The Paris Vendetta

FIFTY-EIGHT

ASHBY HUSTLED DOWN THE STAIRS TOWARD GROUND LEVEL. He’d timed his escape closely, knowing that he’d have only a precious few minutes. The plan was to cross the Avenue Gustave Eiffel and make his way through the Champ de Mars, toward the Place Jacques Rueff, the nucleus of the former parade ground. Just east, a car with Caroline inside was waiting on the Avenue J. Bouvard. He’d have to finally explain a few things, considering what she was about to see, but his lies were ready.

He kept descending the stairs.

His deal with Peter Lyon had been clear. Never had Lyon been contracted to do what Larocque had wanted-crash a plane into the Church of the Dome and carry out two other simultaneous attacks in Avignon and Bordeaux. Instead, Ashby had confined their arrangement to Paris only, modifying the target to the Eiffel Tower. He’d never understood what Larocque intended, though after listening to her presentation earlier he now appreciated at least some of it.

Terror apparently could be profitable.

He came to the last flight of stairs. He was winded, but glad to be on solid earth. He told himself to calm down and walk slow. Several virile-looking males dressed in camouflage fatigues and toting automatic rifles patrolled the pavement. Beneath the iron base hundreds of people, in long lines, awaited the elevators opening at one PM.

Unfortunately, that would not happen today.

The Eiffel Tower was about to be no more.

In his altered version of Eliza Larocque’s plan, he’d arranged with Lyon for the Invalides to be a diversion, a way to create as much confusion as possible. Lyon had always been told the tower was his primary target. He didn’t need to know that he’d be killing the entire Paris Club-Larocque included. Not important. And what would Lyon care? He only provided the services a client requested. And to Lyon, Ashby was the client. It should be an easy matter to blame Lyon for everything that was about to happen. His explanation to the Americans as to why he hadn’t been with the others on the summit was simple. Larocque had excused him from the rest of the day’s gathering. Sent him on a mission.

Who would contradict him?

He passed beneath the southeast arch and cleared the tower. He kept walking, ticking off the seconds in his head. He checked his watch. Noon.

He had no idea where the plane was coming from, only that it should be here any moment.

He crossed the Avenue Gustave Eiffel and entered the Champs de Mars.

He was well clear, so he told himself to relax. Peter Lyon was one of the most experienced murderers in the world. Sure, the Americans were involved, but they’d never get near Lyon. And now, with the tragedy that was about to unfold, they’d have plenty extra to deal with. He’d reported about the Invalides, kept his part of the bargain. The burning vehicle he’d seen earlier in front of the Church of the Dome was surely part of Lyon’s show, which should also provide him the perfect excuse for the Americans. Lyon had changed the plan. Apparently, the South African deceived everyone, himself included.

And the end result?

He’d be free of the Americans and Eliza Larocque, and, if all went well, he’d retain all of the club’s deposits and find Napoleon’s lost cache, which he could also now keep for himself.

Quite a payout.

His father and grandfather would both be proud.

He kept walking, waiting for the explosion, prepared to react as any shocked bystander would.

He heard the drone of a plane, growing louder.

And the dull thump of rotors.

A helicopter?

He stopped, turned, and gazed skyward just as a single-engine plane, its wings banked nearly perpendicular to the ground, missed the third-level platform by a few hundred meters.

A military chopper followed, in hot pursuit.

His eyes widened in alarm.

THORVALDSEN EXITED THE ELEVATOR WITH THE OTHER PARIS Club members. Everyone was now back on the first-level platform. The security men who’d opened the glass doors high above had offered no explanation as to how they became locked. But he knew the answer. Graham Ashby had planned another mass murder.

He watched as the others made their way into the meeting room. Most of the members were shaken, but maintaining a confident façade. He’d purposefully not kept his comments at the summit to himself and had seen the reaction of the others to his observations about Graham Ashby. He’d also noted Larocque’s anger-at both he and Ashby.

He stood near the outer railing, gloved hands in his coat pockets, and watched as Larocque marched toward him.

“The time for pretense between us is over,” he said to her. “I have no more patience to humor you.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing?”

“Graham Ashby tried to kill us all.”

“I’m aware of that. Was it necessary to share those thoughts with everyone?”

He shrugged. “They should know what’s in store for them. But I wonder, what were you planning? We weren’t up there to simply enjoy the view.”

She threw him a quizzical look.

“You can’t seriously think that I would have been a party to your madness. Those ideas you tossed out earlier. Insanity, all of it.”

She seemed at once amazed, appalled, repelled, and fascinated by his indignation.

“I came for Graham Ashby,” he made clear. “I used you to get close to him. At first, I thought what you were concocting was worth stopping. Maybe it is. But I don’t care any longer. Not after what Ashby just tried.”

“I assure you, Herre Thorvaldsen, I am not one to be trifled with. As Lord Ashby will soon learn.”

He allowed his voice to assume an icy determination. “Madame, let me make something clear. You should be grateful that I no longer have any interest in your mischief. If I did, I’d stop you. But I could not give a damn. It’s not my concern. You, though, have several problems. The first is Ashby. The second is the American government. That plane was being flown by a former Justice Department agent named Cotton Malone. His boss, from that same department, is here and, I assume, knows exactly what you’re doing. Your plans are no longer secret.”

He turned to leave.

She grabbed him by the arm. “Who do you think you are? I am not a person to be lightly dismissed.”

He clung to the anger that coursed through him. The enormity of all that had happened struck him hard. As he’d watched the plane draw closer to the tower summit, he’d realized that his lack of focus could have cost him his ultimate goal. In one respect, he was glad Malone had stopped the plane. On the other hand, the sick, numbing realization that his friend had betrayed him hurt more than he’d ever imagined.

He needed to find Malone, Stephanie, and Ashby and finish things. The Paris Club was no longer part of the equation. Neither was this ridiculous woman who glared at him with eyes full of hate.

“Let go of my arm,” he said through clenched teeth.

She did not release her grip.

He wrenched himself free.

“Stay out of my way,” he ordered.

“As if I take orders from you.”

“If you want to stay alive, you had better. Because if you interfere with me, in any way, I’ll shoot you dead.”

And he walked away

ASHBY SPOTTED THE CAR WITH CAROLINE INSIDE WAITING AT the curb. Traffic was beginning to congeal on the boulevards that paralleled the Champs de Mars. Car doors had opened and people pointed skyward.

Ripples of concern ebbed through him.

He needed to be away.

The plane had not destroyed the Eiffel Tower. Worse, Eliza Larocque now realized that he’d tried to murder them all.

How could she not?

What happened? Had Lyon double-crossed him? He’d paid the first half of the extorted fee. The South African had to know that. Why would he have not performed? Especially considering that something clearly had happened at the Church of the Dome, smoke curling up from the east confirming that the fire there still raged.

And there was the matter of the remaining payment.

Three times the usual fee. A bloody well lot of money.

He entered the car.

Caroline sat in the rear seat across from him, Mr. Guildhall in the front, driving. He’d need to keep Guildhall near him.

“Did you see how close that plane came to the tower?” Caroline asked.

“I did.” He was glad that he did not have to explain anything further.

“Is your business finished?”

He wished. “For now.” He stared at her smiling face. “What is it?

“I solved Napoleon’s riddle.”

FIFTY-NINE

MALONE LAY ON GRASS THAT WINTER HAD CHILLED INTO brown hay and watched the helicopter land. The rear compartment door slid open and Stephanie leaped out, followed by the corpsman. He released the parachute’s harness and came to his feet. He caught the worry, plain in her eyes, hoping he was okay.

He freed himself from the chute. “Tell the French that we’re even.”

She smiled.

“Better yet,” he said. “Tell them they owe me.”

He watched as the corpsman gathered up the billowing chute.

“Lyon’s arrogant as hell,” he said, “flaunting it in our faces. He was ready with the little towers in London, and he made no effort to conceal his amber eyes. He actually went out of his way to confront me. Either way was a win-win for him. We stop the plane, he sticks it to Ashby. We miss the plane, he makes the client happy. I doubt he really cared which was the ultimate outcome.” Which, he knew, explained the diversions at the Invalides and the other planes. “We need to find Ashby.”

“There’s a bigger problem,” she said. “When we passed the top of the tower, I saw Henrik.”

“He had to have seen me in that cockpit.”

“My thought exactly.”

The corpsman grabbed Stephanie’s attention and pointed to her handheld radio. She stepped away and spoke into the unit, then quickly returned.

“We caught a break,” she said, motioning for the chopper. “They triangulated the signals being sent to those planes. We have a ground location.”

SAM HAD FLED THE SUMMIT AS A SECURITY DETAIL UNLOCKED the exit doors for the observation deck, mindful of Stephanie’s instruction that he must not be compromised. He’d made it back to the first platform long before the Paris Club descended and the members re -entered the meeting room. He’d watched as Eliza Larocque and Henrik confronted each other. Though he could not hear what they were saying it wasn’t hard to sense the tension, especially when Henrik yanked himself free of her grip. He’d heard nothing from Stephanie and there was no way he could sneak himself back into the meeting room, so he decided to leave.

Somebody had tried to crash a plane into the Eiffel Tower, and nearly succeeded. The military was obviously aware, as the chopper riding herd over the plane proved.

He needed to contact Stephanie.

He freed the tie from around his neck and released the top button of his shirt. His clothes and coat were below in the police station, beneath the south pylon, where he and Meagan had changed.

He paused at the first-level platform’s open center and gazed down at the people below. Hundreds were waiting in line. An explosive crash nine hundred feet above them would have been horrific. Interesting that the authorities were not evacuating the site. In fact, the chaos from above had been replaced with utter calm. As if nothing had happened. He sensed Stephanie Nelle’s involvement with that decision.

He fled the railing and started down the metal risers for the ground. Henrik Thorvaldsen was gone. Sam had decided not to confront him. He couldn’t, not here.

Halfway down, the cell phone in his pocket vibrated.

Stephanie had given one to both him and Meagan, programming the numbers of each, along with hers, into the memory.

He found the unit and answered.

“I’m in a cab,” Meagan said. “Following Ashby. I was lucky to snag one. He ran, but stopped long enough to watch the plane fly by. He was shocked, Sam.”

“We all were.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Surprise laced her voice. “He was shocked it missed.”

ELIZA FACED THE GROUP, BUT HER MIND SWIRLED WITH SO many conflicting thoughts it was hard to concentrate.

“What happened up there?” one of the members asked.

“The security people are investigating, but it appears the plane malfunctioned. Thankfully, the problem was rectified in time.”

“Why were the exit doors locked?”

She could not tell them the truth. “We should soon know the answer to that as well.”

“What did Herre Thorvaldsen mean when he said that plane was our fate-we were meant to die-and Lord Ashby was involved?”

She’d been dreading the inquiry. “There is apparently a private feud between Lord Ashby and Herre Thorvaldsen. One I was unaware of until a few moments ago. Because of that animosity, I’ve asked Herre Thorvaldsen to withdraw his membership, and he agreed. He apologized for any fear or inconvenience he may have caused.”

“That doesn’t explain what he said on that deck,” Robert Mastroianni said.

“I think it was more his imagination talking. He has a personal dislike for Lord Ashby.”

Her newest recruit did not seem satisfied. “Where is Ashby?”

She manufactured another lie. “He left, at my request, to handle another matter of vital importance. He may or may not make it back for the rest of the meeting.”

“That’s not what you said at the top of the tower,” one of them noted. “You wanted to know where he was.”

She told herself that these men and women were not stupid. Don’t treat them as so. “I knew he would be leaving, I was simply unaware that he’d already left.”

“Where did he go?”

“That cache of unaccounted-for wealth I told you about. Lord Ashby is searching for it, and he has located a new lead. Earlier, he asked to be excused so he could explore its possibilities.”

She kept her voice calm and firm, having learned long ago that it was not only what you said, but how you said it that mattered.

“We’re going to continue on?” one of the others asked.

She caught the surprise in the question. “Of course. Why not?”

“How about that we were all nearly killed?” Mastroianni said.

She had to alleviate their fears, and the best way to quell speculation was focus on the future. “I’m sure that each of you experience risk every day. But that’s precisely why we’re all here. To minimize that risk. We still have much to discuss, and many millions of euros to realize. How about we focus our efforts and prepare for a new day?”

MALONE SAT IN THE CHOPPER’S REAR COMPARTMENT AND ENJOYED the heater’s blast.

“The signal to the planes originated from a rooftop near Notre Dame,” Stephanie said through his headphones. “On the Île St. Louis, one island behind the cathedral. Paris police have the building under surveillance. We used NATO monitoring posts to pinpoint the location.”

“Which begs the question.”

He saw she understood.

“I know,” she said. “Too damn easy. Lyon is two full steps ahead of us. We’re chasing his shadows.”

“No. Worse. We’re being led by shadows.”

“I understand. But it’s all we have.”

SAM STEPPED FROM THE CAB AND PAID THE DRIVER. HE WAS A block from the Champs-Elysées, in the heart of an upscale shopping district that played host to the likes of Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Dior, and Chanel. He’d followed directions that Meagan had called in to him, and was now standing before the Four Seasons, an eight-story hotel marked by 1920s architecture.

He glanced around and spotted Meagan across the street. He hadn’t taken the time to change, though he had retrieved his coat and clothes before fleeing the Eiffel Tower. She was still dressed in the shirt and slacks of their serving uniform. He’d also brought her clothes.

“Thanks,” she said, as she donned the coat.

She was shaking. True, the air was cold, but he wondered if it was more. He placed a hand on her back, steadying her, which she seemed to appreciate.

“You were at the top?” she asked.

He nodded.

“That was damn close, Sam.”

He agreed. But it was over. “What’s happening here?”

“Ashby and his entourage went inside the hotel.”

“I wonder what we’re supposed to do now.”

She seemed to steel herself and walked toward a narrow alley between two buildings. “You think about it, Sherlock, while I change.”

He smiled at her confidence, searching for some of his own. Calling Stephanie or Malone could prove problematic. His instructions had not been to follow anyone. Of course, Stephanie Nelle had not anticipated that a plane would be flown into the Eiffel Tower, either. He’d done what he thought best and, so far, had remained undetected.

Or maybe not.

Thorvaldsen may have seen him in the meeting room. But no one had mentioned that the Dane would be there.

So he made a decision.

To seek guidance from the one man who’d actually sought guidance from him.

MALONE SPRANG FROM THE CHOPPER AS IT LANDED BEHIND Notre Dame on a leafy green. A uniformed police captain waited for them as they cleared the rotor blades’ downwash.

“You were right,” the policeman told Stephanie. “The landlord of the building confirmed that a man with amber eyes let an apartment on the fourth floor, a week ago. He paid three months in advance.”

“Is the building secure?” she asked.

“We have it surrounded. Discreetly. As you requested.”

Malone again sensed the uneasy restraint that seemed to bind him and Stephanie. Nothing about this was good. Once again, Lyon had made no effort to mask his tracks.

He no longer wore the dirty flight suit, having redonned his leather jacket and reacquired his Beretta.

With little choice, he started off.

“Let’s see what the SOB has in store this time.”

SIXTY

ASHBY SAT IN ONE OF THE FOUR SEASONS’ ROYAL SUITES.

“Get the Murrays over here,” he ordered Guildhall. “I want them in France by nightfall.”

Caroline watched him with eyes that seemed to pry into his thoughts. His face was red and puffy from both the cold and his frayed nerves, his voice tired and throaty.

“What’s the problem, Graham?” she asked.

He wanted this woman as an ally, so he answered her with some truth. “A business arrangement has turned sour. I’m afraid Madame Larocque is going to be quite upset with me. Enough that she may want to do me harm.”

Caroline shook her head. “What have you done?”

He smiled. “Simply trying to rid myself of the incessant grasp of others.”

He allowed his eyes to play over her well-formed legs and the curve of her hips. Just watching those faultless lines freed his mind of the problem, if only for a moment.

