The Paris Vendetta

THIRTY-NINE

12:15 PM

SAM FOLLOWED MEAGAN MORRISON AND STEPHANIE NELLE AS they each paid admission to the Eiffel Tower. The lines at the other two entrances, with elevators to the first and second platforms, were massive, at least a two-hour wait. But the one here at the south pylon was much shorter, since the only way to the first platform was to climb 347 steps.

“We don’t have time to wait in line,” Stephanie Nelle had said.

Sam had spent the night at a Left Bank hotel in one room, Meagan Morrison in another, two Secret Service agents guarding their doors. Stephanie had listened to the information Meagan had to offer, then she’d made a few phone calls. After apparently confirming at least some of what she’d heard, she’d insisted on protective custody.

“Do field agents wear the same clothes all the time?” he asked Stephanie as they climbed the stairs. He was going on three days with his current ensemble.

“Few tuxedos or designer digs,” she said. “You make do, and get the job done.”

They passed a riser marked 134. Four immense, lattice-girder piers, the space within them larger than a football field, supported the tower’s first platform-189 feet high, as a sign at the bottom of the stairs had informed. The pylons tapered upward to a second platform, at 379 feet, then continued rising to the top level observation deck, at 905 feet. The tallest structure in Paris-a gangly network of exposed puddle iron, riveted together, painted a brownish gray, the image of which had evolved into one of the most recognizable in the world.

Meagan was handling the climb with easy effort, but his own calves ached. She’d said little last evening, after they were taken to the hotel. But he’d made the right choice going with her from the museum. Now he was working with the head of the Magellan Billet.

Ten more minutes of climbing and they tackled the final flight.

The first-floor platform was busy with visitors swarming through a souvenir shop, post office, exhibit hall, snack bar, and restaurant. Elevators on the far side led down to ground level. Another 330 or so steps right-angled upward to the second level. The first-level platform wound around an open center that offered a view down to the plaza.

Stephanie rested against the iron railing. He and Meagan joined her. Together they stared across at a glass wall and doors, above which lettering identified LA SALLE GUSTAV EIFFEL.

“The Paris Club meets in that room tomorrow,” Meagan told Stephanie in a whisper.

“And how do you really know that?”

They’d had this same conversation yesterday. Obviously Stephanie was practicing the old adage, “Ask the same question enough and see if you get the same answer.”

“Look, Ms. Justice Department,” Meagan said. “I’ve played along with your show of authority. I’ve even tried to be helpful. But if you still don’t believe me, then what are we doing here?”

Stephanie did not respond to the challenge. Instead, they continued to lean against the railing and kept their gazes focused on the far side.

“I know they will be here tomorrow,” Meagan finally said. “It’s a big to-do. The whole club coming together on Christmas.”

“Odd time for a meeting,” Sam said.

“Christmas here is a strange holiday. I learned that a long time ago. The French aren’t all that big on yuletide cheer. Most leave town for the day, and the rest go to restaurants. They all like to eat this cake called a bûche de Noël. Looks like a log and tastes like wood with butter frosting on it. So it doesn’t surprise me the club’s meeting on Christmas.”

“The Eiffel Tower is open?” Sam asked.

Meagan nodded. “At one PM.”

“Tell me again what you know,” Stephanie said.

Meagan appeared irritated, but complied. “Larocque rented the Gustav Eiffel Room, right over there. The shindig starts at eleven AM and goes to four PM. She’s even catered lunch. I guess she thinks two hundred feet in the air gives her and her accomplices some privacy.”

“Any security?” Stephanie asked.

“Now, how would I know that? But I’m betting you do.”

Stephanie seemed to relish the crisp bite of Meagan’s pronouncement. “The city owns the tower, but the Société Nouvelle d’Exploitation de la Tour Eiffel operates the site. They have a private firm that provides security, along with the Paris police and French military.”

Sam had noticed a police station beneath the south tower entrance, along with some serious-looking men, dressed in combat fatigues, toting automatic rifles.

“I checked,” Stephanie said. “There is a group scheduled in that room tomorrow, for that time frame, which contracted for some additional security. The meeting hall itself will be closed off. The tower is closed until one PM. After that, there should be as many people visiting then as today, which is a considerable number.”

“Like I said,” Meagan made clear. “It’s the first time the club has ventured out of its house in the Marais. The one I showed Sam yesterday.”

“And you think that’s significant?” Stephanie asked Meagan.

“Has to be. This club is trouble.”

MALONE LEFT LE GRAND VÉFOUR AND GRABBED A TAXI OUTSIDE the restaurant for a short hop south to the Louvre. He paid the driver and crossed beneath a grand archway into the Cour Napoleon, immediately spotting the signature geometric glass pyramid that served as a skylight for the museum’s entrance below. The classical façade of the Louvre engulfed the massive parade ground on three sides, while the Arc du Carousel, a pastiche of a Roman arch with rose marble columns, stood guard at the open east end.

Seven triangular granite basins surrounded the glass pyramid. On the edge of one sat a slender man with thin features and thick sandy hair touched by gray at the temples. He wore a dark wool coat and black gloves. Though the afternoon air had warmed from the morning chill, Malone estimated it was maybe the high 40s at the most. Thorvaldsen had told him the man would be waiting here, once he obtained the book. So he walked over and sat on the cold edge.

“You must be Cotton Malone,” Professor Murad said in English.

Taking a cue from Jimmy Foddrell, he’d been carrying the book out in the open, so he handed it over. “Fresh from the Invalides.”

“Was it easy to steal?”

“Just sitting there waiting, like I was told it would be.”

He watched as Murad thumbed through the brittle pages. He’d already studied them during the two cab rides and knew where the perusing would stop. The first halt came halfway through, where the manuscript divided itself into two parts. On a blank page, which acted as a divider, was written:

He watched as the professor’s forehead crinkled and a frown signaled reluctance. “I didn’t expect that.”

Malone blew warmth into his ungloved hands and watched the frenetic hustle and bustle in the courtyard as hundreds of tourists came and went from the Louvre.

“Care to explain?”

“It’s a Moor’s Knot. A code Napoleon was known to use. These Roman numerals refer to a specific text. Page and line, since there are only two sets. We would need to know the text he used in order to reveal the specific words that form a message. But there’s no third line of numerals. The ones that would identify the right word on the right line.”

“How did I know this wasn’t going to be easy?”

Murad grinned. “Nothing ever was with Napoleon. He loved drama. This museum is a perfect example. He exacted tributes from every place he conquered and brought them here, making this, at the time, the world’s richest collection.”

“Unfortunately, the Allies took it all back-at least what was here to find-after 1815.”

“You know your history, Mr. Malone.”

“I try. And it’s Cotton. Please.”

“Such an unusual name. How did you acquire it?”

“Like Napoleon, too much drama in that explanation. What about the Moor’s Knot? Any way to solve it?”

“Not without knowing what text was used to generate the numbers. The idea was that the sender and receiver would have the same manuscript to compare. And that missing third set of numerals could be a real problem.”

Thorvaldsen had fully briefed him on Napoleon’s will and the relevance of the book that Murad held to that final testament. So he waited while the professor finished his appraisal of the remaining pages.

“Oh, my,” Murad said when he reached the end flaps. The older man glanced up at him. “Fascinating.”

He’d already studied the curiously twisted handwriting, in faded black ink, same as the ink used to pen the Roman numerals.

“You happen to know what that is?” he asked.

Murad shook his head. “I have no idea.”

SAM CAME TO MEAGAN’S DEFENSE. “APPARENTLY, SHE DOESN’T need much proof of anything. I’d say you being here is more than enough.”

“Well, well,” Stephanie said. “Mr. Collins has finally started thinking like a Secret Service agent.”

He did not appreciate her condescending attitude, but he wasn’t in a position to protest. She was right-he did need to start using his brain. So he said, “You’ve been monitoring her website. Mine, too. God knows how many others. So there has to be something going on here. Something that has caught everyone’s attention.”

“It’s simple,” Stephanie said. “We want the members of this Paris Club in jail.”

He didn’t believe her. “There’s more here than that, and you know it.”

Stephanie Nelle did not answer him, which only reinforced what he believed. But he couldn’t blame her. No need to tell them anything more than was necessary.

He watched as people bundled to the cold kept streaming up from below on the stairs. More paraded in and out of elevators that rose through the open ironworks to the second platform. A boisterous lunch crowd entered the nearby restaurant. A frigid breeze eased through the brownish gray metal that spiderwebbed up all around them.

“If you want to be privy to that meeting tomorrow,” Meagan said, “I doubt you’re going to get any listening devices installed. My source tells me that the club sweeps their rooms clean before, during, and after meetings.”

“We won’t need them,” Stephanie made clear.

Sam stared at her, and she returned his glare with a grin he did not like.

“You two ever waited tables?”

FORTY

ELIZA WAS ACTUALLY ENJOYING HER LUNCH CONVERSATION with Henrik Thorvaldsen. He was an intelligent, quick-witted man who did not waste time on small talk. He seemed an eager listener, a person who absorbed facts, cataloged them in proper order, then swiftly drew conclusions.

Just like herself.

“Napoleon realized,” she said, “that war was good for society. Like nothing else, it mobilized his best thinkers to think better. He discovered that scientists were more creative when a threat was real. Manufacturing became more innovative and productive. The people more obedient. He discovered that the citizenry, if threatened, would allow just about any violation from government, so long as they were protected. But too much war is destructive. People will only tolerate so much, and his enemies made sure there was far more than he ever intended, and he ultimately lost all ability to govern.”

“I can’t see how war would ever be termed a good thing,” Thorvaldsen said. “There are so many things wrong with it.”

“There is death, destruction, devastation, waste. But war has always existed. How could something so utterly wrong continue to thrive? The answer is simple. War works. Man’s greatest technological achievements have always come as the result of war. Look at the last world conflict. We learned to split the atom and fly in space, not to mention countless advances in electronics, science, medicine, engineering. All while we slaughtered one another on an unprecedented scale.”

He nodded. “There is truth in what you say.”

“It’s even more dramatic than that, Herre Thorvaldsen. Look at American history. Its economy is as rhythmic as a clock-a cycle of boom, recession, and depression. But here’s a fact. Every one of America’s cyclical depressions has occurred during a period of inadequate military spending. There were depressions after the War of 1812, the Civil War in the 1860s, and the Spanish-American War at the turn of the 20th century. The Great Depression of the 1930s came at a time, after the First World War, when America went into isolationism and literally dismantled its military. It took another war to bring it out.”

“Sounds like a subject you have studied.”

“I did and the evidence is clear. War makes the stable governing of society possible. It provides a clear external necessity for society to accept political rule. End war and national sovereignty will eventually end as well-this was a concept Napoleon understood. He may actually have been the first modern leader to grasp its meaning.”

The dining room at Le Grand Véfour was beginning to empty. Lunchtime was drawing to a close, and she watched as patrons said their goodbyes to each other and slowly departed.

“Napoleon planned to transition not only France,” she said, “but all of his conquered territory from a war state to a peace-oriented society. But he recognized that to do it, he’d need adequate substitutes for war. Unfortunately for him, none existed in his day.”

“What could possibly take war’s place?”

She shrugged. “It’s difficult to find, but not impossible. The idea would be to create an alternative enemy. A threat, either real or perceived, against which society rallies to defend itself. Mass destruction by nuclear weapons, for example. That was what the Cold War was all about. Neither side ever did much to the other, but both spent billions and billions in preparation. Government flourished during the Cold War. The American federal system expanded to unprecedented levels. Western civilization escalated to new heights from 1950 to 1990. Man made it to the moon thanks to the Cold War. There’s an example of a worthy substitute to war.”

“Your point is well taken.”

“There are other examples, though less compelling. Global warming, perceived food shortages, control of fresh water. In recent years these have been tried. But they have not, as yet, either risen in actuality or been perceived as a sufficient threat.

“Massive programs that drastically expand health care, education, public housing, and transportation might work. But they would have to be all-encompassing, engrossing the entire population in their success, expending resources at obscene levels. It’s doubtful that this could occur. Even a small war expends massive amounts of resources. Military spending and preparedness is wasteful beyond measure, and no social-welfare program could ever compare, though the various national health care and social security programs around the world do waste money at extraordinary levels. But in the end, they simply can’t waste enough to make the venture a viable substitute for war.”

Thorvaldsen chuckled. “Do you realize the absurdity of what you’re saying?”

“Perfectly. But transitioning to world peace is a difficult endeavor. Ignoring the challenge of governing for a moment, there’s the matter of channeling collective aggression.”

“As the Romans did? In the Colosseum? With gladiators and games and sacrifice?”

“The Romans were smart. They recognized the concepts I’m explaining. In a peace-based society, if social disintegration is to be avoided, alternatives to war have to be created. The games offered that to the Roman people, and their society flourished for centuries.”

She could see that he was interested in what she was saying.

“Herre Thorvaldsen, it was long ago realized, even by ancient monarchs, that their subjects would not tolerate in peace that which they would willingly accept in war. This concept is particularly true today, in modern democracies. Again, look at America. In the 1950s it allowed the trampling of its First Amendment when the threat of encroaching communism was thought real. Free speech became unimportant when compared with the imagined danger of the Soviet Union. Even more recently, after the September 11 attacks in 2001, laws were passed that, at any other time, Americans would have found repulsive. The Patriot Act suppressed liberties and invaded privacies on an unprecedented level. Surveillance laws curbed civil liberties and restricted established freedoms. Identification laws came into being that, heretofore, Americans found repugnant. But they allowed those violations so that they could be safe-”

“Or at least perceive themselves to be safe.”

She smiled. “Precisely. That is exactly what I’m talking about. A credible external threat equals expanded political power-so long as the threat remains credible.”

She paused.

“And within that formula, there exists the potential for great profit.”

MALONE POINTED AT THE BOOK PROFESSOR MURAD HELD AND the curious lines of writing. “Henrik isn’t going to like that we don’t know what that is.”

Murad continued to examine the anomaly. “I have an idea. Let’s go inside the Louvre. I need to check something.”

THORVALDSEN WAS ABSORBING ALL THAT ELIZA LAROCQUE WAS explaining. She’d obviously invested a lot of thought into what she was planning. He decided to steer her back toward Ashby.

“You haven’t asked me a thing about your security problem,” he said in a kindly voice.

“I assumed you would tell me when ready.”

He sipped his wine and arranged his thoughts. “Ashby is nearly thirty million euros in debt. Most of that is unsecured, high-interest personal loans.”

“I have found Lord Ashby to be straightforward and quite dedicated. He’s done everything I’ve requested of him.”

“Lord Ashby is a thief. As you well know, a few years back he was involved with a group of illicit art collectors. Many of the group ultimately faced justice-”

“Nothing was ever proven regarding Lord Ashby.”

“Again, none of which exonerates him. I know he was involved. You know he was involved. That’s why he’s part of your club.”

“And he’s making excellent progress doing what I requested. In fact, he’s here, right now, in Paris, following up on a promising lead. One that could lead straight to our goal. And for that, Herre Thorvaldsen, I might be willing to forgive a gracious plenty.”

MALONE FOLLOWED PROFESSOR MURAD INTO THE GLASS PYRAMID and down a series of escalators. A low rumble of noise seeped from crowds waiting to enter the museum. He wondered where they were headed and was grateful when the professor bypassed the long lines at ticket counters and headed into the bookstore.

The two-story shop was packed with information-thousands of books for sale, all arranged by country and period. Murad headed for the expansive French section and several tables stacked with tomes relative to the Napoleonic Age.

“I come here all the time,” the academician said. “It’s a great store. They carry so many obscure texts that ordinary places never would stock.”

He could understand that obsession. Bibliophiles were all alike.

Murad hastily searched the titles.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“I’m looking for a French volume.” His eyes kept raking the table. “It’s on St. Helena. I almost bought it a few weeks ago but-” He reached down and slid out one of the hardbacks. “Here it is. Too expensive. So I settled for admiring it from afar.”

Malone smiled. He liked this man. Nothing pretentious about him.

Murad laid the volume down and thumbed through the pages. He seemingly found what he was searching for and asked Malone to open the book from the Invalides to the page with the curious lines of writing.

“Just what I thought,” Murad said, pointing to the book they’d come to see. “This is a picture of some notes from St. Helena, written during Napoleon’s exile. We know that his steward, Saint-Denis, rewrote many of Napoleon’s drafts, since the emperor’s penmanship was atrocious.” Murad pointed. “See. The two samples we have here are nearly identical.”

Malone compared the books and saw that the script was indeed similar. The same rounded M’s- -and stilted E’s- The flare at the base of the F’s-. The odd-shaped A’s- -that looked like slanted D’s.

“So Saint-Denis wrote what’s in this Merovingian book?” he asked.

“No, he didn’t.”

Malone was puzzled.

