centuries,” she said, “were masters of this technique. They managed to play all sides, generating enormous profit at a time when Europeans fought among themselves like children on a playground. The Rothschilds were wealthy, international, and independent. Three dangerous qualities. Royal governments could not control them. Popular movements hated them, because they were not answerable to the people. Constitutionalists resented them because they worked in secret.”

“As you are attempting to do?”

“Secrecy is essential for the success of any cabal. I’m sure, Herre Thorvaldsen, you understand how events can be quietly shaped by the simple granting or withholding of funds, or affecting the selection of key personnel, or just maintaining a daily intercourse with decision makers. Being behind the scenes avoids the brunt of public anger, which is directed, as it should be, to open political figures.”

“Who are largely controlled.”

“As if you don’t own a few.” She needed to steer the conversation back on point. “I assume you can produce evidence on Lord Ashby’s treachery?”

“At the appropriate time.”

“Until then, I am to take your word about Lord Ashby’s statements to these unknown financiers?”

“How about this. Allow me to join your group and we shall together discover if I am truthful or a liar. If I am a liar, you can keep my twenty-million-euro admittance fee.”

“But our secrecy would have been compromised.”

“It already is.”

Thorvaldsen’s sudden appearance was unnerving, yet it could also be a godsend. She’d meant what she’d said to Mastroianni-she believed in fate.

Perhaps Henrik Thorvaldsen was meant to be a part of her destiny?

“Might I show you something?” she asked.

MALONE WATCHED AS THE WAITER RETURNED WITH BOTTLED water, wine, and a breadbasket. He’d never been impressed with French bistros. Every one he’d ever visited was either overpriced, overrated, or both.

“Do you really like pan-fried kidneys?” he asked Foddrell.

“What’s wrong with them?”

He wasn’t about to explain the many reasons why ingesting an organ that rid the body of urine was bad. Instead, he said, “Tell me about the Paris Club.”

“You know where the idea came from?”

He saw that Foddrell was enjoying his superior status. “You were a little vague with that on your website.”

“Napoleon. After he conquered Europe, what he really wanted was to settle back and enjoy. So he assembled a group of people and formed the Paris Club, which was designed to make it easier for him to rule. Unfortunately, he never was able to use the idea-too busy fighting war after war.”

“Thought you said he wanted to stop fighting?”

“He did, but others had different ideas. Keeping Napoleon fighting was the best way to keep him off guard. There were people who made sure he always had a crop of enemies at his doorstep. He tried to make peace with Russia, but the tsar told him to stuff it. So he invaded Russia in 1812, an act that nearly cost him his whole army. After that, it was all downhill. Three years later, bye-bye. Deposed.”

“Which tells me nothing.”

Foddrell’s gaze fixed out the window, as if something suddenly caught his attention.

“There a problem?” Malone asked.

“Just checking.”

“Why sit by the window for all to see?”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

The question declared a growing annoyance at being dismissed so easily, but Malone could not care less. “I’m trying to understand.”

“Since you’ve read the website, you know that Eliza Larocque has started a new Paris Club. Same idea. Different time, different people. They meet in a building on the Rue l’Araignée. I know that for a fact. I’ve seen them there. I know a guy who works for one of the members. He contacted me through the website and told me about it. These people are plotting. They’re going to do what the Rothschilds did two hundred years ago. What Napoleon wanted to do. It’s all a grand conspiracy. The New World Order, coming of age. Economics their weapon.”

Sam had sat silent during the exchange. Malone realized that he must see that Jimmy Foddrell existed light-years past any semblance of reality. But he couldn’t resist, “For somebody who’s paranoid, you never even asked my name.”

“Cotton Malone. Sam told me in his email.”

“You don’t know anything about me. What if I’m here to kill you? Like you say, they’re everywhere, watching. They know what you view on the Internet, what books you check out from the library, your blood type, your medical history, your friends.”

Foddrell began to study the bistro, the tables busy with patrons, as though it were a cage. “I gotta go.”

“What about your pan-fried kidneys?”

“You eat them.”

Foddrell sprang from the table and darted for the door.

“He deserved that,” Sam said.

Malone watched as the goofy fellow fled the eatery, studied the crowded sidewalk, then rushed ahead. He was ready to leave, too. Especially before the food arrived.

Then something caught his attention.

Across the busy pedestrian-only street, at one of the art stalls.

Two men in dark wool coats.

Their attention had instantly alerted when Foddrell appeared. Then they followed their gaze, walking swiftly, hands in their pockets, straight after Jimmy Foddrell.

“They’re not tourists,” Sam said.

“You got that right.”

TWENTY-FIVE

SALEN HALL

ASHBY LED CAROLINE THROUGH THE LABYRINTH OF GROUND-floor corridors to the mansion’s northernmost wing. There they entered one of the many parlors, this one converted into Caroline’s study. Inside, books and manuscripts lay scattered across several oak tables. Most of the volumes were more than two hundred years old, bought at considerable expense, located in private collections from as far away as Australia. Some, though, had been stolen by Mr. Guildhall. All were on the same subject.

Napoleon.

“I found the reference yesterday,” Caroline said as she searched the stacks. “In one of the books we bought in Orleans.”

Unlike himself, Caroline was fluent in both modern and old French.

“It’s a late 19th-century treatise, written by a British soldier who served on St. Helena. I’m amused how these people so admired Napoleon. It’s beyond hero worship, as if he could do no wrong. And this one’s by a Brit, no less.”

She handed him the book. Strips of paper protruding from its frayed edges marked pages. “There are so many of these accounts it’s hard to take any of them seriously. But this one is actually interesting.”

He wanted her to know that he may have found something, too. “In the book from Corsica that led to the gold, there’s a mention of Sens.”

Her face lit up. “Really?”

“Contrary to what you might think, I can also discover things.”

She grinned. “And how do you know what I think?”

“It’s not hard to comprehend.”

He told her about the book’s introduction and what Saint-Denis had bequeathed to the city of Sens, especially the specific mention of one volume, The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D.

He saw that something about that title seemed significant. Immediately, she stepped to another of the tables and rummaged through more stacks. The sight of her, so deep in thought, but dressed so provocatively, excited him.

“Here it is,” she said. “I knew that book was important. In Napoleon’s will. Item VI. Four hundred volumes, selected from those in my library of which I have been accustomed to use most, including my copy of The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D., I direct Saint-Denis to take care of them and to convey them to my son when he shall attain the age of sixteen years.”

They were slowly piecing together a puzzle that had not been meant to be deciphered in such a backward manner.

“Saint-Denis was loyal,” she said. “We know he faithfully kept those four hundred books. Of course, there was no way to ever deliver them. He lived in France after Napoleon’s death, and the son stayed a prisoner of the Austrians until he died in 1832.”

“Saint-Denis died in 1856,” he said, recalling what he’d read. “Thirty-five years he stored those books. Then he bequeathed them to the city of Sens.”

She threw him a sly smile. “This stuff charges you, doesn’t it?”

“You charge me.”

She pointed at the book he held. “Before I gladly perform my mistress responsibilities, read what’s at the first marker. I think it might enhance your enjoyment.”

He parted the book. Flakes of dried leather from the brittle binding fluttered to the floor.

Abbé Buonavita, the elder of the two priests on St. Helena, had been for some months crippled to the point where he was really not able to leave his room. One day Napoleon sent for him and explained that it would be better and more prudent for him to return to Europe than to remain at St. Helena, whose climate must be injurious to his health, while that of Italy would probably prolong his days. The Emperor had a letter written to the imperial family requesting payment to the priest of a pension of three thousand francs. When the abbé thanked the Emperor for his goodness he expressed his regret at not ending his days with him to whom he had meant to devote his life. Before he left the island, Buonavita made a last visit to the Emperor, who gave him various instructions and letters to be transmitted to the Emperor’s family and the pope.

“Napoleon was already sick when Buonavita left St. Helena,” Caroline said. “And he died a few months later. I’ve seen the letters Napoleon wanted delivered to his family. They’re in a museum on Corsica. The Brits read everything that came to and from St. Helena. Those letters were deemed harmless, so they allowed the abbé to take them.”

“What’s so special about them now?”

“Would you like to see?”

“You have them?”

“Photos. No sense going all the way to Corsica and not taking pictures. I snapped a few shots when I was there last year researching.”

He studied her piquant nose and chin. Her raised eyebrows. The swell of her breasts. He wanted her.

But first things first.

“You brought me gold bars,” she said. “Now I have something for you.” She lifted a photo of a one-page letter, written in French, and asked, “Notice anything?”

He studied the jagged script.

“Remember,” she said. “Napoleon’s handwriting was atrocious. Saint-Denis rewrote everything. That was known to everyone on St. Helena. But this letter is far from neat. I compared the writing with some we know Saint-Denis penned.”

He caught the mischievous glow in her eyes.

“This one was written by Napoleon himself.”

“Is that significant?

“Without question. He wrote these words without Saint-Denis’ intervention. That makes them even more important, though I didn’t realize how important until earlier.”

He continued to gaze at the photo. “What does it say? My French is not nearly as good as yours.”

“Just a personal note. Speaks of his love and devotion and how much he misses his son. Not a thing to arouse the suspicion of any nosy Brit.”

He allowed himself a grin, then a chuckle. “Why don’t you explain yourself, so we can move on to other business.”

She relieved him of the photo and laid it on the table. She grabbed a ruler and positioned the straightedge beneath one line of the text.

“You see?” she asked. “It’s clearer with the ruler underneath.”

And he saw. A few of the letters were raised from the others. Subtle, but there.

“It’s a code Napoleon used,” she said. “The Brits on St. Helena never noticed. But when I found that account of how Napoleon sent the letters through the abbé, ones he wrote himself, I started looking at these more closely. Only this one has the raised lettering.”

“What do the letters spell?”

“Psaume trente et un.”

That he could translate. “Psalm thirty-one.” Though he did not understand the significance.

“It’s a specific reference,” she said. “I have it here.” She lifted an open Bible from the table. “Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue; be my rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me. Since you are my rock and my fortress, for the sake of your name lead and guide me. Free me from the trap that is set for me.” She glanced up from the book. “That fits Napoleon’s exile perfectly. Listen to this part. My life is consumed by anguish and my years by groaning; my strength fails because of my affliction, and my bones grow weak. Because of all my enemies, I am in utter contempt of my neighbors; I am a dread to my friends-those who see me on the street flee from me. I am forgotten by them as though I were dead.”

“The lament of a man defeated,” he said.

“By the time he wrote the letter he knew the end was near.”

His gaze immediately locked on the copy of Napoleon’s will, lying on the table. “So he left the books to Saint-Denis and told him to hold them until the son was sixteen. Then he mentioned the one book specifically and sent out a coded letter feeling sorry for himself.”

“That book about the Merovingians,” she said, “could be the key.”

He agreed. “We must find it.”

She stepped close, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “Time for you to take care of your mistress.”

He started to speak, but she silenced him with a finger to his lips.

“After, I’ll tell you where the book is located.”

TWENTY-SIX

PARIS

SAM COULDN’T BELIEVE THAT TWO MEN WERE ACTUALLY FOLLOWING Jimmy Foddrell. Malone had been right in the bistro to attack the pedantic moron. He wondered if his superiors at the Secret Service viewed him in the same bewildered way. He’d never been that extreme, or that paranoid, though he had defied authority and advocated similar beliefs. Something about him and rules just didn’t mix.

He and Malone kept pace through the warren of tight streets filled with heads burrowed into heavy coats and sweaters. Restaurateurs braved the cold, hawking their menus, trying to attract diners. He savored the noises, smells, and movements, fighting their hypnotic effect.

“Who do you think those two guys are?” he finally asked.

“That’s the problem with fieldwork, Sam. You never know. It’s all about improvising.”

“Could there be more of them around?”

“Unfortunately, there’s no way to know in all this chaos.”

He recalled movies and TV shows where the hero always seemed to sense danger, no matter how crowded or how far away. But in the hubbub assaulting them from every angle, he realized there’d be no way to perceive anything as a threat until it was upon them.

Foddrell kept walking.

Ahead the pedestrian-only way ended at a busy thoroughfare identified as Boulevard St. Germain-a turmoil of taxis, cars, and buses. Foddrell stopped until a nearby signal thickened traffic to a standstill, then he rushed across the four lanes, thick with a clot of people.

The two men followed.

“Come on,” Malone said.

They raced forward, reaching the curb as traffic signals to their right cycled back to green. Not stopping, he and Malone darted across the boulevard, finding the other side just as motors accelerated past them in high, eager tones.

“You cut it close,” Sam said.

“We can’t lose them.”

The sidewalk’s inner edge was now lined by a waist-high stone wall that supported a wrought-iron fence. People hustled in both directions, their faces bright with energy.