“You can’t blame me for that,” he added. “We’re finally back in shallow water. I simply wanted to be done with Eliza. She’s mad, you know.”

“So we need the Murrays? And Mr. Guildhall?”

“And even more men possibly. That bitch is going to be angry.”

“Then let’s give her something to be totally irritated about.”

He’d been waiting for her to explain what she’d found.

She stood and retrieved a leather satchel from a nearby chair. Inside, she located a sheet of paper upon which was written the fourteen lines of letters from the Merovingian book, penned by Napoleon himself.

“It’s just like the one we found in Corsica,” she said. “The one with raised lettering that revealed Psalm 31, written by Napoleon, too. When I laid a straightedge beneath the lines it became obvious.”

She produced a ruler and showed him.

He immediately noticed letters higher than the others.

“What does it say?”

She handed him another piece of paper, and he saw all of the raised letters.

ADOGOBERTROIETASIONESTCETRESORETILESTLAMORT

“It wasn’t hard to form the words,” she said. “All you need to add is a few spaces.”

She displayed another sheet.

A DOGOBERT ROI ET A SION EST CE TRESOR ET IL EST LA MORT

He translated the French. “‘To King Dagobert and to Sion belongs the treasure and he is there dead.’” He gave a pessimistic shrug. “What does it mean?”

A malicious grin formed on her inviting lips.

“A great deal.”

MALONE ENTERED THE BUILDING, GUN IN HAND AND CLIMBED the stairs.

Stephanie followed.

The Paris police waited outside.

Neither one of them was sure what was waiting, so the fewer people involved, the better. Containment was rapidly becoming a problem, particularly considering that two national landmarks had been attacked and planes had been shot from the sky. President Daniels had assured them that the French would deal with the press. Just concentrate on finding Lyon, he’d ordered.

They reached the fourth floor and found the door for the apartment that the amber-eyed man had let, the landlord having provided a passkey.

Stephanie positioned herself to one side, gun in hand. Malone angled his body against the opposite and banged on the door. He didn’t expect anyone to answer, so he inserted the key into the lock, turned the knob, and swung the door inward.

He waited a few seconds, then peered around the jamb.

The apartment was utterly bare, except for one item.

A laptop lying on the wood floor, the screen facing their way, a counter ticking down.

2:00 minutes.

1:59.

1:58.

THORVALDSEN HAD CALLED MALONE’S CELL PHONE SEVEN times, each try diverting to voice mail, each failure escalating his anguish.

He needed to speak with Malone.

More important, he needed to find Graham Ashby. He hadn’t ordered his investigators to tail the Brit after he left England earlier this morning. He assumed that Ashby would be within his sight at the Eiffel Tower, until late afternoon. By then, his men would be in France ready to go.

But Ashby had formulated a different plan.

Thorvaldsen sat alone in his room at the Ritz. What to do now? He was at a loss. He’d planned carefully, anticipating nearly everything-except the mass murder of the Paris Club. Innovative, he’d give Ashby that. Eliza Larocque had to be in turmoil. Her well-ordered plans were in shambles. At least she realized that he’d been telling the truth about her supposedly trustworthy British lord. Now Ashby had two people intent on his demise.

Which made him think again about Malone, the book, and Murad.

Perhaps the professor knew something?

His cell phone rang.

The screen displayed BLOCKED NUMBER but he answered anyway.

“Henrik,” Sam Collins said, “I need your help.”

He wanted to know if everyone around him was a liar. “What have you been doing?”

The other end of the phone stayed silent. Finally, Sam said, “I’ve been recruited by the Justice Department.”

He was pleased that the young man had told him the truth. So he reciprocated. “I saw you at the Eiffel Tower. In the meeting hall.”

“I thought you might.”

“What’s happening Sam?”

“I’m following Ashby.”

The best news he’d heard. “For Stephanie Nelle?”

“Not really. But I had no choice.”

“Do you have a way to contact her?”

“She gave me a direct number, but I’ve been hesitant to call. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Tell me where you are.”

MALONE APPROACHED THE LAPTOP AS STEPHANIE SEARCHED the apartment’s two remaining rooms.

“Empty,” she called out.

He knelt. The screen continued to count down, approaching one minute. He noticed a data card inserted into a side USB port-the source of the wireless connection. At the screen’s top right portion, the battery indicator read 80 percent. The machine had not been on long.

41 seconds.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” Stephanie asked.

“Lyon knew we’d come. Just like at the Invalides, if he wanted to kill us there are easier ways.”

28 seconds.

“You realize Peter Lyon is an amoral bastard.”

19 seconds.

“Henrik called seven times,” he said to her as they both watched the screen.

“He’s got to be dealt with,” she said.

“I know.”

12 seconds.

“You could be wrong about there not being a bomb here,” she muttered.

9 seconds.

“I’ve been wrong before.”

6 seconds.

“That’s not what you said back in the Court of Honor.”

A 5 appeared, then 4, 3, 2, 1.

SIXTY-ONE

ASHBY WAITED FOR CAROLINE TO EXPLAIN. SHE WAS CLEARLY enjoying herself.

“If the legend is to be believed,” she said, “only Napoleon knew the location of his cache. He trusted that information to no one we know of. Once he realized that he was going to die on St. Helena, he had to communicate the location to his son.”

She pointed to the fourteen lines of writing. “‘To King Dagobert and to Sion belongs the treasure and he is there dead.’ It’s quite simple.”

Perhaps to someone with multiple degrees in history, but not to him.

“Dagobert was a Merovingian who ruled in the early part of the 7th century. He unified the Franks and made Paris his capital. He was the last Merovingian to wield any real power. After that, the Merovingian kings became ineffective rulers who inherited the throne as young children and lived only long enough to produce a male heir. Real power lay in the hands of the noble families.”

His mind was still on Peter Lyon and Eliza Larocque and the threat they posed. He wanted to be acting, not listening. But he told himself to remain patient. She’d never disappointed him before.

“Dagobert built the basilica at Saint-Denis, north of Paris. He was the first king to be buried there.” She paused. “He’s still there.”

He tried to recall what he could about the cathedral. The building had first been constructed over the tomb of St. Denis, a local bishop martyred by the Romans in the 3rd century, and revered by Parisians. An exceptional building in both construction and design, regarded as one of the first examples of Gothic architecture on the planet. He remembered a French acquaintance once boasting that the world’s greatest assembly of royal funerary monuments lay there. Like he cared. But maybe he should. Especially about one particular royal tomb.

“Nobody knows if Dagobert is actually buried there,” she made clear. “The building was first erected in the 5th century. Dagobert ruled in the mid-7th century. He donated so much wealth to the basilica’s enhancement that, by the 9th century, he was credited as its founder. In the 13th century, the monks there dedicated a funerary niche in his honor.”

“Is Dagobert there or not?”

She shrugged. “What does it matter? That niche is still regarded as the tomb of Dagobert. Where he is. Dead.”

He caught the significance of what she was saying. “That’s what Napoleon would have believed?”

“I can’t see how he would have thought anything else.”

MALONE STARED AT THE LAPTOP AND THE SINGLE WORD, DISPLAYED in all caps, emphasized by three exclamation points.

BOOM!!!

“That’s interesting,” Stephanie said.

“Lyon has a bomb fetish.”

The screen changed and a new message appeared.

WHAT IS IT AMERICANS SAY?

A DAY LATE AND A DOLLAR SHORT.

MAYBE NEXT TIME.

“Now, that’s aggravating,” he said, but he saw more than frustration in Stephanie’s eyes and knew what she was thinking.

No Paris Club. No Lyon. Nothing.

“It’s not all that bad,” he said.

She seemed to catch the twinkle in his eye. “You have something in mind?”

He nodded. “A way for us to finally catch this shadow.”

ASHBY STARED AT A PHOTO OF DAGOBERT’S FUNERARY MONUMENT that Caroline found online. A Gothic flair dominated its busy design.

“It depicts the legend of John the Hermit,” she said. “He dreamed that the soul of Dagobert was stolen away by demons, eventually snatched from their clutches by Saints Denis, Maurice, and Martin.”

“And this sits inside the basilica at Saint-Denis?”

She nodded. “Adjacent to the main altar. It somehow escaped the wrath of the French Revolution. Prior to 1800, just about every French monarch was buried in Saint-Denis. But most of the bronze tombs were melted down during the French Revolution, the rest shattered and piled in a garden behind the building. The remains of every Bourbon king were dumped into a nearby cemetery pit.”

That wild vengeance made him think of Eliza Larocque. “The French take their anger quite to heart.”

“Napoleon stopped the vandalism and restored the church,” she said. “He again made it an imperial burying place.”

He caught the significance. “So he was familiar with the basilica?”

“The Merovingian connection surely attracted his interest. Several Merovingians are buried there. Including, to his mind, Dagobert.”

The suite’s door opened and Guildhall reappeared. A discreet nod told Ashby that the Murrays were on their way. He’d feel better when surrounded by loyalists. Something would have to be done about Eliza Larocque. He could not be constantly glancing over his shoulder, wondering if today was the day she finally caught up to him. Perhaps he could make a deal? She was negotiable. But he’d tried to kill her, a fact she certainly now knew. No matter. He’d deal with her later. Right now-“All right, my dear. Tell me. What happens when we visit Saint-Denis?”

“How about I answer that question once we’re there.”

“Do you have the answer?”

“I think I do.”

THORVALDSEN EXITED THE CAB AND SPOTTED SAM AND A woman standing across the street. He stuffed his bare hands into his coat pockets and crossed. Little traffic filled the tree-lined boulevard, all of the nearby upscale boutiques closed for Christmas.

Sam seemed anxious. He immediately introduced the woman and explained who she was.

“You two seem to have been drafted into quite a mess,” he said.

“We didn’t have a whole lot of choice,” Meagan Morrison said.

“Is Ashby still inside?” he asked, motioning toward the hotel.

Sam nodded. “As long as he decided not to leave by another exit.”

He stared across at the Four Seasons and wondered what his schemer was planning next.

“Henrik, I was on top of the tower,” Sam said. “I came up after Ashby came down. That plane-was coming for the club, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “Indeed it was. What were you doing up there?”

“I came to see about you.”

The words made him think of Cai. Sam was near the age Cai would have been, if he’d lived. Lots about this young American reminded him of his son. Perhaps that’s why he’d gravitated toward him. Misplaced love and all that other psychological nonsense that, prior to two years ago, meant nothing to him.

Now it consumed him.

But through the dense cloud of bitterness that seemed to envelop his every thought, a faint voice of reason could still be heard. One that told him to slow down and think. So he faced Sam and said, “Cotton stopped that disaster from happening. He was flying the plane.”

He caught the incredulous look in the younger man’s eyes.

“You’ll learn that both he and Stephanie are most resourceful. Luckily, they were on top of the matter.” He paused. “As were you, apparently. That was a brave thing you did. I appreciate it.” He came to the point of his visit. “You said you have a way of contacting Stephanie Nelle?”

Sam nodded.

“You know her?” Meagan asked him.

“She and I have worked together several times. We’re-acquaintances.”

The younger woman clearly was not impressed. “She’s a bitch.”

“That she can be.”

“I’ve been reluctant to call her,” Sam said.

“You shouldn’t be. She must know about Ashby. Dial the phone and we’ll talk with her together.”

SIXTY-TWO

ELIZA SAID HER GOODBYES TO THE LAST OF THE PARIS CLUB AS the members exited La Salle Gustav Eiffel. She’d managed to contain herself during the afternoon and alleviate the tidal wave of anxiety that had swept through the room. Thorvaldsen’s accusations had seemed forgotten, or at least addressed, by the time the session finished.

Her own fears, though, were another matter.

So two hours ago, during a break, she’d made a call.

The man she’d sought was pleased to hear from her. His flat tone conveyed no emotion, only the fact that he was available and ready to do business with her. She’d stumbled on to him a few years ago when she’d required some unorthodox assistance with a debtor-someone who thought friendship made defaulting on his obligation an option. She’d asked around, learned of the man’s abilities, met him, and four days later the debtor paid the several million euros owed, in full. She’d never asked how that was accomplished, simply pleased that it occurred. Since then there had been three other “situations.” Each time she’d made contact. Each time the task had been accomplished.

She hoped today would be no exception.

He lived in the Montmartre, within the shadow of the domes and campaniles that rose from Paris’ highest point. She found the building on the Rue Chappe, a shaded avenue of Second Empire homes, populated now with trendy shops, cafés, and expensive, upper-story flats.

She climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked lightly on the door marked with a brass 5. The man who answered was short and slender, with straw-thin gray hair. The crook of his nose and the cut of his jaw reminded her of a hawk, which seemed a fitting symbol for Paolo Ambrosi.

She was invited inside.

“What may I do for you today?” Ambrosi asked in a calm voice.

“Always straight to the point.”

“You are an important person. Time is valuable. I assume that you did not come here, on Christmas Day, for something trivial.”

She caught what was unspoken. “And pay the fees you command?”

He gave a slight nod of his head, which was at least a size too small for his frame.

“This one is special,” she said. “It must be done quickly.”

“Define quickly.”

“Today.”

“I assume you have the information needed for a proper preparation.”

“I’ll lead you straight to the target.”

Ambrosi wore a black turtleneck, a black-and-gray-tweed coat, and dark corduroy trousers that sharply contrasted with his pale complexion. She wondered what drove the grim man but realized that this was, most likely, a long story.

“Is there a preference as to the method?” he asked.

“Only that it be painful and slow.”

His cool eyes were bereft of humor. “His betrayal must have been unexpected.”

She appreciated his ability to peer into her thoughts. “To say the least.”

“Your need for satisfaction is that great?”

“Beyond measure.”

“Then we shall obtain a full absolution.”

SAM DIALED HIS CELL PHONE. THE OTHER END OF THE LINE was answered quickly.

“What is it, Sam?” Stephanie said.

“I have Ashby.”

He told her exactly what happened since leaving the Eiffel Tower.

“You weren’t supposed to follow him,” she made clear.

“And a plane wasn’t supposed to fly into us, either.”

“I appreciate your ingenuity. Stay where you are-”

Henrik relieved him of the phone. Clearly his friend wanted to speak with Stephanie Nelle, and he wanted to know why, so Sam stepped back and listened.

“IT’S GOOD TO KNOW THAT THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT IS DIRECTLY atop things,” Thorvaldsen said.

“And it’s good to talk to you, too, Henrik,” Stephanie replied, in a tone that signaled she was ready for battle.

“You interfered in my business,” he said.

“On the contrary. You interfered in ours.”

“How is that possible? None of this concerns America.”

“Don’t be so sure. You’re not the only one who’s interested in Ashby.”

His stomach went hollow. He’d suspected as much, hoping he was wrong. “He’s valuable to you?”

“You realize I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

He didn’t require any admissions from her. What just happened at the Eiffel Tower explained everything. “It’s not hard to imagine what’s happening here.”

“Let’s just say that there’s more at stake here than your revenge.”

“Not to me.”

“Would it do any good if I said I understand? That I’d do the same, if the roles were reversed?”

“You still interfered.”

“We saved your life.”

“You gave Ashby the book.”

“Which was a good idea. It rocked him to sleep. Lucky for you, I might add, or you’d be dead right now.”

He wasn’t in the mood to be grateful. “Cotton betrayed me. I have not the time, at the moment, to deal with that disappointment. But I will.”

“Cotton used his brain. You should, too, Henrik.”

“My son is dead.”

“I don’t need a reminder.”

“Apparently, you do.” He paused, grabbed a breath, and steadied himself. “This is my affair, not yours, not Cotton’s, not the U.S. government’s.”

“Henrik, listen to me. This is not about you. There’s a terrorist involved here. A man named Peter Lyon. We’ve been trying to nail him for a decade. He’s finally out in the open where we can see him. You have to let us finish this. But we need Ashby in order to do that.”

“And when it’s over? What of my son’s murderer?”

The other end of the phone remained silent. Which told him what he already knew. “That’s what I thought. Goodbye, Stephanie.”