Murad pointed to the open Louvre book. “Read the caption beneath the photo.”

He did-and now realized. “That’s Napoleon’s handwriting?”

Murad nodded and pointed to the Merovingian text. “He personally wrote what’s in this book, then left it specifically in Saint-Denis’ charge. That makes this writing significant.”

He recalled what Henrik had told him about the conversation between Ashby and Caroline Dodd. A letter she’d located, also written in Napoleon’s hand. Unusual to see the emperor’s handwriting, she’d told Ashby.

He mentioned that to Murad.

“I was thinking the same thing,” the professor said. “Henrik briefed me, too. Mighty curious.”

He studied the fourteen lines of odd letters and other random markings written by Napoleon Bonaparte himself.

“There’s a message here,” Malone said. “There has to be.”

THORVALDSEN DECIDED TO SINK THE KNIFE DEEPER INTO ELIZA Larocque and asked, “What if Lord Ashby can’t deliver that which you want?”

She shrugged. “Few, besides my ancestor, have ever searched for Napoleon’s cache. It’s generally regarded as myth. I’m hoping they are wrong. I don’t think it will be Ashby’s fault if he fails. He’s at least trying.”

“While deceiving you about his finances.”

She fingered her wineglass. “I admit, that’s a problem. I’m not happy about it.” She paused. “But I’ve yet to see any proof.”

“What if Ashby finds the cache and doesn’t tell you?”

“How would I ever know?”

“You won’t.”

“Is there a point to your badgering?”

He saw that she’d heard the hint of an unspoken promise. “Whatever he’s after, here, today, in Paris, seems important. You yourself said it might hold the key. If I’m right about him, he’s going to tell you that he wasn’t able to retrieve whatever it is-that it wasn’t there or some other such excuse. It will be for you to judge whether that be truth or a lie.”

FORTY-ONE

MALONE LEFT DR. MURAD AT THE LOUVRE, AFTER PHOTOCOPYING the two pages in the Merovingian book with Napoleon’s writing and leaving the copies with the professor. He needed to keep the book.

He grabbed a taxi, crossed the Seine, and headed to the Eiffel Tower. Beneath the ironworks, among a bustling crowd of visitors waiting in line to ascend the elevators, he spotted Stephanie, Sam, and another woman-Meagan Morrison.

“Good to see you’re okay,” he said to Sam. “Of course, you didn’t listen to a thing I said in the museum.”

“I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”

“Actually you could and should have.”

Malone faced Morrison. She was exactly as Stephanie described-short, anxious, attractive, and interesting.

Meagan pointed at Stephanie. “Is she always so pushy?”

“Actually, she’s mellowed over the years.”

“How about you two excusing us a minute,” Stephanie said. She grabbed Malone’s arm and led him away, asking, “What did you find in the Invalides?”

He reached beneath his jacket and showed her the book. “Lord Ashby wasn’t happy it was gone. I watched as he read my note. But I also noticed that he avoided Caroline Dodd’s questions and blamed it all on Larocque.”

“Which explains why Thorvaldsen doesn’t know Ashby is working for us. He’s kept his spying close. I didn’t think Henrik could have the man followed twenty-four hours a day, or listen to every communication.”

Malone knew intense surveillance, no matter how professionally done, was eventually noticed. Better to be selective and careful.

“Our handlers have done a poor job riding herd over Ashby,” she said. “He’s had a free rein, calling all the shots.”

He watched Sam and Meagan Morrison as they stood a hundred feet away. “Is he doing all right?”

“He wants to be a field agent, so I’m going to give him a chance.”

“Is he ready?”

“He’s all I’ve got right now, so he’s going to have to be.”

“And her?”

“Hothead. Cocky. The balls of an alley cat.”

“Easy to see how you two would butt heads.”

She smiled. “I have French intelligence working with me. They’ve been told about Peter Lyon. They want him bad. He’s linked to three bombings here a decade ago where four policemen died.”

“They still pissed about the Cluny?”

She chuckled. “The dírecteur générale de la sécuríté extéríeure knows all about you. He told me about the abbey at Belém and Aachen’s cathedral. But he’s reasonable. That’s how you and Ashby walked in and out of the Invalides with no problem. Believe me, they have better security than that.”

“I need something else.” He motioned with the book. “A press story on its theft. Nothing major-just enough to make tomorrow’s paper. It would help.”

“With Henrik?”

He nodded. “I need to keep him at bay. He has a plan to use the theft against Ashby with Larocque. I don’t see the harm, so let’s indulge him.”

“Where is he?”

“Driving a wedge deeper between Eliza Larocque and Ashby. You realize, like him, I’m playing both ends against the middle.”

“Played right, we may all get what we want.”

He was tired, the strain from the past couple of weeks returning. He ran a hand through his hair. He also should call Gary. Christmas was tomorrow, a day when fathers should talk to their sons.

“What now?” he asked.

“You and I are headed to London.”

SAM STUFFED HIS BARE HANDS INTO HIS COAT POCKETS AND stood in the crowd with Meagan. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless winter sky.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked her.

“Your lady friend there said I’d be arrested if I didn’t.”

“That’s not why.”

Her pleasant face showed no apprehension, something he’d noticed often since yesterday. No negativity in this personality, or at least not any she allowed to surface.

“We’re finally doing it,” she said. “No more talking. We’re here, Sam, doing something.”

He’d felt some of the same ebullience.

“We can stop them. I knew it was real. So did you. We’re not crazy, Sam.”

“You realize what Stephanie wants us to do is dangerous.”

She shrugged. “How bad could it be? Any worse than at the museum yesterday? What’s wrong with being a little cavalier?”

“What’s that word mean?” he asked Norstrum.

“Free. Offhand. Somewhat careless.”

He allowed his fifteen-year-old brain to absorb the definition. He’d broken another rule and risked a free climb up the rock face. Norstrum had told him to use a rope, but he hadn’t obeyed.

“Sam, we all take chances. That’s how you succeed. But never foolish ones. Success comes from minimizing risk, not making it greater.”

“But the rope wasn’t needed. I made it fine.”

“And what would have happened if your grip had not held? Or your foot slipped? Or a muscle cramped?” Norstrum’s terse questions were a clear indication that he was, if not displeased, certainly unhappy. “You would have fallen. Been maimed for life, maybe killed, and what would you have gained from taking such a risk?”

He tried to place the information into context, allowing the rebuke to float through his mind as he determined the right response. He did not like that he’d upset Norstrum. When he was younger he didn’t care, but as he’d grown older he’d come to want not to disappoint this man.

“I’m sorry. It was foolish.”

The older man grasped his shoulder. “Remember, Sam, foolishness will get you killed.”

Norstrum’s warning rang clear in his brain as he considered Meagan’s three questions. Seventeen years ago, when he’d scaled the rock face with no safety rope, he’d learned that Norstrum had been right.

Foolishness will get you killed.

Yesterday, in the museum, he’d forgotten that lesson.

Not today.

Stephanie Nelle had drafted him for a job. Did it entail risks? Plenty. But they should be measured and calculated.

Nothing cavalier.

“I want to be careful, Meagan. You should be, too.”

FORTY-TWO

ENGLAND

2:40 PM

ASHBY GLANCED AT HIS WATCH AND NOTED THAT IT HAD TAKEN the Bentley a little over an hour to make the drive from Heathrow Airport to Salen Hall. He also noticed that his estate workers were busy maintaining the grounds, though the seahorse fountain, canal pond, and cascade were silent for winter. Except for an enlarged stable and a kitchen and servant wing, the main house had remained unchanged since the 18th century. The same clumps of forest and pasture also remained. The surrounding land all had once been ancient moors, driven back by Ashby ancestors who’d tamed the valley with grass and fence. He prided himself on both its beauty and its independence, one of the last privately owned British manors that did not depend on tourism for revenue.

And it never would.

The Bentley stopped at the crown of a graveled cul-de-sac. Orange brick and diamond-paned windows glistened in the bright sun. Gargoyles leered down from the roofline, their axes poised, as if to warn invaders.

“I’m going to do a little research,” Caroline told him as they stepped inside the house.

Good. He needed to think. He and Mr. Guildhall headed straight for his study and Ashby sat behind the desk. This day had turned disastrous.

He’d kept quiet during the short flight back from Paris and delayed the inevitable. Now he lifted the phone and dialed Eliza Larocque’s mobile number.

“I hope you have more good news,” she said.

“Actually, no. The book wasn’t there. Perhaps it’s been moved during the renovation? I found the display case and the other items, but not the volume on the Merovingians.”

“The information provided to me was quite specific.”

“The book was not there. Can you check again?”

“Of course.”

“In the morning, once I return to Paris for our gathering, perhaps we can speak privately beforehand?”

“I will be at the tower by ten thirty.”

“Till then.”

He hung up the phone and checked his watch.

Four hours to go. That was when he was scheduled to meet with his American contact. He’d hoped that to be his last conversation, as he was tired of the juggling act. He wanted Napoleon’s cache and had hoped the book in the Invalides held the key. Now the bloody Americans controlled it.

He’d have to bargain tonight.

Tomorrow would be far too late.

ELIZA CLICKED OFF HER PHONE AND THOUGHT BACK TO WHAT Henrik Thorvaldsen had predicted. If I’m right about him, he’s going to tell you that he wasn’t able to retrieve whatever it is, that it wasn’t there, or some other such excuse. And to what he’d told her again, just before they concluded their lunch and he left the restaurant. It will be for you to judge whether that be truth or a lie.

She was safe inside her house in the Marais, not far from where the Paris Club gathered. Her family had owned the property since the mid-19th century. She’d grown up within these elegant walls and now spent the majority of her time here. Her sources within the French government had assured her that the book she sought was there, in the museum. A minor relic, of little historical significance, other than being from Napoleon’s personal library and mentioned in his will. Her sources had asked few questions, nor would they have once they learned the book was gone, since they’d learned long ago that to appreciate her generosity meant to keep their mouths shut.

She’d debated what to do about Thorvaldsen ever since leaving Le Grand Véfour. The Danish billionaire had appeared from nowhere with information that she simply could not ignore. He clearly knew her business, and the oracle had confirmed his intentions. Now Ashby himself had corroborated what Thorvaldsen predicted. She did not intend to ignore the warnings any longer.

She retrieved the telephone number Thorvaldsen had provided to her yesterday and dialed. When he answered, she told him, “I have decided to extend you an invitation to join our group.”

“Most generous. I assume, then, Lord Ashby disappointed you.”

“Let us say that he’s aroused my curiosity. Are you free tomorrow? The club is gathering for an important session.”

“I’m a Jew. Christmas is not a holiday for me.”

“Nor me. We meet in the morning, in La Salle Gustav Eiffel, on the first platform of the tower, at eleven. They have a lovely banquet room, and we have a lunch planned after we talk.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“I shall see you then.”

She clicked off the phone.

Tomorrow.

A day she’d been anticipating for a long time. She planned to fully explain to her cohorts what the parchments had taught her family. Some of which she’d related to Thorvaldsen at lunch, but she’d intentionally not mentioned a caveat. In a peace-based society, with no war, stimulating mass fear through political, sociological, ecological, scientific, or cultural threats could prove nearly impossible. No attempt, so far, had ever carried sufficient credibility or magnitude to work for long. Something like black plague, which had threatened on a global scale, came close, but a threat such as that, conceived from unknown conditions, with little or no control, was impractical.

And any threat would have to be containable.

After all, that was the whole idea. Scare the people into obeying-then extract profit from their fear. The better solution was the simplest. Invent the threat. Such a plan came with a multitude of advantages. Like a dimmer switch on a chandelier that could be adjusted into infinite degrees of intensity. Thankfully, in today’s world, a credible enemy existed and had already galvanized public sentiment.

Terrorism.

As she’d told Thorvaldsen, that precise threat had worked in America, so it should work anywhere.

Tomorrow she’d see if the parchments were correct.

What Napoleon had wanted to do, she would now do.

For two hundred years her family had profited from the political misfortunes of others. Pozzo di Borgo deciphered enough from the parchments to teach his children, as they’d taught theirs, that it truly did not matter who made the laws-control the money and you possess real power.

To do that, she needed to control events.

Tomorrow would be an experiment.

And if it worked?

There’d be more.

FORTY-THREE

LONDON

6:40 PM

ASHBY SEARCHED THE DARKNESS AND THE HUNDRED OR SO faces for a green-and-gold Harrods scarf. Most of the people surrounding him were clearly tourists, their guide yelling something about the feel of gaslight and fog and August 1888 when Jack the Ripper struck terror into drink-sodden East End prostitutes.

He grinned.

The Ripper seemed to interest only foreigners. He wondered if those same people would pay money in their own countries to be taken on a tour of a mass murderer’s haunts.

He was on the city’s east side, in Whitechapel, walking down a crowded sidewalk. To his left, across a busy street, rose the Tower of London, its taupe-colored stones awash in sodium vapor light. What was once an enormous moat was now a sea of emerald winter grass. A cold breeze eased inland off the nearby Thames, with the Tower Bridge lighted in the distance.

“Good evening, Lord Ashby.”

The woman who appeared beside him was petite with short-cut hair, late fifties, early sixties, definitely American, and wearing a green-and-gold scarf. Exactly as he’d been told.

However.

“You are new,” he said to her.

“I’m the one in charge.”

That information caught his attention.

He’d met his regular contact with American intelligence on several of London’s walking tours. They’d taken the British Museum stroll, Shakespeare’s London, Old Mayfair, and now Jack the Ripper Haunts.

“And who are you?” he casually asked.

“Stephanie Nelle.”

The group halted for the guide to spew out something about how the building just ahead was where the Ripper’s first victim had been found. She grasped his arm and, as others focused on the guide, they drifted into the crowd’s wake.

“Fitting we should meet on this tour,” she said. “Jack the Ripper terrorized people and was never caught, either.”

He didn’t smile at her attempt toward irony. “I could end my involvement now and leave, if you no longer require my help.”

The group again started forward.

“I realize the price we’re going to have to pay is your freedom. But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

He told himself to stay calm. This woman, and who she represented, had to be stroked, at least for another twenty-four hours, and at least until he obtained the book.

“The last I was told we were in this endeavor together,” he said.

“You promised to deliver information today. I came to personally hear what you have to offer.”

The group stopped at another notable site.

“Peter Lyon will bomb the Church of the Dome, at the Invalides, tomorrow,” he said in a low voice. “Christmas Day. As a demonstration.”

“Of what?”

“Eliza Larocque is a fanatic. She has some ancient wisdom that her family has lived by for centuries. Quite complicated and, to me, generally irrelevant, but there is a French extremist group-isn’t there always one?-that wants to make a statement.”

“Who is it this time?”

“It involves immigrant discrimination under French law. North Africans, who flooded into France years ago, welcomed then as guest workers. Now they’re ten percent of the population and tired of being held down. They want to make a statement. Larocque has the means and wants no credit, so Peter Lyon brokered a partnership.”

“I want to understand the purpose of this partnership.”

He sighed. “Can’t you decipher it? France is in the middle of a demographic shift. Those Algerian and Moroccan immigrants are becoming a problem. They are now far more French than African, but the xenophobic right and the secularist left hate them. If birthrates continue as they are, within two decades those immigrants will outnumber the native French.”

“And what does blowing up the Invalides have to do with that inevitability?”

“It’s all a symbol. Those immigrants resent their second-class status. They want their mosques. Their freedom. Political expression. Influence. Power. What everyone else has. But the native French don’t want them to have those. I’m told a great many laws have been passed trying to keep these people at a distance.” He paused. “And anti-Semitism is also on a sharp rise throughout France. Jews are becoming afraid once again.”

“And those immigrants are to blame for that?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps some. To me, if the truth be told, the radical French are more responsible. But the political right and the extreme left have done a good job blaming those immigrants for all the ills that befall the country.”

“I’m still waiting for my answer.”

The tour stopped at another point of interest, and the guide droned on.

“Eliza is conducting a test,” he said. “A way to channel French national aggression onto something other than war. An attack by some perceived radical element against a French national monument, the grave of its beloved Napoleon-whom she despises, by the way-would, to her way of thinking, channel that collective aggression. At least that’s her way of explaining it.”

“Why does she hate Napoleon?”

He shrugged. “How would I know? Family tradition, I assume. One of her ancestors carried on a Corsican vendetta against Napoleon. I’ve never really understood.”

“Does the Paris Club meet tomorrow at the Eiffel Tower?”

He nodded his head in appreciation. “You’ve been busy. Would it not have been more prudent to ask me a direct question to see if I would be truthful?”

“I’m in a hurry, and I don’t necessarily believe a word you say anyway.”

He shook his head. “Impertinent. And arrogant. Why? I’ve cooperated with your people-”

“When you wanted to. You deliberately held back this information on an attack.”

