by Steve Berry
“He’s been taken. I watched it happen on the security cameras.”
“Police?”
She shook her head. “The girl in the blue smock.”
“You think you should have helped him.”
“It’s not a problem.”
He knew Stephanie well. They’d worked together a long time. He’d been one of the original twelve lawyer-agents at the Magellan Billet, personally hired by her. So his next question was easy, “You know all about her, don’t you?”
“Not exactly. I had no idea what she was going to do, but I’m damn glad she did it.”
THIRTY-TWO
SAM HAD BEEN LED FROM THE MUSEUM’S TOP FLOOR, DOWN THE same stairway he’d initially climbed, to the ground. There he and the woman had descended another stairway into the closed frigidarium, where Jimmy Foddrell waited. Together they’d all passed through a stone archway, barred by an iron gate that the woman opened with a key.
He was a little unnerved by the gun. Never had one been pointed directly at him, so close, so direct, the threat of harm so immediate. Still, he sensed that he wasn’t in danger. Instead, he may well be on the right trail.
He decided to follow it. He wanted to be a field agent. So, he told himself, be one. Improvise. That’s what Malone would do.
Foddrell relocked the gate behind them.
Walls scabbed of brick and stone rose fifty feet around him. Light trickled in from windows high up, near a vaulted ceiling, the space chilly, with the look and feel of a dungeon. Some repair work was ongoing, as scaffolding had been erected against one of the rough-hewn walls.
“You can go or stay,” the woman said to him. “But I really need you to stay.”
“Who are you?”
“Meagan Morrison. GreedWatch is my website.”
“Not his?” he asked, pointing at Foddrell.
She shook her head. “All mine.”
“What’s he doing here?”
She seemed to be deciding what—and how much—to say. “I wanted you to see that I’m not crazy. That there are people after me. They’ve been watching me for weeks. Michael works with me on the site. I made up the Foddrell name and used him as a decoy.”
“So you led me and Malone here?” he asked the man she’d called Michael.
“It was pretty easy, actually.”
Yes, it was.
“I work here, at the museum,” she said. “When you emailed and said you wanted to meet, I was glad. Those two guys who were shot have been following Michael for two weeks. If I’d told you that, you wouldn’t have believed me. So I showed you. There are some other men who also come nearly every day and check on me, but they think I don’t notice.”
“I have people who can help.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t want people. In fact, it’s probably some of your people doing that other watching. FBI. Secret Service. Who knows? I want to deal with you.” She paused. “You and I”—the anger had dropped form her voice—“see eye-to-eye.”
He was transfixed by her earnestness, along with the attractive, wounded look on her face. But he had to say, “People were shot in there. One of the guards was hurt bad.”
“And I hate that, but I didn’t start this.”
“Actually, you did. Yelling at those two guys.”
She was petite, full-bosomed, slender-waisted, and feisty. Her fiery blue eyes sparkled with an almost fiendish delight—commanding and confident. He was actually the tense one, his palms moist, and he desperately didn’t want to show his anxiety. So he assumed a casual pose and weighed his options.
“Sam,” she said, her voice softer. “I need to talk with you. Privately. Those guys have been on Michael’s trail. Not mine. The others, the Americans who watch me, we just avoided them by getting out of there.”
“Are they the ones who shot those two?”
She shrugged. “Who else?”
“I want to know who sent those two we followed here. Who do they work for?”
She stared back with an expression of undisguised boldness. He felt himself being appraised. Part of him was repelled, another part hoped she was at least somewhat impressed.
“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”
MALONE LISTENED AS STEPHANIE EXPLAINED ABOUT GREEDWATCH.
“It’s run by the woman who started this melee. Meagan Morrison. She’s an American, educated here, at the Sorbonne, in economics. She set you up sending the other young man—Foddrell. That’s a pseudonym Morrison uses to operate the website.”
He shook his head. “Played by an idiot who eats kidneys for lunch. Story of my life.”