“What are you going to do?”

He switched off the phone and handed it to Sam. The younger man and Meagan Morrison had stood silent, watching him through concerned eyes.

“Will you betray me, too?” he asked Sam.

“No.”

The answer came quick. Perhaps too quick. But this eager soul was anxious to prove himself.

“Something’s happening,” Meagan said.

He turned and focused across the boulevard at the hotel.

Ashby appeared out front and spoke to the doorman, who quickly motioned for a cab. Thorvaldsen turned away and faced the buildings behind them. His face might be seen.

“He’s in the cab,” Sam said.

“Flag us one, too.”

SIXTY-THREE

ASHBY STEPPED OFF THE DOCK AT PONT DE L’ALMA AND ONTO the tour boat. Off to the east a carillon of bells pealed for three PM. He’d never toured the Seine by boat, though he assumed the cruises were quite popular. Today only about twenty strangers filled the seats under a sooty Plexiglas canopy, the boat not quite half full. He wondered why Peter Lyon insisted on meeting in such tacky surroundings. The call had come an hour ago, a gruff voice instructing him on the time and place. He’d told Caroline to keep working on what she’d discovered and that he’d return shortly. He’d debated ignoring Lyon’s summons, but knew better. Besides, Lyon had been the one who failed, not him. And there was the matter of the fee already paid, and the balance owed.

He settled into a seat on the last row and waited ten minutes until the engines revved and the flat hull glided out into the river, heading east toward the Île de la Cité. Through a loudspeaker a woman’s voice described, in English, the two banks and the sights while cameras clicked.

A tap on the shoulder diverted his attention and he turned to see a tall, urbane-looking man with blond hair. He appeared to be midsixties, the face drawn and shielded by a bushy beard and mustache. A vastly different look from the other day, yet the eyes remained the same amber color. The man was dressed in a tweed coat and corduroy slacks, appearing, as usual, quite European.

Ashby followed him toward the stern, outside the Plexiglas enclosure, where they stood in the cold. The tour guide inside continued to hold the crowd’s attention.

“What do I call you today?” he asked.

“How about Napoleon?” The voice was husky, throaty, more American this time.

The boat eased past the Grand Palais on the Right Bank.

“May I ask what happened?”

“No, you may not,” Lyon said.

He wasn’t about to accept that rebuke. “You are the one who failed. Not only that, you caused me to be exposed. The Americans are applying pressure. Do you have any idea the situation you have generated?”

“The Americans are the ones who interfered.”

“And that was a surprise? You knew they were involved. I paid three times your fee to compensate for their involvement.” His exasperation showed, but he did not care. “You said it would be quite a show.”

“I don’t know, as yet, who to blame,” Lyon said. “My planning was precise.”

He registered the same condescending tone he’d grown to hate. Since he could not reveal that he’d been using Lyon to do his dirty work, he asked, “What can be done to rectify the situation?”

“That will be your problem. I’m done.”

He could not believe what he was hearing. “You’re-”

“I want to know,” Lyon said, interrupting. “What did you hope to gain from killing those people at the tower?”

“How do you know I wanted to kill them?”

“The same way I know about the Americans.”

This man knew an awful lot. But he sensed that Lyon was not nearly as confident today. Good to know that even the devil failed occasionally. He decided not to rub the disaster in the man’s face. He still needed Lyon.

“I would have never been rid of them,” he said. “Larocque, especially. So I decided to terminate the relationship, in a way she would appreciate.”

“And how much money was involved?”

He chuckled. “You like to come to the point, don’t you?”

Lyon shifted on his feet as he stood, propped against the aft railing. “It’s always about money.”

“I have access to millions in club funds deposited in my bank. That’s how you were paid. I could not have cared less what you charge. Of course, that money, or what’s left of it, would have been mine, if your flight had been successful.” He allowed his words to linger, conveying again who was responsible for the botched attack. He was tiring of theatrics, gaining courage by the second, annoyed with this man’s arrogance.

“What was really at stake, Lord Ashby?”

That he was not going to share. “More than you could ever imagine. Plenty to compensate for the risks involved in killing those people.”

Lyon said nothing.

“You’ve been paid,” Ashby made clear, “but I did not receive the service, as promised. You like to talk about character and how almighty important that is to you. Do you fail, then keep a person’s money?”

“You still want them dead?” Lyon paused. “Assuming I’m interested in continuing our association.”

“You don’t have to kill them all. How about just Larocque. For what you’ve already been paid, and for the remaining payment owed to you.”

THORVALDSEN HAD NOT BEEN ABLE TO BOARD THE TOUR BOAT with Ashby. His operatives were on the way from England and should arrive within the next few hours, so they were of no help. Instead, he’d opted to follow the slow-moving vessel, paralleling the Seine in a taxi, on a busy boulevard.

He’d first considered sending Sam or Meagan, but was concerned Ashby might recognize their faces from the meeting. Now he realized there was no choice. He faced Sam. “I want you to get aboard at the next stop and see what Ashby is doing. Also, find out the route and call that to me immediately.”

“Why me?”

“You were able to masquerade for Stephanie Nelle, surely you can do this for me.”

He saw that his rebuke bit into the young man, as intended.

Sam nodded. “I can do it. But Ashby may have seen me in the meeting room.”

“It’s a chance we have to take. But I doubt if he pays much attention to hired help.”

The road ahead passed between the Louvre on the left and the Seine on the right. He saw the tour boat ease toward a dock just below the roadway. He signaled for the driver to stop at the curb.

He opened the door and Sam jumped out into the cold afternoon.

“Be safe,” he said, then he slammed the door and told the driver to go, but slowly, and not to lose the boat.

“YOU STILL HAVEN’T ANSWERED MY QUESTION,” LYON SAID TO Ashby. “What’s at stake here?”

He decided that to secure Lyon’s continued help he was going to have to give a little. “A treasure beyond measure. One far greater than the fee you extorted from me.” He wanted this demon to know that he wasn’t intimidated any longer.

“And you needed Larocque and the others gone to acquire it?”

He shrugged. “Just her. But I decided that since you were killing people, why not kill them all.”

“I so underestimated you, Lord Ashby.”

No kidding.

“And what of the Americans? You deceived them, too?”

“I told them what I had to and, I might add, I never would have sacrificed you. If things had evolved properly, I would have had my freedom, the treasure, the club’s money, and you would have been on to the next client-richer by three times your usual fee.”

“The Americans were smarter than I anticipated.”

“Seems that was your mistake. I performed my part, and I’m ready to pay the remainder of the fee. Provided-”

The boat eased to a stop at the Louvre. New riders stepped aboard and dutifully took their seats beneath the canopy. Ashby kept silent until the engines revved and they motored back into the swift Seine.

“I’m waiting,” he said.

SAM DECIDED AGAINST SITTING TOO FAR AFT HE CHOSE INSTEAD to merge himself into the sparse camera-toting crowd. Beneath the canopy there was a measure of comfort provided by warm air from the boat’s heaters. Ashby and the other man-the stranger dressed in English tweeds and sporting imperiously coiffed blond hair-stood beyond the enclosure where, he imagined, it was downright cold.

He focused his attention on the riverbanks as a tour guide spouted over a loudspeaker about the Île de la Cité and its many attractions, which lay directly ahead. He feigned sightseeing as a way to keep an eye on what was happening. The guide mentioned that they would be taking the Left Bank route around the Île, past Notre Dame, then on to the Bibliothèque François Mitterand.

He dialed his phone and quickly reported the route.

THORVALDSEN LISTENED CLICKED OFF, AND STUDIED THE ROAD ahead.

“Cross the river,” he told the driver, “then go left, toward the Latin Quarter. But stay close.”

He did not want to lose sight of the tour boat.

“What are you doing?” Meagan Morrison asked.

“How long have you lived in Paris?”

She seemed taken aback by his question, realizing he was ignoring hers.

“Years.”

“Then tell me, are there any bridges across the river past Notre Dame, leading to and from the Left Bank?”

She hesitated, considering his inquiry. He realized that it wasn’t that she didn’t know the answer, she just wanted to know why the information was important.

“There’s a bridge just past. The Pont de l’Archevêché.”

“Crowded?”

She shook here head. “Mainly pedestrians. A few cars traveling over to the Île St. Louis, behind the cathedral.”

“Go there,” he told the driver.

“What are you going to do, old man?”

He ignored her goad and coolly said, “What must be done.”

SIXTY-FOUR

ASHBY WAITED FOR PETER LYON TO TELL HIM WHAT HE WANTED to hear.

“I can eliminate Larocque,” the South African made clear, in a hushed tone.

They stood facing the river, watching the boat’s foamy wake dissolve into the brown-gray water. Two more canopied tourist boats and a handful of private craft followed.

“That needs to happen,” Ashby made clear, “today. Tomorrow at the latest. She’s going to be most disagreeable.”

“She wants the treasure, too?”

He decided to be blunt. “More than you can imagine. It’s a matter of family honor.”

“This treasure. I want to know more.”

He did not want to answer, but had no choice. “It’s Napoleon’s lost wealth. An incredible cache. Gone for two hundred years. But I think I’ve found it.”

“Lucky for you treasure doesn’t interest me. I prefer modern legal tender.”

They motored past the Palais de Justice and passed beneath a bridge busy with traffic.

“I assume I don’t have to pay the balance,” he said, “until you fully perform on Larocque.”

“To show you that I am a man of character, that will be fine. But she’ll be dead by tomorrow.” Lyon paused. “And know this, Lord Ashby. I don’t fail often. So I don’t appreciate reminders.”

He caught the message. But he had something he wanted to emphasize, too.

“Just kill her.”

SAM DECIDED TO EASE INTO THE LAST ROW OF SEATS BENEATH the canopy. He spied the familiar shape of Notre Dame approaching ahead on the left. On his right, the Latin Quarter and Shakespeare & Company, where yesterday all this had begun. The tour guide, not seen, only heard over the loudspeaker, droned bilingually about the Conciergerie, on the far Right Bank, where Marie Antionette was imprisoned before her execution.

He stood and casually walked toward the rear row, gazing out at the sights. He caught the chatter, picture taking, and pointing among the tourists aboard. Except for one man. Who sat at the end of an aisle, three rows from the end. Withered mushy face, long-eared, nearly chinless, he wore a pea-green coat over black jeans and boots. Blue-black hair was tied in a ponytail. He sat with both hands in his pockets, eyes ahead, disinterested, seemingly enjoying the ride.

Sam hugged the outer wall and crossed an invisible barrier where cold seeping in from the rear overcame warm air beneath the enclosure. He stared ahead and spotted another bridge spanning the Seine, coming closer.

Something rolled across the deck and clanged against the boat’s side.

He gazed down at a metal canister.

He’d been taught about armaments during his Secret Service training, enough to recognize that this was not a grenade.

No.

A smoke bomb.

His gaze shot toward Green Coat, who was staring straight at him, lips curled into a smile.

Purple smoke escaped from the canister.

AN ODOR FILLED ASHBY’S NOSTRILS.

He whirled around and saw that the space beneath the Plexiglas canopy had filled with smoke.

Shouts. Screams.

People escaped the foggy shroud, fleeing toward him, onto the open portion of the deck, coughing away the remnants from inside.

“What in the world?” he muttered.

THORVALDSEN PAID THE CABDRIVER AND STEPPED OUT ON THE Pont de l’Archevêché. Meagan Morrison was right. Not much traffic on the two-lane stone bridge, and only a handful of pedestrians had paused to enjoy a picturesque view of Notre Dame’s backside.

He included an extra fifty euros to the driver and said, “Take this young lady wherever she wants to go.” He stared into the rear seat though the open door. “Good luck to you. Farewell.”

He slammed the door closed.

The cab eased back into the road, and he approached an iron railing that guarded the sidewalk from a ten-meter drop to the river. Inside his coat pocket he fingered the gun, shipped by Jesper yesterday from Christiangade, along with spare magazines.

He’d watched as Graham Ashby and another man had stood outside the tour boat enclosure, propped against the aft railing, just as Sam had reported. The boat was two hundred meters away, cruising toward him against the current. He should be able to shoot Ashby, drop the gun into the Seine, then walk away before anyone realized what happened.

Weapons were no stranger. He could make this kill.

He heard a car brake and turned.

The cab had stopped.

Its rear door opened and Meagan Morrison popped out. She buttoned her coat and trotted straight toward him.

“Old man,” she called out. “You’re about to do something really stupid, aren’t you?”

“Not to me it isn’t.”

“If you’re hell-bent, at least let me help.”

SAM RUSHED AFT WITH EVERYONE ELSE, SMOKE BILLOWING FROM the boat as if it were ablaze.

But it wasn’t.

He fought his way clear of the enclosure and spotted Green Coat, elbowing his way through the panic, toward the railing where Ashby and Tweed still stood.

THORVALDSEN GRIPPED THE GUN IN HIS POCKET AND SPOTTED smoke rushing from the tour boat.

Meagan saw it, too. “Now, that’s not something you see every day.”

He heard more brakes squeal and turned to see a car block traffic at each end of the bridge on which he stood.

Another car roared past and skidded to a stop in the center of the bridge.

The passenger-side door opened

Stephanie Nelle emerged.

ASHBY WATCHED AS A MAN IN A GREEN COAT LUNGED FROM THE crowd and jammed a fist into Peter Lyon’s gut. He heard the breath leave the South African, as he crumbled to the deck.

A gun appeared in Green Coat’s hand, and the man said to Ashby, “Over the side.”

“You must be joking.”

“Over the side.” The man motioned toward the water.

Ashby turned to see a small craft, outfitted with a single outboard, nestled close to the tour boat, a driver at its helm.

He turned back and stared hard at Green Coat.

“I won’t say it again.”

Ashby pivoted over the railing, then dropped a meter or so from the side into the second boat.

Green Coat hoisted himself up to follow, but never made it down.

Instead his body was yanked backward.

SIXTY-FIVE

SAM WATCHED AS TWEED SPRANG TO HIS FEET AND YANKED THE man in the pea-green coat from the railing. Ashby had already leaped over the side. He wondered what was down there. The river would be nearly freezing. Certainly the fool had not plunged into the water.

Tweed and Green Coat slammed onto the deck.

Frightened passengers gave them room.

He decided to do something about the smoke. He stole a breath and rushed back beneath the enclosure. He found the smoke canister, lifted it from the deck, and, just past the last row of seats where the canopy ended, tossed it overboard.

The two men were still scuffling on the deck, the remaining smoke dissipating quickly in the cold, dry air.

He wanted to do something, but he was at a loss.

Engines dimmed. A door in the forward compartment opened and a crewman rushed out. Tweed and Green Coat continued to wrestle, neither man gaining an advantage. Tweed broke free, rolled away, and pushed himself up from the deck. Green Coat, too, was coming to his feet. But instead of rushing his opponent, the man in the green coat pushed through the surrounding onlookers and leaped over the side.

Tweed lunged after him, but the other man was gone.

Sam crossed the deck and spotted a small boat losing speed, drifting to their stern, then motoring away in the opposite direction.

Tweed watched, too.

Then the man peeled off a wig and ripped facial hair from his cheeks and chin.

He instantly recognized the face beneath.

Cotton Malone.

THORVALDSEN ALLOWED HIS GRIP ON THE GUN IN HIS POCKET to relax. He casually withdrew his hand and watched as Stephanie Nelle stepped toward him.

“This can’t be good,” Meagan muttered.

He agreed.

The tour boat was approaching the bridge. He’d watched as the source of the smoke had been tossed overboard, then two men had jumped into a smaller craft-one of them had been Ashby-which roared away in the opposite direction, following the current, as the Seine wound deeper into Paris.

The tour boat glided past beneath the bridge and he caught sight of Sam and Cotton Malone standing at the aft railing, surrounded by people. The upward angle and the fact that Sam and Malone were facing away, watching the retreating motorboat, made it impossible for them to see him.

Meagan and Stephanie saw them, too.

“Now do you see what you’re interfering with?” Stephanie asked as she stopped a meter away.