Having no immediate family had always made the holiday season lonely for Sam. The past five Christmases he’d spent on a Florida beach, alone. He never knew his parents. He was raised at a place called the Cook Institute-just a fancy name for an orphanage. He’d come as an infant, his last day a week after his eighteenth birthday.

“I have a choice?” he asked.

“You do,” Norstrum said.

“Since when? There’s nothing here but rules.”

“Those are for children. You’re now a man, free to live your life as you please.”

“That’s it? I’m can go? Bye-bye. See you later.”

“You owe us nothing, Sam.”

He was glad to hear that. He had nothing to give.

“Your choice,” Norstrum said, “is simple. You can stay and become a larger part of this place. Or you can leave.”

That was no choice. “I want to go.”

“I thought that would be the case.”

“It’s not that I’m not grateful. It’s just that I want to go. I’ve had enough of-”

“Rules.”

“That’s right. Enough of rules.”

He knew that many of the instructors and caretakers had been raised here, too, as orphans. But another rule forbid them from talking about that. Since he was leaving, he decided to ask, “Did you have a choice?”

“I chose differently.”

The information shocked him. He’d never known the older man had been an orphan, too.

“Would you do me one favor?” Norstrum asked.

They stood on the campus green, among buildings two centuries old. He knew every square inch of each one, down to their last detail, since everyone was required to help maintain things.

Another of those rules he’d come to hate.

“Be careful, Sam. Think before you act. The world is not as accommodating as we are.”

“Is that what you call it here? Accommodating?”

“We genuinely cared for you.” Norstrum paused. “I genuinely cared for you.”

Not once in eighteen years had he heard such sentiment from this man.

“You are a free spirit, Sam. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Just be carful.”

He saw that Norstrum, whom he’d known all his life, was being sincere.

“Perhaps you’ll find rules on the outside easier to follow. God knows, it was a challenge for you here.”

“Maybe it’s in my genes.”

He was trying to make light, but the comment only reminded him that he had no parents, no heritage. All he’d ever known lay around him. The only man who’d ever given a damn stood beside him. So out of respect, he extended his hand, which Norstrum politely shook.

“I had hoped you’d stay,” the older man quietly said.

Eyes filled with sadness stared back at him.

“Be well, Sam. Try to always do good.”

And he had.

Graduating college with honors, finally making it to the Secret Service. He sometimes wondered if Norstrum was still alive. It had been fourteen years since they’d last spoken. He’d never made contact simply because he did not want to disappoint the man any further.

I had hoped you’d stay.

But he couldn’t.

He and Malone turned a corner onto a side street, off the main boulevard. Ahead, the sidewalk rose toward the next intersection, and another wall with an iron fence stretched to their right. They followed the slow shuffle of feet to the corner and turned. A taller wall, topped with battlements, replaced the fence. Attached to its rough stone hung a colorful banner that announced MUSéE NATIONAL DU MOYEN AGE, THERMES DE CLUNY.

Cluny Museum of Medieval History.

The building that rose beyond the wall was a crenellated Gothic structure topped with a sloping slate roof, dotted with dormers. Foddrell disappeared through an entrance, and the two men followed.

Malone kept pace.

“What are we doing?” Sam asked.

“Improvising.”

MALONE KNEW WHERE THEY WERE HEADED. THE CLUNY MUSEUM stood on the site of a Roman palace, the ruins of its ancient baths still inside. The present mansion was erected in the 15th century by a Benedictine abbot. Not until the 19th century had the grounds become state-owned, displaying an impressive collection of medieval artifacts. It remained one of the must-sees on any Parisian itinerary. He’d visited a couple of times and recalled the inside. Two stories, one exhibit room opening into the next, one way in and out. Tight confines. Not a good place to go unnoticed.

He led the way as they entered a cloistered courtyard and caught sight of the two tails stepping through the main door. Maybe thirty camera-clad visitors milled in the courtyard.

He hesitated, then headed for the same entrance.

Sam followed.

The chamber beyond was a stone-walled anteroom converted into a reception center, with a cloakroom and stairway that led down to toilets. The two men were buying tickets from a cashier, then they turned and climbed stone risers into the museum. As they disappeared through a narrow doorway, he and Sam purchased their own tickets. They climbed the same risers and entered a crowded gift shop. No sign of Foddrell, but the two minders were already passing through another low doorway to their left. Malone caught sight of complimentary English brochures that explained the museum and grabbed one, quickly scanning the layout.

Sam noticed. “Henrik says you have a photographic memory. Is that true?”

“Eidetic memory,” he corrected. “Just a good mind for detail.”

“Are you always so precise?”

He stuffed the brochure into his back pocket. “Hardly ever.”

They entered an exhibit room illuminated by both sunlight from a mullioned window and some strategically placed incandescent floods that accented medieval porcelain, glass, and alabaster.

Neither Foddrell nor his tails were there.

They hustled into the next space, containing more ceramics, and caught sight of the two men just as they were exiting at the far side. Both rooms, so far, had been active with talkative visitors and clicking cameras. Malone knew from the brochure that ahead lay the Roman baths.

At the exit he spotted the two as they passed through a tight corridor, painted blue and lined with alabaster plaques, that opened into a lofty stone hallway. Down a flight of stone steps was the frígídaríum. But a placard announced that it was closed for renovations and a plastic chain blocked access. To their right, through an elaborate Gothic arch, a brightly lit hall housed remnants of statues. Folding metal chairs were arranged before a platform and podium. Some sort of presentation space that was clearly once an exterior courtyard.

Left led deeper into the museum.

The two men turned that way.

He and Sam approached and cautiously peered inside the next room, which rose two stories, naturally lit from an opaque ceiling. Rough-hewn stone walls towered forty feet. Probably once another courtyard, between buildings, now enclosed and displaying ivories, capital fragments, and more statuary.

Foddrell was nowhere to be seen, but Tweedledum and Tweedledee were headed toward the next exhibit space, which opened at the top of more stone risers.

“Those two are after me,” someone yelled, disturbing the librarylike silence.

Malone’s head craned upward.

Standing at a balustrade, on what would be the upper floor of the next building, pointing downward at the two men they were following, was a woman. Perhaps early thirties, with short-cut brownish hair. She wore one of the blue smocks that Malone had already noticed on other museum employees.

“They’re after me,” the woman screamed. “Trying to kill me.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

LOIRE VALLEY

THORVALDSEN FOLLOWED LAROCQUE FROM THE DRAWING room as they strolled farther into the château, out over the Cher, which flowed beneath the building’s foundations. Before coming, he’d learned the estate’s history and knew that its architecture had been conceived in the early 16th century, part of François I’s gallant, civilized court. A woman initially formulated the design, and that feminine influence remained evident. No power was asserted by buttressed walls or overwhelming size. Instead, inimitable grace evoked only a pleasant affluence.

“My family has owned this property for three centuries,” she said. “One owner built the central château on the north shore, where we were just seated, and a bridge to connect to the river’s south bank. Another erected a gallery atop the bridge.”

She motioned ahead.

He stared at a long rectangular hall, maybe sixty meters or more in length, the floor a black-and-white checkerboard, the ceiling supported by heavy oak beams. Streams of sunshine slanted inward through symmetrically placed windows that stretched, on both sides, from end to end.

“During the war, the Germans occupied the estate,” she said. “The south door at the far end was actually in the free zone. The door on this end the occupied zone. You can imagine what trouble that created.”

“I hate Germans,” he made clear.

She appraised him with a calculating gaze.

“They destroyed my family and country, and tried to destroy my religion. I can never forgive them.”

He allowed the fact that he was Jewish to register. His research on her had revealed a long-held prejudice against Jews. No specific reason that he could identify, just an inbred distaste, not uncommon. His vetting had also exposed another of her many obsessions. He’d been hoping she’d escort him through the château-and ahead, beside the pedimented entrance to another of the many rooms, illuminated by two tiny halogens, hung the portrait.

Right where he’d been told.

He stared at the image. Long ugly nose. A pair of oblique eyes, deeply set, casting a sidelong cunning glance. Powerful jaw. Jutting chin. A conical hat sheathing a nearly bare skull that made the figure look like a pope or a cardinal. But he’d been much more than that.

“Louis XI,” he said, pointing.

Larocque stopped. “You are an admirer?”

“What was said of him? Loved by the commons, hated by the great, feared by his enemies, and respected by the whole of Europe. He was a king.”

“No one knows if it’s an authentic image. But it has a strange quality, wouldn’t you say?”

He recalled what he’d been told about the stink of theater that hung around Louis XI’s memory. He ruled from 1461 to 1483 and managed to forge for himself a wondrous legend of greatness. In actuality, he was unscrupulous, openly rebelled against his father, treated his wife villainously, trusted few, and showed no mercy on anyone. His passion was the regeneration of France after the disastrous Hundred Years’ War. Tirelessly, he planned, plotted, and bribed, all with the aim of gathering under one crown lost lands.

And he succeeded.

Which cemented him a sainted place in French history.

“He was one of the first to understand the power of money,” he said. “He liked to buy men, as opposed to fighting them.”

“You are a student,” she said, clearly impressed. “He grasped the importance of commerce as a political tool, and laid the foundations for the modern nation-state. One where an economy would be more important than an army.”

She motioned and they entered another of the rooms, this one with walls sheathed in warm leather and windows screened by draperies the color of port wine. An impressive Renaissance hearth sheltered no fire. Little furniture existed, other than a few upholstered chairs and wooden tables. In the center stood a stainless-steel glass case, out of place with the room’s antiquity.

“Napoleon’s 1798 invasion of Egypt was a military and political fiasco,” she told him. “The French Republic sent its greatest general to conquer, and he did. But ruling Egypt was another matter. In that, Napoleon did not succeed. Still, there is no denying that his Egyptian occupation changed the world. For the first time the splendor of that mysterious and forgotten civilization was revealed. Egyptology was born. Napoleon’s savants literally discovered, beneath the millennial sands, pharaonic Egypt. Typical Napoleon-an utter failure masked by partial success.”

“Spoken like a true descendant of Pozzo di Borgo.”

She shrugged. “While he lies in glory at the Invalides, my ancestor, who quite possibly saved Europe, is forgotten.”

He knew this was a sore point so, for the moment, he left the subject alone.

“While in Egypt, though, Napoleon did manage to discover a few things of immense value.” She motioned at the display case. “These four papyri. Encountered by accident one day, after Napoleon’s troops shot a murderer on the side of the road. If not for Pozzo di Borgo, Napoleon may have used these to consolidate power and effectively rule most of Europe. Thankfully, he was never allowed the chance.”

His investigators had not mentioned this anomaly. On Ashby, he’d spared no expense, learning everything. But on Eliza Larocque he’d targeted his inquiries. Perhaps he’d made a mistake?

“What do these papyri say?” he casually asked.

“They are the reason for the Paris Club. They explain our purpose and will guide our path.”

“Who wrote them?”

She shrugged. “No one knows. Napoleon believed them from Alexandria, lost when the library there disappeared.”

He had some experience with that artifact, which wasn’t as lost as most people thought. “Lots of faith you place in an unknown document, written by an unknown scribe.”

“Similar to the Bible, I believe. We know virtually nothing of its origin, yet billions model their lives on its words.”

“Excellent point.”

Her eyes beamed with the confidence of a guileless heart. “I’ve shown you something dear to me. Now I want to see your proof on Ashby.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

PARIS

MALONE WATCHED AS TWO MEN, GARBED IN RUMPLED BLUE blazers and ties, museum ID badges draped around their necks, rushed into the exhibit space. One of the men who’d followed Foddrell, a burly fellow with shocks of unkempt hair, reacted to the assault and punched the lead Blazer in the face. The other minder, with gnomic, flat features, kicked the second Blazer to the floor.

Guns appeared in the hands of Flat Face and Burly.

The woman above, who’d started the melee, fled the balustrade.

Patrons noticed the weapons and voices rose. Visitors rushed past where Malone and Sam stood, back toward the main entrance.

Two more Blazers appeared on the opposite side.

Shots were fired.

Stone walls, a tile floor, and a glass ceiling did little to deaden the sound and the bangs pounded into Malone’s ears with the force of an explosion.

One of the Blazers collapsed.

More people raced past him.

The other Blazer disappeared from sight.

Flat Face and Burly vanished.

The museum’s geography flashed through Malone’s brain. “I’m going to double back around. There’s only one other way out of the building. I’ll cut them off there. You stay here.”

“And do what?”

“Try not to get shot.”

He assumed that museum security would close the exits and the police would arrive shortly. All he had to do was occupy the two gunmen long enough for all that to happen.

He raced back toward the main entrance.