She chuckled. “I’m glad you fell for it. Made it easy for us to connect. Daniels told me that Sam has been in contact with GreedWatch for over a year now. He was told to stop, but he didn’t listen. The Secret Service, through its Paris field office, has been monitoring the site, and Morrison herself, for the past few months. She’s a sly one. The guy who led you here is set up as the official webmaster. For the past two weeks, he’s been under separate surveillance, which the Service traced back to Eliza Larocque.”
“None of which tells me why you’re here and know all this.”
“We think that website is privy to some inside info, and apparently so does Larocque.”
“You didn’t come here just to tell me about a website. What’s really going on?”
“Peter Lyon.”
He knew about the South African. One of the world’s most wanted men. Into illicit arms, political assassination, terrorism, whatever the client wanted. Billed himself as a broker of chaos. When Malone retired two years ago, at least a dozen bombings and hundreds of deaths were linked to Lyon.
“He’s still in business?” he asked.
“More so than ever. Ashby has been meeting with him. Larocque is planning something that involves Lyon. Men like him don’t surface often. This may be the best chance we ever have to nail him.”
“And Ashby holding out information on that possible opportunity isn’t a problem?”
“I know. I wasn’t running this operation. I would have never allowed him to call those shots.”
“It’s obvious he’s playing both ends against the middle. They sure as hell can’t let him continue to hold back.”
“He won’t. Not anymore. This is now a Billet operation. As of twelve hours ago, I’m in charge. So I want the SOB squeezed.”
“Before or after Henrik kills him?”
“Preferably before. Ashby met with Lyon in Westminister just a few hours ago. We had parabolic mikes on the conversation.”
“I see somebody was thinking. What about Lyon?”
“They let him be. No tail, and I agreed with that. If he gets spooked, he’ll go to ground. Right now he’s comfortable coming to Ashby.”
He smiled at Lyon’s cockiness. “Glad to know everyone screws up.”
“Some keys were passed from Ashby to Lyon and a two-day time frame mentioned, but not much else. I have a tape of the conversation.” She paused. “Now, where is the merry Dane? I need to talk to him.”
“He went to see Eliza Larocque.”
He knew that revelation would grab her attention.
“Please tell me Thorvaldsen’s not going to spook her, too?”
He noticed a flash of anger in her eyes. Stephanie liked to run her operations her way.
“He’s going to get his revenge,” he made clear.
“Not as long as I’m here. Ashby is all we have, at the moment, to learn what Lyon is doing.”
“Not necessarily. By now, Henrik’s wiggled his way into the Paris Club. He could actually prove helpful.”
They sat in silence while Stephanie pondered the situation.
“Meagan Morrison” she said, “took Sam off at gunpoint. I watched on the museum’s closed-circuit TV. I decided to allow that to happen for a reason.”
“That boy’s no field operative.”
“He’s trained Secret Service. I expect him to act the part.”
<
br /> “What’s his story?”
She shook her head. “You’re as bad as Thorvaldsen. He’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Another sad and sorry tale. Found abandoned as an infant and was raised in an orphanage.”
“No adoption?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea why not.”
“Where?”
“New Zealand, of all places. He came to America when he was eighteen on a student visa and eventually became a citizen. Attended Columbia University, graduated top third in his class. Worked hard for a few years as an accountant, then earned his way into the Secret Service. All in all, a good kid.”
“Except he doesn’t listen to his superiors.”
“Hell, you and me both fit into that category.”
He grinned. “I assume Meagan Morrison is harmless.”
“More or less. It’s Thorvaldsen who’s the problem. Sam Collins left Washington a couple of weeks ago, just after being questioned again about his website. The Secret Service tracked him straight to Copenhagen. They decided to leave him alone, but when they learned Thorvaldsen had Ashby under close watch, they went to the president. That’s when Daniels dragged me in. He thought something big was happening, and he was right. He decided, considering my close personal relationship with Thorvaldsen, I was the best person to handle it.”