“How did you know we were here?” Meagan asked.

“Your cell phones,” Stephanie said. “They have embedded trackers. When Henrik came on the line earlier, I realized there’d be trouble. We’ve been watching.”

Stephanie faced him. “What were you going to do? Shoot Ashby from here?”

He threw her a fierce, indignant stare. “Seemed like a simple thing to do.”

“You’re not going to allow us to handle this, are you?”

He knew exactly what was meant by us. “Cotton seems not to have the time to answer my calls, but plenty of time to be a part of your operation.”

“He’s trying to solve all of our problems. Yours included.”

“I don’t require his assistance.”

“Then why did you involve him?”

Because, at the time, he’d thought him a friend. One who’d be there for him. As he’d been for Malone.

“What was happening on that boat?” he asked.

Stephanie shook her head. “As if I’m going to explain that to you. And you,” she added, pointing at Meagan. “Were you going to just let him kill a man?”

“I don’t work for you.”

“You’re right.” She motioned to one of the French policemen standing beside the car. “Get her out of here.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Thorvaldsen made clear. “We’ll leave together.”

“You’re coming with me.”

He’d already anticipated that response, which was why he’d slipped his right hand back into his pocket and regripped the gun.

He withdrew the weapon.

“What do you plan to do? Shoot me?” Stephanie quietly asked.

“I wouldn’t recommend you push me. At the moment, I seem nothing more than an obedient participant in my own humiliation, but it’s my problem, Stephanie, not yours, and I intend to finish what I started.”

She did not reply.

“Get us a cab,” he ordered Meagan.

She ran to the bridge’s end and flagged down the first one that passed on the busy boulevard. Stephanie remained silent, but he saw it in her eyes. An introspective yet alert defensiveness. And something else. She had no intention of halting him.

He was acting on impulse, more panic than design, and she seemed to sympathize with his quandary. This woman, full of expertise and caution, could not help him, but in her heart she did not want to stop him, either.

“Just go,” she whispered.

He scampered toward the waiting cab, as fast as his crooked spine would allow. Once inside he asked Meagan, “Your cell phone.”

She handed the unit over.

He lowered the window and tossed it away

ASHBY WAS TERRIFIED.

The motorboat was making its escape past the Île de la Cité, threading a quick path around other boats coming their way.

Everything had happened so fast.

He was talking to Peter Lyon, then a tidal wave of smoke had burst over him. The man in the green coat now held a gun, quickly displaying it the instant he’d leaped from the tour boat. Who was he? One of the Americans?

“You are truly a fool,” the man said to him.

“Who are you?”

The gun came level.

Then he saw amber eyes.

“The man you owe a great deal of money.”

MALONE PEELED THE REMAINING HAIR AND ADHESIVE FROM HIS face. He held open each eyelid and plucked out amber-colored contacts.

The tour boat had stopped at the nearest dock and allowed frightened patrons to leave. Malone and Sam debarked last, Stephanie waiting ashore, up a stone stairway, at street level.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“A royal mess,” Malone said. “Didn’t go as planned.”

Sam seemed perplexed.

“We had to corner Ashby,” Malone said. “So I called, as Lyon, and arranged a meeting.”

“And the getup?”

“The French helped us out there. Their intelligence people found us a makeup artist. I was also wired, getting admissions on tape. Peter Lyon, though, had other ideas.”

“That was him?” Sam asked. “In the green coat?”

Malone nodded. “Apparently he wants Ashby, too. And good job clearing the smoke bomb.”

“Henrik was here,” she said to him.

“How pissed is he?”

“He’s hurt, Cotton. He’s not thinking clearly.”

He should talk with his friend, but there hadn’t been a free moment all day. He found his cell phone, which he’d silenced before boarding the tour boat, and noted more missed calls from Henrik and three from a number he recognized.

Dr. Joseph Murad.

He punched REDIAL. The professor answered on the first ring.

“I did it,” Murad said. “I figured it out.”

“You know the location?”

“I think so.”

“Have you called Henrik?”

“I just did. I couldn’t reach you, so I called him. He wants me to meet him.”

“You can’t do that, Professor. Just tell me where and I’ll handle it.”

SIXTY-SIX

3:40 PM

ASHBY WAS LED FROM THE BOAT AT GUNPOINT NEAR THE ÎLE SAINT GERMAIN, south of the old city center. He now knew that the man who held him was Peter Lyon and the man on the tour boat had most likely been an American agent. A car waited up from the river, at street level. Two men sat inside. Lyon signaled and they exited. One opened the rear door and yanked Caroline out into the afternoon.

“Your Mr. Guildhall won’t be joining us,” Lyon said. “I’m afraid he’s been permanently detained.”

He knew what that meant. “There was no need to kill him.”

Lyon chuckled. “On the contrary. It was the only option.”

The situation had just gravitated from serious to desperate. Obviously, Lyon had been monitoring everything Ashby had been doing, since he knew exactly where Caroline and Guildhall could be found.

He spied unrestrained fear on Caroline’s lovely face.

He was scared, too.

Lyon led him forward and whispered, “I thought you might need Miss Dodd. That’s the only reason she’s still alive. I would suggest that you don’t waste the opportunity I’ve offered her.”

“You want the treasure?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“You told me last night in London that things like that didn’t interest you.”

“A source of wealth unknown to any government, with no accounting. There’s so much I could do with that at my disposal-and I wouldn’t have to deal with cheats like you.”

They stood beyond a busy street, the car parked among a patch of trees bleached from winter. No one was in sight, the area largely a commercial center and boat repair facility, closed for the holiday. Lyon again withdrew the gun from beneath his coat and screwed a sound suppressor to the short barrel.

“Set her back in the car,” Lyon directed as they approached.

Caroline was shoved across the rear seat. Lyon stepped to the open door and thrust his arm inside, aiming the gun directly at her.

She gasped. “Oh, God. No.”

“Shut up,” Lyon said.

Caroline started to cry.

“Lord Ashby,” Lyon said. “And you, too, Miss Dodd. I’m only going to ask this once. If a truthful answer is not immediately forthcoming, clear and concise, then I will fire. Does everyone understand?”

Ashby said nothing.

Lyon stared straight at him. “I didn’t hear you, Lord Ashby.”

“What’s not to understand?”

“Tell me where the treasure is located,” Lyon said.

When Ashby had left Caroline earlier she was still developing the particulars, though she’d at least determined an initial starting point. He hoped, for both their sakes, she knew a lot more now.

“It’s in the cathedral, at Saint-Denis,” Caroline quickly said.

“You know where?” Lyon asked, his eyes locked on Ashby, the gun inside the car, still aimed.

“I believe so. But I need to go there to be sure. I have to see. I just figured all this out-”

Lyon withdrew his arm and lowered the weapon. “I hope, for your sake, you can determine the location.”

Ashby stood still.

Lyon aimed the gun his way. “Your turn. Two questions, and I want simple answers. Do you have a direct line of communication to the Americans?”

That was easy. He nodded.

“Do you have a phone with you?”

He nodded again.

“Give me the phone and the number.”

MALONE STOOD WITH SAM, TRYING TO DECIDE ON THE NEXT course of action, when Stephanie’s cell phone sprang to life. She checked the display and said, “Ashby.”

He knew better. “Apparently Lyon wants to talk to you.”

She hit SPEAKER.

“I understand that you are the person in charge,” a male voice said.

“The last time I looked,” Stephanie said.

“You were in London last night?”

“That was me.”

“Did you enjoy the show today?”

“We’ve had great fun chasing after you.”

Lyon chuckled. “It kept you sufficiently occupied so I could deal with Lord Ashby. He is untrustworthy, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”

“He’s probably thinking the same thing about you at the moment.”

“You should be grateful. I did you a favor. I allowed you to monitor my conversation with Ashby at Westminster. I appeared at the Ripper tour so you could follow. I left the little towers for you to find. I even attacked your agent. What else did you need? But for me, you would have never known that the tower was Ashby’s true target. I assumed you’d find a way to stop it.”

“And if we hadn’t, what would it have mattered? You’d still have your money, off to the next job.”

“I had faith in you.”

“I hope you don’t expect anything for it.”

“Heavens, no. I just didn’t want to see that fool Ashby succeed.”

Malone realized they were witnessing Peter Lyon’s infamous arrogance. It wasn’t enough that he was two steps ahead of his pursuers, he needed to rub that fact in their faces.

“I have another piece of information for you,” Lyon said. “And this one is quite real. No distraction. You see, the French fanatics whom this entire endeavor was to be blamed on had a condition to their involvement. One I never mentioned to Lord Ashby. They are separatists, upset over the unfair treatment they have received at the hands of the French government. They loathe the many oppressive regulations, which they regard as racist. They’re also tired of protesting. Seems it accomplishes little, and several of their mosques have been closed in Paris over the past few years as punishment for their activism. In return for assisting me at the Invalides, they want to make a more poignant statement.”

Malone did not like what he was hearing.

“A suicide bombing is about to occur,” Lyon said.

Chilly fingers caressed Malone’s spine.

“During Christmas services in a Paris church. They thought this fitting, since their houses of worship are being closed every day.”

There were literally hundreds of churches in Paris.

After three duds, it’s hard to take you seriously,” she made clear.

“I see your point, but this one is real. And you can’t rush there with police. The attack would occur before anyone could stop it. In fact, it’s nearly imminent. Only you can prevent it.”

“Bullshit,” Stephanie said. “You’re just buying more time for yourself.”

“Of course I am. But can you afford to gamble that what I’m saying is a lie?”

Malone saw in Stephanie’s eyes what he was thinking, too.

We have no choice.

“Where?” she asked.

Lyon laughed. “Not that easy. It’s going to be a bit of a hunt. Of course, a churchful of people are counting on you making it there in time. Do you have ground transportation?”

“We do.”

“I’ll be in touch shortly.”

She clicked the phone off.

Exasperation swept across her face, then vanished into the confidence that twenty-five years in the intelligence business had bestowed.

She faced Sam. “Go after Henrik.”

Professor Murad had already told them that the Cathédrale de Saint-Denis was Thorvaldsen’s destination.

“Try to keep him under control until we can get there.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Figure it out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Malone smiled at his sarcasm. “That’s how I used to say it, too, when she’d cut my tail. You can handle him. Just hold the line, keep things under control.”

“That’s easier said than done with Henrik.”

He laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “He likes you. He’s in trouble. Help him.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

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

What in the world?

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

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

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

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

And Ashby.

She answered.

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

She said nothing.

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

“Why are you telling me this?”

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

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

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

The phone went silent.

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

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

“You underestimate her.”

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

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

“That all depends on your level of cooperation.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A winter storm was coming.

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

A mist began to build.

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

People in the paved plaza before the church hurried off.

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

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

Mist turned to rain.

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

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

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

He answered.

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

“Why would I have to do that?”

“I’m trying to help.”

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

“You know better than that.”

“No, I don’t.”

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

“Henrik, let us handle it.”

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

“I did what I had to.”

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

“Murad’s not coming.”

The full extent of Malone’s duplicity struck hard.

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

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

He clicked off the phone.

MALONE CLOSED HIS EYES.

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

He’d just lost a friend.

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

Rain peppered the windshield.

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

“He’s my friend. And besides, I hate rules.”

“You’re helping him.”

“He doesn’t see it that way.”

Traffic was thick, the rain compounding the confusion. His eyes drifted from railings to balconies to roofs, the stately façades on both sides of the street receding upward into a graying sky. He noticed several secondhand-book shops, their stock displayed in windows of advertising posters, hackneyed prints, and arcane volumes.

He thought of his own business.

Which he’d bought from Thorvaldsen-his landlord, his friend. Their Thursday-evening dinners in Copenhagen. His many trips to Christiangade. Their adventures. They’d spent a lot of time together.

“Sam’s going to have his hands full,” he muttered.

A spate of taxis signaled the approach of the Gare du Nord. Lyon’s instructions had been to call when they were in sight of the train station.

Stephanie dialed her phone.

SAM STEPPED FROM THE MÉTRO STATION AND TROTTED through the rain, using the overhangs from the closed shops as an umbrella, racing toward a plaza identified as PL. JEAN JAURèS. To his left rose Saint-Denis basilica, its medieval aesthetic harmony marred by a curiously missing spire. He’d taken advantage of the Métro as the fastest way north, avoiding the late-afternoon holiday traffic.

He searched the frigid plaza for Thorvaldsen. Wet pavement, like black patent leather, reflected street lamps in javelins of yellow light.

Had he gone inside the church?

He stopped a young couple, passing on their way to the Métro, and asked about the basilica, learning that the building had been closed since summer for extensive repairs, that fact confirmed by scaffolding braced against the exterior.

Then he saw Thorvaldsen and Meagan, near one of the trailers parked off to the left, maybe two hundred feet away.

He headed their way

ASHBY FOLDED HIS COAT COLLAR UP AGAINST THE RAIN AND walked down the deserted street with Caroline and Peter Lyon. An overcast sky draped the world in a pewter cloth. They’d used the boat and motored west on the Seine until the river started its wind north, out of Paris. Eventually, they’d veered onto a canal, stopping at a concrete dock near a highway overpass, a few blocks south of Saint-Denis basilica.

They’d passed a columned building identified as LE MUSÉE D’ART ET D’HISTOIRE, and Lyon led them beneath the portico.

Their captor’s phone rang.

Lyon answered, listened a moment, then said, “Take Boulevard de Magenta north and turn on Boulevard de Rochechouart. Call me back when you find Place de Clichy.”

Lyon ended the connection.

Caroline was still terrified. Ashby wondered if she might panic and try to flee. It would be foolish. A man like Lyon would shoot her dead in an instant-treasure or no treasure. The smart play, the only play, was to hope for a mistake. If none occurred, perhaps he could offer this monster something that could prove useful, like a bank through which to launder money where no one asked questions.

He’d deal with that when necessary.

Right now, he simply hoped Caroline knew the answers to Lyon’s coming questions.

SIXTY-EIGHT

THORVALDSEN AND MEAGAN TRUDGED DOWN A GRAVELED PATH adjacent to the basilica’s north side, away from the plaza.

“There’s a former abbey,” Meagan told him, “located on the south side. Not as old as the basilica. Nineteenth century, though parts date way back. It’s some kind of college now. The abbey is at the heart of the legend that surrounds this place. After being beheaded in Montmartre, the evangelist St. Denis, the first bishop of Paris, supposedly started to walk, carrying his head. He was buried where he fell by a saintly woman. An abbey developed at that spot, which eventually became”-she motioned at the church-“this monstrosity.”

He was trying to determine how to get inside. The north façade contained three portals, all iron-barred on the outside. Ahead, he spotted what was surely the ambulatory, a half circle of stone pierced with colored-glass windows.

Rain continued to fall.

They needed to find shelter.

“Let’s round the corner up ahead,” he said, “and try the south side.”

ASHBY ADMIRED THE BASILICA, CLEARLY A MARVEL OF SKILL and craftsmanship. They were walking down a graveled path on the south side of the building, having gained entrance to the church grounds through an opening in a makeshift construction barrier.

His hair and face were soaking wet, his ears burning from the cold. Thank goodness he’d worn a heavy coat, thick leather gloves, and long underwear. Caroline, too, had dressed for the weather, but her blond hair was matted to her head. Piles of broken masonry, blocks of travertine, and marble fragments lay just off the path, which cut a route between the basilica and a stone wall that separated the church from some adjacent buildings. A construction trailer stood ahead on concrete blocks, scaffolding rising behind it up the articulated walls. On the trailer’s far side, up a few dozen stone steps, rose a Gothic portal, narrowed from front to back through the thickness of the walls toward two double doors clamped tight with plates of blue-washed iron.

Lyon climbed the steps and tested the latch.

Locked.

“See that piece of iron pipe?” Lyon said, pointing to the rubble pile. “We need it.”

He wanted to know, “Are you going to smash your way inside?”

Lyon nodded. “Why not?”