SAM HAD LITTLE TIME TO THINK. THINGS WERE HAPPENING fast. He immediately decided that he wasn’t going to sit still-no matter what Malone ordered-so he bolted through the towering, sunlit exhibit room, where the shooting had occurred, to the man in a blue blazer, lying facedown, bleeding, his body limp as a rag.

He knelt down.

Eyes glassed over in a distant stare barely blinked. He’d never before seen someone actually shot. Dead? Yes. Last night. But this man was still alive.

His gaze raked the scene around him as he inventoried more capitals, statues, and sculptures. Plus two exits-one a door, locked with an iron hasp, the other an open archway that led into a windowless space. He spotted a tapestry hanging from that room’s far wall and saw a stairway that led up.

All visitors had fled, the museum unnervingly quiet. He wondered about security personnel, employees, or police. Surely the authorities had been called.

Where was everyone?

He heard footsteps. Running. His way. Back from where he and Malone had entered-where Malone had gone.

He did not want to be detained. He wanted to be a part of what was happening.

“Help’s on the way,” he said to the downed man.

Then he ran into the next room, leaping up the steps to the upper floor.

MALONE RETURNED TO THE GIFT SHOP AND ELBOWED HIS WAY through the crowds that were clamoring to exit through the museum’s entrance.

Excited voices boomed in several languages.

He kept shouldering his way through the throng and fled the gift shop, entering an adjacent chamber that the museum brochure had identified as the location for luggage lockers and a stairway that visitors used to descend from the upper floor. At the top, he should be able to backtrack and intercept Burly and Flat Face as they advanced through the museum.

He bounded up the wooden staircase two steps at a time and entered an empty hall that displayed armor, knives, and swords. A tapestry depicting a hunting scene adorned one of the walls. Locks sealed all of the glass cases. He needed a weapon, so he hoped the museum would understand.

He grabbed hold of a chair that abutted another wall and slammed its metal leg into the case.

Glass shards clattered to the floor.

He tossed the chair aside, reached in, and removed one of the short swords. Its edges had been sharpened, most likely to enhance its display. A card inside the case informed visitors that it was a 16th century weapon. He also removed a hand shield identified as from the 1500s.

Both sword and shield were in excellent condition.

He gripped them, looking like a gladiator ready for the arena.

Better than nothing, he reasoned.

SAM RACED UP THE STAIRS, ONE HAND SLIDING ACROSS A SLICK brass banister. He listened at the landing, then climbed the final flight to the museum’s top floor.

No sound. Not even from below.

He kept his steps light and his right hand firm on the railing. He wondered what he was going to do. He was unarmed and scared to death, but Malone might need help, just like in the bookstore last night.

And field agents helped one another.

He came to the top.

A wide archway opened to his left into a tall room with bloodred walls. Directly ahead of him was an entrance to an exhibit labeled LA DAME à LA LICORNE.

The Lady and the Unicorn.

He stopped and carefully peered around the archway into the red room.

Three shots cracked.

Bullets pinged off stone, inches from his face, stirring up dust, and he reeled back.

Bad idea.

Another shot came his way. Windows to his right, adjacent to the stairway landing, shattered from an impact.

“Hey,” a voice said, nearly in a whisper.

His eyes shot right and he spotted the same woman from before, the one who’d started the mayhem with her scream, standing inside the recessed entrance for the Lady and the Unicorn exhibit. Her short hair was now pushed back from her face, her eyes bright and alert. Her two open palms displayed a gun.

She tossed him the weapon, which he caught.

His left hand clamped the grip, finger on the trigger. He hadn’t fired a weapon since his last visit to the Secret Service shooting range. What, four months ago? But he was glad to have the thing.

He met her intense gaze and she motioned that he should fire.

He sucked a deep breath, swung the gun around the archway’s edge, and pulled the trigger.

Glass broke somewhere in the red room.

He fired again.

“You could at least try and hit one of them,” she said from her hiding place.

“If you’re so damn good, you do it.”

“Toss it back and I will.”

TWENTY-NINE

LOIRE VALLEY

ELIZA SAT IN THE DRAWING ROOM, CONCERNED BY THE UNEXPECTED complications that had arisen during the past few hours. Thorvaldsen had left for Paris. Tomorrow they’d talk more.

Right now she needed guidance.

She’d ordered a fire and the hearth now burned with a lively blaze, illuminating the motto carved into its mantel by one of her ancestors.

S’IL VIENT À POINT, ME SOUVIENDRA.

If this castle is finished, I will be remembered.

She sat in one of the upholstered armchairs. The display case, which held the four papyri, stood to her right. Only the crackling embers disturbed the silence. She’d been told that it might snow this evening. She loved winter, especially here, in the country, near all that she held dear.

Two days.

Ashby was in England, preparing. Months ago, she’d delegated an array of tasks to him, relying on his supposed expertise. Now she wondered if that trust had been misplaced. A lot depended on what he was doing.

Everything, in fact.

She’d dodged Thorvaldsen’s questions and not allowed him to read the papyri. He hadn’t earned that right. None of the club members had, to this point. That knowledge was sacred to her family, obtained by Pozzo di Borgo himself when his agents stole the documents from shipments scheduled for St. Helena, part of Napoleon’s personal effects sent into exile with him. Napoleon had noticed their omission and officially protested, but any improprieties had been imputed to his British captors.

Besides, no one cared.

By then, Napoleon was impotent. All European leaders wanted was for the once mighty emperor to die a quick, natural death. No foul play, no execution. He could not be allowed to become a martyr, so imprisoning him on a remote south Atlantic island seemed the best way to achieve the desired result.

And it worked.

Napoleon had, indeed, faded away.

Dead within five years.

She stood, approached the glass case, and studied the four ancient writings, safe in their cocoon. They’d long ago been translated and she’d committed every word to memory. Pozzo di Borgo had been quick to realize their potential, but he lived in a post-Napoleonic world, during a time when France stayed in constant upheaval, distrustful of monarchy, incapable of democracy.

So they’d been of little use.

She was truthful when she told Thorvaldsen that it was impossible to know who’d written them. All she knew was that the words made sense.

She slid open a drawer beneath the case. Inside lay translations of the original Coptic into French. Two days from now she’d share these words with the Paris Club. For now she shuffled through the typed pages, reacquainting herself with their wisdom, marveling at their simplicity.

War is a progressive force, naturally generating that which would not otherwise have taken place. Free thinking and innovation are but two of the many positive aspects that war creates. War is an active force for society, a stabilizing and dependable tool. The possibility of war forms the strongest foundation for any ruler’s authority, the extent of which grows in direct relationship to the ever-increasing threat war poses. Subjects will willingly obey so long as there is at least the promise of protection granted them from invaders. Lose the threat of war, or breach the promise of protection, and all authority ends. War can bind the social allegiance of a people like no other institution. Central authority simply would not exist without war and the extent of any ruler’s ability to govern depends on the ability to wage war. Collective aggression is a positive force that both controls dissent and binds social allegiance. War is the best method for channeling collective aggression. Lasting peace is not in the best interest of maintaining central authority, nor is constant, never-ending war. Best is the mere possibility of war, since the perceived threat provides a sense of external necessity, without which no central authority can exist. Lasting stability can come simply from the organization of any society for war.

Amazing that an ancient mind possessed such modern thoughts.

A feared external menace is essential for any central authority to persevere. Such a menace must be believable and of a sufficient magnitude to instill absolute fear, and must affect society as a whole. Without such fear, central authority could well collapse. A societal transition from war to peace will fail if a ruler does not fill the sociological and political void created by the lack of war. Substitutions for the channeling of collective aggression must be found, but these surrogates must be both realistic and compelling.

She laid the translation atop the case.

In Pozzo di Borgo’s time, the mid-19th century, there were no adequate substitutes, so war itself prevailed. First regional conflicts, then two world conflagrations. Today was different. Plenty of substitutes were available. In fact, too many. Had she chosen the right one?

Hard to say.

She returned to her chair.

There was something else she still must know.

After Thorvaldsen departed, she’d retrieved the oracle from her satchel. Now she reverently opened the book and prepared herself with a few deep breaths. From the list of questions she selected Will the friend I most reckon upon prove faithful or treacherous? For friend she substituted Thorvaldsen and then posed the question, out loud, to the burning fire.

She closed her eyes and concentrated.

Then she grasped a pen and slashed vertical lines in five rows, counting each set, determining the proper list of dots.

She quickly consulted the chart and saw that the answer to her question lay on page H. There the oracle proclaimed, The friend will be unto thee a shield against danger.

She shut her eyes.

She’d trusted Graham Ashby, allowed him into her confidence, knowing little about him except that he was of old money and an accomplished treasure hunter. She’d offered him a unique opportunity, and provided information that no one else in the world knew, clues passed down through her family starting with Pozzo di Borgo.

All of which might lead to Napoleon’s lost cache.

Di Borgo spent the last two decades of his life searching, but to no avail. His failure eventually drove him mad. But he’d left notes, all of which she’d given to Graham Ashby.

Foolish?

She recalled what the oracle had just predicted about Thorvaldsen.

The friend will be unto thee a shield against danger.

Perhaps not.

THIRTY

PARIS

MALONE HEARD SHOTS. FIVE? SIX? THEN GLASS CRASHED ONTO something hard.

He passed through three rooms that displayed a thousand years of French history through elaborate art, colorful altarpieces, intricate metalwork, and tapestries. He turned right and approached another corridor. Twenty or so feet long. Hardwood floor. Coffered ceiling. Writing tools and brass instruments were displayed in two lighted cases built into the right side wall, a doorway opening between them into another lighted room. On the left wall he spied a stone archway and the balustrade where the woman had first shouted down her alarm.

A man appeared at the far end of the corridor.

Burly.

His attention was not on Malone but, when he turned and spotted someone carrying a sword and shield, he whirled his gun and fired.

Malone dove, keeping the shield pointed forward.

The bullet pinged off metal just as Malone released his grip on the shield and slammed into the hard floor. The shield clattered away. Malone rolled into the next room and quickly sprang to his feet.

Hard steps sounded his way. He was in a room that held several more bright cases and altarpieces.

No choice.

He couldn’t go back the way he came, so he fled into the next room ahead.

SAM WATCHED THE WOMAN CATCH THE GUN-HER HANDS small but quick-then immediately ease herself forward. The doorway she occupied opened perpendicularly to the entrance into the red room, where the shooters had taken a stand, which gave her cover. She set her feet, aimed, and fired two rounds.

More glass shattered. One more display destroyed.

He risked a look and spotted one of the men as he darted across to the other side. The woman caught his escape, too, and fired another shot, trying to hit the target as he scurried behind another glass case.

The scene swam before him in a daze of uncertainty.

Where was security?

And the police?

MALONE SUDDENLY REALIZED THAT HE’D MADE A DANGEROUS mistake. He recalled the museum brochure and knew that he was headed into the upper chapel, a small, compact space with only one way in and out.

He rushed inside the chapel and caught sight of its flamboyant Gothic style, highlighted by a central pillar rising to a rib vault that spread out like palm branches. Maybe twenty by thirty feet in size, devoid of all furnishings, nowhere to hide.

He still held the sword, but it was little use against a man with a gun.

Think.

SAM WONDERED WHAT THE WOMAN INTENDED. SHE’D OBVIOUSLY started the fight and now seemed intent on ending it.

Two more shots banged through the museum, but not from her gun, and not directed their way.

Keenly aware of bullets flying past, he carefully risked a glance and saw one of the attackers retreat behind an intact display case and fire his gun in another direction.

The woman saw this, too.

Someone else was firing at their attackers.

Three more rounds entered the red room and the shooter was caught in a crossfire, his attention more on the danger behind him than ahead. The woman seemed to be waiting for the right moment. When it came, she delivered another round.

The shooter lunged for cover, but another shot caught him in the chest. He staggered awkwardly. Sam heard a cry of pain, then watched as the man’s twitching body collapsed to the floor.

MALONE BRACED HIMSELF. HIS SCALP TINGLED WITH FEAR. HE could only hope that his attacker approached the chapel with caution, unsure what lay beyond its unobstructed doorway. With a little luck the sword might prove enough of a weapon to grant him a few seconds of advantage, but this whole endeavor was turning into a nightmare-par for the course when Thorvaldsen was involved.

“Halt,” he heard a male voice shout.

A moment passed.

“I said halt.”

A gun exploded.

Flesh and bones thudded to a hard surface. Had the police, or museum security, finally acted? He waited, unsure.

“Mr. Malone, you can come out. He’s down.”