“As you would have done, if in my place. But you now know, in plenty of time, so prepare accordingly.”

“I don’t know anything. How is it going to be done?”

“Good heavens, why would I be privy to that information?”

“You’re the one who made the deal with Lyon.”

“Believe me, that devil offers precious little in the way of details. He just wants to know when and if his money has been wired. Beyond that, he explains nothing.”

“Is that all?”

“The Invalides is closed for Christmas Day. At least there will be no people to worry about.”

She did not appear comforted. “You still haven’t answered my question about the Paris Club.”

“We meet tomorrow morning at the Eiffel Tower. Eliza has rented the banquet room on level one and plans to take everyone to the top around noon. As I said, Lyon likes timelines. Noon is when the explosion will occur, and the club will have the perfect vantage point.”

“Do the members know what’s going to happen?”

He shook his head. “Heavens, no. Only she and I, and our South African. I would assume most of them would be appalled.”

“Though they won’t mind profiting from it.”

The tour headed farther into the bowels of London’s darkened east side.

“Morality rarely plays into the quest for profit,” he said.

“So tell me what I really want to know. How do we finally connect with Lyon?” she asked.

“The same way I did.”

“Not good enough. I want him delivered.”

He stopped walking. “How do you propose I do that? I’ve only seen him once, and he was totally disguised. He communicates with me at his choosing.”

They were keeping their voices down, walking behind the main group. Even though he’d worn his thickest wool coat and fur-lined gloves, he was cold. Each exhale vaporized before his eyes.

“Surely you can arrange something,” she said. “Considering we won’t be prosecuting you.”

He caught the unspoken threat. “Is that why I’m honored tonight with your presence? You came to deliver an ultimatum? Your representative wasn’t authoritative enough?”

“Game’s over, Ashby. Your usefulness is rapidly diminishing. I’d suggest you do something to increase your value.”

He’d actually already done just that, but he wasn’t about to tell this woman anything. So he asked, “Why did your people take the book in the Invalides?”

She chuckled. “To show you that there’s been a change in management on this end. New rules apply.”

“Lucky for me that you’re so dedicated to your profession.”

“You really think that there’s some lost treasure of Napoleon out there to find?”

“Eliza Larocque certainly does.”

She reached beneath her coat, removed something, and handed it to him. “That’s my show of good faith.”

He gripped the volume through his gloves. In the ambient glow of a nearby street lamp he caught the title. The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D.

The book from the Invalides.

“Now,” she said, “give me what I want.”

The tour approached Ten Bells pub and he heard the guide explain how the establishment had played host to many of Jack the Ripper’s victims, perhaps even the Ripper himself. A fifteen-minute break was announced and drinks were available inside.

He should head back to Salen Hall and Caroline. “Are we finished?”

“Until tomorrow.”

“I’ll do everything possible to make sure you get what you want.”

“I hope so,” she said. “For your sake.”

And with that the woman named Stephanie Nelle walked off into the night.

He stared down at the book. Things really were finally falling into place.

“Good evening, Lord Ashby.”

The unexpected voice came near his right ear, low and throaty, below the rhythmic sound of soles slapping pavement around him. He turned and, in the glow of another street lamp, caught a reddish hue in thick hair and thin eyebrows. He noticed an aquiline nose, scarred face, and eyeglasses. The man was dressed, like the others around him, in thick winter wear, including scarf and gloves. One hand clutched the roped handles of a Selfridges shopping bag.

Then he saw the eyes.

A burnt amber.

“Do you ever look the same?” he asked Peter Lyon.

“Hardly.”

“It must be difficult having no identity.”

“I have no problem with my identity. I know exactly who and what I am.” The voice this time seemed almost American.

He was concerned. Peter Lyon should not be here.

“You and I need to speak, Lord Ashby.”

FORTY-FOUR

PARIS, 8:50 PM

SAM FOLLOWED MEAGAN DOWN A SPIRAL STAIRCASE THAT CORKSCREWED into the earth. They’d dined at a café in the Latin Quarter after being granted a temporary release from Stephanie Nelle’s protective custody.

“Where are we going?” he asked her as they kept descending into pitch blackness.

“To Paris’ basement,” Meagan said.

She was ahead of him, her flashlight dissolving the darkness below. When he reached the bottom, she handed him another light. “They don’t keep flashlights down here for trespassers like us.”

“Trespassers?”

She motioned with her beam. “It’s illegal to be here.”

“What is here?”

“The quarries. A hundred and seventy miles of tunnels and galleries. Formed when limestone was torn from the ground, used for buildings, to make gypsum for plaster, clay for bricks, and roof tiles. Everything needed to build Paris, and this is what’s left. The Paris underground.”

“And the reason we’re here?”

She shrugged. “I like this place. I thought you might, too.”

She walked ahead, following a damp passage clearly hewn from solid rock and supported by a chalky framework. The air was cool but not cold, the floor uneven and unpredictable.

“Careful of the rats,” she said. “They can pass leptospirosis.”

He stopped. “Excuse me?”

“Bacterial infection. Fatal.”

“Are you nuts?”

She stopped. “Unless you plan on letting one bite you or swishing your fingers in their urine, I’d say you’re okay.”

“What are we doing here?”

“Are you always so antsy? Just follow me. I want to show you something.”

They started back down the corridor, the roof just above his head. Her light beam revealed about fifty feet of tunnel ahead of them.

“Norstrum,” he called out to the blackness.

He wondered why he’d disobeyed and come, but the promise of an adventure had been too enticing to ignore. The caves were not far from the school, and everyone knew about them. Funny how no one ever used the word orphanage. Always the school. Or the institute. Who were his parents? He had no idea. He’d been abandoned at birth, and how he arrived in Christchurch the police never determined. The school insisted students know all they could about themselves. No secrets-he actually appreciated that rule-but there was simply nothing for him to learn.

“Sam.”

Norstrum’s voice.

He’d been told that Norstrum, when he’d first arrived at the school, had named him Sam Collins, after a beloved uncle.

“Where are you?” he called out to the blackness.

“Not far.”

He aimed his light and kept walking.

“It’s just up here,” Meagan said, as the tunnel ended in what appeared to be a spacious gallery, with multiple exits and a high ceiling. Stone pillars supported a curved roof. Meagan shone her light on the rough walls and he spied myriad graffiti, paintings, inscriptions, cartoons, mosaics, poetry, even musical lyrics.

“It’s a collage of social history,” she said. “These drawings date back to the time of the French Revolution, the Prussian siege in the late 19th century, and the German occupation in the 1940s. The Paris underground has always been a refuge from war, death, and destruction.”

One drawing caught his eye. A sketch of a guillotine.

“From the Grande Terreur,” she said, over his shoulder. “Two hundred years old. A testament to a time when bloody deaths were a part of everyday life here. That was made with black smoke. Quarrymen of that day carried candles and oil lamps, and they’d place the flame close against the wall, which baked carbon into the stone. Pretty smart.”

He pointed with his light. “That’s from the French Revolution?”

She nodded. “This is a time capsule, Sam. The entire underground is that way. See why I like it?”

He glanced around at the images. Most seemed conceived with sobriety, but humor and satire were also evident, along with several titillating pornographic additions.

“This is a pretty amazing place,” she said to the darkness. “I come here a lot. It’s peaceful and silent. Like a return to the womb. Going back to the surface, to me, can be like a rebirth.”

He was taken aback by her frankness. Apparently cracks did exist in her tough veneer. Then he understood.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

She faced him and, in the glow from her light, he caught sincerity in her eyes. “You know I am.”

“I am, too.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” Norstrum had said when he finally found him in the cave. “But you should not have come here alone.”

He knew that now.

“Fear can be an ally,” Norstrum said. “Always take it with you, no matter what the fight. It’s what keeps you sharp.”

“But I don’t want to be afraid. I hate being afraid.”

Norstrum laid a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no choice, Sam. It’s the circumstances that create fear. How you respond is all you can control. Concentrate on that, and you’ll always succeed.”

He gently laid his hand on her shoulder. It was the first time they’d touched, and she did not pull away.

Surprising himself, he was glad.

“We’ll be okay,” he told her.

“Those men yesterday, in the museum, I think they would have eventually hurt me.”

“That’s really why you forced things, while I was there?”

A hesitation, then she nodded.

He appreciated her honesty. Finally. “Looks like we’ve both bit off a lot.”

She grinned. “Apparently so.”

He withdrew his hand and wondered about her show of vulnerability. Through emails, they’d communicated many times over the past year. He’d thought he was speaking to a man named Jimmy Foddrell. Instead, an intriguing woman had been on the other end of the Internet. Thinking back, she’d actually reached out in some of those communiqués. Never like this-but enough that he’d felt a connection.

She pointed with her light. “Down those corridors you’ll eventually find the catacombs. The bones of six million people are stacked there. Ever been?”

He shook his head.

“Don’t.”

He kept silent.

“These drawings,” she said, “were made by ordinary people. But they’re a historical essay. The walls down here, for miles, are covered in pictures. They show people’s life and times, fears, and superstitions. They are a record.” She paused. “We have a chance, Sam, to do something real. Something that could make a difference.”

They were so much alike. Both of them lived in a virtual world of paranoia and speculation. And both of them harbored good intentions.

“Then let’s do it,” he said.

She chuckled. “I wish it were that easy. I have a bad feeling about this.”

She seemed to draw strength from this underground spectacle. Perhaps even some wisdom, too.

“Care to explain that one?”

She shook her head. “I can’t, really. Just a feeling.”

She came closer. Barely a few inches away. “Did you know that a kiss shortens life by three minutes?”

He considered her strange inquiry, then shook his head.

“Not a peck on the cheek. A real kiss, like you mean it, causes palpitations to such a degree that the heart works harder in four seconds than it normally would in three minutes.”

“Really, now?”

“There was a study. Hell, Sam, there’s a study for everything. 480 kisses-again, like you mean it-will shorten a person’s life by one day. 2,300 will cost a week. 120,000? There goes a year.”

She inched closer.

He smiled. “And the point?”

“I can spare three minutes of my life, if you can.”

FORTY-FIVE

LONDON

MALONE WATCHED AS STEPHANIE DISAPPEARED INTO THE night and another man immediately approached Graham Ashby, toting a Selfridges shopping bag. Malone had immersed himself among the walking tour, embracing the talkative crowd. His task was to cover Stephanie’s back, keep a close eye on things, but now they may have finally caught a break.

He noted the features of Ashby’s companion.

Reddish hair, thin nose, medium build, about 160 to 170 pounds, dressed like everybody else in a wool coat, scarf, and gloves. But something told him that this was not just anybody else.

Many in the tour were making their way into the Ten Bells pub, the rattle from a multitude of conversations spilling out into the night. Entrepreneurs were actively hawking Jack the Ripper T-shirts and commemorative mugs. Ashby and Red loitered on the sidewalk, and Malone crept to within thirty feet, a spate of boisterous people between them. Flashbulbs strobed the darkness as many in the group stole a picture before the pub’s colorful façade.

He joined in the revelry and bought a T-shirt from one of the vendors.

ASHBY WAS CONCERNED.

“I thought it best we speak tonight,” Peter Lyon said to him.

“How did you know I was here?”

“The woman. Is she an acquaintance?”

He thought back to his conversation with Stephanie Nelle. They’d kept their voices low and had stood apart from the crowd. No one had been nearby. Had Lyon heard anything?

“I have many female acquaintances.”

Lyon chuckled. “I’m sure you do. Women provide the greatest of pleasures, the worst of problems.”

“How did you find me?” he asked again.

“Did you think for one moment that I wouldn’t discover what you are doing?”

His legs began to shake, and not from the cold.

Lyon motioned for them to drift across the street, away from the pub, where fewer people stood and no street lamps burned. Ashby walked with trepidation, but realized that Lyon wouldn’t do anything here, with so many witnesses.

Or would he?

“I’ve been aware of your contacts with the Americans from the beginning,” Lyon said to him, the voice low and controlled. “It’s amusing you think yourself so clever.”

No sense lying. “I had no choice.”

Lyon shrugged. “We all have choices, but it matters not to me. I want your money, and you want a service. I assume you still want it?”

“More than ever.”

Lyon pointed a finger at him. “Then it will cost triple my original fee. The first hundred percent for your treachery. The second for the trouble you’ve put me to.”

He was in no position to argue. Besides, he was using club money anyway. “That can be arranged.”

“She gave you a book. What is it?”

“Is that part of the new arrangement? You are to know all of my business?”

“You should know, Lord Ashby, that I’ve found it hard to resist the urge of placing a bullet between your eyes. I detest a man with no character and you, sir, have none.”

Interesting attitude for a mass murderer, but he kept his opinion to himself.

“If not for your money-” Lyon paused. “Please, don’t try my patience any further.”

He accepted the advice and answered the man’s question. “It’s a project I’ve been working on. A lost treasure. The Americans confiscated a vital clue to keep me compliant. She returned it to me.”

“A treasure? I learned that you were once an avid collector. Stealing objects already stolen. Keeping them for yourself. Quite the clever one, you are. But the police put a stop to that.”

“Temporarily.”

Lyon laughed. “All right, Lord Ashby, you go after your treasure. Just transfer my money. By dawn. I’ll be checking, before events start to happen.”

“It will be there.”

He heard the guide draw the crowd together, telling them it was time to move on.

“I think I’ll finish the tour,” Lyon said. “Quite interesting, Jack the Ripper.”

“What about tomorrow? You know the Americans are watching.”

“That I do. It will be quite the show.”

MALONE DISSOLVED INTO THE TOUR AS THE CROWD INCLUDING Red, drew into the guide’s wake and they all ambled off into the darkness. He kept Red just inside his peripheral vision, deciding he was far more interesting than Ashby.

The tour continued another twenty minutes down coal-black streets, ending at an Underground station. Inside, Red used a travel card to pass through the turnstile. Malone hurried over to a token machine and quickly purchased four, making his way past the gate to the escalator just as his quarry stepped off at the bottom. He did not like the bright lights and the sparse crowd, but had no choice.

He stepped off the escalator onto the platform.

Red was standing twenty feet away, still holding his shopping bag.

An electronic billboard indicated the train was 75 seconds away. He studied a schematic of the London subway hanging on the wall and saw that this station serviced the District Line, which paralleled the Thames and ran east to west the city’s full length. This platform was for a westbound train, the route taking them to Tower Hill, beneath Westminster, through Victoria Station, and eventually beyond Kensington.

More people filtered down from above as a train arrived.

He kept his distance, positioning himself well behind, and followed his quarry into the car. He stood, hugging one of the stainless-steel poles, Red doing the same thirty feet away. Enough people were crammed into the car that no one face should draw much attention.

As the train chugged beneath the city, Malone studied his target, who seemed an older man, out for the evening, enjoying London.

But he spotted the eyes.

Amber.

He knew Peter Lyon possessed one anomaly. He loved disguise, but a genetic eye defect not only oddly colored his irises, but also made them overly susceptible to infection and prevented him from wearing contact lenses. Lyon preferred glasses to shield their distinctive amber tint, but had not worn any tonight.

He watched as Lyon engaged in a conversation with a dowager standing beside him. Malone noticed a copy of The Times lying on the floor. He asked if the paper belonged to anyone and, when no one claimed ownership, he grabbed and read the front page, allowing his gaze to periodically shift from the words.

He also kept track of the stations.

Fifteen came and went before Lyon exited at Earl’s Court. The stop was shared by the District and Piccadilly lines, blue and green signs directing passengers to either route. Lyon followed the blue signs for the Piccadilly Line, headed west, which he boarded with Malone a car behind. He didn’t think it prudent to share the same space again and was able to spy his quarry through windows in the car ahead.

A quick glance at a map over the doors confirmed they were headed straight for Heathrow Airport.

FORTY-SIX

PARIS

THORVALDSEN STUDIED THE TWO PAGES OF WRITING FROM THE Merovingian book. He’d expected Malone to hand over the entire book to Murad when they’d met earlier at the Louvre but, for some reason, that had not occurred.

“He only made me copies of the two pages,” Murad said to him. “He took the book with him.”

They were again sitting at the Ritz, in the crowded Bar Hemingway.

“Cotton didn’t happen to mention where he was going?”

Murad shook his head. “Not a word. I spent the day at the Louvre comparing more handwriting samples. This page, with the fourteen lines of letters, was definitely written by Napoleon. I can only assume that the Roman numerals are in his hand too.”

He checked the clock on the wall behind the bar. Nearly eleven PM. He did not like being kept in the dark. God knows he’d done that enough to others, but it was a different matter when it was his turn.