MALONE WATCHED AS STEPHANIE DIALED ASHBY’S MOBILE NUMBER one more time. They’d arrived at the Place de Clichy, an interchange busy with activity.

“South down Rue d’Amsterdam, past Gare St. Lazare,” Lyon instructed through the speakerphone. “The church you seek is across from that train station. I’d hurry. It’s going to happen within the next thirty minutes. And don’t call again. I won’t answer.”

The driver heard the location and sped ahead. Gare St. Lazare appeared in less than three minutes.

Two churches lay across from the busy station, side by side.

“Which one?” Stephanie muttered.

SAM SKIRTED THE BASILICA’S NORTH SIDE, FOLLOWING HENRIK and Meagan through the rain. They’d already rounded the corner a hundred feet ahead. This far side of the basilica was rounded, full of curves, different from the straight edges on the plaza side.

He carefully advanced, not wanting to alert Thorvaldsen to his presence.

He followed the church’s half circle and swung around to the building’s south side.

Immediately he spotted Thorvaldsen and Meagan, huddled beneath a covered section that jutted from the basilica and connected with an adjacent structure. He heard something clang from farther down, past where Thorvaldsen stood.

Then more clangs.

ASHBY CRASHED THE HEAVY METAL PIPE ONTO THE LATCH. ON the fourth blow, the handle gave way.

Another swipe and the black iron lever tumbled down the stone steps.

Lyon eased the door open. “That was easy.”

Ashby tossed the pipe away.

Lyon held his gun, incentive enough not to try anything stupid, and motioned with it toward Caroline.

“Time to find out if her suspicions prove correct.”

MALONE MADE A DECISION. “YOU DIDN’T THINK LYON WOULD make it simple, did you? You take the church on the right, I’ll go left.”

The car stopped and they both leaped out into the rain.

ASHBY WAS GLAD TO BE INSIDE. THE BASILICA’S INTERIOR WAS both warm and dry. Only a handful of overhead light fixtures burned, but they were enough for him to appreciate the lofty nave’s majesty. Soaring fluted columns, perhaps thirty meters high, graceful arches, and pointed vaulting conveyed an awe-inspiring sense. Stained-glass windows, too many to even count, dark to the dismal day, projected none of the sensuous power their luminous tones surely could convey. But the impression of seemingly weightless walls was heightened by the lack of any visible feature holding something so tall upright. He knew, of course, that the supports were outside in the form of flying buttresses. He was forcing himself to concentrate on details as a way to relieve his mind of stress. He needed to think. To be ready to act when the moment was right.

“Miss Dodd,” Lyon said. “What now?”

“I can’t think with that gun out,” Caroline blurted. “There’s no way. I don’t like guns. I don’t like you. I don’t like being here.”

Lyon’s brutish eyes narrowed. “If it helps, then here.” He stuffed the weapon beneath his coat and displayed two empty, gloved hands. “That better?”

Caroline fought to regain her composure. “You’re just going to kill us anyway. Why should I tell you anything?”

All congeniality faded from Lyon’s face. “Once we find whatever there is to find, I might have a change of heart. Besides, Lord Ashby there is watching my every move, waiting for me to err. Then we’ll have a chance to see if he’s really a man.”

Ashby clung to his last tatters of courage. “Perhaps I might have such an opportunity.”

Lyon’s lips parted in an amused grin. “I do hope so. Now, Miss Dodd, where to?”

THORVALDSEN LISTENED FROM THE HALF-OPEN DOOR THAT Ashby had battered. He and Meagan had crept forward after Ashby, Caroline Dodd, and the man in the green coat had slipped inside. He was reasonably sure that the third participant was the second man who’d leaped from the tour boat with Ashby.

“What do we do?” Meagan breathed into his ear.

He had to end this partnership. He motioned for them to retreat.

They fled the portal, back into the rain, retreating to their previous position beneath a covered walk. He noticed restrooms and an admission office and assumed this was where people bought tickets to visit the basilica.

He grabbed Meagan by the arm. “I want you out of here. Now.”

“You’re not so tough, old man, I can handle myself.”

“You don’t need to be involved.”

“You going to kill the woman and the other man, too?”

“If need be.”

She shook her head. “You’ve lost it.”

“That’s right. I have. So leave.”

Rain continued to torrent down, spilling off the roofs, dashing the pavement just beyond their enclosure. Everything seemed to be happening in a hypnotic slow motion. A lifetime of rationality was about to be erased by immeasurable grief. How many substitutes for happiness he’d tried since Cai died. Work? Politics? Philanthropy? Lost souls? Like Cotton. And Sam. But none of those had satisfied the hysteria that seemed to constantly rage within him. This was his task. No others were to be involved.

“I don’t want to get myself killed,” Meagan finally said to him.

Scorn tinged her words.

“Then leave.” He tossed her his cell phone. “I don’t need it.”

He turned away.

“Old man,” she said.

He stopped but did not face her.

“You take care.” Her voice, low and soft, hinted at genuine concern.

“You too,” he said.

And he stepped out into the rain.

SIXTY-NINE

MALONE PUSHED HIS WAY THROUGH A HEAVY SET OF OAK doors into the Church of St. André. Typical of Paris, gabled apses, crowned by a gallery, a high wall encircling the ambulatory. Sturdy flying buttresses supported the walls from the outside. Pure Gothic splendor.

People filled the pews and congregated in the transepts on either side of a long, narrow nave. Though heated, the air bore enough of a chill that coats were worn in abundance. Many of the worshipers carried shopping bags, backpacks, and large purses. All of which meant that his task of finding a bomb, or any weapon, had just become a million times harder.

He casually strolled through the edge of the crowd. The interior was a cadre of niches and shadows. Towering columns not only held up the roof, they provided even more cover for an assailant.

He was armed and ready.

But for what?

His phone vibrated. He retreated behind one of the columns, into an empty side chapel, and quietly answered.

“Services here are over,” Stephanie said. “People are leaving.”

He had a feeling, one that had overtaken him the moment he entered.

“Get over here,” he whispered.

ASHBY WALKED TOWARD THE MAIN ALTAR. THEY’D ENTERED the basilica through a side entrance, near one inside staircase that led up to the chancel and another that dropped to a crypt. Row after row of wooden chairs stretched from the altar toward the north transept and the main entrances, the north wall perforated by an immense rose window, dark to the disappearing day. Tombs lay everywhere among the chairs and in the transepts, most adorned with inlaid marbles. Monuments extended from one end of the nave to the other, perhaps a hundred meters of enclosed space.

“Napoleon wanted his son to have the cache,” Caroline said, her words sputtering with fear. “He hid his wealth carefully. Where no one would find it. Except those he wanted to find it.”

“As any person of power should,” Lyon said.

Rain continued to fall, the constant patter off the copper roof echoing through the nave.

“After five years in exile, he realized that he would never return to France. He also knew he was dying. So he tried to communicate the location to his son.”

“The book that the American gave you in London,” Lyon said to Ashby. “It’s relevant?”

He nodded.

“I thought you told me Larocque gave you the book,” Caroline said.

“He lied,” Lyon made clear. “But that doesn’t matter anymore. Why is the book important?”

“It has a message,” Caroline said.

She was offering too much, too fast, but Ashby had no way of telling her to slow down.

“I think I may have deciphered Napoleon’s final message,” she said.

“Tell me,” Lyon said.

SAM WATCHED AS THORVALDSEN ABANDONED MEAGAN AND she plunged back into the rain, running toward where he stood hidden by one of the many juts from the outer wall. He pressed his back against cold, wet stone and waited for her to round the corner. He should be freezing, but his nerves were supercharged, numbing all feeling, the weather the least of his concerns.

Meagan appeared.

“Where are you going?” he quietly asked.

She stopped short and whirled, clearly startled. “Damn, Sam. You scared me to death.”

“What’s going on?”

“Your friend is about to do something really stupid.”

He assumed as much. “What was that clamor I heard?”

“Ashby and two others broke into the church.”

He wanted to know who was with Ashby, so he asked. She described the woman, whom he did not know, but the second man matched the man from the tour boat. Peter Lyon. He needed to call Stephanie. He fumbled in his coat pocket and found his phone.

“They have trackers in them,” Meagan said, pointing to the unit. “They probably already know where you are.”

Not necessarily. Stephanie and Malone were busy dealing with whatever new threat Lyon had generated. But he’d been sent to babysit Thorvaldsen, not confront a wanted terrorist.

And another problem.

The trip here had taken twenty minutes-by subway. He was a long way from Paris central, in a nearly deserted suburb being drenched by a storm.

That meant this was his problem to deal with.

Never forget, Sam. Foolishness will get you killed. Norstrum was right-God bless him-but Henrik needed him.

He replaced the phone in his pocket.

“You’re not going in there, are you?” Meagan asked, seemingly reading his mind.

Even before he said it, he realized how stupid it sounded. But it was the truth. “I have to.”

“Like at the top of the Eiffel Tower? When you could have been killed with all the rest of them?”

“Something like that.”

“Sam, that old man wants to kill Ashby. Nothing’s going to stop him.”

“I am.”

She shook her head. “Sam. I like you. I really do. But you’re all insane. This is too much.”

She stood in the rain, her face twisting with emotion. He thought of their kiss, last night, underground. There was something between them. A connection. An attraction. Still, he saw it in her eyes.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice cracking.

And she turned and ran away

THORVALDSEN CHOSE HIS MOMENT WITH CARE. ASHBY AND HIS two companions were nowhere in sight, vanished into the gloomy nave. Darkness outside nearly matched the dusky interior, so he was able to slip inside, unnoticed, using the wind and rain as cover.

The entryway opened in nearly the center of the church’s long south side. He immediately angled left and crouched behind an elaborate funerary monument, complete with a triumphal arch, beneath which two figures, carved of time-stained marble, lay recumbent. Both were emaciated representations, as they would have appeared as corpses rather than living beings. A brass plate identified the effigies as those of 16th century François I and his queen.

He heard a clamor of thin voices, beyond the columns that sprouted upward in a soaring Gothic display. More tombs appeared in the weak light, along with empty chairs arranged in neat rows. Sound came in short gusts. His hearing was not as good as it once was, and the rain pounding the roof wasn’t helping.

He needed to move closer.

He fled his hiding place and scampered to the next monument, a delicate feminine sculpture, smaller than the first one. Warm air rushed up from a nearby floor grate. Water dripped from his coat onto the limestone floor. Carefully, he unbuttoned and shed the damp garment, but first freed the gun from one of the pockets.

He crept to a column a few meters away that separated the south transept from the nave, careful not to disturb any of the chairs.

One sound and his advantage would vanish.

ASHBY LISTENED AS CAROLINE FOUGHT THROUGH HER FEAR and told Peter Lyon what he wanted to know, fishing from her pocket a sheet of paper.

“These Roman numerals are a message,” she said. “It’s called a Moor’s Knot. The Corsicans learned the technique from Arab pirates who ravaged their coast. It’s a code.”

Lyon grabbed the paper.

“They usually refer to a page, line, and word of a particular manuscript,” she explained. “The sender and receiver have the same text. Since only they know which manuscript is being used, deciphering the code by someone else was next to impossible.”

“So how did you manage?”

“Napoleon sent these numbers to his son in 1821. The boy was only ten at the time. In his will, Napoleon left the boy 400 books and specifically named one in particular. But the son wasn’t even to receive the books until his sixteenth birthday. This code is odd in that it’s only two groups of numerals, so they have to be page and line only. To decipher them, the son, or more likely his mother, since that’s who Napoleon actually wrote, would have to know what text he used. It can’t be the one from the will, since they would not have known about the will when he sent this code. After all, Napoleon was still alive.”

She was rambling with fear, but Ashby let her go.

“So I made a guess and assumed Napoleon chose a universal text. One that would always be available. Easy to find. Then I realized he left a clue where to look.”

Lyon actually seemed impressed. “You’re quite the detective.”

The compliment did little to calm her anxiety.

Ashby had heard none of this and was as curious as Lyon seemed to be.

“The Bible,” Caroline said. “Napoleon used the Bible.”

SEVENTY

MALONE STUDIED THE CONGREGATION, FACE AFTER FACE. HIS gaze drifted toward the processional doors at the main entrance, where more people ambled inside. At a decorative font many stopped to wet a finger and cross themselves. He was about to turn away when a man brushed past, ignoring the font. Short, fair-skinned, with dark hair and a long, aquiline nose. He wore a knee-length black coat, leather gloves, his face frozen in a bothersome solemnity. A bulky backpack hung from his shoulders.

A priest and two acolytes appeared before the high altar.

A lecturer assumed the pulpit and asked for the worshipers’ attention, the female voice resounding through a PA system.

The crowd quieted.

Malone advanced toward the altar, weaving around people who stood beyond the pews, in the transept, listening to the services. Luckily, neither of the transepts was jammed. He caught sight of Long Nose edging his way forward, through the crowd, in the opposite transept, the image winking in and out among the columns.

Another target aroused his curiosity. Also in the opposite transept. Olive-skinned, short hair, he wore an oversized coat with no gloves. Malone cursed himself for allowing any of this to happen. No preparation, no thought, being played by a mass murderer. Chasing ghosts, which could well prove illusory. Not the way to run any operation.

He refocused his attention on Olive Skin.

The man’s right hand remained in his coat pocket, left arm at his side. Malone did not like the look of the anxious eyes, but he wondered if he was leaping to irrational conclusions.

A loud voice disturbed the solemnity.

A woman. Midthirties, dark hair, rough face. She stood in one of the pews, spewing out something to the man beside her. He caught a little of the French.

A quarrel.

She screamed something else, then rushed from the pew

SAM ENTERED SAINT-DENIS, STAYING LOW AND HOPING NO one spotted him. All quiet inside. No sign of Thorvaldsen, or Ashby, or Peter Lyon.

He was unarmed, but he could not allow his friend to face this danger alone. It was time to return the favor the Dane had extended him.

He could distinguish little in the bleak light, the wind and rain outside making it difficult to hear. He glanced left and caught sight of the familiar shape of Thorvaldsen’s bent form standing fifty feet away, near one of the massive columns.

He heard voices from the center of the church.

Words came in snatches.

Three forms moved in the light.

He could not risk heading toward Thorvaldsen, so he stayed low and advanced a few feet straight ahead.

ASHBY WAITED FOR CAROLINE TO EXPLAIN WHAT NAPOLEON had done.

“More specifically,” she said. “He used Psalms.” She pointed to the first set of Roman numerals.

“Psalm 135, verse 2,” she said. “I wrote the line down.”

She searched her coat pocket and located another sheet of paper.

“‘You who stand in the house of the Lord, in the courts of the house of our God.’”

Lyon smiled. “Clever. Go on.”

“The next two numerals refer to Psalm 142, verse 4. ‘Look to my right and see.’”

“How do you know-” Lyon started, but a noise, near the main altar and the door through which they’d entered, arrested their captor’s attention.

Lyon’s right hand found the gun and he whirled to face the challenge.

“Help us,” Caroline cried out. “Help us. There’s a man here with a gun.”

Lyon aimed the weapon straight at Caroline.

Ashby had to act.

Caroline crept backward, as if she could avoid the threat by retreating, her eyes alight with uncommon fear.

“Shooting her would be stupid,” Ashby tried. “She’s the only one who knows the location.”

“Tell her to stand still and shut up,” Lyon ordered, the gun aimed at Caroline.

Ashby’s gaze locked on his lover. He raised a hand to halt her. “Please, Caroline. Stop.”

She seemed to sense the urgency of the request and froze.

“Treasure or no treasure,” Lyon said. “If she makes one more sound, she’s dead.”

THORVALDSEN WATCHED AS CAROLINE DODD TEMPTED FATE. He’d heard the noise, too, from the portal where he’d entered. About fifteen meters away, past an obstacle course of tombs.

Somebody had come inside.

And announced their presence.

SAM TURNED AT THE NOISE BEHIND HIM, FROM THE DOORWAY. He caught sight of a black form near the outer wall, approaching a set of stairs that led up to another level behind the main altar.