He wasn’t that stupid. He inched his way to the doorway’s edge and stole a peek. Burly lay on the floor, facedown, blood oozing from beneath him in a steady deluge. A few feet away a man in a dark suit stood with both feet planted, hands grasping a Sig Sauer.357 semi-automatic, pointed at the body. Malone noted the brush-cut hair, stern looks, and trim physique. He’d also caught the clear English, with a southern twang.

But the gun was the giveaway.

Model P229. Standard issue.

Secret Service.

The muzzle of the gun swung upward until it was aimed straight at Malone’s chest.

“Drop the sword.”

SAM WAS RELIEVED THAT THE THREAT SEEMED ELIMINATED.

“Malone,” he called out, hoping that was who’d taken the man down.

MALONE HEARD SAM CALL HIS NAME. HE STILL HELD THE SWORD, but the Sig remained pointed his way.

“Keep quiet,” the man softly said. “And drop the damn sword.”

SAM HEARD NOTHING IN RESPONSE TO HIS SHOUTS.

He faced the woman, only to see that her gun was now aimed straight at him.

“Time for you and me to go,” she said.

THIRTY-ONE

MALONE WAS LED AT GUNPOINT THROUGH THE DESERTED MUSEUM. All of the patrons were gone, and apparently the interior had been locked down. There’d been a lot of shooting, which made him wonder about the lack of police or museum security.

“What’s the Secret Service doing here?” As if he had to ask. “Did you happen to see one of your own? Young guy. Good looking. A bit eager. Name’s Sam Collins.”

But it won him only more silence.

They passed through an exhibit hall with dark red walls, more altarpieces, and three display cases in shambles. Somebody in an official capacity was really going to be pissed.

He spotted another bleeding body lying on the floor.

Flat Face.

At the room’s other exit a stairway dropped down to his right and an open double doorway broke the wall to his left. A laminated placard announced that beyond was LA DAME À LA LICORNE.

Malone pointed. “In there?”

The man nodded, then lowered his gun and withdrew back into the red gallery. The agent’s diffident way amused him.

He stepped into a dark space that displayed six colorful tapestries, each carefully illuminated with indirect light. Ordinarily he’d be impressed, as he recalled that these were among the museum’s most prized possessions, 15th-century originals, but it was the solitary figure sitting on one of three benches in the center of the room that connected all the dots.

Stephanie Nelle.

His former boss.

“You managed to destroy another national treasure,” she said, rising and facing him.

“Wasn’t me this time.”

“Who slammed a chair into a glass case to get a sword and shield?”

“I see you were watching.”

“The French want you,” she made clear.

“Which means I owe you-” He caught himself. “No. I probably owe President Daniels. Right?”

“He personally intervened, once I reported that all hell had broken loose.”

“What about the museum guard who was shot?”

“On the way to the hospital. He should make it.”

“The guy outside. Secret Service?”

She nodded. “On loan.”

He’d known Stephanie a long time, having worked for her twelve years at the Justice Department in the Magellan Billet. They’d been through a lot together, especially over the past two years, ever since he’d supposedly retired.

“I’m sorry about your father,” she told him.

He hadn’t thought about the last two weeks in a few hours. “Thanks for what you did on your end.”

“It needed to be done.”

“Why are you here?

“Sam Collins. I understand you two have met.”

He sat on one of the benches and allowed the tapestries to draw his gaze. Each comprised a dark blue rounded isle, strewn with flowery plants, in vibrant colors that ranged from deep red to bright pink. A noble lady with a unicorn and a lion was depicted on all six, in varying scenes. He knew the allegory-representations of the five senses, mythical enchantment. Subtle messages from long ago, which he’d had more than his share of lately.

“Is Sam in trouble?” he asked.

“He was in trouble the moment he connected with Thorvaldsen.”

She told him about a meeting with Danny Daniels yesterday, in the Oval Office, where the president of the United States made clear that something important was happening in Copenhagen.

“Daniels knew about Sam. He’d been briefed by the Secret Service.”

“Seems like a trivial matter for the president to be concerned with.”

“Not once he was told that Thorvaldsen is involved.”

Good point.

“Cotton, this Paris Club is real. Our people have been watching it for over a year. Nothing alarming, until lately. But I need to know what Thorvaldsen is doing.”

“So is this about Sam? Or Henrik?”

“Both.”

“How did we jump from the Paris Club to Henrik?”

“Like I’m an idiot. You’re sitting there with the vacuum cleaner turned on, sucking in whatever info I’m willing to offer. That’s not why I’m here. I need to know what that crazy Dane is doing.”

He knew that Henrik and Stephanie enjoyed a relationship born of mutual distrust, though they’d been forced, on more than one occasion of late, to actually rely on each other. He decided that since he really didn’t have a dog in this fight, other than helping his best friend, for once he’d tell the truth. “He’s after Cai’s killer.”

Stephanie shook her head. “I knew it was probably something like that. He’s about to screw up a major intelligence operation, along with compromising a critical source.”

More dots instantly connected. His face tightened in speculation. “Graham Ashby works for our side?”

She nodded. “He’s been providing a lot of vital intel.”

A wave of unease broke over him. “Henrik’s going to kill him.”

“You have to stop him.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Cotton, there’s more happening here. The Paris Club is planning something spectacular. What? We don’t know. At least not yet. A woman named Eliza Larocque heads the group. She’s the brains. Ashby is part of the administrative arm. He does what she says, but he’s been keeping our side informed. That club comprises seven of the wealthiest people in the world. Of course, we’re not sure that the members all know what Larocque is planning.”

“Why not tell them?”

“Because the decision has been made to take them all down at once. They’re into corruption, bribery, extortion, and massive amounts of financial and securities fraud. They’ve disrupted currency exchanges and may be responsible for weakening the dollar internationally. We’re going to send a message by taking them out in one swoop.”

He knew the score. “They go down, while Ashby walks free.”

“It’s the price to be paid. We wouldn’t have known about any of this without him.”

He again focused on one of the tapestries. A young woman, surrounded by a lion and a unicorn, choosing a sweet from a dish while a parakeet held another in its claw.

“Do you have any idea the mess this is?” he asked.

“I do now. Our people recently learned that Thorvaldsen has Ashby under surveillance. He’s even bugged the man’s estate. That is probably only possible since Ashby’s guard is down. He thinks he’s okay with us and Eliza Larocque. He hasn’t a clue Thorvaldsen is watching. But the president wants Thorvaldsen out of the picture.”

“Henrik killed two men last night. One of them was involved with Cai’s death.”

“I can’t blame him there. Nor am I going to interfere, except to the extent it jeopardizes Ashby.”

He wanted to know, “What is the Paris Club planning?”

“That’s the thing. Ashby hasn’t told us yet. Just that it’s coming, and soon. Within days. I assume it’s his way to ensure a continued value.”

“So who are the two dead men out there in the museum?”

“They work for Eliza Larocque. The other woman, the one in the blue smock, spooked them and they overreacted.”

“How mad are the French?”

“It’s not good.”

“This is not my fault.”

“The Secret Service has had this museum under watch for over a month.” She hesitated. “With no problem.”

“The girl in the blue smock started it.”

“I learned on the flight over that Eliza Larocque has been investigating the GreedWatch website. I assume that’s what those two were doing following your man, Foddrell.”

“Where’s Sam?”

“He’s been taken. I watched it happen on the security cameras.”

“Police?”

She shook her head. “The girl in the blue smock.”

“You think you should have helped him.”

“It’s not a problem.”

He knew Stephanie well. They’d worked together a long time. He’d been one of the original twelve lawyer-agents at the Magellan Billet, personally hired by her. So his next question was easy, “You know all about her, don’t you?”

“Not exactly. I had no idea what she was going to do, but I’m damn glad she did it.”

THIRTY-TWO

SAM HAD BEEN LED FROM THE MUSEUM’S TOP FLOOR, DOWN THE same stairway he’d initially climbed, to the ground. There he and the woman had descended another stairway into the closed frigidarium, where Jimmy Foddrell waited. Together they’d all passed through a stone archway, barred by an iron gate that the woman opened with a key.

He was a little unnerved by the gun. Never had one been pointed directly at him, so close, so direct, the threat of harm so immediate. Still, he sensed that he wasn’t in danger. Instead, he may well be on the right trail.

He decided to follow it. He wanted to be a field agent. So, he told himself, be one. Improvise. That’s what Malone would do.

Foddrell relocked the gate behind them.

Walls scabbed of brick and stone rose fifty feet around him. Light trickled in from windows high up, near a vaulted ceiling, the space chilly, with the look and feel of a dungeon. Some repair work was ongoing, as scaffolding had been erected against one of the rough-hewn walls.

“You can go or stay,” the woman said to him. “But I really need you to stay.”

“Who are you?”

“Meagan Morrison. GreedWatch is my website.”

“Not his?” he asked, pointing at Foddrell.

She shook her head. “All mine.”

“What’s he doing here?”

She seemed to be deciding what-and how much-to say. “I wanted you to see that I’m not crazy. That there are people after me. They’ve been watching me for weeks. Michael works with me on the site. I made up the Foddrell name and used him as a decoy.”

“So you led me and Malone here?” he asked the man she’d called Michael.

“It was pretty easy, actually.”

Yes, it was.

“I work here, at the museum,” she said. “When you emailed and said you wanted to meet, I was glad. Those two guys who were shot have been following Michael for two weeks. If I’d told you that, you wouldn’t have believed me. So I showed you. There are some other men who also come nearly every day and check on me, but they think I don’t notice.”

“I have people who can help.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t want people. In fact, it’s probably some of your people doing that other watching. FBI. Secret Service. Who knows? I want to deal with you.” She paused. “You and I”-the anger had dropped form her voice-“see eye-to-eye.”

He was transfixed by her earnestness, along with the attractive, wounded look on her face. But he had to say, “People were shot in there. One of the guards was hurt bad.”

“And I hate that, but I didn’t start this.”

“Actually, you did. Yelling at those two guys.”

She was petite, full-bosomed, slender-waisted, and feisty. Her fiery blue eyes sparkled with an almost fiendish delight-commanding and confident. He was actually the tense one, his palms moist, and he desperately didn’t want to show his anxiety. So he assumed a casual pose and weighed his options.

“Sam,” she said, her voice softer. “I need to talk with you. Privately. Those guys have been on Michael’s trail. Not mine. The others, the Americans who watch me, we just avoided them by getting out of there.”

“Are they the ones who shot those two?”

She shrugged. “Who else?”

“I want to know who sent those two we followed here. Who do they work for?”

She stared back with an expression of undisguised boldness. He felt himself being appraised. Part of him was repelled, another part hoped she was at least somewhat impressed.

“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

MALONE LISTENED AS STEPHANIE EXPLAINED ABOUT GREEDWATCH.

“It’s run by the woman who started this melee. Meagan Morrison. She’s an American, educated here, at the Sorbonne, in economics. She set you up sending the other young man-Foddrell. That’s a pseudonym Morrison uses to operate the website.”

He shook his head. “Played by an idiot who eats kidneys for lunch. Story of my life.”

She chuckled. “I’m glad you fell for it. Made it easy for us to connect. Daniels told me that Sam has been in contact with GreedWatch for over a year now. He was told to stop, but he didn’t listen. The Secret Service, through its Paris field office, has been monitoring the site, and Morrison herself, for the past few months. She’s a sly one. The guy who led you here is set up as the official webmaster. For the past two weeks, he’s been under separate surveillance, which the Service traced back to Eliza Larocque.”

“None of which tells me why you’re here and know all this.”

“We think that website is privy to some inside info, and apparently so does Larocque.”

“You didn’t come here just to tell me about a website. What’s really going on?”

“Peter Lyon.”

He knew about the South African. One of the world’s most wanted men. Into illicit arms, political assassination, terrorism, whatever the client wanted. Billed himself as a broker of chaos. When Malone retired two years ago, at least a dozen bombings and hundreds of deaths were linked to Lyon.

“He’s still in business?” he asked.

“More so than ever. Ashby has been meeting with him. Larocque is planning something that involves Lyon. Men like him don’t surface often. This may be the best chance we ever have to nail him.”

“And Ashby holding out information on that possible opportunity isn’t a problem?”

“I know. I wasn’t running this operation. I would have never allowed him to call those shots.”

“It’s obvious he’s playing both ends against the middle. They sure as hell can’t let him continue to hold back.”

“He won’t. Not anymore. This is now a Billet operation. As of twelve hours ago, I’m in charge. So I want the SOB squeezed.”

“Before or after Henrik kills him?”

“Preferably before. Ashby met with Lyon in Westminister just a few hours ago. We had parabolic mikes on the conversation.”

“I see somebody was thinking. What about Lyon?”

“They let him be. No tail, and I agreed with that. If he gets spooked, he’ll go to ground. Right now he’s comfortable coming to Ashby.”