“The letter you told me about,” Murad said. “The one Ashby found on Corsica, with the raised letters coded to Psalm 31. Any letter written by Napoleon to his family would have been an excercise in futility. His second wife, Marie Louise, had by 1821 birthed a child with another man, while still legally married to Napoleon. The emperor surely never knew that since he kept a portrait of her in his house on St. Helena. He revered her. Of course, she was in Austria, back with her father, the king, who’d aligned himself with Tsar Alexander and helped defeat Napoleon. There’s no evidence that the letter Napoleon wrote ever made it to her, or his son. In fact, after Napoleon died, an emissary traveled to Vienna with some last messages from him, and she refused to even see the messenger.”

“Lucky for us.”

Murad nodded. “Napoleon was a fool when it came to women. The one who could have really helped him, he discarded. Josephine. She was barren and he needed an heir. So he divorced her and married Marie Louise.” The professor motioned with the two photocopies. “Yet here he is, sending secret messages to his second wife, thinking her still an ally.”

“Any clue what the reference to Psalm 31 means from the letter Ashby found?” he asked.

The scholar shook his head. “Have you read that Psalm? Seems his way of feeling sorry for himself. I did come across something interesting, though, this afternoon in one of the texts for sale at the Louvre. After Napoleon abdicated in 1814, the new Paris government sent emissaries to Orleans to confiscate Marie Louise’s clothing, imperial plate, diamonds, everything of value. They questioned her at length about Napoleon’s wealth, but she told them she knew nothing, which was probably true.”

“So the search for his cache started then?”

“It would seem so.”

“And continues to this day.”

Which made him think of Ashby.

Tomorrow they’d finally find themselves face-to-face.

And what about Malone.

What was he doing?

MALONE STEPPED FROM THE TRAIN AND FOLLOWED LYON INTO Terminal Two at Heathrow. He was worried that his quarry was about to leave London, but the man ventured nowhere near any ticket counters or security screening. Instead he passed through the terminal, stopping at a checkpoint, displaying what appeared to be a picture identification. No way Malone could safely follow, as the corridor was empty, a solitary door at its far end. So he stepped into an alcove, removed the cell phone from his coat pocket, and dialed Stephanie’s number.

“I’m at Heathrow Airport at a checkpoint marked 46-B. I need to get past it, and fast. There’s a single guard with a radio.”

“Sit tight. I have the right people here with me now.”

He liked Stephanie’s ability to instantaneously digest a problem, without questions or arguments, then fashion a solution.

He slipped from the alcove and approached the young guard. Lyon was gone, having exited the door at the far end of the corridor. He told the guard who he was, showed him his passport, and explained he needed to go through the door.

“No way,” the man said. “You have to be marked on the list.” A bony finger tapped a notebook open on the desk before him.

“Who was the man that just passed through?” he tried.

“Why would I tell you that? Who the bloody hell are you?”

The man’s radio squawked and he unclipped the unit and replied. An ear fob prevented Malone from hearing, but from the way he was now being eyed he assumed the conversation concerned him.

The guard finished his conversation.

“I’m the guy who made that call happen,” Malone said. “Now, who was the man who just passed through here?”

“Robert Pryce.”

“What’s his business?”

“No clue, but he’s been here before. What is it you need, Mr. Malone?”

He had to admire the English respect for authority.

“Where is Pryce headed?”

“His credentials assign him to Hangar 56-R.”

“Tell me how to get there.”

The guard quickly sketched a map on a piece of paper and pointed to the door at the far end of the hall. “That leads onto the apron.”

Malone trotted off and exited into the night.

He quickly found Hangar 56-R, three of its windows lit with orange and white light. Jet engines roared in the distance above a busy Heathrow. An array of buildings of varying sizes surrounded him. This area seemed the realm of private aviation companies and corporate jets.

He decided a quick view in one of the windows was the safest course. He rounded the building and passed the retracting door. On the other side he crept to a window and glanced in, spotting a single-engine Cessna Skyhawk. The man who called himself Robert Pryce, but who was surely Peter Lyon, was busy inspecting the wings and engine. The fuselage was white, striped blue and yellow, and Malone memorized the tail identification numbers. No one else could be seen in the hangar and Lyon seemed focused on a visual inspection. The Selfridges bag rested on the concrete floor near an exit door.

He watched as Lyon climbed inside the plane, lingered for a few minutes, then slipped out, slamming the cabin door shut. Lyon grabbed the shopping bag and switched off the hangar lights.

He needed to beat a retreat while he still could. Exposure was a real possibility.

Malone heard a metal door open, then close.

He froze, hoping his prey was heading back toward the terminal. If he came this way, there’d be no escape.

He crept to the corner and stole a quick glance.

Lyon was making his way back toward the terminal, but not before he stepped to a dumpster between the darkened hangars and tossed the Selfridges bag inside.

Malone wanted that bag, but he also did not want to lose his target.

So he waited until Lyon reentered the terminal, then rushed to the trash bin. No time to climb inside, so he hustled to the door, hesitated a moment, then cautiously turned the knob.

Only the guard was visible, still sitting at his desk.

Malone entered and asked, “Where did he go?”

The guard pointed toward the main terminal.

“There’s a Selfridges bag in a dumpster outside. Stash it somewhere safe. Don’t open or disturb the contents in any way. I’ll be back. Understand?”

“What’s not to?”

He liked this young man’s attitude.

In the heart of the terminal, Malone did not spot Peter Lyon. He raced for the Underground station and saw that a train was not scheduled to arrive for another ten minutes. He backtracked and scanned the assortment of rental car counters, shops, and currency exchange vendors. A good number of people milled about for nearly ten PM on Christmas Eve.

He drifted toward a men’s room and entered.

The dozen or so urinals were unused, white tiles glistening under the glare of bright fluorescent lights. Warm air smelled of bleach. He used one of the urinals, then washed his hands, lathering soap and cleaning his face.

The cold water felt good.

He rinsed the suds away and reached for a paper towel, dabbing his cheeks and forehead dry, swiping soapy water from his eyes. When he opened them, in the mirror, he saw a man standing behind him.

“And who are you?” Lyon asked in a deep throaty voice, more American than European.

“Somebody who’d like to put a bullet in your head.”

The deep amber color of the eyes drew his attention, their oily sheen casting a spell.

Lyon slowly removed his hand from his coat pocket, revealing a small-caliber pistol. “A shame you can’t. Did you enjoy the tour? Jack the Ripper is fascinating.”

“I can see how he would be to you.”

Lyon gave a light chuckle. “I so enjoy dry wit. Now-”

A small boy rushed inside the restroom, rounding the open doorway that led back out to the terminal, calling after his dad. Malone used the unexpected distraction to slam his right elbow into Lyon’s gun hand.

The weapon discharged with a loud retort, the bullet finding the ceiling.

Malone lunged forward and propelled both himself and Lyon into a marble partition. His left hand clamped onto Lyon’s wrist and forced the gun upward.

He heard the boy yell, then other voices.

He brought a knee into Lyon’s abdomen, but the man seemed to anticipate the move and pivoted away.

Lyon apparently realized the confines were tightening, so he darted for the door. Malone raced after him and wrapped his arm around Lyon’s neck, one hand on the face, yanking back, but the gun butt suddenly slammed into Malone’s forehead.

The room winked in and out.

His balance and grip failed.

Lyon broke free and disappeared out the door.

Malone staggered to his feet and tried to give pursuit, but a wave of dizziness forced him to the floor. Through a fog he saw a uniformed guard rush in. He rubbed his temples and tried to find his balance.

“A man was just here. Redhead, older looking, armed.” He noticed that his hand held something. He’d felt it give way when he tried to halt Lyon’s retreat. “He’ll be easy to find.”

He held up a shard of silicon, fashioned and colored like a thin human nose. The guard was dumbfounded.

“He’s masked. I got a piece of it.”

The guard rushed out and Malone slowly staggered out into the terminal. A crowd had formed and several other guards appeared. One of them was the young one from earlier.

Malone walked over and asked, “You get the shopping bag?”

“Follow me.”

Two minutes later he and the guard were in a small interview room near the security office. The Selfridges bag lay on a laminated table.

He tested its weight. Light. He reached inside and removed a green plastic bag that apparently contained several odd-shaped objects.

Clanging together.

He laid the bundle on the table and unraveled it.

He wasn’t necessarily concerned about explosives since Lyon had clearly discarded what was inside. He allowed the contents to roll onto the table and was shocked to see four small metal replicas of the Eiffel Tower, the kind of souvenir easily bought anywhere in Paris.

“The bloody hell?” the young guard asked.

His thoughts exactly.

FORTY-SEVEN

SALEN HALL

11:40 PM

ASHBY WATCHED AS CAROLINE EXAMINED THE BOOK STEPHANIE Nelle had so conveniently provided. He’d lied and told Caroline that he’d spoken to Larocque and she’d finally agreed to give it to him, promptly ferrying it across the channel by personal courier.

“It’s Napoleon’s handwriting,” she said, excitement in her voice. “No doubt.”

“And this is significant?”

“It has to be. We have information that we didn’t have before. Much more than Pozzo di Borgo ever amassed. I’ve been through every writing Eliza Larocque provided. Not much there, really. Di Borgo worked more off rumor and gossip than historical fact. I think his hatred of Napoleon clouded his ability to effectively study the problem for an answer.”

Hate could well affect judgment. That was why he rarely allowed that emotion to overtake him. “It’s getting late and I have to be in Paris tomorrow.”

“Do I get to go along?”

“This is club business. And it is Christmas Day, so the shops will be closed.”

He knew that one of her favorite pastimes was roaming down Avenue Montaigne and its parade of designer stores. Ordinarily, he’d indulge her, but not tomorrow.

She continued to study the Merovingian book. “I can’t help but think that we have all the pieces.”

But he was still unnerved by Peter Lyon. He’d already made the additional money transfer, as demanded, terrified of the consequences if he balked. Incredibly, the South African was completely aware of the Americans.

“I’m sure you will be able to join these pieces,” he told her.

“Now you’re just trying to get my clothes off.”

He smiled. “The thought had occurred to me.”

“Can I go with you tomorrow?”

He caught the mischief in her eye and knew he had no choice. “All right. Provided I’m… fully satisfied tonight.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

But he saw that her mind was still on the book and Napoleon’s message. She pointed at the handwritten text. “It’s Latin. From the Bible. It deals with the story of Jesus and the disciples eating on the Sabbath. There are three versions of that story, one each in Luke, Matthew, and Mark. I’ve written the fourteen lines out so we can read them.

ET FACTUM EST EUM IN

SABBATO SECUNDO PRIMO A

BIRE PER SCCETES DISCIPULI AUTEM ILLIRIS COE

PERUNT VELLER SPICAS ET FRINCANTES MANIBUS + MANDU

CABANT QUÍDAM AUTEM DE FARISAEIS DI

CEBANT El ECCE QUIA FACIUNT DISCIPULI TUI SAB

BAUS + QUOD NON LICET RESPONDENS AUTEM INS

SE IXIT AD EOS NUMQUAM HOC

LECISTIS QUOD FECIT DAVID QUANDO

ESURUT IPSE EL QUI CUM EO ERAI + INTROIBOT IN DOMUM

DEI EE PANES PROPOSITIONIS

MANDUCA VIL EL DEDIL EL QUI

CUM ERANT UXIIO QUIBOS NO

N LICEBAT MANDUCARE SI NON SOLIS SACERDOTIBUS

“There’s a multitude of errors. Díscípulí is spelled with a c, not a g, so I corrected that from the original here in the book. Napoleon also made a complete muddle of ípse díxít. And the letters uxíío make no sense at all. But given all that, here’s what it means.

“‘And it came about that on the second Sabbath he walked through a cornfield. But his disciples began to pluck the ears and rubbing them in their hands ate them. Some of the Pharisees said to him, “Behold because your disciples are doing on the Sabbath that which is not lawful.” Replying, he said to them, “Have you never read what David did when he was hungry? He and those who were with him entered into the house of God and ate the bread of the sacrament and gave it to those who were with him, for whom it was not lawful to eat, except only for priests.”

She glanced up at him. “Damn strange, wouldn’t you say?”

“To say the least.”

“It doesn’t match any of the three biblical verses. More a composite. But there’s something even stranger.”

He waited.

“Napoleon knew no Latin.”

THORVALDSEN SAID GOODBYE TO PROFESSOR MURAD AND RETIRED upstairs to his suite. The time was approaching midnight, but Paris seemed never to sleep. The Ritz’s lobby bustled with activity, people streaming in and out of the noisy salons. As he exited the elevator on his floor, he spotted a dour-faced man with a fleshy complexion and straight dark hair waiting on a settee.

He knew him well, having two years ago hired the man’s Danish firm to investigate Cai’s death. Their contacts were usually by phone, and he actually thought him in England, supervising Ashby’s surveillance.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

“I flew over from London earlier. But I’ve been monitoring what’s happening there.”

Something was wrong. “Walk with me.”

They strolled down the quiet corridor.

“There’s some information you should be aware of.”

He stopped and faced his investigator.

“We followed Ashby from the time he left Paris. He went home for a few hours, then out, after dark. He took a walking tour about Jack the Ripper.”

He realized the oddity of that for a Londoner.

He was handed a photo. “He met with this woman. We managed to snap a picture.”

Only an instant was needed to recognize the face.

Stephanie Nelle.

Alarm bells sounded in his brain, and he fought hard to keep his concern to himself.

“Malone was there, too.”

Had he heard right? “Malone?”

His investigator nodded and showed him another photo. “In the crowd. He left when the woman did.”

“Did Malone talk with Ashby?”

“No, he headed off following a man who did speak with Ashby. We decided to let them both go, so as not to cause a problem.”

He did not like the look in the man’s eye. “It gets worse?”

The investigator nodded.

“That woman in the photo, she gave Ashby a book.”

FORTY-EIGHT

PARIS

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25

10:30 AM

MALONE EXPLORED THE CHURCH OF THE DOME AT THE HÔTEL des Invalides. Six chapels jutted from a central core, each housing their respective military heroes and dedicated to either the Virgin Mary or one of the fathers of the Roman Catholic Church. He was patrolling downstairs, twenty feet below the main level, circling Napoleon’s tomb. He still hadn’t called Gary and was mad at himself for it, but last night had been long.

“Anything?” he heard Stephanie call down from above.

She was standing at a marble balustrade, staring at him.

“There’s nowhere to hide anything, much less a bomb, in this mausoleum.”

Dogs had already swept every niche. Nothing had been found. The Invalides itself was now being searched. Nothing, so far. But since Ashby had said the church was the primary target, another careful sweep of every square inch was happening.

He stood at the entrance to a small gallery lit by antique brass lamps. Inside, a floor monument identified the crypt of Napoleon II, King of Rome, 1811-1832. Towering above the son’s grave was a white marble statue of the father, decked out in coronation robes, bearing a scepter and globe with a cross.

Stephanie glanced at her watch. “It’s approaching meeting time. This building is clean, Cotton. Something’s wrong.”

They’d entered the hangar at Heathrow last night, after Peter Lyon fled the terminal, and examined the plane. The Cessna’s registration was to a nondescript Belgium corporation, owned by a fictitious Czech concern. Europol attempted to tag a human being, but all the names and addresses followed a trail to nowhere. The hangar itself was leased to the same Czech corporation, the rental paid three months in advance.

“Lyon confronted me for a reason,” he said. “He wanted us to know that he knew we were there. He left those little Eiffel Towers for us. Hell, he didn’t even shield his eyes with glasses. The question is, does Ashby know we know?”

She shook her head. “He’s at the Eiffel Tower. Arrived a few minutes ago. We would have heard about it by now, if he did know. I’m told by his handlers that he’s never been bashful about expressing himself.”

His mind rifled through the possibilities. Thorvaldsen had tried to call, three times, but he hadn’t answered or returned the calls. Malone had stayed in London last night to avoid the many questions about the book that he simply could not answer. Not now. They’d talk later. The Paris Club had gathered for its meeting. The Eiffel Tower was closed until one PM. Only club members, serving staff, and security would be on the first platform. Malone knew that Stephanie had decided against overly infecting the security detail with loaners from French intelligence. Instead, she’d snuck two sets of eyes and ears into the meeting room.

“Are Sam and Meagan in place?” he asked.

He saw her nod. “Both quite eager, I might add.”

“That’s always a problem.”

“I doubt they’re in any danger there. Larocque insisted that everyone be swept for weapons and listening devices.”

He stared at Napoleon’s monstrous tomb. “You know the thing isn’t even made of red porphyry? It’s aventurine quartzite from Finland.”

“Don’t tell the French,” she said. “But I guess it’s like the cherry tree and George Washington.”

He heard a ding and watched as Stephanie answered her cell phone, listened a moment, then ended the call.

“A new problem,” she said.

He stared up at her.

“Henrik’s at the Eiffel Tower, entering the club meeting.”