The size and shape of the shadow confirmed its identity.

Meagan.

ASHBY NOTICED THAT THE RUSH OF WIND AND RAIN FROM outside had increased, as if the doors they’d broken through had opened wider.

“There is a storm out there,” he said to Lyon.

“You shut up, too.”

Finally, Lyon was agitated. He wanted to smile, but he knew better.

Lyon’s amber eyes were as alert as a Doberman’s, scouring the cavern of faint light that enclosed them, his gun leading the way as he slowly pivoted.

Ashby saw it at the same time Lyon did.

Movement, thirty meters away, on the stairway right of the altar, leading up to the chancel and the ambulatory.

Somebody was there.

Lyon fired. Twice. A sound, like two balloons popping, thanks to the sound suppressor, echoed through the nave.

Then a chair flew through the air and crashed into Lyon.

Followed by another.

SEVENTY-ONE

MALONE KEPT HIS ATTENTION ON THE WOMAN, WHO ELBOWED her way out of the pew. The man she’d argued with fled the pew, too, and headed after her, both walking away from the altar, toward the main doors. He wore a thin, nylon coat, open in the front, and Malone spotted nothing suspicious.

His gaze again raked the crowd.

He spotted Long Nose, with the backpack, entering a half-full pew toward the front, crossing himself and kneeling to pray.

He spotted Olive Skin, emerging from the shadows, near the altar, still in the opposite transept. The man pushed through the last of the onlookers and stopped at velvet ropes that blocked any further forward access.

Malone did not like what he saw.

His hand slipped beneath his jacket and found the gun.

SAM SAW LYON FIRE TOWARD WHERE MEAGAN HAD HEADED. HE heard bullets ping off stone and hoped to heaven that meant the rounds missed.

A new noise clattered through the church.

Followed by another.

ASHBY WATCHED AS THE TWO FOLDING CHAIRS POUNDED INTO Lyon, who was caught off guard by the assault, his balance affected as he staggered. Caroline had tossed both of them just as Lyon had been distracted by whoever had entered the church.

Then she had escaped into the gloom.

Lyon recovered and realized Caroline was gone.

The gun came level, pointed Ashby’s way.

“As you mentioned,” Lyon said. “She’s the only one who knows the location. You I don’t need.”

A point Caroline had not seemed to consider.

“Get. Her. Back.”

“Caroline,” he called out. “You need to return.” He’d never had a gun aimed at him before. A terrifying sensation, actually.

One he did not like.

“Now. Please.”

THORVALDSEN SAW CAROLINE DODD TOSS THE CHAIRS AT Lyon, then disappear into the darkness of the west transept. She had to be working her way forward, using the tombs, the columns, and the darkness for cover, moving his way. There was no other route, since the far transept was too close to Peter Lyon and much more illuminated.

His eyes were accustomed to the dimness, so he stood his ground, keeping one eye on Lyon and Ashby, the other on the stillness to his left.

Then he saw her.

Inching stealthily his way. Most likely headed for the south portal’s open doors, where the wind and rain continued to announce their presence.

Toward the only way out.

Trouble was, Lyon would know that, too.

MALONE’S FINGERS WRAPPED AROUND THE BERETTA. HE DIDN’T want to, but he’d shoot Olive Skin, right here, if he had to.

His target stood thirty feet away and he waited for the man to make a move. A woman approached Olive Skin and intertwined her arm with his. She gently kissed him on the cheek and there was clear surprise on his face, then recognition as the two started to chat.

They turned and walked back toward the main entrance.

Malone’s grip on the gun relaxed.

False alarm.

His gaze returned to the nave as mass began. He caught sight of Long Nose as he eased his way out of the pew toward the center aisle.

Malone continued to search for problems. He should order the whole place evacuated, but this could well be another nothing.

A woman stood in the pew Long Nose had abandoned, holding a backpack. She motioned to the man, signaling he’d left something. Long Nose waved her off and kept walking. The woman stepped out into the center aisle and hustled after him.

Malone remained in the transept.

Long Nose turned, saw the woman coming for him, backpack in hand. He rushed toward her, wrenched the black nylon bundle from her grip, and tossed it forward. It slid across the marble floor, stopping at the base of two short risers that led up to the altar.

Long Nose turned and ran for the exit.

Thoughts of Mexico City flooded Malone’s brain.

This was it.

Do something.

SEVENTY-TWO

THORVALDSEN WAITED FOR CAROLINE DODD TO CREEP CLOSER. She was skillfully using the wall’s nooks, shielding her advance toward the basilica’s south portal. He crouched and eased himself into position, waiting for her to pass. One hand clutched the gun, the other ready to snag his target. He could not allow her to leave. Over the past year he’d listened to tape after tape of her and Ashby conspiring. Though she may well be ignorant of all that Ashby did, she was no innocent.

He hugged the short side of a marble sarcophagus topped with an elaborate Renaissance carving. Dodd made her way down the tomb’s long side, the monument itself, and one of the massive columns shielding them both from view. He waited until she tried to make a dash for the next monument, then wrapped an arm around her neck, his palm finding her mouth.

Yanking her down, he jammed the gun into her neck and whispered, “Quiet, or I’ll let the man out there know where you are. I need you to nod your head if you understand.”

She did, and he released his grip.

She pushed back.

“Who the hell are you?” she whispered.

He heard the hope in her question that he was perhaps a friend. He decided to use that to his advantage.

“The person who can save your life.”

ASHBY KEPT A TIGHT GRIP ON HIS EXPRESSION AND STARED AT the gun, wondering if this would be the end of his life.

Lyon had no reason to keep him alive.

“Caroline,” Ashby called out. “You must return. I implore you. This man will kill me if you don’t.”

THORVALDSEN COULD NOT ALLOW PETER LYON TO DO WHAT he’d come to do.

“Tell Lyon to come and get you,” he whispered.

Caroline Dodd shook her head no.

She needed reassurance. “He won’t come. But it will buy Ashby time.”

“How do you know who we are?”

He had no time for explanations, so he aimed his gun at her. “Do it, or I’ll shoot you.”

SAM DECIDED TO MAKE A MOVE. HE HAD TO KNOW IF MEAGAN was okay. He’d seen no movement from the top of the stairs, behind the altar. Lyon seemed more concerned with Caroline Dodd, forcing Ashby to have her return to where they stood, at the nave’s far west end.

While Lyon was distracted, this might be the time to act.

“Hey, asshole,” Meagan called out through the dark, “you missed.”

What in the world?

“AND WHO ARE YOU?” LYON ASKED THE DARKNESS.

Ashby wanted to know the answer to that question, too.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The echo off the stone walls made it impossible to pinpoint the woman’s location, but Ashby assumed it was the same figure they’d spotted climbing the stairs into the ambulatory.

“I’m going to kill you,” Lyon said.

“You have to find me first. And that means you have to shoot the good Lord Ashby there.”

She knew his name. Who was this?

“Do you know who I am, too?”

“Peter Lyon. Terrorist extraordinaire.”

“Are you with the Americans?” Lyon asked.

“I’m with me.”

Ashby watched Lyon. The man was clearly rattled. The gun remained pointed directly at him, but Lyon’s attention was on the voice.

“What do you want?” Lyon asked.

“Your hide.”

Lyon chuckled. “Many covet that prize.”

“That’s what I hear. But I’m the one who’s going to get it.”

THORVALDSEN LISTENED TO THE EXCHANGE BETWEEN MEAGAN and Lyon. He realized what she was doing, creating confusion, forcing Lyon to possibly make a mistake. Reckless on her part. But perhaps Meagan had gauged the situation correctly. Lyon’s attention was now divided among three possible threats. Ashby, Caroline, and the unknown voice. He’d have to make a choice.

Thorvaldsen’s gun remained aimed on Caroline Dodd. He could not allow Meagan to take the chance she’d clearly assumed. He jutted the weapon forward and whispered, “Tell him you’re going to reveal yourself.”

She shook her head.

“You’re not really going to do it. I just need him to come this way so I can shoot him.”

She seemed to consider that proposal. After all, he did have a gun.

“All right, Lyon,” Dodd finally called out. “I’m coming back.”

MALONE PUSHED HIS WAY THROUGH THE NEAREST PEW, FILLED with sitting worshipers. He figured he had at least a minute or two. Long Nose had apparently planned on surviving the attack, which meant he’d given himself time to leave the church. But the Good Samaritan woman, trying to return his left backpack, had eaten into some of that cushion.

He found the center aisle and turned for the altar.

His mouth opened to shout a warning, but no sound came out. Any alarm would be futile. His only chance was to get the bomb away.

As he’d studied the crowd, he’d also studied the geography. Adjacent to the main altar was a stairway that led down into what he assumed was a crypt. Every one of these old churches came with a crypt.

He saw the priest take notice of the commotion and stop the service.

He reached the backpack.

No time to know if he was right or wrong.

He snatched the bundle up from the floor-heavy-and darted left, tossing it down the steps where, ten feet below, an iron gate was open into a dimly lit space beyond.

He hoped to God no one was in there.

“Everybody,” he yelled in French. “Get down. It’s a bomb. Down to the floor, behind the pews.”

Many dove out of sight, others stood stunned.

“Get down-”

The bomb exploded.

SEVENTY-THREE

ASHBY BREATHED AGAIN AS LYON HEARD CAROLINE AND LOWERED his weapon.

“Sit in the chair,” Lyon ordered. “And don’t get up.”

Since there was only one way out of the basilica and he’d never come close to making an escape, he decided the safe play was to obey.

“Hey,” the first female voice called out in the dark. “You don’t really think she’s going to show herself, do you?”

Lyon did not reply.

Instead he marched toward the altar.

SAM COULD NOT BELIEVE MEAGAN WAS ACTUALLY DRAWING Lyon her way. What had happened to the I can’t she’d uttered outside in the rain? He watched as Lyon walked down the center aisle, between rows of empty chairs, gun at his side.

“If all my friends jumped off a bridge,” Norstrum said. “I wouldn’t jump with them. I’d be at the bottom, hoping to catch them.”

He tried to make sense of what he’d heard.

“True friends stand and fall together.”

“Are we true friends?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“But you always tell me that there will come a time when I have to leave.”

“Yes. That may happen. But friends are only apart in distance, not in heart. Remember, Sam, every good friend was once a stranger.”

Meagan Morrison had been a stranger two days ago. Now she was placing her ass on the line. For him? Thorvaldsen? It didn’t matter.

They would stand or fall together.

He decided to use the only weapon available. The same one Caroline Dodd had chosen. So he shed his wet coat, grabbed one of the wooden chairs, and hurled it toward Peter Lyon.

THORVALDSEN SAW THE CHAIR ARCH ACROSS THE NAVE TOWARD Lyon. Who else was here? Meagan was past the altar, in the upper ambulatory. Dodd was a meter away, terrified, and Ashby was near the west transept.

Lyon caught sight of the chair, whirled, and managed to maneuver out of the way just before the chair struck the floor. He then aimed his gun and fired a round toward the choir and the episcopal throne.

SAM FLED HIS HIDING PLACE JUST AS LYON AVOIDED THE CHAIR He darted left, between the columns and tombs, staying low, heading toward where Ashby sat.

Another shot rang out.

The bullet pinged off the stone a few inches from his right shoulder, which meant he’d been spotted.

Another pop.

The round ricocheted off more stone and he felt something sting his left shoulder. Intense pain shot through his arm and he lost his balance, careering to the floor. He rolled and assessed the damage. His left shirtsleeve was torn.

A blood rose blossomed. Sharp pain stabbed up from behind his eyes. He checked the wound and realized that he hadn’t been hit, only grazed-enough, though, to hurt like hell.

He clamped his right hand over the bleeding and rose to his feet.

THORVALDSEN TRIED TO SEE WHAT LYON WAS SHOOTING AT. Someone had thrown another chair. Then he spotted a black form rushing past, on the other side of the monument that served as his hiding place.

Dodd saw it, too, panicked, and scampered off, putting a procession of tombs between her and the nave.

Thorvaldsen caught a fleeting glimpse of the face of the form as it hustled past.

Sam.

He heard two more shots, then the thud of flesh and bone meeting stone.

No. Please, God. Not again.

He aimed at Peter Lyon and fired.

ASHBY DOVE FOR COVER. THE NAVE HAD ERUPTED INTO A mélange of gunfire from all directions. He saw Lyon flatten himself on the floor and also use the chairs for cover.

Where was Caroline?

Why hadn’t she returned?

THORVALDSEN COULD NOT ALLOW ANYTHING TO HAPPEN TO Sam. Bad enough Meagan was involved. Caroline Dodd had disappeared, surely toward the open portal where wind and rain continued to howl. It would only take a moment for Lyon to recover and react, so he scampered away, toward where Sam had headed.

MALONE SHIELDED HIS HEAD WITH HIS ARMS AS THE EXPLOSION thundered through the nave, rattling the walls and windows. But his toss into the crypt had been true and the explosion’s brunt force stayed below, only a smoke and dust cloud bubbling up from the stairway.

He glanced around.

Everyone seemed okay.

Then panic assumed control and people swarmed for the exit. The priest and the two altar boys left, disappearing into the choir.

He stood before the main altar and watched the chaos, mindful that the bomber had probably made his escape. As the crowd thinned, standing at the rear of the center aisle was Stephanie, holding her gun to the ribs of Long Nose.

Three Paris policemen appeared through the main doors. One saw the automatic in Stephanie’s grasp and immediately found his weapon.

The other two followed suit.

“Baissez votre arme. Immédiatement,” one of the officers shouted at Stephanie. Drop the gun. Immediately.

Another non-uniformed officer appeared and called for the officers to stand down. They lowered their weapons, then rushed forward to handcuff Long Nose.

Stephanie marched down the center aisle.

“Nice catch,” he told her.

“Even better throw.”

“What do we do now?” he asked. “We’ve surely heard the last from Lyon.”

“I agree.”

He reached into his pocket and found his cell phone. “Maybe it’s time I try to reason with Henrik. Sam should be with him.”

He’d switched the unit to silent on the taxi ride to the church. Now he spied a missed call from about twenty minutes ago.

Thorvaldsen.

Placed after they’d talked.

He saw a voice-mail indicator and listened to the message.

“This is Meagan Morrison. I was with Sam today at the Eiffel Tower when you came. Henrik gave me his phone, so I’m calling at the same number where you called him. I hope this is Cotton Malone. That crazy old man has gone inside Saint-Denis after Ashby. There’s another man and a woman in there. Sam told me the man is Peter Lyon. Sam went in there, too. They need help. I thought I could let Sam do this alone. But… I can’t. He’s going to get himself hurt. I’m going in. I thought you should know.”

“We have to get there,” he said.

“It’s only eight miles, but the traffic is heavy. I’ve told the Paris police. They’re dispatching men right now. A chopper is on the way for us. It should be outside. The street’s been cleared so it can land.”

She’d thought of everything.

“I can’t send the police in there with sirens blasting,” she said. “I want Lyon. This may be our only shot. They’re headed there quietly.”

He knew that was the smart play.

But not for the people inside.

“We should beat them there,” she said.

“Let’s make sure we do.”

SEVENTY-FOUR

SAM CLUTCHED HIS ARM AND KEPT MOVING TOWARD THE END of the church that, he assumed, faced the plaza outside. He’d succeeded in drawing Peter Lyon’s attention away from Meagan, but he’d also managed to get injured. He only hoped that they could all occupy Lyon long enough for help to arrive.

Thorvaldsen had apparently come to his rescue, firing on Lyon and allowing him the opportunity for an escape.

But where was the Dane now?

He found the last column in the row that supported the vault. Open space loomed beyond. He pressed his spine close and risked a peek into the nave.

Lyon was running toward a staircase, left of the altar, that led up to where Meagan was hiding.

“No,” Sam screamed.