He smiled at her sarcasm. “Does Eliza Larocque know Meagan Morrison is harmless?”
The tension that rose from her silence charged the room.
Finally, she said, “I don’t know.”
“She didn’t send those men for the fun of it. We’d better find out. That could be a problem for Morrison and Sam, considering what just happened here.”
“I’ll deal with Sam. I need you to concentrate on Graham Ashby.”
“How in the world did I get myself in the middle of this mess?”
“You tell me.”
But they both knew the answer, so he simply asked, “What do you want me to do?”
THIRTY-THREE
5:15 PM
THORVALDSEN WAS DROPPED OFF AT THE HÔTEL RITZ BY THE private car that had brought him north, from the Loire Valley, into central Paris. Along the way he’d worked the phone, planning his next move.
He fled the late-afternoon cold and entered the hotel’s famous lobby, adorned with a collection of museum-caliber antiques. He especially loved the tale of when Hemingway liberated the Ritz in 1944. Armed with machine guns, the writer and a group of Allied soldiers stormed the hotel and searched every nook and cranny. After discovering that the Nazis had all fled, they retired to the bar and ordered a round of dry martinis. In commemoration, management christened the place Bar Hemingway, which Thorvaldsen now entered, the place still warmed by wooden walls, leather armchairs, and an atmosphere redolent of a different era. Photos taken by Hemingway himself adorned the paneling and some delicate piano music provided a measure of privacy.
He spotted his man at one of the tables, walked over, and sat.
Dr. Joseph Murad taught at the Sorbonne—a renowned expert on Napoleonic Europe. Thorvaldsen had kept Murad on retainer for the past year, ever since learning of Ashby’s passionate interest.
“Single-malt whiskey?” he asked in French, noticing Murad’s glass.
“I wanted to see what a twenty-two-euro drink tasted like.”
He smiled.
“And besides, you’re buying.”
“That I am.”
His investigators in Britain had telephoned him in the car and told him what they’d learned from the listening devices located in Caroline Dodd’s study. Since it meant little to him, Thorvaldsen had promptly, by phone, provided that intelligence to Murad. The scholar had called back half an hour later and suggested this face-to-face.
“Napoleon’s last will and testament definitely mentioned that book,” Murad said. “I’ve always thought it an odd reference. Napoleon had some sixteen hundred books with him on St. Helena. Yet he went out of his way to leave four hundred to Saint-Denis and specifically name The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D. It’s the maxim of ‘what’s missing’ proven.”
He waited for the academician to explain.
“There’s a theory in archaeology. ‘What’s missing points to what’s important.’ For example, if three statues have square bases and a fourth a round one, it’s the fourth that’s usually important. It’s been shown over and over that this maxim is true, especially when studying artifacts of a ceremonial or religious nature. This reference in the will, to a specific book, could well be equally significant.”
He listened as Murad explained about Merovingians.
Their leaders, starting with Merovech, from whom they took their name, first unified the Franks, then swept east and conquered their German cousins. Clovis, in the 5th century, eliminated the Romans, claimed Aquitania, and drove the Visigoths into Spain. He also converted to Christianity and declared a little town on the Seine, Paris, his capital. The region in and around Paris, which was strategically located, defensible, and fertile, came to be called Francia. The Merovingians themselves were a strange lot—practicing odd customs, growing their hair and beards long, and burying their dead with golden bees. The ruling family evolved into a dynasty, but then declined with astonishing rapidity. By the 7th century real power in the Merovingian world was held by court administrators, the “mayors of the palace,” Carolingians, who eventually seized control and eradicated the Merovingians.
“Rich in fable, short on history,” Murad said. “That’s the tale of the Merovingians. Napoleon, though, was fascinated by them. The golden bees on his coronation cloak were taken from them. Merovingians also believed strongly in hoarding booty. They stole at will from conquered lands, and their king was responsible for distributing the wealth among his followers. As leader, he was expected to fully support himself with the fruits of his conquests. This concept of royal self-sufficiency lasted from the 5th to the 15th centuries. Napoleon resurrected it in the 19th century.”