SAM WORE THE SHORT JACKET AND BLACK TROUSERS OF THE serving staff, all courtesy of Stephanie Nelle. Meagan was similarly attired. They were part of the eleven who’d set up the banquet room with only two circular tables, each clothed in gold linen and adorned with fine china. The hall itself was maybe seventy-five by fifty feet, with a stage at one end. It could have easily accommodated a couple hundred diners, so the two tables seemed lonely.

He was busy preparing coffee cups and condiments and making sure a steaming samovar worked properly. He had no idea how the machine functioned, but it kept him near where members were making their way into the gathering. To his right, courtesy of a long wall of plate-glass windows, was a spectacular view of the Seine and the Right Bank.

Three older men and two middle-aged women had already arrived, each greeted by a stately-looking woman in a gray business suit.

Eliza Larocque.

Three hours ago Stephanie Nelle had shown him photographs of the seven club members, and he connected a face to each picture. Three controlled major lending institutions, one served in the European parliament. Each had paid 20 million euros to be a part of what was happening-which, according to Stephanie, had already netted them far more than 140 million in illicit profits.

Here was the living embodiment of all he’d long suspected existed.

He and Meagan were to look and listen. Above all, Stephanie had cautioned, take no unnecessary chances that could compromise their identities.

He finished fiddling with the coffee machine and turned to leave.

Another guest arrived.

Dressed similarly to the other men in an expensive charcoal-gray business suit, white shirt, and pale yellow tie.

Henrik Thorvaldsen.

THORVALDSEN ENTERED LA SALLE GUSTAV EIFFEL AND WAS IMMEDIATELY greeted by Eliza Larocque. He extended his hand, which she lightly shook.

“I am so glad you are here,” she said. “That suit looks quite elegant.”

“I rarely wear one. But I thought it best for today’s occasion.”

She nodded in gratitude. “I appreciate the consideration. It is an important day.”

He’d kept his gaze locked on Larocque. It was important for her to think him interested. He noted the small talk occurring elsewhere in the room as a few of the other members milled about. The serving staff were busy preparing the dining and refreshment stations. Long ago he’d taught himself a useful lesson. Within two minutes of entering any room, know if you are among friends or enemies.

He recognized at least half the faces. Men and women of business and finance. A couple were genuine surprises, as he’d never thought them conspiratorialists. They were all wealthy, but not enormously, certainly not in his league, so it made some sense they would latch on to a scheme that could possibly generate some fast, easy, and unaccounted-for profits.

Before he could fully assess his surroundings, a tall, swarthy man with a silver-streaked beard and intense gray eyes approached.

Larocque smiled and extended her arm, sweeping the newcomer close, and saying, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

She faced him.

“Henrik, this is Lord Graham Ashby.”

FORTY-NINE

MALONE ASCENDED FROM NAPOLEON’S CRYPT BY WAY OF A MARBLE staircase, flanked at the top by two bronze funerary spirits. One bore the crown and hand of justice, the other a sword and globe. Stephanie waited for him, standing before the church’s great altar with its canopy of twisted columns reminiscent of Bernini’s in St. Peter’s Basilica.

“Seems Henrik’s efforts were successful,” she said. “He managed an invitation to the club.”

“He’s on a mission. You can understand that.”

“That I can. But I’m on one too, and you can understand that. I want Peter Lyon.”

He glanced around at the deserted church. “This whole thing feels wrong. Lyon knows we’re on to him. That plane at Heathrow was useless to him from the start.”

“But he also knows that we can’t tip our hand.”

Which was why the Church of the Dome was not surrounded by police. Why the Invalides’ hospital and retirement center had not been evacuated. Its ultramodern surgical unit catered to veterans, and about a hundred lived there full-time in buildings that flanked the Church of the Dome. The search for explosives had started there quietly, last night. Nothing to alert anyone that there may be a problem. Just a calm search. A full-scale alarm would have ended any chance of nailing Lyon or the Paris Club.

But the task had proven daunting.

The Invalides comprised hundreds of thousands of square feet, spread over dozens of multistory buildings. Far too many places to hide an explosive.

The radio Stephanie carried crackled with her name, then a male voice said, “We have something.”

“Where?” she answered.

“In the cupola.”

“We’re on our way.”

THORVALDSEN SHOOK GRAHAM ASHBY’S HAND, FORCED HIS LIPS to smile, and said, “A pleasure to meet you.”

“And you as well. I’ve known of your family for many years. I also admire your porcelain.”

He nodded at the compliment.

He realized Eliza Larocque was watching his every move, performing her own assessment of both he and Ashby, so he summoned all of his charm and continued to play the role.

“Eliza tells me,” Ashby said, “that you want to join.”

“This seems like a worthwhile endeavor.”

“I think you’ll find us a good group. We are only beginning, but we have a grand time at these gatherings.”

He surveyed the room again and counted seven members, including Ashby and Larocque. Serving staff wandered about like stray ghosts, finishing their tasks, one by one withdrawing through a far doorway.

Bright sunshine flooded in from a wall of windows and bathed the red carpet and plush surroundings in a mellow glow.

Larocque encouraged everyone to find a seat.

Ashby walked off.

Thorvaldsen made his way to the nearest of the two tables, but not before he caught sight of a young man, one of the servers, storing away extra chairs behind the stage to his right. He’d thought at first he was mistaken, but when the worker returned for one more load he was certain.

Sam Collins.

Here.

MALONE AND STEPHANIE CLIMBED A COLD METAL LADDER THAT led up into a space between the interior and exterior walls. The dome itself was not a single piece. Instead, only one of the two stories of windows visible on the drum’s exterior could be seen from inside. A second cupola, completely enclosed by the first, visible through the open top of the lower cupola, captured daylight through a second level of windows and illuminated the inside. It was an ingenious nesting design, only evident once high above everything.

They found a platform that abutted the upper cupola, among the building’s crisscrossing exoskeleton of wooden timbers and more recent steel beams. Another metal ladder angled toward the center, between the supports, to a second platform that anchored one last ladder leading up into the lantern. They were near the church’s summit, nearly three hundred feet high. On the second platform, below the lantern, stood one of the French security personnel who’d slipped into the Invalides several hours ago.

He was pointing upward.

“There.”

ELIZA WAS PLEASED. ALL SEVEN MEMBERS, ALONG WITH HENRIK Thorvaldsen, had come. Everyone was finding a seat. She’d insisted on two tables so that no one would feel crowded. She hated to be crowded. Perhaps it came from living alone her entire adult life. Not that a man couldn’t occasionally provide a delightful distraction. But the thought of a close personal relationship, someone who’d want to share her thoughts and feelings, and would want her to share his? That repulsed her.

She’d watched carefully as Thorvaldsen met Graham Ashby. Neither man showed any reaction. Clearly, two strangers meeting for the first time.

She checked her watch.

Time to begin.

Before she could attract everyone’s attention, Thorvaldsen approached and quietly said, “Did you read this morning’s Le Parisien?”

“It’s waiting for me later today. The morning was busy.”

She watched as he reached into his suit pocket and removed a newspaper clipping. “Then you should see this. From page 12A. Top right column.”

She quickly scanned the piece, which reported a theft yesterday at the Hôtel des Invalides and its Musée de l’Armée. In one of the galleries being renovated, thieves had taken an item from the Napoleon exhibit.

A book.

The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751 A.D.

Significant only since it was specifically mentioned in the emperor’s will, but otherwise not all that valuable, which was one reason it had been left in the gallery. The museum staff was in the process of inventorying the remaining artifacts to ascertain if anything else had been stolen.

She stared at Thorvaldsen. “How could you possibly know that this may be relevant to me?”

“As I made clear at your château, I’ve studied you, and him, in great detail.”

Thorvaldsen’s warning from yesterday rang in her ears.

If I’m right about him, he’s going to tell you that he wasn’t able to retrieve whatever it is, that it wasn’t there, or some other such excuse.

And that’s exactly what Graham Ashby had told her.

FIFTY

MALONE CLIMBED THROUGH AN OPENING IN THE FLOOR INTO the lantern. Frigid air and sunshine greeted him as he stood out in the bright midday, at the top of the church. The view in all directions was stunning. The Seine wound a path through the city to his north, the Louvre rose toward the northeast, the Eiffel Tower less than two miles to the west.

Stephanie followed him up. The security man climbed up last, but remained on the ladder, only his head and shoulders visible.

“I decided to examine the cupola myself,” the man said. “Nothing was there, but I wanted a cigarette, so I climbed up here and saw that.”

Malone followed the man’s pointing finger and spotted a blue box, maybe four inches square, affixed to the lantern’s ceiling. A decorative brass railing guarded each of the cupola’s four archways. Carefully, he hoisted himself onto one of the railings and stood within a few inches of the box. He spotted a thin wire, perhaps a foot long, extending from one side, dangling in the breeze.

He stared down at Stephanie. “It’s a transponder. A beacon to draw that plane here.” He wrenched the unit free, held in place with strong adhesive. “Remote-activated. Has to be. But placing it up here took effort.”

“Not a problem for Peter Lyon. He’s accomplished tougher things than this.”

He hopped down, still holding the transponder, and clicked the unit off with a switch on its side. “That should complicate the matter for him.” He handed the device to Stephanie. “You realize this is way too easy.”

He saw that she agreed.

He stepped to another railing and gazed down to where streets converged at an empty plaza before the church’s southern façade. Christmas Day had siphoned away the vast majority of the daily traffic. So as not to alert anyone on the nearby Eiffel Tower, which offered an unobstructed view of the Invalides, no police had cordoned off the streets.

He spotted a light-colored van, speeding northward, down the Boulevard des Invalides. Moving unusually fast. The van whipped left onto Avenue de Tourville, which ran perpendicular to the Church of the Dome’s main entrance.

Stephanie noticed his interest.

The van slowed, veered right, then abandoned the street and clunked its way up a short set of stone steps toward the church’s main doors.

Stephanie found her radio.

The van cleared the steps and sped forward on a walkway between patches of winter grass. It skidded to a halt at the base of more steps.

The driver’s-side door opened.

Stephanie activated her radio, calling for attention, but before she could utter a word a man fled the vehicle and raced toward a car that had appeared on the street.

He jumped in and the car accelerated away.

Then the van exploded.

“LET ME WISH EACH OF YOU A HAPPY CHRISTMAS,” ELIZA SAID, standing before the group. “So glad to have everyone here. I thought this locale would be excellent for today’s gathering. A little different for us. The tower itself does not open until one, so we have privacy until then.” She paused. “And we have a delicious lunch prepared.”

She was especially pleased that Robert Mastroianni had come, keeping the pledge he’d made on the plane.

“We have about an hour of business, then I thought a short trip to the top, before the crowds arrive, would be wonderful. It’s not often that one has the opportunity to be at the summit of the Eiffel Tower with so few people. I made sure that was included in our lease.”

Her suggestion met with a clear approval.

“We’re also privileged to have our final two members present.”

And she introduced Mastroianni and Thorvaldsen.

“It’s wonderful to have you both involved with our group. That brings us to eight, and I believe we’ll keep it at that number. Any objections?”

No one voiced a word.

“Excellent.”

She glanced around at the eager and attentive faces. Even Graham Ashby seemed exuberant. Had he lied to her about the Merovingian book?

Apparently so.

They’d met earlier, before the others arrived, and Ashby had again told her that the book had not been in its display case. She’d listened carefully, watched his every nuance, and concluded that either he was telling the truth or he was one of the finest liars she’d ever known.

But the book had been stolen. Paris’ leading newspaper had reported the theft. How did Thorvaldsen know so much? Was Ashby, indeed, a security leak? No time to answer those inquiries at the moment. She had to focus on the task at hand.

“I thought I would begin by telling you a story. Signore Mastroianni will have to excuse the repetition. I told him this same story a couple of days ago, but for the remainder of you it will be instructive. It’s about what happened to Napoleon while in Egypt.”

MALONE RUSHED FROM THE CHURCH OF THE DOME, THROUGH its shattered main entrance. Stephanie followed. The van continued to burn at the foot of the stairs. Besides the glass doors of the entrance itself, little damage had occurred to the church. He realized that a van loaded with explosives this close should have obliterated the entire south façade, not to mention the nearby buildings housing the hospital and veterans’ center.

“That wasn’t much of a bomb,” he said. “More flash in the pan.”

Sirens blared in the distance. Fire and police were headed this way. Heat from the smoldering van warmed the chilly midday air.

“Could have been a malfunction?” she said.

“I don’t think so.”

Sirens grew louder.

Stephanie’s radio came to life. She answered the call, and Malone heard what the man on the other end reported.

“We have a live bomber in the Court of Honor.”

THORVALDSEN LISTENED AS LAROCQUE FINISHED HER EGYPTIAN tale, explained Napoleon’s original concept of a Paris Club, and provided an overview of the four papyri. He noticed she hadn’t mentioned that he, too, had been previously told much of the information. Clearly, she wanted their conversations private. Her reading of the newspaper clipping had surely affected her.

How could it not?

Her reaction also told him something else. Ashby had not reported that, thanks to Stephanie and Cotton, he now possessed the book.

But what was the Magellan Billet doing in this business?

He’d tried to make contact with Malone during the night and all morning, but his friend had not answered his phone. He’d left messages, and none had been returned. Malone’s room at the Ritz went unused last night. And though his investigators had not spied the title of the book Stephanie gave to Ashby, he knew that it was the one from the Invalides.

What else could it be?

There had to be a good reason why Malone handed the book over to Stephanie, but he could not conceive of one.

Ashby sat calmly across the table, watching Larocque with attentive eyes. Thorvaldsen wondered if the other men and women sitting in this room realized what they’d actually signed on for. He doubted Eliza Larocque was solely interested in illicit profits. He sensed from their two meetings that she was a woman on a mission-determined to prove something, perhaps justify her family’s denied heritage. Or maybe rewrite history? Whatever it may be, it was more than simply making money. She’d assembled this group here, at the Eiffel Tower, on Christmas Day, for a reason.

So he told himself, for the moment, to forget about Malone and concentrate on the problem at hand.

MALONE AND STEPHANIE RACED INTO THE COURT OF HONOR and stared out into the elegant square. In the center stood a young woman. Maybe early thirties, long dark hair, wearing corduroy trousers and a faded red shirt beneath a black coat. One hand held an object.

Two security men, guns aimed, were positioned in the shadows of the opposite arcade, near the scaffolding where Malone had entered the museum yesterday. Another armed man stood to the left, at the archway that led out through the Invalides’ north façade, the iron gates closed.

“What the hell?” Stephanie muttered.

A man appeared behind them, entering the arcade from glass doors that led into the museum. He wore the protective vest and uniform of the French police.

“She appeared a few moments ago,” the man informed them.

“I thought you searched these buildings,” Stephanie said.

“Madame, there are hundreds of thousands of square meters of buildings here. We have been going as fast as we can, without drawing attention, per your instructions. If someone wanted to evade us, it would not be hard.”

He was right.

“What does she want?” Stephanie asked.

“She told the men she controlled a bomb and told them to stand their ground. I radioed you.”

Malone wanted to know, “Did she appear before or after the van exploded in front of the church.”

“Just after.”

“What are you thinking?” Stephanie asked him.

He stared at the woman. She swung around, looking at the various men who continued to train their weapons on her. Wisely, she kept the hand with the controller moving, too.

“Gardez vos distances et baissez les armes,” she screamed.

Malone silently translated. Keep your distance and lower your weapons.

None of the men complied.

“Il se pourrait que la bombe soit à l’hôpital. Ou à l’hospice. Fautil prendre le risque?” she yelled, displaying the controller. The bomb could well be in the hospital. Or the pensioners’ home. Do you risk it?

The policeman standing beside them whispered, “We searched both of those buildings first. Carefully. There is nothing there.”

“Je ne le redirai pas,” the woman called out. I shall not say it again.

Malone realized that it was Stephanie’s call on what the French would do, and she was not one to be bluffed.

Still.

“Lower the weapons,” she ordered.

FIFTY-ONE

ELIZA STROLLED TOWARD THE STAGE AT ONE END OF THE HALL. A quick glance at her watch confirmed the time. 11:35 AM.

Twenty-five minutes left.

“We will take our trip to the top soon. First, though, I want to explain what I am proposing for our near future.”

She faced the group.

“Over the past decade we’ve seen a great deal of change in world financial markets. Futures, once a way for producers to hedge their products, are now simply a game of chance, where commodities that don’t exist are traded at prices that bear no relation to reality. We saw this a few years ago when oil topped off at more than $150 a barrel. That price had no relation to supply, which was, at the time, at an all-time high. Eventually, that market imploded and prices plummeted.”

She saw that many in the room agreed with her assessment.

“America is mainly to blame for this,” she made clear. “In 1999 and 2000 legislation was passed that paved the way for a speculative onslaught. That legislation actually repealed older statutes, passed in the 1930s, designed to prevent another stock market crash. With the safeguards gone, the same problems from the 1930s recurred. The global stock market devaluations that ensued should have been no surprise.”

