He didn’t like her condescending attitude. “What if I don’t want a career?”
She threw him a look he’d seen from his superiors—people who enforced petty rules and imposed time-honored barriers that made it next to impossible for anyone to leap ahead.
“I thought you wanted to be a field agent. That’s what the Secret Service told me. I’m simply offering you the chance.”
“What is it you want me to do?” he asked.
“That all depends on Ms. Morrison here.” The older woman stared at Meagan. “Whether you believe it or not, I’m here to help. So tell me, besides spouting off on your website about world conspiracies that may or may not exist, what tangible evidence do you have that I might find interesting?”
“Cocky bitch, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea.”
Meagan smiled. “You remind me of my mother. She was tough as nails, too.”
“That just means I’m old. You’re not endearing yourself to me.”
“You’re still the one holding a gun.”
Stephanie stepped around them and approached the kitchen table, where Meagan’s gun lay. She lifted the weapon. “Two men died at the Cluny. Another is in the hospital.”
“The guard?” Sam asked.
Stephanie nodded. “He’ll make it.”
He was glad to hear that.
“How about you, Ms. Morrison? Glad to hear it, too?”
“It’s not my problem,” Meagan said.
“You started it.”
“No. I exposed it.”
“Do you have any idea who the two dead men worked for?”
Meagan nodded. “The Paris Club.”
“That’s not exactly correct. Actually, Eliza Larocque employed them to follow your decoy.”
“You’re a little behind the curve.”
“So tell me something I don’t know.”
“All right, smart lady. How about this? I know what’s going to happen in two days.”
THORVALDSEN SAT ALONE IN HIS SUITE AT THE RITZ, HIS HEAD resting against the back of a chair. Malone was gone, having assured him that tomorrow he’d retrieve the book from the Invalides. He had confidence in his friend, more so at the moment than in himself.
He nursed a brandy, sipping from a crystal snifter, trying to calm his nerves. Thankfully, all of the bantering spirits clamoring within him had retreated for the night. He’d been in a lot of fights, but this one was different—beyond personal, clearly obsessive—and that frightened him. He may come in contact with Graham Ashby as soon as tomorrow, and he knew that moment would be difficult. He must appear cordial, shaking the hand of the man who’d murdered his son, extending every courtesy. Not a hint could be revealed until the right moment.
He sipped more alcohol.
Cai’s funeral flashed through his mind.
The casket had been closed because of the irreparable damage the bullets had done, but he’d seen what was left of his son’s face. He’d insisted. He needed that horrific image burned into his memory because he knew that he’d never rest until that death was fully explained.
Now, after two years, he knew the truth.
And he was within hours of revenge.
He’d lied to Malone. Even if he managed to incite Eliza Larocque into moving on Ashby, he’d still kill the bastard himself.
No one else would do it.
Just him.
Same as last night when he’d stopped Jesper and shot Amando Cabral and his cohort. What was he becoming? A murderer? No. An avenger. But was there really a difference?
He held his glass against the light and admired the alcohol’s rich color. He savored another swallow of brandy, longer this time, more satisfying.
He closed his eyes.
Scattered recollections flickered through his mind, faded a moment, then reappeared. Each came in a smooth, silent process, like shifting images from a projector.
His lips quivered.
Memories he’d nearly forgotten—from a life he hadn’t known for many years—swam into view, blurred, then disappeared.
He’d buried Cai on the estate, in the family cemetery, beside Lisette, among other Thorvaldsens who’d rested there for centuries, his son wearing a simple gray suit and a yellow rose. Cai had loved yellow roses, as had Lisette.
He remembered the peculiar smell from within the casket—a little acidic, a little dank—the smell of death.
His loneliness returned in a fresh surge.
He emptied the snifter of the remaining brandy.
A rush of sadness broke over him with an intolerable force.
No more doubts nagged him.
Yes, he’d kill Graham Ashby himself.
THIRTY-SIX
PARIS
MONDAY, DECEMBER 24
11:00 AM
MALONE ENTERED THE CHURCH OF THE DOME, ATTACHED LIKE a stray appendage to the south end of the imposing Hôtel des Invalides. The baroque edifice, with a façade of Doric columns and a single pediment, was capped by an imposing gilded dome—the second tallest structure in Paris—crowned by a lantern and spire. Originally a royal place of worship, erected by Louis XIV to extol the glory of the French monarchy, it had been converted by Napoleon into a warriors’ tomb. Three of the greatest names in French military history—Turene, Vaubon, Foch—rested here. In 1861 Napoleon himself was buried beneath the dome, and eventually his two brothers and son joined him.
Christmas Eve had not diminished the crowds. The interior, though only open for the past hour, was packed with people. Though the place was no longer used for religious services, a placard reminded everyone to remove their hats and speak in a low voice.
He’d stayed last night at the Ritz, in a room Thorvaldsen had arranged, groping for sleep, but finding only disturbing thoughts. He was worried about Sam, but trusted that Stephanie had the situation under control. He was more concerned about Thorvaldsen. Vendettas could be expensive, in more ways than one—something he’d learned from personal experience. He still wasn’t sure how to rein in Thorvaldsen, but he knew that it had to be done.
And fast.
He ambled toward a waist-high marble balustrade and glanced upward into the towering dome. Images of the Evangelists, the kings of France, and Apostles stared back. Glancing down, beneath the dome, past the banister, he studied Napoleon’s sarcophagus.
He knew the particulars. Seven coffins held the imperial remains, one inside the other, two of lead, the rest in mahogany, iron, ebony, oak, and—the visible one—red porphyry, the stuff of Roman sepulchres. Nearly twelve feet long and six feet high, shaped like an ark adorned with laurel wreaths, it rested on an emerald granite base. Twelve colossal figures of victory, and the names of Napoleon’s chief battles, etched into the floor, surrounded the tomb.
He stared across the busy church at Graham Ashby.
The Brit matched the description Stephanie had provided and stood on the far side, near the circular railing.
Thorvaldsen had told him an hour ago that his operatives had tracked Ashby from London to Paris to here. Beside him stood an attractive woman with long flowing hair. She brought to mind another blonde who’d consumed his attention the previous two weeks. One of those mistakes in judgment that had nearly cost him his life.
The blonde stood with her hips touching the railing, her back arched, pointing upward to the impressive entablature that circled the church, seemingly explaining something that Ashby found interesting. She had to be Caroline Dodd. Thorvaldsen had briefed him on her. Ashby’s mistress, but also the holder of degrees in medieval history and literature. Her being here signified that Ashby believed there was something significant to find.
The level of noise surrounding him rose and he turned. A sea of people flooded in through the main doors. He watched as each new visitor paid the admission.
He glanced around and admired the collage of marble rising around him, the dome held aloft by majestic Corinthian columns. Symbols of the monarchy sprang from the sculpted décor, remindi
ng the visitor that this was once a church of kings, now the home of an emperor.