by Steve Berry
“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.”