He smiled at Lyon’s cockiness. “Glad to know everyone screws up.”

“Some keys were passed from Ashby to Lyon and a two-day time frame mentioned, but not much else. I have a tape of the conversation.” She paused. “Now, where is the merry Dane? I need to talk to him.”

“He went to see Eliza Larocque.”

He knew that revelation would grab her attention.

“Please tell me Thorvaldsen’s not going to spook her, too?”

He noticed a flash of anger in her eyes. Stephanie liked to run her operations her way.

“He’s going to get his revenge,” he made clear.

“Not as long as I’m here. Ashby is all we have, at the moment, to learn what Lyon is doing.”

“Not necessarily. By now, Henrik’s wiggled his way into the Paris Club. He could actually prove helpful.”

They sat in silence while Stephanie pondered the situation.

“Meagan Morrison” she said, “took Sam off at gunpoint. I watched on the museum’s closed-circuit TV. I decided to allow that to happen for a reason.”

“That boy’s no field operative.”

“He’s trained Secret Service. I expect him to act the part.”

“What’s his story?”

She shook her head. “You’re as bad as Thorvaldsen. He’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Another sad and sorry tale. Found abandoned as an infant and was raised in an orphanage.”

“No adoption?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea why not.”

“Where?”

“New Zealand, of all places. He came to America when he was eighteen on a student visa and eventually became a citizen. Attended Columbia University, graduated top third in his class. Worked hard for a few years as an accountant, then earned his way into the Secret Service. All in all, a good kid.”

“Except he doesn’t listen to his superiors.”

“Hell, you and me both fit into that category.”

He grinned. “I assume Meagan Morrison is harmless.”

“More or less. It’s Thorvaldsen who’s the problem. Sam Collins left Washington a couple of weeks ago, just after being questioned again about his website. The Secret Service tracked him straight to Copenhagen. They decided to leave him alone, but when they learned Thorvaldsen had Ashby under close watch, they went to the president. That’s when Daniels dragged me in. He thought something big was happening, and he was right. He decided, considering my close personal relationship with Thorvaldsen, I was the best person to handle it.”

He smiled at her sarcasm. “Does Eliza Larocque know Meagan Morrison is harmless?”

The tension that rose from her silence charged the room.

Finally, she said, “I don’t know.”

“She didn’t send those men for the fun of it. We’d better find out. That could be a problem for Morrison and Sam, considering what just happened here.”

“I’ll deal with Sam. I need you to concentrate on Graham Ashby.”

“How in the world did I get myself in the middle of this mess?”

“You tell me.”

But they both knew the answer, so he simply asked, “What do you want me to do?”

THIRTY-THREE

5:15 PM

THORVALDSEN WAS DROPPED OFF AT THE HÔTEL RITZ BY THE private car that had brought him north, from the Loire Valley, into central Paris. Along the way he’d worked the phone, planning his next move.

He fled the late-afternoon cold and entered the hotel’s famous lobby, adorned with a collection of museum-caliber antiques. He especially loved the tale of when Hemingway liberated the Ritz in 1944. Armed with machine guns, the writer and a group of Allied soldiers stormed the hotel and searched every nook and cranny. After discovering that the Nazis had all fled, they retired to the bar and ordered a round of dry martinis. In commemoration, management christened the place Bar Hemingway, which Thorvaldsen now entered, the place still warmed by wooden walls, leather armchairs, and an atmosphere redolent of a different era. Photos taken by Hemingway himself adorned the paneling and some delicate piano music provided a measure of privacy.

He spotted his man at one of the tables, walked over, and sat.

Dr. Joseph Murad taught at the Sorbonne-a renowned expert on Napoleonic Europe. Thorvaldsen had kept Murad on retainer for the past year, ever since learning of Ashby’s passionate interest.

“Single-malt whiskey?” he asked in French, noticing Murad’s glass.

“I wanted to see what a twenty-two-euro drink tasted like.”

He smiled.

“And besides, you’re buying.”

“That I am.”

His investigators in Britain had telephoned him in the car and told him what they’d learned from the listening devices located in Caroline Dodd’s study. Since it meant little to him, Thorvaldsen had promptly, by phone, provided that intelligence to Murad. The scholar had called back half an hour later and suggested this face-to-face.

“Napoleon’s last will and testament definitely mentioned that book,” Murad said. “I’ve always thought it an odd reference. Napoleon had some sixteen hundred books with him on St. Helena. Yet he went out of his way to leave four hundred to Saint-Denis and specifically name The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D. It’s the maxim of ‘what’s missing’ proven.”

He waited for the academician to explain.

“There’s a theory in archaeology. ‘What’s missing points to what’s important.’ For example, if three statues have square bases and a fourth a round one, it’s the fourth that’s usually important. It’s been shown over and over that this maxim is true, especially when studying artifacts of a ceremonial or religious nature. This reference in the will, to a specific book, could well be equally significant.”

He listened as Murad explained about Merovingians.

Their leaders, starting with Merovech, from whom they took their name, first unified the Franks, then swept east and conquered their German cousins. Clovis, in the 5th century, eliminated the Romans, claimed Aquitania, and drove the Visigoths into Spain. He also converted to Christianity and declared a little town on the Seine, Paris, his capital. The region in and around Paris, which was strategically located, defensible, and fertile, came to be called Francia. The Merovingians themselves were a strange lot-practicing odd customs, growing their hair and beards long, and burying their dead with golden bees. The ruling family evolved into a dynasty, but then declined with astonishing rapidity. By the 7th century real power in the Merovingian world was held by court administrators, the “mayors of the palace,” Carolingians, who eventually seized control and eradicated the Merovingians.

“Rich in fable, short on history,” Murad said. “That’s the tale of the Merovingians. Napoleon, though, was fascinated by them. The golden bees on his coronation cloak were taken from them. Merovingians also believed strongly in hoarding booty. They stole at will from conquered lands, and their king was responsible for distributing the wealth among his followers. As leader, he was expected to fully support himself with the fruits of his conquests. This concept of royal self-sufficiency lasted from the 5th to the 15th centuries. Napoleon resurrected it in the 19th century.”

“Considering the treasure Ashby is after, you think this Merovingian book may be a signpost?”

“We can’t know that until we see it.”

“Does it still exist?”

Caroline Dodd had not told Ashby the location while they were in her study. Instead, she’d teased Ashby with the information, making him wait until after their lovemaking. Unfortunately, Thorvaldsen’s investigators had never been able to successfully wire Ashby’s bedchamber.

Murad smiled. “The book exists. I checked a little while ago. It’s at the Hôtel des Invalides, where Napoleon is buried, on display. Part of what Saint-Denis left to the city of Sens in 1856. Those books were eventually given by Sens to the French government. Most of the volumes burned in the Tuileries Palace fire of 1871. What remained made their way to the Invalides after World War II. Luckily, this book survived.”

“Can we get a look at it?”

“Not without answering a multitude of questions that I’m sure you don’t want to answer. The French are obsessively protective of their national treasures. I asked a colleague of mine, who told me the book is on display in the museum portion of the Invalides. But that wing is currently closed, under renovation.”

He understood the obstacles-cameras, gates, security officers. But he knew Graham Ashby wanted the book.

“I’ll need you available,” he told Murad.

The professor sipped his whiskey. “This is evolving into something quite extraordinary. Napoleon definitely wanted his son to have his private cache. He carefully acquired that wealth, just like a Merovingian king. But then, unlike a Merovingian and more like a modern-day despot, he hid it away in a place only he knew.”

Thorvaldsen could understand how such a treasure would lure people.

“After Napoleon was safely entrapped on St. Helena, English newspapers alleged that he’d salted away a vast fortune.” Murad grinned. “Being Napoleon, he retaliated from his exile with a list of what he called the ‘real treasure’ of his reign. The Louvre, the greniers publics, the Banque of France, Paris’ water supply, city drains, and all his other manifold improvements. He was bold, I’ll give him that.”

That he was.

“Can you imagine what might be in that lost repository?” Murad asked. “There are thousands of art objects Napoleon plundered that have never been seen since. Not to mention state treasuries and private fortunes looted. The gold and silver could be immense. He took the secret of the cache’s location to his grave, but trusted four hundred books, including one he named specifically, to his most loyal servant, Louis Etienne Saint-Denis, though it’s doubtful Saint-Denis had any knowledge of the significance. He was simply doing what his emperor wanted. Once Napoleon’s son died, in 1832, the books became meaningless.”

“Not to Pozzo di Borgo,” Thorvaldsen declared.

Murad had taught him all about Eliza Larocque’s esteemed ancestor and his lifelong vendetta against Napoleon.

“But he never solved the riddle,” Murad said.

No, di Borgo hadn’t. But a distant heir was working hard to reverse that failure.

And Ashby was coming to Paris.

So Thorvaldsen knew what had to be done.

“I’ll get the book.”

SAM ACCOMPANIED MEAGAN OUT A SIDE ENTRANCE OF THE Cluny that opened to a graveled walk bordered by tall trees. A break in the wrought-iron fence and wall that encircled the museum opened onto the sidewalk where he and Malone had first approached. They crossed the street, found a Métro station, then rode a series of trains to the Place de la Republique.

“This is the Marais,” Meagan told him as they stepped back out into the cold. She had shed her blue smock and wore a canvas barn coat, jeans, and boots. “It was once a marsh, but it became prime real estate from the 15th to the 18th centuries, then fell into disrepair. It’s making a comeback.”

He followed her down a busy prospect lined with high, elegant houses far deeper than they were wide. Pink brick, white stone, gray slate, and black iron balustrades dominated. Trendy boutiques, perfumeries, tearooms, and glitzy art galleries pulsed with the holiday’s vitality.

“A lot of the mansions are being restored,” she said. “This is becoming the place to live once again.”

He was trying to gauge this woman. Part of her seemed ready to risk anything to make a point, but she’d shown a cool head in the museum.

More so than he’d exhibited.

Which bothered him.

“The Templar’s Paris headquarters was once here. Rousseau himself found sanctuary in some of these houses. Victor Hugo lived nearby. This is where Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were imprisoned.”

He stopped. “Why are we here?”

She halted, the top of her head level with his Adam’s apple. “You’re a smart guy, Sam. I could tell that from your website and your emails. I communicate with a lot of people who think like we do, and most are looney tunes. You’re not.”

“What about you?”

She grinned. “That’s for you to decide.”

He knew the gun was still nestled at the small of her back, beneath her jacket, where she’d tucked it before they’d left the museum. He wondered what would happen if he walked away right now. She’d fired on those two men in the museum with practiced skill.

“Lead on,” he said.

They turned another corner and passed more buildings with entrances flush to the sidewalk. Not nearly as many people now, and much quieter. Traffic lay well beyond the warren of close-packed buildings.

“We would say, ‘Old as the hills,’” she noted. “Parisians say ‘Old as the streets.’”

He’d already noticed how street names were announced on blue enameled markers set into corner buildings.

“The names all have meaning,” she said. “They honor someone or something specific, tell where the street leads, identify its most prominent tenant or what goes on there. It’s always something.”

They stopped at a corner. A blue-and-white enameled plate read RUE L’ARAIGNéE.

“Spider Street,” he said, translating.

“So you do speak French.”

“I can hold my own.”

A look of triumph flashed across her face. “I’m sure you can. But you’re up against something you know little about.” She pointed down the narrow way. “See the fourth house.”

He did. Redbrick façade with diagonals of varnished black, stone-mullioned windows, iron balustrades. A wide archway, crowned by a sculpted pediment, was barred by a gilded gate.

“Built in 1395,” she said. “Rebuilt in 1660. In 1777 it housed a swarm of lawyers. They were a front for the laundering of Spanish and French money to American revolutionists. Those same lawyers also sold arms to the Continental army against bills for future delivery of tobacco and colonial wares. The victorious Americans welshed on delivery, though. Aren’t we a grand people?”

He didn’t answer her, sensing she was about to make a point.

“Those lawyers sued the new nation and finally got paid in 1835. Determined bastards, weren’t they?”

He still stayed silent.

“In the 13th century, Lombardian moneylenders settled around here somewhere. A rapacious bunch, they loaned money at outrageous rates and demanded high returns.”

She motioned again at the fourth house and cocked an eye his way.

“That’s where the Paris Club meets.”

THIRTY-FOUR

6:10 PM

MALONE LIGHTLY KNOCKED ON THE PANELED DOOR. HE’D LEFT the museum and taken a taxi across town to the Ritz. He hoped Thorvaldsen had returned from the Loire Valley and was relieved when his friend answered the door.

“Were you involved in what happened at the Cluny?” Thorvaldsen asked as he entered the suite. “It was on television.”

“That was me. I managed to get out before getting caught.”