“Considering the treasure Ashby is after, you think this Merovingian book may be a signpost?”
“We can’t know that until we see it.”
“Does it still exist?”
Caroline Dodd had not told Ashby the location while they were in her study. Instead, she’d teased Ashby with the information, making him wait until after their lovemaking. Unfortunately, Thorvaldsen’s investigators had never been able to successfully wire Ashby’s bedchamber.
Murad smiled. “The book exists. I checked a little while ago. It’s at the Hôtel des Invalides, where Napoleon is buried, on display. Part of what Saint-Denis left to the city of Sens in 1856. Those books were eventually given by Sens to the French government. Most of the volumes burned in the Tuileries Palace fire of 1871. What remained made their way to the Invalides after World War II. Luckily, this book survived.”
“Can we get a look at it?”
“Not without answering a multitude of questions that I’m sure you don’t want to answer. The French are obsessively protective of their national treasures. I asked a colleague of mine, who told me the book is on display in the museum portion of the Invalides. But that wing is currently closed, under renovation.”
He understood the obstacles—cameras, gates, security officers. But he knew Graham Ashby wanted the book.
“I’ll need you available,” he told Murad.
The professor sipped his whiskey. “This is evolving into something quite extraordinary. Napoleon definitely wanted his son to have his private cache. He carefully acquired that wealth, just like a Merovingian king. But then, unlike a Merovingian and more like a modern-day despot, he hid it away in a place only he knew.”
Thorvaldsen could understand how such a treasure would lure people.
“After Napoleon was safely entrapped on St. Helena, English newspapers alleged that he’d salted away a vast fortune.” Murad grinned. “Being Napoleon, he retaliated from his exile wi
th a list of what he called the ‘real treasure’ of his reign. The Louvre, the greniers publics, the Banque of France, Paris’ water supply, city drains, and all his other manifold improvements. He was bold, I’ll give him that.”
That he was.
“Can you imagine what might be in that lost repository?” Murad asked. “There are thousands of art objects Napoleon plundered that have never been seen since. Not to mention state treasuries and private fortunes looted. The gold and silver could be immense. He took the secret of the cache’s location to his grave, but trusted four hundred books, including one he named specifically, to his most loyal servant, Louis Etienne Saint-Denis, though it’s doubtful Saint-Denis had any knowledge of the significance. He was simply doing what his emperor wanted. Once Napoleon’s son died, in 1832, the books became meaningless.”
“Not to Pozzo di Borgo,” Thorvaldsen declared.
Murad had taught him all about Eliza Larocque’s esteemed ancestor and his lifelong vendetta against Napoleon.
“But he never solved the riddle,” Murad said.
No, di Borgo hadn’t. But a distant heir was working hard to reverse that failure.
And Ashby was coming to Paris.
So Thorvaldsen knew what had to be done.
“I’ll get the book.”
SAM ACCOMPANIED MEAGAN OUT A SIDE ENTRANCE OF THE Cluny that opened to a graveled walk bordered by tall trees. A break in the wrought-iron fence and wall that encircled the museum opened onto the sidewalk where he and Malone had first approached. They crossed the street, found a Métro station, then rode a series of trains to the Place de la Republique.
“This is the Marais,” Meagan told him as they stepped back out into the cold. She had shed her blue smock and wore a canvas barn coat, jeans, and boots. “It was once a marsh, but it became prime real estate from the 15th to the 18th centuries, then fell into disrepair. It’s making a comeback.”
He followed her down a busy prospect lined with high, elegant houses far deeper than they were wide. Pink brick, white stone, gray slate, and black iron balustrades dominated. Trendy boutiques, perfumeries, tearooms, and glitzy art galleries pulsed with the holiday’s vitality.