She caught the curious expressions of a few faces.

“It’s elementary. Laws that place greed and irresponsibility before hard work and sacrifice come with a price.” She paused. “But they also create opportunities.”

The room was silent.

“Between August 26 and September 11, 2001, a group of covert speculators sold short a list of thirty-eight stocks that could reasonably be expected to fall in value as the result of any attack on America. They operated out of the Canadian and German stock exchanges. The companies included United Airlines, American Airlines, Boeing, Lockheed Martin, Bank of America, Morgan Stanley Dean Witter, Merrill Lynch. In Europe, they targeted insurance companies. Munich Re, Swiss Re, and AXA. On the Friday before the attacks, ten million shares of Merrill Lynch were sold. No more than four million are sold on a normal day. Both United and American Airlines saw an unusual amount of speculative activity in the days prior to the attack. No other airline company experienced this.”

“What are you suggesting?” one of the group asked.

“Only what an Israeli counterterrorism think tank concluded when it studied Osama bin Laden’s financial portfolio. Nearly twenty million U.S. dollars in profits were realized by bin Laden from the September 11 attacks.”

MALONE HEARD THE ROAR OF A HELICOPTER OVERHEAD AND glanced up to see a Royal Navy Westland Lynx sweep past at low altitude.

“NATO,” Stephanie said to him.

At Stephanie’s instruction, the men encircling the woman in the courtyard had lowered their weapons.

“I did as you wanted,” Stephanie called out in French.

The bomber did not reply. She stood fifty feet away and kept her gaze on the arcades that surrounded the Court of Honor. She remained edgy, unsteady, keeping her hands in constant movement.

“What do you want?” Stephanie asked her.

Malone kept his eyes locked on the woman and used the few seconds when her gaze drifted away to ease his hand beneath his jacket, his fingers finding the Beretta that Stephanie had provided a few hours ago.

“I came to prove a point,” the woman yelled in French. “To all those who want to treat us with hate.”

He clamped his hand tight on the gun.

Her hands kept moving, the bomb controller in constant flight, her head flitting from one point to another.

“Who is us?” Stephanie asked.

Malone knew his former boss was playing the scenario by the manual. Keep the attacker occupied. Be patient. Play for a fumble.

The woman’s eyes met Stephanie’s. “France must know that we are not to be ignored.”

Malone waited for her to resume her visual reconnoiter of the cobbled pavement, just as she’d done before.

“Who is-” Stephanie said

The hand with the controller swung left.

As her head pivoted toward the opposite arcade, Malone freed his gun and leveled his aim.

SAM HAD SECRETED HIMSELF JUST BEYOND THE MEETING room’s stage, out of sight. He’d managed to remain inside the room, undetected, as the rest of the staff vacated. The idea had been to maneuver one of them within earshot. He’d watched as Meagan had tried, but was corralled by the other servers to help remove some serving carts. Her frustrated eyes had told him that it was up to him, and he’d made his move.

No security personnel remained inside. All of them had been stationed outside. No danger existed of anyone entering from the doors that led out to the observation balcony, since it was nearly two hundred feet above the ground.

He’d listened to Eliza Larocque’s speech and understood exactly what she was describing. Short selling happened when someone sold a stock they did not own in the hope of repurchasing it later, at a lower price. The idea was to profit from an expected decline in price.

A risky venture in a multitude of ways.

First, the potentially shorted securities have to be borrowed from their owner, then sold for the current price. Once the price dropped, they would be repurchased at the lower value, returned to the owner, the profit kept by the short seller. If the price climbed, as opposed to falling, the stocks would have to be repurchased at the higher price, generating a loss. Of course, if the short seller knew that the price of a given security would drop, and even the exact moment when that would happen, any risk of loss would be nonexistent.

And the profit potential would be enormous.

One of the financial manipulations his and Meagan’s websites had warned about.

He’d heard rumors within the Secret Service about bin Laden’s possible manipulation, but those investigations were classified, handled many levels above him. Perhaps his postings on the subject were what had caused his superiors to apply pressure. Hearing Eliza Larocque say many of the same things he’d publicly speculated about only confirmed what he’d long suspected.

He’d been closer to the truth than he’d ever realized.

ASHBY LISTENED WITH GREAT INTEREST TO WHAT LAROCQUE was saying, beginning to piece together what she may be planning. Though he’d been charged with arranging for Peter Lyon, she hadn’t shared the substance of her entire plan.

“The problem with what bin Laden set in motion,” she said, “was that he failed to anticipate two things. First, the American stock market was completely closed for four full days after the attacks. And second, there are automatic procedures in place to detect short selling. One of those, ‘blue sheeting,’ analyzes trade volumes and identifies potential threats. Those four down days gave market authorities time to notice. At least in America. But overseas the markets continued to function, and profits were quickly extracted before anyone could detect the manipulation.”

Ashby’s mind recalled the aftermath of September 11, 2001. Larocque was right. Munich Re, Europe’s second largest reinsurer, lost nearly two billion dollars from the destruction of the World Trade Center, and its stock plummeted after the attacks. A knowledgeable short seller could have made millions.

He also recalled what happened to other markets.

Dow Jones down 14%, Standard & Poor’s 500 Index reduced 12%, NASDAQ Composite down 16%-those same results mirrored in nearly every overseas market for weeks after the attacks. His own portfolio had taken a beating-actually the beginning of a downturn that progressively worsened.

And what she said about derivatives. All true. Nothing more than wild bets placed with borrowed money. Interest rates, foreign currencies, stocks, corporate failures-all of them were gambled upon by investors, banks, and brokerages. His financial analysts once told him that more than 800 trillion euros, worldwide, stayed at risk on any given day.

Now he was learning that there may be a way to profit from all that risk.

If he’d only known.

MALONE WATCHED AS THE WOMAN SPOTTED HIS GUN. HER eyes locked on his.

“Go ahead,” he yelled in French. “Do it.”

She pressed the controller.

Nothing happened.

Again.

No explosion.

Bewilderment swept across her face.

FIFTY-TWO

THORVALDSEN SAT RIGID IN HIS CHAIR BUT HE WAS FINDING IT hard to maintain his composure. Here was a woman calmly discussing how a terrorist profited from murdering thousands of innocent people. No outrage, no disgust. Instead, Eliza Larocque was clearly in awe of the achievement.

Likewise, Graham Ashby seemed impressed. No surprise there. His amoral personality would have no problem profiting from other people’s misery. He wondered if Ashby had ever given a thought to those seven dead in Mexico City. Or had he simply heaved a sigh of relief that his troubles were finally resolved? He clearly did not know the names of the dead. If he had, Ashby would have reacted when they were introduced earlier. But not a hint of recognition. Why would he know the victims? Or care? Amando Cabral had been charged with cleaning up the mess, and the less Ashby knew of the details, the better.

“Why have we never heard of this before?” Ashby asked.

“The Internet has been alive with rumors for years,” Larocque said. “Les Echos, a quite reputable French financial periodical, published an article on the subject in 2007. Several American newspapers have hinted at the story. People whom I know close to the U.S. government tell me that the entire matter has been stamped classified. I don’t imagine the Americans want those rumors confirmed. Officially, the Securities and Exchange Commission has stated that there was no insider trading.”

Ashby chuckled. “Typical Yanks. Slam a lid on things and hope it goes away.”

“Which this did,” another in the group said.

“But we can learn from that effort,” Larocque said. “In fact, I’ve been studying it for some time.”

MALONE LOWERED HIS WEAPON AS THE SECURITY MEN SWARMED over the woman. Her arms and hands were restrained and she was hauled from the Court of Honor.

“How did you know to call her bluff?” Stephanie asked.

“That bomb out front was nothing. They could have blown the entire church away. Lyon was counting on a loose net and took advantage of it.” He motioned with the Beretta at the controller on the pavement. “That thing activates nothing.”

“And what if you’d been wrong?”

“I wasn’t.”

Stephanie shook her head.

“Lyon didn’t lead us here to kill us,” he said. “He knew Ashby was playing both sides. He led us here because he wanted us here.”

“That woman had no idea. The look on her face said it all. She was ready to blow something up.”

“There’s a fool for every job. Lyon used her to buy more time. He wants us busy, at least until he’s ready for us.”

Inside the courtyard, surrounded by the Invalides’ four-story buildings, they could not see the Eiffel Tower. What was happening there with Sam and Henrik. He thought back to the dome and the transponder. “My guess is, when we shut that homing device off we signaled for the show to begin.”

Stephanie’s radio sprang to life.

“Are you there?” The voice was a deep baritone and instantly recognizable. President Danny Daniels.

Surprise filled her face.

“Yes, sir. I’m here,” she answered.

“Cotton there, too?”

“He is.”

“Staff wanted to handle this communication, but I thought it better that I speak to you myself. We don’t have time for translations and interpretations. We’ve been monitoring things here and you’ve got one squirrelly mess over there. Here’s a new wrinkle. Six minutes ago a small plane diverted off its flight path and bypassed a scheduled landing at Aéroport de Paris-Le Bourget.”

Malone knew the field, located about seven miles northeast. For decades it was Paris’ only airport, famous as the landing site for Charles Lindbergh’s transatlantic crossing in 1927.

“That plane is now headed your way,” Daniels said.

All of the dots connected in Malone’s brain and he said, “That’s what Lyon had been buying time for.”

“What do you want us to do?” Stephanie asked.

“There’s a NATO helicopter landing, as we speak, to the north of the Invalides. Climb aboard. I’ll contact you there.”

ELIZA WAS ENJOYING THE MOMENT. THE EXPRESSIONS HER words inspired on the faces of her audience confirmed that she’d chosen this group correctly. Each one was a bold, intrepid entrepreneur.

“Bin Laden failed because he allowed fanaticism to overtake good judgment. He wasn’t careful. He wanted to make a statement and he wanted the world to know he made it.” She shook her head. “You can’t generate long-term profits from such foolishness.”

“I’m not interested in killing people,” Robert Mastroianni said.

“Neither am I. And it’s not necessary. All you need is a credible threat that the public fears. Within that fear is where we will operate.”

“Isn’t the world scared enough?” one of the others asked.

“Indeed it is,” she said. “All we have to do is use it to our advantage.”

She reminded herself of something her mother had taught her. The best way to gain listeners’ confidence is make them think you have trusted them with a secret.

“We have the wisdom of the papyri. They taught Napoleon a great deal and, believe me, they can guide us as well.”

She settled her face into a thoughtful expression.

“The world is already scared. Terrorism is real. None of us can alter that. The issue is how that reality can be used.”

“Cui bono,” one of them said.

She smiled. “That’s right. Who benefits. That Latin principle describes this endeavor perfectly.” She raised a finger to add emphasis. “Have you ever considered who does benefit from terrorism? There’s an immediate increase in airport and building security. Who controls all those facilities? The flow of air traffic-not to mention data. Profits are made by those who provide these essential services. The economics of the insurance business is directly affected. The militarization of our air, land, water, oceans, and space is occurring at increased levels. Nothing is too expensive to protect us from a threat. The business of logistical support, engineering, and construction services related to the war on terror is staggering. This war is fought more by private contractors than the military itself. Profits made there are almost beyond comprehension. We’ve seen shares in companies that supply war-support services increase in value by five to eight hundred percent since 2001.”

She smiled, offering a lift of her brow.

“Some of that is obvious, I realize. But there are other, more subtle ways to profit. These I want to speak with you about after lunch.”

“What are you planning?” Ashby asked her. “I’m bloody curious.”

She did not doubt that observation. She was curious, too. Wondering if Ashby was a friend or foe.

“Let me explain it this way. In the late 1990s South Korea, Thailand, and Indonesia all experienced near financial collapse. The International Monetary Fund eventually bailed them out. Our own Robert Mastroianni was working with the IMF then, so he knows what I’m referring to.”

Mastroianni nodded in assent.

“While that bailout occurred, investors ransacked all three economies, reaping huge profits. If you possess the right information, at the right time, even in the risky derivatives and futures markets, millions in profits can be made. I’ve made some preliminary projections. With the nearly three hundred million euros we currently have on hand, a return of between four point four and eight billion euros can reasonably be expected over the next twenty-four months. And I’m being conservative. All of those amounts would accrue tax-free, of course.”

She saw that the group liked that prediction. Nothing appealed to a person with money more than the opportunity to make more money. Her grandfather had been right when he said, Make all the money possible and spend it, for there is much more to be made.

“How would we be allowed to get away with this?” one of them asked.

She shrugged. “How can we not? Government is incapable of managing the system. Few within government even understand the problem, much less how to fashion a solution. And the general public is totally ignorant. Just look at what the Nigerians do every day. They send out millions of emails to unsuspecting people, claiming that a huge return can be made on some sort of unclaimed funds, provided you forward a small administrative fee. Countless people around the globe have been bilked. When it comes to money, few think clearly. I propose that we think with crystal clarity.”

“And how are we to do that?”

“I’ll explain all of that after lunch. Suffice it to say that we are in the process of securing a source of financing that should provide us many more billions in untraced resources. It’s a cache of unrecorded wealth that can be invested and used to our collective advantage. Right now, it’s time for us to venture to the top of the tower for our few minutes of viewing.”

The group stood.

“I assure you,” she said, “the trip will be worth it.”

FIFTY-THREE

MALONE LISTENED AS THE ROLLS-ROYCE TURBOSHAFTS DROVE the blades of the Westland Lynx. The navy had taught him how to fly fighters and he’d logged a respectable amount of time in jets, but he’d never flown a helicopter. He settled back in the rear compartment as the chopper arched up into a cold midday sky.

Stephanie sat beside him.

A rap from the cockpit door window caught his attention. The pilot was pointing to his headset and motioning to two sets that hung on the wall. A corpsman handed the earphones over to both he and Stephanie.

“There’s an encrypted communication coming in for you,” the pilot’s voice said in his ears.

He twisted the microphone close to his mouth. “Let’s hear it.”

A few clicks and a voice said, “I’m back.”

“Care to tell us what’s going on?” Malone asked Danny Daniels.

“The plane deviated off course. First it headed north, away from the city, and now it’s turned back south. No radio contact can be made. I want you two to check it out before we blow it from the sky. I have the French president on the other line. He’s scrambled a fighter. Right now the target’s not over any populated areas, so we can take it down. But we don’t want to do that, obviously, unless absolutely necessary. Too much explaining to do.”

“You sure this threat is real?” he asked.

“Hell, Cotton, I’m not sure of crap. But Lyon had a plane at Heathrow. You found it. Which, I might add, seems like he wanted us to find-”

“So you know what happened last night?”

“Every detail. I want this son of a bitch. I had friends die when he bombed our embassy in Greece, and they are only a few of the many he’s killed. We’re going to punch this guy’s ticket.”

One of the pilots slid the panel door to the cockpit open and motioned ahead. Malone searched the sky. Clouds lay like tracks above the French landscape. The outskirts of Paris rolled past beneath the chopper’s undercarriage. He spotted a blue-and-yellow-striped fuselage in the distance-another Cessna Skyhawk, identical to the one seen last night-cruising at about five thousand feet.

“Close the gap,” he told the pilot through his headset.

“You see it?” Daniels asked.

He felt power seep from the rotors as the helicopter knifed its way forward.

The plane’s metal sheeting sparkled in the sunshine.

“Stay behind him, out of his vision field,” Malone told the pilot.

He spied red identification numbers on the tail that matched the ones from last night.

“That plane’s ID is the same as the one in Heathrow,” he said into the headset.

“You think Lyon is in the plane?” Daniels asked.

“I’d be surprised,” Malone answered. “He’s more the conductor than a member of the orchestra.”

“It’s turning,” the pilot said.

He stared out the window and saw the Skyhawk bank east.

“Where are we?” he asked the pilot.

“North of Paris, maybe four miles. With that vector the plane has turned away from the city center, which will take us beyond the town proper.”

He was trying to make sense of all that he knew. Scattered pieces. Random, yet connected.

“It’s turning again,” the pilot said. “Now on a westerly course. That’s completely away from Paris, toward Versailles.”

He wrenched the earphones off. “Did he spot us?”

“Not likely,” the pilot said. “His maneuver was casual.”

“Can we approach from above?”

The pilot nodded. “As long as he doesn’t decide to climb.”

“Do it.”

The rudder control angled forward and the chopper’s airspeed increased. The gap to the Skyhawk began to close.

The copilot motioned to the headset. “That same bloke again on the radio.”

He snapped the headphones back on. “What is it?”

“The French want to take that plane down,” Daniels said. “What do I tell them?”

He felt Stephanie’s grip on his right arm. She was motioning forward, out the windshield. He turned just as the cabin door on the Skyhawk’s left side sprang fully open.

“What the-”

The pilot jumped from the plane.