ASHBY COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT HE WAS HEARING. LYON WAS finally moving away, toward the other end of the church, far enough that he could make an escape for the doors. He’d been patiently waiting, watching as the demon avoided whoever was shooting at him from the south transept. He didn’t know who that was, but he was damn glad they were here.

Now someone from his immediate right had shouted out.

As if to say to Lyon, Not there. Here.

THORVALDSEN FIRED ANOTHER ROUND, DISTURBED THAT SAM was drawing attention to himself.

Lyon sought refuge behind one of the tombs near the main altar.

He could not allow Lyon to advance toward the ambulatory, to where Meagan was hiding. So he hustled forward, back through the south transept, away from Ashby and Sam, toward Lyon.

ASHBY FLED THE CHAIR AND SOUGHT PROTECTION IN THE shadows. Lyon was thirty meters away, enemies thickening around him. Caroline had never appeared, and he assumed she was gone. He should follow her lead. The treasure was no longer important, at least not at the moment.

Escaping was his only concern.

So he crouched low and crept forward, down the south transept, heading for the open doors.

MALONE BUCKLED THE HARNESS JUST AS THE HELICOPTER lifted from the street. Daylight was sinking away, and only faint slants of light managed to pierce the rain clouds.

Stephanie sat beside him.

Both of them were deeply concerned.

A bitter, angry father bent on revenge and a young rookie agent were not the duo that should be facing a man like Peter Lyon. One wasn’t thinking, the other had not learned how to think yet. With all that had happened, Malone hadn’t had a second to consider the rift between him and Thorvaldsen. He’d done what he thought was right, but that decision had hurt a friend. Never had he and Thorvaldsen exchanged any cross words. Some irritation, occasional frustration, but never genuine anger.

He needed to speak with Henrik and work it out.

He glanced over at Stephanie and knew she was silently berating herself for sending Sam. At the time, that had been the right move.

Now it might prove fatal.

SAM WAS PLEASED THAT LYON HAD HESITATED AND NOT, AS yet, pressed his advantage and made a dash for the staircase that led up to the ambulatory. His left arm hurt like hell, his right hand still clamped on the bleeding wound.

Think.

He made another decision.

“Henrik,” he called out. “That man with the gun is a wanted terrorist. Keep him pinned down until help arrives.”

THORVALDSEN WAS GLAD TO HEAR THAT SAM WAS OKAY.

“His name is Peter Lyon,” Meagan called out.

“So nice,” Lyon said, “that everyone knows me.”

“You can’t kill us all,” Sam said.

“But I can kill one or two of you.”

Thorvaldsen knew that assessment was correct, particularly considering that he seemed to be the only one, besides Lyon, who was armed.

Movement grabbed his attention. Not from Lyon. But off to his right, near the doors leading out. A solitary form, moving straight for the exit. He first thought it was Caroline Dodd, but then he realized that the figure was male.

Ashby.

He’d apparently taken advantage of the confusion and carefully crept from the other end of the nave. Thorvaldsen turned away from Lyon and scampered toward the doors. Being closer than Ashby, he arrived first. He hugged François’s monument again for cover and waited for the Brit to approach through the darkness.

The marble floor was soaked from blowing rain.

Without a coat, he was cold.

He heard Ashby, on the monument’s opposite side, stop his advance.

Probably making sure that he could make the final ten meters without anyone noticing.

Thorvaldsen peered around the edge.

Ashby started forward.

Thorvaldsen swung around the tomb’s short side and jammed his gun in Ashby’s face.

“You won’t be leaving.”

Ashby, clearly startled, lost his balance on the wet floor and rolled to face the threat.

SEVENTY-FIVE

ASHBY WAS PUZZLED. “THORVALDSEN?”

“Stand up,” the Dane ordered.

He rose to his feet. The gun remained pointed at him.

“You were the one shooting at Lyon?” he asked.

“I didn’t want him to do what I came to do.”

“What is that?”

“Kill you.”

SAM COULD HEAR VOICES FROM A HUNDRED FEET AWAY, NEAR the exit. But the storm and the nave’s echo made it difficult to distinguish what was being said. Thorvaldsen was there, that much he knew. Ashby had fled, so he assumed Henrik had stopped the Brit from leaving, finally confronting his nemesis.

But Lyon was still here.

Perhaps Lyon had already determined that only one of the three was armed, since neither of the other two challengers had sent gunfire his way.

Sam saw Lyon flee his hiding place and advance across the nave, using the altar and its surrounding monuments for cover, heading straight for where the voices seemed to be. He headed that way, too.

MALONE CHECKED HIS WATCH. ROUGH AIR BUFFETED THE helicopter, and rain poured down the windows. His mind was in a tense communion with the whine of the rotors. Paris rolled past beneath them as they roared northward toward the suburb of Saint-Denis.

He hadn’t felt this helpless in a long time.

Stephanie checked her watch and flashed four fingers.

Less than five minutes.

THORVALDSEN KNEW HE HAD TO ACT FAST BUT HE WANTED this son of a bitch to know why he was about to die.

“Two years ago,” he said, “in Mexico City. My son was one of seven people who were butchered that day. A shooting you ordered. One that Amando Cabral carried out. For you. I’ve already killed him. Now it’s your turn.”

“Herre Thorvaldsen, you are completely mistaken-”

“Don’t even try,” he said, his voice rising. “Don’t insult me, or the memory of my only son, with lies. I know every detail of what happened. I’ve hunted you for two years. Now I have you.”

“I was wholly unaware of what Cabral would do. You must believe that. I simply wanted those prosecutors discouraged.”

He stepped back, closer to François’ tomb, using its elaborate columns and arches as cover from Lyon, who had to be lurking behind him.

Finish this, he told himself.

Now

SAM STILL GRIPPED HIS WOUNDED ARM AS HE MADE HIS WAY forward. He’d lost sight of Lyon, last seen crossing before the main altar, maybe fifty feet from Thorvaldsen and Ashby.

He must alert his friend, so he took a chance.

“Henrik. Lyon is headed your way.”

ASHBY WAS IN A PANIC. HE NEEDED TO LEAVE THIS GODFORSAKEN place.

Two men with guns wanted to kill him, and somebody just yelled that Lyon was approaching.

“Thorvaldsen, listen to me. I didn’t kill your son.”

A shot banged through the church and rattled his ears. He jumped and realized that Thorvaldsen had fired at the floor, close to his left foot. The ping of metal to stone sent him staggering back toward the exit doorway. But he knew better than to try to make a run for it.

He’d be dead before he took one step.

SAM HEARD A SHOT

“Stay where you are,” Thorvaldsen yelled over the wind and rain. “You sorry excuse for a human being. Do you know what you did? He was the finest son a man could have and you gunned him down, like he was nothing.”

Sam stopped and told himself to assess the situation. Act smart. Do what Norstrum would do. He was always smart.

He crept to one of the columns and stole a look into the nave.

Lyon was to the right of the altar, near another column, standing, watching, listening.

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE,” THORVALDSEN SAID. “THE NEXT bullet will not hit the floor.”

He’d thought of this moment for a long time, wondering what it would feel like to finally confront Cai’s murderer. But he’d also heard Sam’s warning, concerned that Lyon may be only a short distance away.

“Thorvaldsen,” Ashby said. “You have to see reason here. Lyon is going to kill us both.”

He could only hope Sam and Meagan were watching his back, though neither one of them should be here. Funny. He was a billionaire many times over, yet not a single one of those euros could help him now. He’d crossed into a place ruled only by revenge. Within the darkness, he saw images of Cai as a baby, then an adolescent. He’d owed it to Lisette to ensure the lad grew into a man. Over four centuries Thorvaldsens had lived in Denmark. The Nazis had done their best to eradicate them, but they’d survived the onslaught. When Cai was born he’d been ecstatic. A child. To carry on. Boy or girl. He hadn’t cared.

Just healthy. That’s what he’d prayed for.

Papa, take care. I’ll see you in a few weeks.

The last words Cai had said to him during their last telephone conversation.

He did see Cai a few weeks later.

Lying in a casket.

And all because of the worthless creature standing a few meters away.

“Did you think for one moment,” he asked Ashby, “that I’d allow his death to go unanswered? Did you think yourself so clever? So important? That you could murder people and there would never be consequences?”

Ashby said nothing.

“Answer me,” he yelled.

ASHBY HAD REACHED HIS LIMIT.

This old man was deranged, consumed with hate. He decided that the best way to deal with the danger was to face it. Especially considering that he’d caught sight of Peter Lyon, on the far side of one of the columns, coolly watching the encounter. Thorvaldsen was obviously aware of Lyon’s presence.

And the others inside, they seemed to be the Dane’s allies.

“I did what I had to do,” Ashby declared.

“That’s exactly right. And my son died.”

“You have to know that I never intended that to occur. The prosecutor was all that interested me. Cabral went too far. There was no need to kill all of those people.”

“Do you have children?” Thorvaldsen asked.

He shook his head.

“Then you cannot possibly understand.”

He had to buy more time. Lyon had yet to move. He just stayed behind the column. And where were the other two?

“I’ve spent two years watching you,” Thorvaldsen said. “You’re a failure in everything you do. Your business ventures all lost money. Your bank is in trouble. Your assets are nearly depleted. I’ve watched with amusement as you and your mistress have tried to find Napoleon’s wealth. And now here you are, still searching.”

This fool was offering far too much information to Peter Lyon.

Then again.

“You’re mistaken. I have a wealth of assets. Just not where you can discover them. Only in the past few days I’ve acquired a hundred million euros in gold.”

He wanted Lyon to know that there were a lot of reasons why he should not be shot.

“I don’t want your money,” Thorvaldsen spit out.

“But I do,” Lyon said as he emerged from the shadows and shot Henrik Thorvaldsen.

SAM STOPPED AT THE REPORT OF WHAT HAD TO BE A SOUND-suppressed weapon. He hadn’t been able to hear what was being said as he was some fifty feet away from the conversation.

He glanced into the nave.

Peter Lyon was gone.

THORVALDSEN DID NOT FEEL THE BULLET ENTER HIS CHEST but its exit produced excruciating pain. Then all coordination among brain, nerves, and muscles failed. His legs gave way as a fresh rush of agony flooded his brain.

Was this what Cai had felt? Had his boy been consumed by such intensity? What a terrible thing.

His eyes rolled upward.

His body sagged.

His right hand released its grip on the gun and he crashed down in a palpitating mass, the side of his head slamming the pavement.

Each breath tore at his lungs.

He tried to master the stabs at his chest.

Sound muffled.

Location failed.

Then all color drained from the world.

SEVENTY-SIX

MALONE CAUGHT SIGHT OF THE SAINT-DENIS BASILICA through the rain, about a mile ahead. No police vehicles were outside, and the plaza before the church was deserted. Everything around the church was dark and still, as if the plague had struck.

He found his Beretta and two spare magazines.

He was ready.

Just get this damn helicopter on the ground.

ASHBY WAS RELIEVED. “ABOUT TIME YOU SAVED ME FROM THAT.”

Thorvaldsen lay on the floor, blood gushing from a chest wound. Ashby could not care less about the idiot. Lyon was all that mattered.

“A hundred million euros of gold?” Lyon asked.

“Rommel’s treasure. Lost since the war. I found it.”

“And you think that will buy your life?”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

A new sound intruded on the monotonous drone of the storm.

Thump, thump, thump.

Growing louder.

Lyon noticed it, too.

A helicopter.

SAM CREPT CLOSE TO WHERE ASHBY AND LYON STOOD AND SAW the gun in Lyon’s hand. Then he spotted Thorvaldsen on the floor, blood pumping out in heavy gushes.

Oh, God.

No.

“WHERE IS THIS GOLD?” LYON ASKED ASHBY

“In a vault. That only I can access.”

That should buy him a reprieve.

“I never liked you,” Lyon said. “You’ve been manipulating this entire situation from the beginning.”

“What do you care? You were hired, I paid you. What does it matter what I intended?”

“I haven’t survived by being a fool,” Lyon declared. “You negotiated with the Americans. Brought them into our arrangement. They didn’t like you, either, but would do anything to capture me.”

Rotors grew louder, as if right overhead.

“We need to leave,” Ashby said. “You know who that is.”

An evil light gathered in the amber eyes. “You’re right. I need to leave.”

Lyon fired the gun.

THORVALDSEN OPENED HIS EYES.

Black spots faded, yet the world around him seemed in a haze. He heard voices and saw Ashby standing close to another man, who was holding a gun.

Peter Lyon.

He watched as the murdering SOB shot Ashby.

Damn him.

He tried to move, to find his gun, but not a muscle in his body would respond. Blood poured from his chest. His strength waned. He heard wind, rain, and the pump of a deep bass tone thumping through the air.

Then another pop.

He focused. Ashby winced, as if in pain.

Two more pops.

A red ooze seeped from two holes in the forehead of the man who’d butchered his son.

Peter Lyon had finished what Thorvaldsen had started.

As Ashby collapsed to the floor, Thorvaldsen allowed the surprising calm coursing through his nerves to take him over.

SAM CAUGHT HIS BREATH AND STOOD. HIS LEGS WERE FROZEN. Was he afraid? No, more than that. A mortal terror had seized his muscles, gripping his mind with panic.

Lyon had shot Ashby four times.

Just like that.

Bam, bam, bam, bam.

Ashby was certainly dead. But what about Thorvaldsen? Sam thought the Dane had moved, just before Ashby died. He needed to get to his friend. Blood flooded the marble flooring at an alarming rate.

But his legs would not move.

A scream rang through the church.

Meagan sprang from the darkness and tackled Peter Lyon.

“PAPA, PAPA.”

Thorvaldsen heard Cai’s voice, as it had been years ago in the final telephone call.

“I’m here, Papa.”

“Where, son?”

“Everywhere. Come to me.”

“I failed, son.”

“Your vendetta is not necessary, Papa. Not anymore. He’s dead. As certain as if you had killed him yourself.”

“I’ve missed you, son.”

“Henrik.”

A female voice. One he hadn’t heard in a long time.

Lisette.

“My darling,” he said. “Is that you?”

“I’m here, too, Henrik. With Cai. We’ve been waiting.”

“How do I find you?”

“You have to let go.”

He considered what they were saying. What it meant. But the implications that their request carried frightened him. He wanted to know, “What’s it like there?”

“Peaceful,” Lisette said.

“It’s wonderful,” Cai added. “No more loneliness.”

He could barely recall a time that loneliness had not consumed him. But there was Sam. And Meagan. They remained in the church. With Lyon.

A scream invaded his peace.

He struggled to see what was happening.

Meagan had attacked Lyon.

They were struggling on the floor.

Still, though, he could not move. His arms lay extended on either side of his bleeding chest. His legs were as if they did not exist. His hands and fingers were frozen. Nothing functioned. Hot pain gushed up behind his eyes.

“Henrik.”

It was Lisette.

“You can’t help.”

“I have to help them.”

SAM WATCHED AS MEAGAN AND LYON ROLLED ACROSS THE floor, struggling.

“You son of a bitch,” he heard Meagan yell.

He needed to join the fray. Help her. Do something. But fear kept him frozen. He felt puny, peevish, cowardly. He was afraid. Then he straightened up from his conflicting thoughts and forced his legs to move.

Lyon vaulted Meagan off him. She thudded into the thick base on one of the tombs.

Sam searched the darkness and spotted Thorvaldsen’s gun. Ten feet away from his friend, who still had not moved.

He rushed forward and grabbed the weapon.

MALONE UNBUCKLED HIS HARNESS JUST AS THE CHOPPER’S wheels kissed the pavement. Stephanie did the same. He reached for the door handle and wrenched the panel open.

Beretta in hand, he leaped out.

Cold rain stung his cheeks.

SAM LIFTED THE WEAPON, HIS BLOODY FINGER FINDING THE trigger. He was deep in the shadows, beyond where Henrik and Ashby lay. He turned just as Lyon jammed a fist into Meagan’s face, knocking her head against the base of one of the tombs, her body settling at a contorted angle on the floor.

Lyon searched for his gun.