“Where’s Sam?”

He recapped everything that happened, including Sam’s abduction, crocheting the facts while explaining about Jimmy Foddrell being Meagan Morrison, omitting any reference to Stephanie’s appearance. He’d decided to keep that close. If he was to have any chance of stopping Thorvaldsen, or at least delaying him, he could not mention Washington’s involvement.

Interesting how the tables had turned. Usually it was Thorvaldsen who held back, sucking Malone in deeper.

“Is Sam okay?” Thorvaldsen asked.

He decided to lie. “I don’t know. But there’s little I can do about it at the moment.”

He listened as Thorvaldsen recapped his visit with Eliza Larocque, ending with, “She’s a despicable bitch. I had to sit there, so polite, thinking the whole time about Cai.”

“She didn’t kill him.”

“I don’t relieve her of responsibility so easily. Ashby works with her. There’s a close connection, and that’s enough for me.”

His friend was tired, the fatigue evident in weary eyes.

“Cotton, Ashby is going after a book.”

He listened to more information about Napoleon’s will and The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751, A.D., a volume supposedly on display in the Invalides.

“I need to get that book first,” Thorvaldsen said.

Vague ideas floated through his brain. Stephanie wanted Thorvaldsen halted. To do that, Malone would have to take control of the situation, but that was a tall order considering who was currently in the driver’s seat.

“You want me to steal it?” he asked.

“It won’t be easy. The Invalides was once a national armory, a fortress.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I do.”

“I’ll get the book. Then what are you going to do? Find the lost cache? Humiliate Ashby? Kill him? Feel better?”

“All of the above.”

“When my son was taken last year, you were there for me. I needed you, and you came through. I’m here now. But we have to use our heads. You can’t simply murder a man.”

An expression of profound sympathy came to the older man’s face. “I did last night.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Not in the least. Cabral killed my son. He deserved to die. Ashby is as responsible as Cabral. And, not that it matters, I may not have to murder him. Larocque can do it for me.”

“And that makes it easier?”

Stephanie had already told him that Ashby was coming to Paris, and had assured his American handler that tomorrow he would provide full details of what was about to happen. Malone despised the Brit for what he’d done to Thorvaldsen-but he understood the value of the intelligence Ashby could offer and the significance of taking down a man like Peter Lyon.

“Henrik, you’ve got to let me handle this. I can do it. But it has to be my way.”

“I can get the book myself.”

“Then what the hell am I doing here?”

A stubborn smile found the older man’s lips. “I hope you’re here to help.”

He kept his eyes on Thorvaldsen. “My way.”

“I want Ashby, Cotton. Do you understand that?”

“I get it. But let’s find out what’s going on before you kill him. That’s the way you talked yesterday. Can we stick with that?”

“I’m beginning not to care about what’s happening, Cotton.”

“Then why screw with Larocque and the Paris Club? Just kill Ashby and be done with it.”

His friend went silent.

“What about Sam?” Thorvaldsen finally asked. “I’m worried.”

“I’ll deal with that, too.” He recalled what Stephanie had said. “But he’s a big boy, so he’s going to have to take care of himself. At least for a while.”

SAM ENTERED THE APARTMENT IN A SECTION OF TOWN MORRISION had called Montparnasse, not far from the Cluny Museum and Luxembourg Palace, in a building that offered a charm of days long gone. Darkness had swallowed them on the walk from the Métro station.

“Lenin once lived a few blocks over,” she said. “It’s now a museum, though I can’t imagine who’d want to visit.”

“Not a fan of communism?” he asked.

“Hardly. Worse than capitalism, in a multitude of ways.”

The apartment was a spacious studio on the sixth floor with a kitchenette, bath, and the look of a student tenant. Unframed prints and travel posters brightened the walls. Improvised board-and-block shelving sagged under the weight of textbooks and paperbacks. He noticed a pair of men’s boots beside a chair and wadded jeans on the floor, far too large for Morrison.

“This isn’t my place,” she said, catching his interest. “A friend’s.”

She removed her coat, slid the gun free, and casually laid it on a table.

He noticed three computers and a blade server in one corner.

She pointed. “That’s GreedWatch. I run the site from here, but I let everyone think Jimmy Foddrell does.”

“People were hurt at the museum,” he told her again. “This isn’t a game.”

“Sure it is, Sam. A big, terrible game. But it’s not mine. It’s theirs, and people getting hurt is not my fault.”

“You started it when you screamed at those two men.”

“You had to see reality.”

He decided, instead of arguing again about the obvious, he’d do what the Secret Service had taught him-keep her talking. “Tell me about the Paris Club.”

“Curious?”

“You know I am.”

“I thought you would be. Like I said, you and I think alike.”

He wasn’t so sure about that, but kept his mouth shut.

“As far as I can tell, the club is made up of six people. All obscenely wealthy. Typical greedy bastards. Five billion in assets isn’t enough. They want six or seven. I know someone who works for one of the members-”

He pointed. “Same guy who wears those boots?”

Her grin widened into a crescent. “No. Another guy.”

“You’re a busy girl.”

“You have to be to survive in this world.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the gal who’s going to save you, Sam Collins.”

“I don’t need saving.”

“I think you do. What are you even doing here? You told me awhile back that your superiors had forbidden you to keep your website and talk to me. Yet it’s still there and you’re here, wanting to find me. Is this an official visit?”

He couldn’t tell her the truth. “You haven’t told me a thing about the Paris Club.”

She sat sideways across one of the vinyl chairs, legs draped over one arm, her spine pressed to the other. “Sam, Sam, Sam. You don’t get it, do you? These people are planning things. They’re expert financial manipulators, and they intend to actually do all the things we’ve talked about. They’re going to screw with economies. Cheat markets. Devalue currencies. You remember how oil prices were affected last year. Speculators, who artificially drove the market mad with greed, did that. These people are no different.”

“That tells me nothing.”

A knock on the door startled them both, the first time he’d seen a crack in her icy veneer. Her gaze locked on the gun, lying on the table.

“Why don’t you just answer it?” he asked.

Another knock. Light. Friendly.

“Do you think bad guys knock?” he asked, invoking his own measure of cool. “And this isn’t even your place, right?”

She threw him a discerning glance. “You learn fast.”

“I did graduate college.”

She stood and walked to the door.

When she opened it a petite woman in a beige overcoat appeared outside. Perhaps early sixties, with dark hair streaked by waves of silver, and intense brown eyes. A Burberry scarf draped her neck. One hand displayed a leather case with a badge and photo identification.

The other held a Beretta.

“Ms. Morrison,” the woman said. “I’m Stephanie Nelle. U.S. Justice Department.”

THIRTY-FIVE

LOIRE VALLEY

7:00 P.M.

ELIZA PACED THE LONG GALLERY AND EAVESDROPPED ON A WINTER wind that battered the château’s windows. Her mind replayed all of what she’d told Ashby over the past year, disturbed by the possibility that she might have made a huge mistake.

History noted how Napoleon Bonaparte had looted Europe, stealing untold amounts of precious metals, jewels, antiquities, paintings, books, sculptures-anything and everything of value. Inventories of that plunder existed, but no one could vouch for their accuracy. Pozzo di Borgo learned that Napoleon had secreted away portions of the spoils in a place only the emperor knew. Rumors during Napoleon’s time hinted at a fabulous cache, but nothing ever pointed the way toward it.

Twenty years her ancestor searched.

She stopped before one of the windows and gazed out into the blackness. Below her, the River Cher surged past. She basked in the room’s warmth and savored its homely perfume. She wore a thick robe over her nightclothes and sought comfort within them both. Finding that lost cache would be her way of vindicating Pozzo di Borgo. Validating her heritage. Making her family relevant.

A vendetta complete.

The di Borgo clan was one of long standing in Corsica. Pozzo, as a boy, had been a close friend of Napoleon. But the legendary revolutionary Pasquale Paoli drove a wedge between them when he favored the di Borgos over the Bonapartes, whom he found too ambitious for his liking.

A formal feud commenced when Napoleon, as a young man, sought election as a lieutenant colonel in the Corsican volunteers, with a brother of Pozzo di Borgo as his opponent. The high-handed methods Napoleon and his party used to secure a favorable result roused di Borgo’s enmity. The breach became complete after 1792, when the di Borgos sided with Corsican independence and the Bonapartes teamed with France. Pozzo di Borgo was eventually named chief of the Corsican civil government. When France, under Napoleon, occupied Corsica, di Borgo fled and, for the next twenty-three years, skillfully worked to destroy his sworn enemy.

For all the attempts to restrict, suppress, and muffle me, it will be difficult to make me disappear from the public memory completely. French historians will have to deal with the Empire and will have to give me my rightful due.

Napoleon’s arrogance. Burned into her memory. Clearly, the tyrant had forgotten the hundreds of villages he’d burned to the ground from Russia, to Poland, to Prussia, to Italy, and across the plains and mountains of Iberia. Thousands of prisoners executed, hundreds of thousands of refugees rendered homeless, countless women raped by his Grande Armée. And what of the three million or so dead soldiers left rotting across Europe. Millions more wounded or permanently handicapped. And the destroyed political institutions of a few hundred states and principalities. Shattered economies. Fear and dread everywhere, France itself included. She agreed with what the great French writer Émile Zola observed at the end of the 19th century: What utter madness to believe that one can prevent the truth of history from eventually being written.

And the truth on Napoleon?

His destruction of the Germanic states, and the reunifying of them, along with Prussia, Bavaria, and Saxony, facilitated German nationalism, which led to their consolidation a hundred years later, which stimulated the rise of Bismarck, Hitler, and two world wars.

Give me my rightful due.

Oh, yes.

That she would.

Leather heels clicked off the floor from the gallery. She turned and watched as her chamberlain walked her way. She’d been expecting the call and knew who was on the other end of the line.

Her acolyte handed her the phone, then withdrew.

“Good evening, Graham,” she said into the unit.

“I have excellent news,” Ashby said. “The research and investigation have paid off. I think I may have found a link, one that could lead us directly to the cache.”

Her attention was piqued.

“I require some assistance, though,” he said.

She listened, her mind cautious and suspicious, but stimulated by the possibilities his enthusiasm promised.

Finally, he said, “Some information on the Invalides would be helpful. Do you have a way to make that happen?”

Her mind raced through the possibilities. “I do.”

“I thought you might. I’m coming in the morning.”

She soaked in more details, then said, “Well done, Graham.”

“This could be it.”

“And what of our Christmas presentation?” she asked.

“On schedule, as you requested.”

That was exactly what she wanted to hear. “Then I shall see you on Monday.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

They said their goodbyes.

Thorvaldsen had teased her with the possibility that Ashby may be a traitor. But the Brit was doing everything she’d recruited him to do, and doing it rather well.

Still, doubt clouded her thoughts.

Two days.

She’d have to juggle these unstable balls, at least until then.

SAM CAME TO HIS FEET AS STEPHANIE NELLE ENTERED THE apartment and Meagan closed the door. Ice-cold perspiration burst out on his forehead.

“This isn’t the United States,” Meagan said, her passions clearly aroused. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

“That’s true. But at the moment, the only thing stopping the Paris police from arresting you is me. Would you prefer I leave, allow them to take you, so we can talk while you’re in custody?”

“What did I do?”

“Carrying a weapon, discharging a firearm within the municipal limits, inciting a riot, destruction of state property, kidnapping, assault. I leave anything out?”

Meagan shook her head. “You’re all alike.”

Stephanie smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She faced Sam. “Needless to say, you’re in a world of trouble. But I understand part of the problem. I know Henrik Thorvaldsen. I assume he’s at least partly to blame for why you’re here.”

He didn’t know this woman, so he wasn’t about to sell out the only person who’d treated him with a measure of respect. “What do you want?”

“I need you both to cooperate. If you do, Ms. Morrison, you’ll stay out of jail. And you, Mr. Collins, you might still have a career.”

He didn’t like her condescending attitude. “What if I don’t want a career?”

She threw him a look he’d seen from his superiors-people who enforced petty rules and imposed time-honored barriers that made it next to impossible for anyone to leap ahead.

“I thought you wanted to be a field agent. That’s what the Secret Service told me. I’m simply offering you the chance.”

“What is it you want me to do?” he asked.

“That all depends on Ms. Morrison here.” The older woman stared at Meagan. “Whether you believe it or not, I’m here to help. So tell me, besides spouting off on your website about world conspiracies that may or may not exist, what tangible evidence do you have that I might find interesting?”

“Cocky bitch, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

Meagan smiled. “You remind me of my mother. She was tough as nails, too.”

“That just means I’m old. You’re not endearing yourself to me.”

“You’re still the one holding a gun.”