ASHBY WAS THE LAST TO CLIMB ABOARD THE ELEVATOR. THE eight members of the Paris Club filled three glass-walled cars that rose from the second platform another 175 meters to the Eiffel Tower’s summit. The giddy ascent, within the open ironwork, was a bit harrowing.

A bright sun set the world below glittering. He spied the Seine and thought its name apt-it meant “winding,” and that was exactly what the river did through central Paris with three sharp curves. Usually car-jammed avenues that paralleled and crisscrossed the waterway were short on traffic for Christmas. In the distance rose the hulk of Notre Dame, engulfed by more church domes, zinc roofs, and a forest of chimney thickets. He caught a quick glimpse of La Défense and its avenues of high-rise towers. He also noticed lights affixed to the Eiffel Tower’s girders-the source, he surmised, of the electric shimmy that illuminated the thing each night.

He checked his watch.

11:43 AM.

Not long now.

MALONE WATCHED AS A PARACHUTE SPRANG OPEN AND THE canopy caught air. The Skyhawk continued its westerly course, holding altitude and speed. Below was a vast expanse of field, forest, villages, and roads that dotted the rural landscape outside Paris.

He pointed to the plane and told the pilot, “Head in for a closer look.”

The chopper eased forward and approached the Skyhawk. Malone shifted his position to the port side of the helicopter and stared out at the single-engine plane.

“No one inside,” he said into the microphone.

He didn’t like any of this. He turned to the corpsman. “Do you have binoculars?”

The young man quickly produced a pair. Malone focused across the bright sky at the Skyhawk.

“Ease forward some,” he told the pilot.

Their parallel course changed, the chopper now slightly ahead of the plane. Through the binoculars he zeroed his gaze past the tinted windshield into the cockpit. The two seats were empty, yet the steering column moved in calculated jerks. Something lay on the copilot’s seat, but a glare made it difficult to make out. Beyond, the aft seat was packed with packages wrapped in newspaper.

He lowered the binoculars.

“That plane’s carrying something,” he said. “I can’t tell what, but there’s an awful lot of it.”

The Skyhawk’s wings dipped and the plane banked south. The turn was controlled, as if someone was flying.

“Cotton,” Daniels said in his ear. “What’s your assessment?”

He wasn’t sure. They were being led-no question-and he’d thought this plane to be the end. But-

“This is not our problem,” he said into the microphone.

“Do you agree, Stephanie?” Daniels asked.

“I do.”

Good to see that she still trusted his judgment, since her expression contradicted her words.

“Then where’s our problem?” the president asked.

He played a hunch. “Have French air traffic control scan the area. We need to know about every plane in the sky.”

“Hold on.”

ELIZA STEPPED FROM THE ELEVATOR INTO THE EMPTY SUMMIT-level observation area, seventy-five stories above the ground. “A bit unnerving to be here with no one else,” she said to the group. “This platform is usually packed.”

She pointed to metal stairs that led up through the ceiling, outside, to the uppermost deck.

“Shall we?” she said.

She watched as the group climbed the stairs. Ashby stood with her. When the last of them exited through the doorway at the top, she turned to him and asked, “Will it happen?”

He nodded. “In exactly fifteen minutes.”

FIFTY-FOUR

MALONE KEPT HIS EYES ON THE SKYHAWK AND SAW THE PLANE alter course once again. More southerly, as if seeking something.

“Is that fighter here?” he asked into the headset, wondering if anybody was still there.

“It’s in position,” Daniels said.

He made a decision. “Take it down while we still can. Nothing but fields below, but the city is coming up fast.”

He banged on the window and told the pilot, “Back us off, and fast.”

The Skyhawk accelerated away as the helicopter slowed.

“The order’s been given,” Daniels said.

THORVALDSEN STEPPED OUT INTO COLD DECEMBER AIR HE’D never visited the top of the Eiffel Tower. No particular reason why he hadn’t. Lisette had wanted to come once years ago, but business had prevented the trip. We’ll go next summer, he’d told her. But next summer had come and gone, and more summers thereafter, until Lisette lay dying and there were no more. Cai had visited several times and liked to tell him about the view-which, he had to admit, was stunning. A placard affixed to the railing, beneath a cage that encased the observation deck, noted that on a clear day the view extended for sixty kilometers.

And today certainly qualified as clear. One of those sparkling winter days, capped by a cloudless, azure sky. He was glad he’d wore his thickest wool coat, gloves, and scarf, but French winters had nothing on their Danish counterpart.

Paris had always mystified him. He’d never been impressed. He actually liked a line from Pulp Fiction, one John Travolta’s character had casually uttered. Things are the same there as here, just a little bit different. He and Jesper had watched the movie a few years ago, intrigued by its premise, but ultimately repulsed by the violence. Until a couple of days ago, he’d never considered violence except in self-defense. But he’d gunned down Amando Cabral and his armed accomplice with not a single speck of remorse.

And that worried him.

Malone was right.

He couldn’t just murder people.

But staring across the chilly observation deck at Graham Ashby, who stood near Larocque, gazing out at Paris, he realized that murdering this man would be a pleasure. Interesting how his world had become so defined by hate. He told himself to think pleasant thoughts. His face and mood must not reveal what he was thinking.

He’d come this far.

Now finish.

ASHBY KNEW WHAT ELIZA LAROCQUE EXPECTED. SHE WANTED a small plane, loaded with explosives, to crash into the Church of the Dome at the south end of the Invalides.

A grand spectacle.

The particular fanatics who’d volunteered to accept complete responsibility loved the idea. The gesture had a ghoulish 9/11 feel, albeit on a smaller scale, with no loss of life. That was why Christmas Day had been chosen: The Invalides and the church both were closed.

Simultaneous with the attack in Paris, two other national monuments, the Musée d’Aquitaine in Bordeaux, and the Palais des Papes in Avignon, would be bombed. Both closed, too.

Each act purely symbolic.

As they’d circled the observation platform, taking in the sights, he’d noticed a vehicle burning, smoke drifting into the cold air, from the front of the church at the Invalides. Police, fire, and emergency vehicles seemed abundant. Some of the others saw it, too. He caught a few comments, but nothing of dire concern. The situation seemed in hand. Surely the flames were related to Lyon, but he had no idea what the South African had actually planned. No details had been shared, nor had he wanted to know.

The only requirement was that it happen at noon.

He glanced at his watch.

Time to go.

He’d purposely drifted away from the others as Larocque led them on a visual tour. He’d noticed that she’d started with the view facing north, then walked to the west platform. As the group rounded to the south, he quickly stepped through the exit doorway that led down to the enclosed observation room. Slowly, he slid the glass panel shut, engaging the keyed lock at its bottom. Mr. Guildhall had thoroughly reconnoitered the summit platform and discovered that the two doors that lead up from the enclosed portion were equipped with bolts that engaged with a simple push and opened with a key that only security people carried.

But not today.

Larocque had bargained for the club to have an hour alone at the top, ending around twelve forty PM, twenty minutes before ticket booths opened 275 meters below and visitors flooded upward.

Quickly, he descended fourteen metal risers and crossed to the east side. Larocque and the others were still on the south side, taking in the sights. He climbed the metal stairs to the second door and quietly slid the thick glass panel closed, engaging its lock.

The Paris Club was trapped at the top.

He descended the stairs, entered one of the elevators that waited, and sent the car downward.

“I HAVE THE INFORMATION,” DANIELS SAID IN MALONE’S HEADPHONES. “Six planes currently in Parisian airspace. Four are commercial jetliners on approach to Orly and Charles de Gaulle. Two are private.” The president paused. “Both acting strange.”

“Define that,” Stephanie asked.

“One is not responding to radio commands. The other responded then did something different than was indicated.”

“And they’re both headed this way,” Malone guessed, knowing the answer.

“One from the southeast, the other from southwest. We have a visual on the one from the southwest. It’s a Beechcraft.”

Malone banged on the cockpit window. “Head southeast,” he ordered the pilot, who’d been listening to the exchange.

“You sure?” Daniels said.

“He’s sure,” Stephanie answered.

He caught an aerial explosion off to their right, maybe five miles away.

The Skyhawk had been destroyed.

“I’m just told that the first plane is gone,” Daniels said.

“And I’m betting there’s another Skyhawk,” Malone said. “To the southeast, headed this way.”

“You’re right, Cotton,” Daniels said. “Just received a visual. Same colors and insignia as the one we just took down.”

“That’s the target,” he said. “The one Lyon’s protecting.”

“And you have one more problem,” the president said.

“I already know,” Malone said. “We can’t blow this one up. It’s well over the city.”

He heard Daniels sigh. “Seems the son of a bitch plans well.”

ELIZA HEARD A BOOM IN THE DISTANCE, FROM THE TOWER’S opposite side. She stood on the south portion of the observation deck, gazing out toward the Champ de Mars. Private houses and blocks of luxury flats lined both sides of the former parade ground, wide avenues paralleling both sides.

A quick glance to her left and she saw the Invalides, the gilded dome of the church still intact. She wondered about the noise, knowing that what she’d planned for so long was still a few minutes away. Ashby had told her that the plane would come from the north, swooping in over the Seine, following a locator beacon that had been hidden inside the dome a few days ago.

The plane would be loaded with explosives and, combined with its nearly full tanks of fuel, the resulting explosion promised to be quite a spectacle. She and the others would have an unobstructed view from nearly three hundred meters in the air.

“Shall we move to the east side for a final look before heading down?” she said.

They all rounded a corner.

She’d purposefully orchestrated their route around the platform, slowly gazing at the sights and the delightful day, so that they would end facing east, toward the Invalides.

She glanced around. “Has anyone seen Lord Ashby?”

A few shook their heads.

“I’ll take a look,” Thorvaldsen said.

THE WESTLAND LYNX SLICED ITS WAY THROUGH THE AIR HEADING toward the Skyhawk. Malone kept his eyes locked outside the windows and spotted the plane.

“Eleven o’clock,” he told the pilot. “Swing in close.”

The chopper swooped around and quickly overcame the single-engine plane. Malone spied the cockpit through binoculars and saw that the two seats were empty, the steering column moving, as in the other plane, with calculated strokes. Just as before, something lay on the copilot’s seat. Beyond, the aft area was packed tight with more packages wrapped in newspaper.

“It’s just like the other one,” he said, lowering the binoculars. “Flying automatically. But this one’s for real. Lyon timed it so that there’d be little opportunity to deal with the problem.” He glanced toward the ground. Nothing but streets and buildings stretched for miles. “And few options.”

“So much for him telegraphing messages to us,” Stephanie said.

“He didn’t make it easy.”

Outside the helicopter’s window he spied a rescue hoist with steel cable.

What had to be done was clear, but he wasn’t looking forward to it. He turned to the corpsman. “You have a body harness for that winch?”

The man nodded.

“Get it.”

“What are you thinking?” Stephanie asked.

“Somebody has to go down to that plane.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

He motioned outside. “A gentle drop.”

“I can’t allow that.”

“You have a better idea?”

She shook her head. “No, but I’m the senior officer here. And that’s final.”

“Cotton’s right,” Daniels said into their ears. “It’s the only play. You have to get control of that plane. We can’t shoot it down.”

“You wanted my help,” he said to her. “So let me help.”

Stephanie stared at him with a look that said Do you really think this is necessary?

“It’s the only way,” he said.

She nodded her assent.

He wrenched the headset off and slipped on an insulated flight suit that the corpsman handed him. He zipped it closed, then tightened a harness around his chest. The corpsman tested the fit with a few stiff tugs.

“There’s big wind out there,” the younger man said. “You’re going to be swept back on the cable. The pilot’ll keep the distance tight to minimize drift.” The corpsman handed him a parachute, which he slipped on over the harness.

“Glad to see you have some sense,” Stephanie yelled over the turbines.

“Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”

“You don’t lie well,” she said.

He donned a wool cap that, thankfully, shielded his entire face like a bank robber. A pair of yellow-tinted goggles protected his eyes.

The corpsman motioned, asking if he was ready.

He nodded.

The compartment door was slid open. Frigid air flooded in. He slipped on a pair of thick insulated gloves. He heard a snap as the steel hook of the hoist was affixed to the harness.

He counted to five, then stepped outside.

FIFTY-FIVE

THORVALDSEN MADE HIS WAY AROUND FROM THE NORTH TO the west side of the caged deck. He passed windows on his right that exhibited wax figures of Gustave Eiffel and Thomas Edison, made to look like they were chatting in Eiffel’s former quarters. Everything loomed still and quiet, and only the wind accompanied him.

Ashby was nowhere to be seen.

Halfway, he stopped and noticed that the glass door for the exit was closed. When the group had passed here a few minutes ago, the door had been open. He gripped the handle and tested.

Locked.

Perhaps one of the staff had secured it? But why? The tower would soon be open to visitors. Why lock one of only two ways to the top deck?

He walked back to the east side, where the others stood gazing out at the panorama. The second exit door was closed, too. He tested its handle.

Locked.

He listened as Eliza Larocque pointed out some landmarks. “That’s the Invalides, there. Maybe three kilometers away. It’s where Napoleon is entombed. Seems some sort of disturbance has occurred.”

He saw a vehicle smoldering in front of the church, a multitude of fire trucks and police dotting the avenues that stretched away from the monument. He wondered if what was happening there was connected to the two locked doors. Coincidence rarely was coincidental.

“Madame Larocque,” he said, trying to catch her attention.

She faced him.

“Both exits leading down are locked shut.”

He caught the puzzled look on her face. “How is that possible?”

He decided to answer her question in another way. “And there’s one other disturbing piece of news.”

She stared at him with an intense glare.

“Lord Ashby is gone.”

SAM WAITED ON THE FIRST-LEVEL PLATFORM AND WONDERED what was happening five hundred feet overhead. When the Paris Club had vacated the meeting room, and the staff had returned to prepare for lunch, he’d blended into the commotion.

“How’d it go?” Meagan whispered to him as they adjusted the silverware and plates at the dining tables.

“These people have some big plans,” he murmured.

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Not now. Let’s just say we were right.”

They finished preparing the two tables. He caught an enticing waft of steaming vegetables and grilled beef. He was hungry, but there was no time to eat at the moment.

He readjusted the chairs before each place setting.

“They’ve been at the top about half an hour now,” Meagan said as they worked.

Three security men kept watch on the attendants. He knew that this time he could not remain inside. He’d also seen Henrik Thorvaldsen’s reaction as the Dane realized Sam was there. Surely he had to be wondering what was happening. He’d been told that Thorvaldsen was unaware of the American presence, and Stephanie had made it clear that she wanted to keep it a secret. He’d wondered why, but had decided to stop arguing with his superiors.

The chief steward signaled that everyone should withdraw.

He and Meagan left through the main doors with everyone else. They would wait in the nearby restaurant for the signal to return and clear away the dishes. He stared upward into the latticework of brown-gray pig iron. An elevator descended from the second level above.

He noticed that Meagan saw it, too.

They both hesitated at the central railing, near the restaurant’s entrance, as other attendants hustled inside from the cold.

The elevator stopped at their level.

The car would open on the far side of the platform, beyond the meeting room, out of sight from where he and Meagan stood. Sam realized they could only hesitate a few moments longer before drawing the suspicion of either the head steward or the security men, who’d retaken their positions outside the meeting room doors.

Graham Ashby appeared.

Alone.

He hustled to the staircase that led down to ground level and disappeared.

“He was in a hurry,” Meagan said.

He agreed. Something was wrong.

“Follow him,” he ordered. “But don’t get caught.”

She flashed him a quizzical look, clearly caught off guard by the sudden harshness in his voice. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

He had no time to argue and started off.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To the top.”

MALONE NEVER HEARD THE HELICOPTER DOOR SLAM CLOSED behind him, but he felt when the winch began to unwind. He positioned his arms at his side and lay prone with his legs extended outward. The sensation of falling was negated by the cable’s firm grip.

He descended and, as the corpsman predicted, was swept back. The Skyhawk was flying fifty feet below him. The winch continued to slacken the cable and he slowly eased himself toward the wing top.

Bitter-cold air washed his body. The suit and wool face cap offered some protection, but his nose and lips began to chap in the arid air.

His feet found the wing.

The Skyhawk shivered at his violation, but quickly stabilized. He gently pushed off and motioned for more slack as he maneuvered toward the cabin door on the pilot’s side.

A gust of cold air rushed past, disrupting his equilibrium, and his body swung out on the cable.

He clung to the line and managed to swing himself back toward the plane.

He again motioned and felt the cable lengthen.

The Skyhawk was a high-wing craft, its ailerons mounted to the top of the fuselage, supported by diagonal struts. To get inside he was going to have to slip below the wing. He motioned for the chopper to fall back so he could be lowered farther. The pilot seemed to know intuitively what Malone was thinking and easily slipped down so he was level with the cabin windows.

He peered inside.