The thump of rotors outside had subsided, which meant the chopper had found the plaza. Lyon must have realized that fact, too, as he grabbed his gun, stood, and darted toward freedom.

Sam fought the pain in his left shoulder, stepped from the dimness and raised his weapon. “That’s it.”

Lyon halted but did not turn around. “The third voice.”

“Don’t move.” He kept his gun trained on Lyon’s head.

“I imagine you’ll pull the trigger if I so much as twitch?” Lyon asked.

He was impressed at how Lyon clearly sensed the gun.

“You found the old man’s weapon.”

“That head of yours makes a wonderful target.”

“You sound young. Are you an American agent?”

“Shut up,” he made clear.

“How about I drop my weapon?”

The gun remained in the man’s right hand, barrel pointed to the floor.

“Let it fall.”

Lyon released his grip and the gun clanged away.

“That better?” Lyon asked, his back still to him.

Actually, it was.

“You’ve never shot a man before, have you?” Lyon asked.

“Shut the hell up,” Sam said.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s see if I am right. I’m going to leave. You won’t shoot an unarmed man, with his back to you.”

He was tired of the banter. “Turn around.”

Lyon ignored the command and took a step forward.

Sam fired into the floor just ahead of him. “The next bullet will be to your head.”

“I don’t think so. I saw you before I shot Ashby. You just watched. You stood there and did nothing.”

Lyon stole another step.

Sam fired again.

MALONE HEARD TWO SHOTS FROM INSIDE THE CHURCH.

He and Stephanie darted for an opening in the plywood barrier that wrapped the church’s exterior, this one facing south. They had to find the doors everyone else had used to enter.

The three sets in front were closed tight.

Cold rain continued to slash his brow

THE SECOND BULLET RICOCHETED OFF THE FLOOR

“I told you to stop,” Sam yelled.

Lyon was right. He’d never shot anybody before. He’d been trained in the mechanics, but not in how to be mentally prepared for something so horrific. He yanked his thoughts into some semblance of disciplined ranks.

And readied himself.

Lyon moved again.

Sam advanced two steps and sighted his aim. “I swear to you. I’ll shoot you.” He kept his voice calm, though his heart raced.

Lyon crept ahead. “You can’t shoot me.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Maybe not. But I know fear.”

“Who says I’m afraid?”

“I hear it.”

Meagan stirred with a grunt of pain.

“There are those of us who can end a life without a thought and those, like yourself, who can’t bring themselves to it, unless provoked. And I am not provoking you.”

“You shot Henrik.”

Lyon stopped. “Ah. That’s his name. Henrik. Yes, I did. A friend?”

“Stay still.” He hated the element of a plea that laced his words.

Ten feet separated Lyon from the open doors.

His adversary eased another step forward, his movements as controlled as his voice.

“Not to worry,” Lyon said. “I won’t tell anyone you didn’t fire.”

Five feet to the threshold.

“PAPA. COME TO US,” CAI CALLED OUT THROUGH A TREMULOUS BLUE radiance.

Strange and wonderful thoughts stole upon him. But Thorvaldsen couldn’t be talking to his wife and son. The conversation had to be the rambles of a mind in shock.

“Sam needs me,” he called out.

“You can’t help him, my darling,” Lisette made clear.

A white curtain descended in a muted fall. The last remnants of his strength ebbed away.

He fought to breathe.

“It’s time, Papa. Time for us all to be together.”

SAM WAS BEING ANTAGONIZED, HIS CONSCIENCE CHALLENGED.

Clever, actually, on Lyon’s part. Goad a reaction, knowing that doing so could well prevent anything from happening. Lyon was apparently a student of character. But that didn’t necessarily make him right. And besides, Sam had ruined his career by defying authority.

Lyon kept approaching the door.

Three feet.

Two.

Screw you, Lyon.

He pulled the trigger.

MALONE SAW A BODY CAREER FORWARD, OUT AN OPEN SET OF double doors and thud to the wet pavement with a splash.

He and Stephanie rushed up slick stone steps, and she rolled the body over. The face was that of the man from the boat, the one who’d abducted Ashby. Peter Lyon.

With a hole through his head.

Malone glanced up.

Sam appeared in the doorway, holding a gun, one shoulder bleeding.

“You okay?” Malone asked.

The younger man nodded, but a dire expression crushed all hope from Malone’s heart.

Sam stepped back. He and Stephanie rushed inside. Meagan was staggering to her feet and Stephanie came to her aid. Malone’s eyes focused on a body-Ashby-then another.

Thorvaldsen.

“We need an ambulance,” he called out.

“He’s dead,” Sam quietly said.

A chill ran across Malone’s shoulders and up his neck. He urged his legs into tentative, stumbling movements. His eyes told him that Sam was right.

He approached and knelt beside his friend.

Stickly blood clung to flesh and clothes. He checked for a pulse and found none.

He shook his head in utter sadness.

“We need to at least try to get him to a hospital,” he said again.

“It won’t matter,” Sam said.

Dread punctuated the statement, which Malone knew to be true. But he still couldn’t accept it. Stephanie helped Meagan, as they stepped close.

Thorvaldsen’s eyes stared out blindly.

“I tried to help,” Meagan said. “The crazy old fool… he was determined to kill Ashby. I tried… to get there-”

Choking sobs pulsed from her throat. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

Thorvaldsen had interjected himself into Malone’s life when he really needed a friend, appearing in Atlanta two years ago, offering a new beginning in Denmark, one he’d readily accepted and never regretted. Together they’d shared the past twenty-four months, but the past twenty-four hours had been so different.

We shall never speak again.

The last words spoken between them.

His right hand clutched at his throat, as if trying to reach through to his heart.

Despair flooded his gut.

“That’s right, old friend,” he whispered. “We will never speak again.”

SEVENTY-SEVEN

PARIS

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 30

2:40 PM

MALONE ENTERED SAINT-DENIS BASILICA. THE CHURCH HAD remained closed to both the public and construction crews since Christmas Day, the entire site treated as a crime scene.

Three men had died here.

Two he could not give a rat’s ass about.

The third death had been more painful than he could have ever imagined.

His father had passed thirty-eight years ago. He’d been ten years old, the loss more loneliness than pain. Thorvaldsen’s death was different. Pain filled his heart with an unrelenting, deep regret.

They’d buried Henrik beside his wife and son in a private service at Christiangade. A handwritten note attached to his last will had expressly stated that he wanted no public funeral. His death, though, made news throughout the world and expressions of sympathy poured in. Thousands of cards and letters arrived from employees of his various companies, a glowing testament of how they felt about their employer. Cassiopeia Vitt had come. Meagan Morrison, too. Her face still carried a bruise and as she, Malone, Cassiopeia, Stephanie, Sam, and Jesper filled the grave, each one shoveling dirt onto a plain pine box, not a word had been uttered.

For the last few days he’d hidden inside his loneliness, remembering the past two years. Feelings had leaped and writhed within him, flickering between dream and reality. Thorvaldsen’s face was indelibly engraved in his mind, and he would forever recall every feature-the dark eyes under thick eyebrows, straight nose, flared nostrils, strong jaw, resolute chin. Forget the crooked spine. It meant nothing. That man had always stood straight and tall.

He glanced around at the lofty nave. Forms, figures, and designs produced an overwhelming effect of serenity, the church aglow with the radiant flood of light pouring in through stained-glass windows. He admired the various saintly figures, robed in dark sapphire, lighted with turquoise-heads and hands emerging from skillfully crafted sepia shadows through olive green, to pink, and finally to white. Hard not to have thoughts of God, nature’s beauty, and lives gone, ended too soon.

Like Henrik’s.

But he told himself to focus on the task.

He found the paper in his pocket and unfolded it.

Professor Murad had told him exactly what to search for-the clues Napoleon concocted, then left for his son. He began with Psalm 135, verse 2. You who stand in the house of the Lord, in the courts of the house of our God.

Then Psalm 2, verse 8. I will make the nations your inheritance.

Typical Napoleonic grandeur.

Next came Psalm 142, verse 4. Look to my right and see.

The precise starting point-from where to look right and see-had been difficult to determine. Saint-Denis was massive, a football field long and nearly half that wide. But the next verse solved that dilemma. Psalm 52, verse 8. But I am like an olive tree flourishing in the house of God.

Murad’s quick class on Psalms had made Malone think of one that more than aptly described the past week. Psalm 144, verse 4. Man is like a breath, his days are like a fleeting shadow. He hoped Henrik had found peace.

But I am like an olive tree flourishing in the house of God.

He glanced right and spotted a monument. Designed in a Gothic tradition, elements of an ancient-style temple sprang from its sculpture, the upper platform decorated with praying figures. Two stone effigies, portrayed in the last moments of their life, lay flat atop. Its base was figured with Italian-inspired reliefs.

He approached, his rubber-soled shoes both sure and silent. Immediately to the right of the monument, in the flooring, he spotted a marble slab with a solitary olive tree carved into the marker. A notation explained that the grave was from the 15th century. Murad had told him that its occupant was supposedly Guillaume du Chastel. Charles VII had so loved his servant that he’d bestown on him the honor of being buried in Saint-Denis.

Psalm 63, verse 9, was next. They who seek my life will be destroyed, they will go down to the depths of the earth. They will be given over to the sword and become food for jackals.

He’d already received permission from the French government to do whatever was necessary to solve the riddle. If that meant destroying something within the church, then so be it. Most of it was 19th and 20th century repairs and reproductions anyway. He’d asked for some tools and equipment to be left inside, anticipating what may be required, and saw them near the west wall.

He walked across the nave and retrieved a sledgehammer.

When Professor Murad related to him the clues, the possibility that what they sought lay below the church became all too real. Then, when he’d read the verses, he was sure.

He walked back to the olive tree carved in the floor.

The final clue, Napoleon’s last message to his son. Psalm 17, verse 2. May my vindication come from you; may your eyes see what is right.

He swung the hammer.

The marble did not break, but his suspicions were confirmed. The hollow sound told him that solid stone did not lie beneath. Three more blows and the rock cracked. Another two and marble crashed away into a black rectangle that opened beneath the church.

A chilled draft rushed upward.

Murad had told him how Napoleon, in 1806, halted the desecration of Saint-Denis and proclaimed it, once again, an imperial burial place. He’d also restored the adjacent abbey, established a religious order to oversee the basilica’s restoration, and commissioned architects to repair the damages. It would have been an easy matter for him to adjust the site to his personal specifications. How this hole in the floor had remained secret was fascinating, but perhaps the chaos of post-Napoleonic France was the best explanation, as nothing and nobody remained stable once the emperor had been ensconced on St. Helena.

He discarded the sledgehammer and retrieved a coil of rope and a flashlight. He shone the light into the void and noted that it was more a chute, about three feet by four, that extended straight down about twenty feet. Remnants of a wooden ladder lay scattered on the rock floor. He’d studied the basilica’s geography and knew that a crypt once extended below the church-parts of it were still there, open to the public-but nothing had ever stretched this far toward the west façade. Perhaps long ago it had, and Napoleon had discovered the oddity.

At least that’s what Murad thought.

He looped the rope around the base of one of the columns a few feet away and tested its strength. He tossed the remainder of the rope into the chute, followed by the sledgehammer, which might be needed. He clipped the lamp to his belt. Using his rubber soles and the rope, he eased down the chute, into the black earth.

At the bottom he aimed the light at rock the shade of driftwood. The chilly, dusty environs extended for as far as the beam would shine. He knew that Paris was littered with tunnels. Miles and miles of underground passages hewed from limestone that had been hauled, block by block, to the surface, the city literally built from the ground up.

He groped for the contours, the crevices, the protruding shards, and followed the twisting passage for maybe two hundred feet. A smell similar to warm peaches, which he recalled from his Georgia childhood, made his stomach queasy. Grit crunched beneath his feet. Only cold seemed to occupy this bareness, easy to become lost in the silence.

He assumed he was well clear of the basilica, east of the building itself, perhaps beneath the expanse of trees and grass that extended past the nearby abbey, toward the Seine.

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

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

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

Glad to know he’d been right.

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

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

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

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

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

Napoleon’s cache.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been expecting you.”

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

“I had my moments.”

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

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

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

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

He saw she did not appreciate the insult.

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

“Miss Dodd was quite forthcoming. She explained the clues, but I decided to find another way beneath the basilica. I assumed there were other paths in and out, and I was right. We found the correct tunnel a few days ago, unsealed the chamber, and tapped into an electrical line not far from here.”

“And Dodd?”

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

A gun appeared in Ambrosi’s right hand.

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

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

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

“You’re not afraid they’ll talk?”

“The crates will be sealed before they arrive.”

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

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

He pointed above. “Through the front door.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t imagine that is the case.”

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

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

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

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

He shrugged. “Not really.”

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

He humored her. “Sure.”

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

And she motioned at the lighted cavern.

He’d had enough.

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

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

Both held guns.

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

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

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

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

Ambrosi said nothing.

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

“I’ve killed no one,” Larocque said.

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

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

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

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

“I told you to get out.”

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

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

At the doorway, Larocque hesitated, then turned toward Malone. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

“Wouldn’t that be fun.”

“Know that that encounter will be quite different from today’s.”

And she left.

“She’s trouble,” Stephanie said.

“I assume you have people out there?”

Stephanie nodded. “The French police will escort them out of the tunnel and seal it off.”

He realized it was over. Finally. The past three weeks had been some of the most horrific of his life.

He needed a rest.

“I understand you have a new career,” he said to Sam.

The younger man nodded. “I’m now officially working for the Magellan Billet, as an agent. I hear I have you to thank for that.”

“You have yourself to thank. Henrik would be proud.”

“I hope so.” Sam motioned at the chests. “What is going to happen with all this treasure?”

“The French get it,” Stephanie said. “No way to know where it came from. Here it sits, in their soil, so it’s theirs. Besides, they say it’s compensation for all the property damage Cotton inflicted.”

Malone wasn’t really listening. Instead he kept his attention on the doorway. Eliza Larocque had sheathed her parting threat in a warm cloak of politeness-a calm declaration that if their paths ever crossed again, things would be different. But he’d been threatened before. Besides, Larocque was partly responsible both for Henrik’s death and for the guilt that he feared would forever swirl inside him. He owed her, and he always paid his debts.

“You okay about Lyon?” he asked Sam.

The younger man nodded. “I still see his head exploding, but I can live with it.”

“Don’t ever let it get easy. Killing is serious business, even if they deserve it.”

“You sound like somebody else I once knew.”

“He a smart fellow, too?”

“More so than I ever realized, until lately.”

“You were right, Sam,” he said. “The Paris Club. Those conspiracies. At least a few of them were real.”

“As I recall, you thought I was a nut.”

He chuckled. “Half the people I meet think I’m one, too.”

“Meagan Morrison made sure I knew she was right,” Stephanie said. “She’s a handful.”

“You going to see her again?” Malone asked Sam.

“Who says I’m interested?”

“I heard it in her voice when she left the message on my phone. She went back in there for you. And I saw how you looked at her after Henrik’s funeral. You’re interested.”

“I don’t know. I might. You have any advice on that one?”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Women are not my strong point.”

“You can say that again,” Stephanie added. “You throw ex-wives out of planes.”

He smiled.

“We need to go,” Stephanie said. “The French want control of this.”

They headed for the exit.

“Something’s been bothering me,” Malone said to Sam. “Stephanie told me that you were raised in New Zealand, but you don’t talk like a Kiwi. Why’s that?”

Sam smiled. “Long story.”

Exactly what he’d said yesterday when Sam had asked about the name Cotton. The same two words he’d told Henrik the several times when his friend had inquired, always promising to explain later.

But, sadly, there’d be no more laters.

He liked Sam Collins. He was a lot like himself fifteen years ago, just about the time when he’d started with the Magellan Billet. Now Sam was a full-fledged agent-about to face all of the incalculable risks associated with that dangerous job.

Any day could easily be his last.

“How about this,” Sam said. “I’ll tell you, if you tell me.”

“Deal.”