Stephanie stepped around them and approached the kitchen table, where Meagan’s gun lay. She lifted the weapon. “Two men died at the Cluny. Another is in the hospital.”

“The guard?” Sam asked.

Stephanie nodded. “He’ll make it.”

He was glad to hear that.

“How about you, Ms. Morrison? Glad to hear it, too?”

“It’s not my problem,” Meagan said.

“You started it.”

“No. I exposed it.”

“Do you have any idea who the two dead men worked for?”

Meagan nodded. “The Paris Club.”

“That’s not exactly correct. Actually, Eliza Larocque employed them to follow your decoy.”

“You’re a little behind the curve.”

“So tell me something I don’t know.”

“All right, smart lady. How about this? I know what’s going to happen in two days.”

THORVALDSEN SAT ALONE IN HIS SUITE AT THE RITZ, HIS HEAD resting against the back of a chair. Malone was gone, having assured him that tomorrow he’d retrieve the book from the Invalides. He had confidence in his friend, more so at the moment than in himself.

He nursed a brandy, sipping from a crystal snifter, trying to calm his nerves. Thankfully, all of the bantering spirits clamoring within him had retreated for the night. He’d been in a lot of fights, but this one was different-beyond personal, clearly obsessive-and that frightened him. He may come in contact with Graham Ashby as soon as tomorrow, and he knew that moment would be difficult. He must appear cordial, shaking the hand of the man who’d murdered his son, extending every courtesy. Not a hint could be revealed until the right moment.

He sipped more alcohol.

Cai’s funeral flashed through his mind.

The casket had been closed because of the irreparable damage the bullets had done, but he’d seen what was left of his son’s face. He’d insisted. He needed that horrific image burned into his memory because he knew that he’d never rest until that death was fully explained.

Now, after two years, he knew the truth.

And he was within hours of revenge.

He’d lied to Malone. Even if he managed to incite Eliza Larocque into moving on Ashby, he’d still kill the bastard himself.

No one else would do it.

Just him.

Same as last night when he’d stopped Jesper and shot Amando Cabral and his cohort. What was he becoming? A murderer? No. An avenger. But was there really a difference?

He held his glass against the light and admired the alcohol’s rich color. He savored another swallow of brandy, longer this time, more satisfying.

He closed his eyes.

Scattered recollections flickered through his mind, faded a moment, then reappeared. Each came in a smooth, silent process, like shifting images from a projector.

His lips quivered.

Memories he’d nearly forgotten-from a life he hadn’t known for many years-swam into view, blurred, then disappeared.

He’d buried Cai on the estate, in the family cemetery, beside Lisette, among other Thorvaldsens who’d rested there for centuries, his son wearing a simple gray suit and a yellow rose. Cai had loved yellow roses, as had Lisette.

He remembered the peculiar smell from within the casket-a little acidic, a little dank-the smell of death.

His loneliness returned in a fresh surge.

He emptied the snifter of the remaining brandy.

A rush of sadness broke over him with an intolerable force.

No more doubts nagged him.

Yes, he’d kill Graham Ashby himself.

THIRTY-SIX

PARIS

MONDAY, DECEMBER 24

11:00 AM

MALONE ENTERED THE CHURCH OF THE DOME, ATTACHED LIKE a stray appendage to the south end of the imposing Hôtel des Invalides. The baroque edifice, with a façade of Doric columns and a single pediment, was capped by an imposing gilded dome-the second tallest structure in Paris-crowned by a lantern and spire. Originally a royal place of worship, erected by Louis XIV to extol the glory of the French monarchy, it had been converted by Napoleon into a warriors’ tomb. Three of the greatest names in French military history-Turene, Vaubon, Foch-rested here. In 1861 Napoleon himself was buried beneath the dome, and eventually his two brothers and son joined him.

Christmas Eve had not diminished the crowds. The interior, though only open for the past hour, was packed with people. Though the place was no longer used for religious services, a placard reminded everyone to remove their hats and speak in a low voice.

He’d stayed last night at the Ritz, in a room Thorvaldsen had arranged, groping for sleep, but finding only disturbing thoughts. He was worried about Sam, but trusted that Stephanie had the situation under control. He was more concerned about Thorvaldsen. Vendettas could be expensive, in more ways than one-something he’d learned from personal experience. He still wasn’t sure how to rein in Thorvaldsen, but he knew that it had to be done.

And fast.

He ambled toward a waist-high marble balustrade and glanced upward into the towering dome. Images of the Evangelists, the kings of France, and Apostles stared back. Glancing down, beneath the dome, past the banister, he studied Napoleon’s sarcophagus.

He knew the particulars. Seven coffins held the imperial remains, one inside the other, two of lead, the rest in mahogany, iron, ebony, oak, and-the visible one-red porphyry, the stuff of Roman sepulchres. Nearly twelve feet long and six feet high, shaped like an ark adorned with laurel wreaths, it rested on an emerald granite base. Twelve colossal figures of victory, and the names of Napoleon’s chief battles, etched into the floor, surrounded the tomb.

He stared across the busy church at Graham Ashby.

The Brit matched the description Stephanie had provided and stood on the far side, near the circular railing.

Thorvaldsen had told him an hour ago that his operatives had tracked Ashby from London to Paris to here. Beside him stood an attractive woman with long flowing hair. She brought to mind another blonde who’d consumed his attention the previous two weeks. One of those mistakes in judgment that had nearly cost him his life.

The blonde stood with her hips touching the railing, her back arched, pointing upward to the impressive entablature that circled the church, seemingly explaining something that Ashby found interesting. She had to be Caroline Dodd. Thorvaldsen had briefed him on her. Ashby’s mistress, but also the holder of degrees in medieval history and literature. Her being here signified that Ashby believed there was something significant to find.

The level of noise surrounding him rose and he turned. A sea of people flooded in through the main doors. He watched as each new visitor paid the admission.

He glanced around and admired the collage of marble rising around him, the dome held aloft by majestic Corinthian columns. Symbols of the monarchy sprang from the sculpted décor, reminding the visitor that this was once a church of kings, now the home of an emperor.

“Napoleon died in 1821 on St. Helena,” he heard one of the tour guides explain in German to a nearby group. “The British buried him there, with little honor, in a quiet hollow. But in his last will Napoleon wrote that he wanted his ashes to rest by the banks of the Seine in the midst of the French people whom I loved so dearly. So in 1840, King Louis Philippe decided to honor that wish and bring the emperor home. It was a move meant to both please the public and reconcile the French with their history. By then, Napoleon had evolved into a legend. So on December 15, 1840, in a grandiose ceremony, the king welcomed the remains of the emperor to the Invalides. Twenty years were needed, though, to modify this church and dig the crypt you see below.”

He stepped away from the marble railing as the Germans pressed close and gazed down at the imposing sarcophagus. More groups in tight phalanxes swept across the floor. He noticed that another man had joined Ashby. Medium height. Blank face. Sparse gray hair. He wore an overcoat that sheathed a thin frame.

Guildhall.

Thorvaldsen had briefed him on this man as well.

The three turned from the railing to leave.

Improvise.

That’s what he’d told Sam agents did.

He shook his head.

Yeah, right.

ASHBY EXITED THE CHURCH OF THE DOME AND ROUNDED THE exterior, finding a long arcade, lined with cannon, that led into the Invalides. The massive complex encompassed two churches, a Court of Honor, a military museum, garden, and an elegant esplanade that stretched from the north façade to the Seine, nearly a kilometer away. Founded in 1670 by Louis XIV to house and care for invalid soldiers, the connected multistory buildings were masterpieces of French classicism.

Similar to Westminister, history happened here. He imagined July 14, 1789, when a mob overwhelmed the posted sentries and raided the underground rifle house, confiscating weapons used later that day to storm the Bastille and begin the French Revolution. Seven thousand military veterans had once lived here, and now it was the haunt of tourists.

“Do we have a way to get inside the museum?” Caroline asked.

He’d spoken with Eliza Larocque three more times since last night. Thankfully, she’d managed to obtain a great deal of relevant information.

“I don’t think it is going to be a problem.”

They entered the Court of Honor, a cobbled expanse enclosed on four sides with long two-story galleries. Maybe a hundred meters by sixty. A bronze statue of Napoleon guarded the massive courtyard, perched above the pedimented entrance to the Soldiers’ Church. He knew that here was the spot where de Gaulle had kissed Churchill in thanks after World War II.

He pointed left at one of the stern classical façades, far more impressive than attractive.

“Former refectories. Where the pensioners took their meals. The army museum starts in there.” He motioned right at another refectory. “And ends there. Our destination.”

Scaffolding sheathed the left-hand building. Larocque had told him that half of the museum was undergoing a modernization. Mainly the historical exhibits, two entire floors closed until next spring. The work included exterior renovations and some extensive remodeling of the main entrance.

But not today. Christmas Eve.

A work holiday

MALONE MARCHED DOWN ONE OF THE INVALIDES’ LONG ARCADES, passing a closed wooden door every ten feet, flanked by cannon standing upright at attention. He made his way from the south to the east arcade, passing the Soliders’ Church, turning a corner and hustling toward a temporary entrance into the east building. Ashby and his contingent stood on the opposite side of the Court of Honor, facing the closed portion of the east museum, which housed historical objects from the 17th and 18th centuries, along with artifacts dating from Louis XIV until Napoleon.

A gray-coated attendant with a slow pace and a supervisory eye staffed the makeshift entry that led to a stairway up to the third floor, where the relief map museum remained open, along with a bookstore.

He climbed the stairs, gripping a thick wooden banister.

On the second floor the elevator doors were blocked by two planks nailed together in an X. Work pallets held more disassembled scaffolding. White metal doors, clearly temporary, were shut and a sign taped to them read INTERDIT AU PUBLIC. ACCESS DENIED. Another sign affixed to the wall identified that past the closed doors lay SALLES NAPOLÉON 1ER. ROOMS OF NAPOLEON 1ST.

He approached and yanked the handle for the metal doors.

They opened.

No need to lock them, he’d been told, since the building itself was sealed each night and there was little of value in the galleries beyond.

He stepped into the dim space, drained of noise, allowed the door to close behind him, and hoped he wasn’t going to regret the next few minutes.

THIRTY-SEVEN

NAPOLEON LAY PRONE IN THE BED AND STARED INTO THE FIREPLACE. The tapers burned bright, shedding a red luster on his face, and he allowed the heat and silence to lull him into sleep.

“Old seer. Do you at last come for me?” he asked out loud, in a tender voice.

A joyous expression spread over Napoleon’s countenance, which immediately twisted into a show of anger. “No,” he yelled, “you are mistaken. My luck does not resemble the changing seasons. I am not yet in autumn. Winter does not approach. What? You say my family will leave and betray me? That can’t be. I have lavished kindness on them-” He paused, and his face assumed the expression of an attentive listener. “Ah, but that is too much. Not possible. All Europe is unable to overthrow me. My name is more powerful than fate.”

Awakened by the loud sound of his own voice, Napoleon opened his eyes and gazed around the room. His trembling hand found his moist forehead.

“What a terrible dream,” he said to himself.

Saint-Denis drew close. Good and faithful, always at his side, sleeping on the floor beside the cot. Ready to listen.

“I am here, sire.”

Napoleon found Saint-Denis’ hand.

“Long ago, while in Egypt, a sorcerer spoke to me in the pyramid,” Napoleon said. “He prophesied my ruin, cautioned me against my relatives and the ingratitude of my generals.”

Absorbed by his reflections, in a voice made rough by fading sleep, he seemed to need to speak.

“He told me I would have two wives. The first would be empress and not death, but a woman would hurl her from the throne. The second wife would bear me a son, but all my misfortune would nevertheless begin with her. I would cease to be prosperous and powerful. All my hopes would be disappointed. I would be forcibly expelled and cast upon a foreign soil, hemmed in by mountains and the sea.”

Napoleon gazed up from the bed with a look of undisguised fear.

“I had that sorcerer shot,” he said. “I thought him a fool, and I never listen to fools.”

Thorvaldsen listened as Eliza Larocque explained what her family had long known about Napoleon.

“Pozzo di Borgo thoroughly researched all that happened on St. Helena,” she said. “What I just described occurred about two months before Napoleon died.”

He listened with a false attentiveness.

“Napoleon was a superstitious man,” she said. “A great believer in fate, but never one to bow to its inevitability. He liked to hear what he wanted to hear.”

They sat in a private room at Le Grand Véfour, overlooking the Palais Royal gardens. The menu proudly proclaimed that the restaurant dated back to 1784, and guests then and now dined amid 18th-century gilded décor and delicate hand-painted panels. Not a place Thorvaldsen usually frequented, but Larocque had called earlier, suggested lunch, and selected the location.