The rear seats had been removed and the newspaper-wrapped bundles were indeed stacked ceiling-to-floor. His body was being buffeted and, despite the goggles, dry air sapped the moisture from his eyes.

He motioned for more slack and, as the cable loosened, he grabbed the flap’s leading edge and maneuvered himself over to the strut, planting his feet onto the landing gear housing, wedging his body between the strut and wing. His weight disrupted the plane’s aerodynamics and he watched as elevators and flaps compensated.

The cable continued to unwind, looping down below the plane, then stopped. Apparently, the corpsman had realized that there was no longer any tension.

He pressed his face close to the cabin window and stared inside.

A small gray box lay on the passenger’s seat. Cables snaked to the instrument panel. He focused again on the wrapped packages. Toward the bottom, in the space between the two front seats, the bundles were bare, revealing a lavender-colored material.

Plastique explosives.

C-83, possibly, he figured.

Powerful stuff.

He should to get inside the Skyhawk, but before he could decide what to do, he noticed the cable slack receding. They were winching him back to the chopper and the wing blocked his ability to signal no.

He couldn’t go back now.

So before the cable yanked him from his perch, he released the D-clamp and tossed the hook out, which continued a steady climb upward.

He clung to the strut and reached for the door latch.

The door opened.

The problem was the angle. He was positioned ahead, the hinges to his left, the door opening toward the front of the plane. Air sweeping from the prop beneath the wing was working against him, forcing the door closed.

He wrapped the gloved fingers of his left hand around the door’s outer edge, his right hand still gripping the strut. At the limit of his peripheral vision he spied the chopper easing down to have a look. He managed to open the door against the wind but found that its hinges stopped at ninety degrees, which left not nearly enough space for him to slip inside.

Only one way left.

He released his grip on the strut, grabbed the door with both hands, and swung his body inward toward the cockpit. Airspeed instantly worked the door hinges closed and his parachute pounded into the fuselage, the metal panel lodging him against the open doorway. His grip held and he slowly worked his right leg inside, then folded the rest of his body into the cockpit. Luckily the pilot’s seat was fully extended.

He snapped the door shut and breathed a sigh of relief.

The plane’s yoke steadily gyrated right and left.

On the instrument panel he located the direction finder. The plane was still on a northwesterly course. A full moving map GPS, which he assumed was coupled to the autopilot, seemed to be providing flight control but, strangely, the autopilot was disengaged.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see the chopper now snuggled close to the left wing tip. In the cabin window was a sign with numbers on it. Stephanie was pointing to her headset and motioning to the numbers.

He understood.

The Skyhawk’s radio stack was to his right. He switched the unit on and found the frequency for the numbers she’d indicated. He yanked off the wool cap, snapped an ear-and-microphone set to his head, and said, “This plane is full of explosives.”

“Just what I needed to hear,” she said.

“Let’s get it on the ground,” Daniels added in his ear.

“The autopilot is off-”

Suddenly the Skyhawk angled right. Not a cursory move, but a full course change. He watched the yoke pivot forward, then back, foot pedals working on their own, controlling the rudder in a steep banked maneuver.

Another sharp turn and the GPS readout indicated that the plane’s course had altered more westerly and rose in altitude to eight thousand feet, airspeed a little under a hundred knots.

“What’s happening?” Stephanie asked.

“This thing has a mind of its own. That was a tight sixty-degree turn.”

“Cotton,” Daniels said. “The French have calculated your course. It’s straight for the Invalides.”

No way. They were wrong. He’d already determined the end point of this venture, recalling what had fallen from the Selfridges bag last night.

He stared out the windshield and spotted the true target in the distance.

“That’s not where we’re headed. This plane is going to the Eiffel Tower.”

FIFTY-SIX

ELIZA APPROACHED THE GLASS DOOR AND TRIED THE LATCH.

She stared down through the thick glass panel and saw that an inside lock had been engaged. No way that could have happened accidentally.

“The one on the other side is the same,” Thorvaldsen said.

She did not like the Dane’s calculated tone, which conveyed that this should be no surprise.

One of the other members turned the corner to her left. “There’s no other way down from this platform, and I saw no call box or telephone.”

Overhead, near the top of the caged enclosure, she spotted the solution to the problem. A closed-circuit television camera that angled its lens toward them. “Someone in security is surely watching. We simply have to gain their attention.”

“I’m afraid it’s not going to be that easy,” Thorvaldsen said.

She faced him, afraid of what he might say, but knowing what was coming.

“Whatever Lord Ashby planned,” he said, “he surely took that into account, along with the fact that some of us would be carrying our own phones. It will take a few minutes for someone to get here. So whatever is going to happen, will happen soon.”

MALONE FELT THE PLANE DESCEND. HIS GAZE LOCKED ON THE altimeter.

7,000 feet and falling.

“What the-”

The drop halted at 5,600 feet.

“I suggest that fighter be sent this way,” he said into the headset. “This plane may need to be blown out of the sky.” He glanced down at the buildings, roads, and people. “I’m going to do what I can to change course.”

“I’m told you’ll have a fighter escort in less than three minutes,” Daniels said.

“Thought you said that wasn’t an option over populated areas?”

“The French are a bit partial to the Eiffel Tower. And they don’t really care-”

“About me?”

“You said it. I didn’t.”

He reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed the gray box, and studied its exterior. Some sort of electronic device, like a laptop that didn’t open. No control switches were visible. He yanked on a cable leading out, but it would not release. He tossed the box down and, with both hands, wrenched the connection free of the instrument panel. An electrical spark was followed by a violent buck as the plane rocked right, then left.

He threw the cable aside and reached for the yoke.

His feet went to the pedals and he tried to regain control, but the aileron trim and rudder were sluggish and the Skyhawk continued on a northwest vector.

“What happened?” Stephanie asked.

“I killed the brain, or at least one of them, but this thing is still on course and the controls don’t seem to work.”

He grabbed the column again and tried to veer left.

The plane buffeted as it fought his command. He heard a noticeable change in the prop’s timbre. He’d flown enough single-engines to know that an altered pitch signaled trouble.

Suddenly the nose jerked and the Skyhawk started to climb.

He reached for the throttle and tried to close it down, but the plane continued to rise. The altimeter read 8,000 feet when the nose finally came down. He didn’t like what was happening. Airspeed was shifting at unpredictable rates. Control surfaces were erratic. He could easily stall, and that was the last thing he needed with a cabinful of explosives over Paris.

He stared ahead.

On present course and speed, he was two minutes, at most, from the tower.

“Where’s that fighter?” he asked either of his listeners.

“Look to your right,” Stephanie said.

A Tornado air interceptor, its wings swept back, was just beyond his wing, two air-to-air missiles nestled to its underside.

“You in communication with him?” he asked.

“He’s at our beck and call.”

“Tell him to fall off and stand ready.”

The Tornado dropped back and he returned his attention to the possessed plane.

“Get that chopper out of here,” he said to Stephanie.

He grabbed the yoke.

“Okay, darling,” he whispered, “this is going to hurt you far more than me.”

THORVALDSEN SEARCHED THE PARISIAN SKY. GRAHAM ASHBY had gone to a lot of trouble to trap the entire Paris Club. To the east, police and firefighters still battled the flames at the Invalides.

He walked around the platform, toward the west and south.

And saw them.

A single-engine plane, followed by a military helicopter, in close proximity, and a fighter jet veering off and climbing.

All three aircraft were close enough to signal trouble.

The helicopter drifted away, giving the single-engine plane room as it rocked on its wings.

He heard the others approach from behind him, Larocque included.

He pointed. “Our fate arrives.”

She gazed out into the clear sky. The plane was descending, its prop pointed straight for the deck upon which they stood. He caught a shimmer of sunshine off metal, above and behind the chopper and plane.

The military jet.

“Seems somebody is dealing with the problem,” he calmly noted.

But he realized that shooting down the plane was not a viable option.

So he wondered.

How was their fate to be determined?

MALONE WRENCHED THE COLUMN HARD LEFT AND HELD IT in position against a surprisingly intense force compelling a return to center. He’d thought the gray box was flying the plane, but apparently the Skyhawk had been extensively altered. Somewhere there was another brain controlling things, since no matter what he did the plane stayed on course.

He worked the rudder pedals and tried to regain some measure of control, but the plane refused to respond.

He was now clearly on course for the Eiffel Tower. He assumed another homing device had been secreted there, just as in the Invalides, the signal irresistible to the Skyhawk.

“Tell the Tornado to arm his missile,” he said. “And back that damn chopper farther off.”

“I’m not going to destroy that plane with you in it,” Stephanie said.

“Didn’t know you cared so much.”

“There are a lot of people below you.”

He smiled, knowing better. Then a thought occurred to him. If the electronics controlling the plane couldn’t be physically overcome, maybe they could be fooled into releasing their hold.

He reached for the engine cutoff and killed the prop.

The propeller spun to a standstill.

“What the hell happened?” Stephanie asked in his ear.

“I decided to cut blood to the brain.”

“You think the computers might disengage?”

“If they don’t, we have a serious problem.”

He gazed below at the brown-gray Seine. He was losing altitude. Without the engine powering the controls, the column was looser, but still tight. The altimeter registered 5,000 feet.

“This is going to be close.”

SAM RACED OFF THE ELEVATOR AT THE TOP OF THE TOWER. No one was inside the enclosed observation platform. He decided to slow down, be cautious. If he was wrong about Ashby, he’d have some impossible explaining to do. He was risking exposure. But something told him that the risk needed to be taken.

He scanned outside, past the windows, first east, then north, and finally south.

And saw a plane.

Closing fast.

Along with a military chopper.

To hell with caution.

He bolted up one of two metal stairways that led to the uppermost observation deck. A glass door at the top was closed and locked. He spied the bolt at the bottom. No way to release it without a key. He leaped down metal grates three at a time, ran across the room, and tried the other route up.

Same thing.

He banged a closed fist on the thick glass door.

Henrik was out there.

And there was nothing he could do.

ELIZA WATCHED AS THE PROP STOPPED TURNING AND THE PLANE lost altitude. The craft was less than a kilometer away and still closing on a direct path.

“The pilot is a maniac,” one of the club members said.

“That remains to be seen,” Thorvaldsen calmly said.

She was impressed by the Dane’s nerve. He seemed totally at ease, despite the seriousness of the situation.

“What’s happening here?” Robert Mastroianni asked her. “This is not what I joined to experience.”

Thorvaldsen turned to face the Italian. “Apparently, we’re meant to die.”

MALONE FOUGHT THE CONTROLS.

“Get that engine back online,” Stephanie said over the radio.

“I’m trying.”

He reached for the switch. The motor sputtered, but did not catch. He tried again and was rewarded with a backfire.

He was descending, the summit of the Eiffel Tower less than a mile away.

One more time and, with a bang, the engine roared to life, the spinning prop quickly generating airspeed. He did not give the electronics time to react, quickly ramming the throttle to full speed. He banked the wings, angled the plane into the wind, and flew past the tower, spotting people standing at the top, pointing his way.

FIFTY-SEVEN

SAM WATCHED AS A SMALL PLANE APPROACHED. HE FLED THE locked glass door and leaped down the stairs, then rushed across to the southern observation windows. The plane roared past, a helicopter in close pursuit.

Elevator doors opened and uniformed men rushed out.

One was the head of security he’d met earlier.

“The doors leading upstairs are locked,” he told them. “We need a key.”

THORVALDSEN FOCUSED ON THE COCKPIT OF THE CESSNA that skirted past, within a few hundred meters. Only an instant was needed for him to spot the face of the pilot.

Cotton Malone.

“I HAVE CONTROL,” MALONE SAID.

His altitude was climbing. He decided to level off at 3,000 feet.

“That was close,” he said.

“An understatement,” Stephanie said. “Is it responding?”

“I need an airport.”

“We’re looking.”

He didn’t want to risk landing at Orly or Charles de Gaulle. “Find a smaller field somewhere. What’s ahead of me?”

“Once past the city, which is only a few more miles, I’m told there’s a wood and a marsh. There’s a field at Créteil, another at Lagney, and one at Tournan.”

“How far to open pastureland?”

“Twenty miles.”

He checked his fuel. The gauge showed fifty liters, the tanks nearly full. Apparently, whoever planned this wanted a load of gasoline to aid the C-83.

“Find me a runway,” he told Stephanie. “We need this plane on the ground.”

“There’s a private strip thirty miles ahead at Evry. Isolated, nothing there. We’re alerting them to clear the area. How’s the plane?”

“Like a woman tamed.”

“You wish.”

The prop suddenly sputtered.

He focused out the windshield, beyond the engine cowling, and watched as the propeller wound to a stop.

The engine, on its own, refired and started again.

The control column wrenched from his grip as the plane banked hard right. The engine roared to nearly full throttle and flaps deployed. Something, or somebody, was trying to regain control.

“What’s happening?” Stephanie asked.

“I assume this thing didn’t like my derogatory remark. It has a mind of its own.”

He twisted in the seat as the cockpit leveled, then the plane hooked left. Perhaps its electronics were confused, the transceiver searching for the signal it had previously been following to the Eiffel Tower.

The Skyhawk sought altitude and started a climb, but just as quickly stopped. The airframe bucked like a horse. The yoke vibrated hard. Rudder pedals pounded in and out.

“This isn’t going to work. Tell that fighter to stand ready to fire. I’m going to take this thing as high as I can then bail out. Tell him to give me a little clearance, then let loose.”

For once Stephanie did not argue.

He angled the nose straight up. He forced the flaps to retract and held on tight, compelling the Skyhawk to climb against its will. The engine started to labor, like a car struggling up a steep incline.

His eyes focused on the altimeter.

4,000 feet. 5,000. 6,000.

His ears popped.

He decided 8,000 should be enough and, when the gauge passed that mark, he released his grip. While he waited for the plane to level, he yanked off the headset and slipped the wool cap back over his face. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few minutes.

He reached for the latch and opened the door.

Cold air rushed in as he forced the panel open. Not giving himself time to be scared, he rolled out, making sure to push off with his feet so momentum would send him clear of the fuselage.

He’d only jumped from a plane twice, once in flight school, and a second time last year over the Sinai, but he remembered what the navy taught him about a punch-out. Arch the back. Spread the arms and legs. Don’t let the body roll out of control. He carried no altimeter and decided to estimate his free fall by counting. He needed to open the chute around 5,000 feet. His right hand reached to his chest and searched for the rip cord. Never wait, his flight instructor had always cautioned, and for one frightening moment he could not find the handle, but then his fingers wrapped around the D-ring.

He glanced up and watched the Skyhawk continue its erratic journey, searching for its target, engine sputtering, altitude ever changing.

Time seemed to slow as he fell through the winter air.

A collage of fields and forest extended below. He caught sight of the helicopter to his right as it kept him in view.

He reached ten in his count and yanked the rip cord.

ELIZA HEARD FOOTSTEPS AND TURNED TO SEE SECURITY MEN rushing their way from around the deck’s corner.

“Everyone here okay?’” the lead man asked in French.

She nodded. “We’re fine. What is happening?”

“We’re not sure. It appears that someone locked the doors to this upper platform and that a small plane almost crashed into this location.”

Everything she heard simply confirmed what Thorvaldsen had already made clear.

She stared over at the Dane.

But he was not paying any attention. Instead, the older man simply stood at the platform’s edge, hands inside his coat pockets, and gazed past the enclosure, toward the south, where the plane had exploded in the sky. The pilot had bailed out just prior, and was now descending on a chute, a helicopter keeping a watchful eye, circling.

Something was wrong here.

Way beyond Graham Ashby’s treachery

THE CHUTE EXPLODED OUTWARD AND MALONE’S GAZE WENT up to the cords hoping none tangled. A mad rush of wind was instantly replaced by the flap of cloth as the chute grabbed air. He was still high, probably above 5,000 feet, but he didn’t care, the thing opened and he was now gently falling toward the ground.

About a quarter mile away he spied a rocket trail and followed the missile on its trajectory. A moment later a huge fireball ignited in the sky, like a star going supernova, as the C-83 obliterated the Skyhawk.

The greater explosion confirmed what he’d suspected.

This plane was the problem.

The Tornado streaked by overhead, the helicopter remaining about half a mile away, following him down.

He tried to decide on the best place to land. He gripped the toggles and forced the rectangular canopy downward, like flaps closing on wings, which spiraled his descent and increased speed.

Thirty seconds later his feet found a plowed field and he folded to the ground. His nostrils filled with the musty smell of turned earth.

But the stench didn’t matter.

He was alive.

THORVALDSEN STARED AT THE DISTANT PARACHUTE. NO NEED to continue appearances any longer. Graham Ashby had shown his true colors. But so had Malone. What just happened involved governments. Which meant Malone was working with either Stephanie, the French, or both.

And that betrayal would not go unanswered.