“Reality is clear, though,” she said. “Everything that Egyptian sorcerer predicted came to pass. Josephine did become empress and Napoleon divorced her because she could not produce an heir.”

“I thought it was because she was unfaithful.”

“That she was, but so was he. Marie Louise, the eighteen-year-old archduchess of Austria, eventually captured his imagination, so he married her. She gave him the son he wanted.”

“The way of royalty, at the time,” he mused.

“I think Napoleon would have taken offense at being compared to royalty.”

Now he chuckled. “Then he was quite the fool. He was nothing but royalty.”

“Just as predicted, it was after his second marriage, in 1809, that Napoleon’s luck changed. The failed Russian campaign in 1812, where his retreating army was decimated. The 1813 coalition brought England, Prussia, Russia, and Austria against him. His defeats in Spain and at Leipzig, then the German collapse and the loss of Holland. Paris fell in 1814, and he abdicated. They sent him to Elba, but he escaped and tried to retake Paris from Louis XVIII. But his Waterloo finally came on June 18, 1815, and it was over. Off to St. Helena to die.”

“You truly hate the man, don’t you?”

“What galls me is we’ll never know the man. He spent the five years of his exile on St. Helena burnishing his image, writing an autobiography that ended up being more fiction than fact, tailoring history to his advantage. In truth, he was a husband who dearly loved his wife, but quickly divorced her when she failed to produce an heir. A general who professed great love for his soldiers, yet sacrificed them by the hundreds of thousands. Supposedly fearless, he repeatedly abandoned his men when expedient. A leader who wanted nothing more than to strengthen France, yet kept the nation constantly embroiled in war. I think it’s obvious why I detest him.”

He thought a little aggravation might be good. “Did you know that Napoleon and Josephine dined here? I’m told this room remains much the same as it was in the early 19th century.”

She smiled. “I was aware of that. Interesting, though, that you know such information.”

“Did Napoleon really have that sorcerer killed in Egypt?”

“He ordered one of his savants, Monge, to do it.”

“Do you adhere to the theory that Napoleon was poisoned?” He knew that, supposedly, arsenic had been slowly administered in his food and drink, enough to eventually kill him. Modern tests run of strands of hair that survived confirmed high levels of arsenic.

She laughed. “The British had no reason to kill him. In fact, it was quite the opposite. They wanted him alive.”

Their entrées arrived. His was a pan-fried red mullet in oil and tomatoes, hers a young chicken in wine sauce, sprinkled with cheese. They both enjoyed a glass of merlot.

“Do you know the story of when they exhumed Napoleon in 1840, to return him to France?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“It’s illustrative of why the British would never have poisoned him.”

MALONE THREADED HIS WAY THROUGH THE DESERTED GALLERY. No lights burned, and the illumination provided by sunlight was diffused by plastic sheets that protected the windows. The air was warm and laced with the pall of fresh paint. Many of the display cases and exhibits were draped in crusty drop cloths. Ladders dotted the walls. More scaffolding rose at the far end. A section of the hardwood flooring had been removed, and messy repairs were being made to the stone subsurface.

He noticed no cameras, no sensors. He passed uniforms, armor, swords, daggers, harnesses, pistols, and rifles, all displayed in silk-lined cases. A steady and intentional procession of technology, each generation learning how to kill the next faster. Nothing at all suggested the horror of war. Instead, only its glory seemed emphasized.

He stepped around another gash in the floor and kept walking down the long gallery, his rubber soles not making a sound.

Behind him he heard the metal doors being tested.

ASHBY STOOD ON THE SECOND-FLOOR LANDING AND WATCHED as Mr. Guildhall pressed on the doors that led into the Napoleon galleries.

Something blocked them.

“I thought they were open,” Caroline whispered.

That was exactly what Larocque had reported. Anything of value had been removed weeks ago. All that remained were minor historical artifacts, left inside since outside storage was limited. The contractor performing the remodeling had agreed to work around the exhibits, required to purchase liability insurance to guarantee their safety.

Yet something blocked the doors.

He did not want to attract the attention of the woman below, or employees one floor above in the relief map museum. “Force them,” he said. “But quietly.”

THE FRENCH FRIGATE LA BELLE POULE ARRIVED AT ST. HELENA IN October 1840 with a contingent led by Prince de Joinville, the third son of King Louis Philippe. The British governor, Middlemore, sent his son to greet the ship and Royal Naval shore batteries fired a twenty-one-gun salute in their honor. On October 15, twenty five years to the day since Napoleon first arrived on St. Helena, the task of exhuming the emperor’s body began. The French wanted the process managed by their sailors, but the British insisted that the job be done by their people. Local workmen and British soldiers toiled through the night in a pouring rain. Nineteen years had passed since Napoleon’s coffin had been lowered into the earth, sealed with bricks and cement, and reversing that process proved challenging. Freeing the stones one by one, puncturing layers of masonry reinforced with metal bands, forcing off the four lids to finally confront the sight of the dead emperor had taken effort.

A number of people who’d lived with Napoleon on St. Helena had returned to witness the exhumation. General Gourgaud. General Bertrand. Pierron, the pastry cook. Archambault, the groom. Noverraz, the third valet. Marchand, and Saint-Denis, who’d never left the emperor’s side.

The body of Napoleon was wrapped in fragments of white satin that had fallen from the coffin’s lid. His black riding boots had split open to reveal pasty white toes. The legs remained covered in white britches, the hat still resting beside him where it had been placed years before. The silver dish containing his heart lay between the thighs. His hands-white, hard, and perfect-showed long nails. Three teeth were visible where the lip had drawn back, the face gray from the stubble of a beard, the eyelids firmly closed. The body was in remarkable condition, as if he were sleeping rather than decomposing.

All of the objects that had been included to keep him company were still there, crowded around his satin bed. A collection of French and Italian coins minted with his impassive face, a silver sauceboat, a plate, knives, forks, and spoons engraved with the imperial arms, a silver flask containing water from the Vale of Geranium, a cloak, a sword, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of water.

Everyone removed their hats and a French priest sprinkled holy water, reciting the words from Psalm 130. “Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord.”

The British doctor wanted to examine the body in the name of science, but General Gourgaud, heavyset, red faced with a gray beard, objected. “You shall not. Our emperor has suffered enough indignities.”

Everyone there knew that London and Paris had agreed to this exhumation as a way to reconcile differences between the two nations. After all, as the French ambassador to England had made clear, “I do not know any honorable motive for refusal, as England cannot tell the world that she wishes to keep a corpse prisoner.”

The British governor, Middlemore, stepped forward. “We have the right to examine the body.”

“For what reason?” Marchand asked. “What purpose? The British were there when the coffin was sealed, the body subjected to autopsy by your doctors, though the emperor specifically left instructions for that not to occur.”

Marchand himself had been there that day, and it was clear from his bitterness that he hadn’t forgotten the violation.

Middlemore lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Very well. Would you object to an outer inspection? After all, the body is, would you not say, in remarkable condition for being entombed for so long. That demands some investigation.”

Gourgaud relented, and the others agreed.

So the doctor felt the legs, the belly, the hands, an eyelid, then the chest.

“Napoleon was then sealed in his four coffins of wood and metal, the key to the sarcophagus turned, and everything made ready to return him to Paris,” Eliza said.

“What was the doctor really after?” Thorvaldsen asked.

“Something the British had tried, in vain, to learn while Napoleon was their prisoner. The location of the lost cache.”

“They thought it was in the grave?”

“They didn’t know. A lot of odd items were placed in that coffin. Someone thought maybe the answer lay there. It’s believed that was one of the reasons why the Brits agreed to the exhumation-to have another look.”

“And did they find anything?”

She sipped her wine. “Nothing.”

She watched as her words took root.

“They didn’t look in the right place, did they?” he asked.

She was starting to like this Dane. “Not even close.”

“And you, Madame Larocque, have you discovered the right place?”

“That, Herre Thorvaldsen, is a question that may well be answered before this day is completed.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

MALONE FOUND THE NAPOLEONIC EXHIBITS AND EXAMINED relics of both the emperor’s triumph and his fall. He saw the bullet that wounded the general at Ratisbon, his telescope, maps, pistols, a walking stick, dressing gown, even his death mask. One display depicted the room on St. Helena where Napoleon died, complete with folding cot and canopy.

A scraping sound echoed through the hall.

The metal doors a hundred feet behind him were being forced.

He’d settled one of the construction pallets against the doors, knowing that he would soon have company. He’d watched as Ashby had left the church and calmly walked into the Invalides. While Ashby and his entourage stopped to admire the Court of Honor, he’d hurried inside. He was assuming that Ashby was privy to the same sort of inside information Stephanie had provided him. He’d called her last night, after leaving Thorvaldsen, and formulated a plan that accommodated her needs while not compromising his friend.

A juggling act. But not impossible.

The pallet guarding the metal doors scraped louder across the floor.

He turned and spied light seeping into the dim hall.

Three shadows broke the illumination.

Before him, resting inside a partially opened glass case were some silver cutlery, a cup used by Napoleon at Waterloo, a tea box from St. Helena, and two books. A small placard informed the public that the books were from Napoleon’s personal library on St. Helena, part of the 1,600 he’d maintained. One was Memoirs and Correspondence of Joséphine read, the placard informed, by Napoleon in 1821, shortly before he died. He’d supposedly questioned its veracity, upset by its content. The other was a small, leather-bound volume, opened to pages near its center that another placard identified as The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D., from the same personal library, though this book had the distinction of being specially identified in the emperor’s last will and testament.

A click of urgent heels on hard floor echoed through the hall.

ASHBY LOVED THE CHASE.

He was always amused by books and movies that depicted treasure hunters as swashbucklers. In reality, most of the time was spent poring through old writings, whether they be books, wills, correspondence, personal notes, private diaries, or public records. Bits and pieces, here and there. Never some singular piece of proof that solved the puzzle in one quick swoop. Clues were generally either barely existent or undecipherable, and there were far more disappointments than successes.

This chase was a perfect example.

Yet they may actually be on to something this time.

Hard to say for sure until they examined The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D., which should be waiting for them a few meters ahead.

Eliza Larocque had advised him that today would be a perfect opportunity to sneak into this part of the museum. No construction crews should be on the job. Likewise, the Invalides staff would be anxious to be done with the day and go home for Christmas. Tomorrow was one of the few days the museum was closed.

Mr. Guildhall led the way through the cluttered gallery.

The tepid air smelled of paint and turpentine, further evidence of the obvious ongoing renovations.

He needed to leave Paris as soon as this errand was completed. The Americans would be waiting in London, anxious for a report. Which he would finally provide. No reason to delay any longer. Tomorrow would prove a most interesting day-a Christmas he’d certainly remember.

Mr. Guildhall stopped and Ashby caught sight of what his minion had already seen.

In the glass case where the assorted Napoleonic relics and books should be waiting, he saw one volume. But the second book was gone. Only a small card, angled on the wooden easel, remained.

A moment of silence seemed like an hour.

He quelled his dismay, stepped close, and read what was written on the card.

Lord Ashby, if you’re a good boy,

we’ll give you the book.

“What does that mean?” Caroline asked.

“I assume it’s Eliza Larocque’s way of keeping me in line.”

He smiled at the fervor of hope in his lie.

“It says we’ll.”

“She must mean the club.”

“She gave you all the other information she had. She provided the intel on this place.” The words were more question than statement.

“She’s cautious. Perhaps she doesn’t want us to have it all. Not just yet, anyway.”

“You shouldn’t have called her.”

He caught the next question in her eyes and said, “We go back to England.”

They retreated from the gallery and his mind clicked through the possibilities. Caroline knew nothing of his secret collaboration with Washington, which was why he’d blamed the missing book on Larocque and the Paris Club.

But the truth frightened him even more.

The Americans knew his business.

MALONE WATCHED FROM THE FAR END OF THE HALL AS ASHBY and company fled the gallery. He grinned at Ashby’s dilemma, noticing how he’d deceived Caroline Dodd. He then departed through a rear stairway and escaped the Invalides out its north façade. He flagged a taxi, crossed the Seine, and found Le Grand Véfour.

He entered the restaurant and glanced around at a pleasant room, entirely French, with resplendent walls sheathed in gilt-edged mirrors. He scanned the clothed tables and caught sight of Thorvaldsen sitting with a handsome-looking woman, dressed in a gray business suit, her back to him.

He casually displayed the book and smiled.

THORVALDSEN NOW KNEW THAT THE BALANCE OF POWER HAD shifted. He was in total control, and neither Ashby nor Eliza Larocque realized it.

Not yet anyway.

So he placed one knee over the other, leaned back in his chair, and returned his attention to his hostess, confident that soon all his debts would be paid.