He needed to leave Paris as soon as this errand was completed. The Americans would be waiting in London, anxious for a report. Which he would finally provide. No reason to delay any longer. Tomorrow would prove a most interesting day—a Christmas he’d certainly remember.
Mr. Guildhall stopped and Ashby caught sight of what his minion had already seen.
In the glass case where the assorted Napoleonic relics and books should be waiting, he saw one volume. But the second book was gone. Only a small card, angled on the wooden easel, remained.
A moment of silence seemed like an hour.
He quelled his dismay, stepped close, and read what was written on the card.
Lord Ashby, if you’re a good boy,
we’ll give you the book.
“What does that mean?” Caroline asked.
“I assume it’s Eliza Larocque’s way of keeping me in line.”
He smiled at the fervor of hope in his lie.
“It says we’ll.”
“She must mean the club.”
“She gave you all the other information she had. She provided the intel on this place.” The words were more question than statement.
“She’s cautious. Perhaps she doesn’t want us to have it all. Not just yet, anyway.”
“You shouldn’t have called her.”
He caught the next question in her eyes and said, “We go back to England.”
They retreated from the gallery and his mind clicked through the possibilities. Caroline knew nothing of his secret collaboration with Washington, which was why he’d blamed the missing book on Larocque and the Paris Club.
But the truth frightened him even more.
The Americans knew his business.
MALONE WATCHED FROM THE FAR END OF THE HALL AS ASHBY and company fled the gallery. He grinned at Ashby’s dilemma, noticing how he’d deceived Caroline Dodd. He then departed through a rear stairway and escaped the Invalides out its north façade. He flagged a taxi, crossed the Seine, and found Le Grand Véfour.
He entered the restaurant and glanced around at a pleasant room, entirely French, with resplendent walls sheathed in gilt-edged mirrors. He scanned the clothed tables and caught sight of Thorvaldsen sitting with a handsome-looking woman, dressed in a gray business suit, her back to him.
He casually displayed the book and smiled.
THORVALDSEN NOW KNEW THAT THE BALANCE OF POWER HAD shifted. He was in total control, and neither Ashby nor Eliza Larocque realized it.
Not yet anyway.
So he placed one knee over the other, leaned back in his chair, and returned his attention to his hostess, confident that soon all his debts would be paid.
THIRTY-NINE
12:15 PM
SAM FOLLOWED MEAGAN MORRISON AND STEPHANIE NELLE AS they each paid admission to the Eiffel Tower. The lines at the other two entrances, with elevators to the first and second platforms, were massive, at least a two-hour wait. But the one here at the south pylon was much shorter, since the only way to the first platform was to climb 347 steps.
“We don’t have time to wait in line,” Stephanie Nelle had said.
Sam had spent the night at a Left Bank hotel in one room, Meagan Morrison in another, two Secret Service agents guarding their doors. Stephanie had listened to the information Meagan had to offer, then she’d made a few phone calls. After apparently confirming at least some of what she’d heard, she’d insisted on protective custody.
“Do field agents wear the same clothes all the time?” he asked Stephanie as they climbed the stairs. He was going on three days with his current ensemble.
“Few tuxedos or designer digs,” she said. “You make do, and get the job done.”
They passed a riser marked 134. Four immense, lattice-girder piers, the space within them larger than a football field, supported the tower’s first platform—189 feet high, as a sign at the bottom of the stairs had informed. The pylons tapered upward to a second platform, at 379 feet, then continued rising to the top level observation deck, at 905 feet. The tallest structure in Paris—a gangly network of exposed puddle iron, riveted together, painted a brownish gray, the image of which had evolved into one of the most recognizable in the world.
Meagan was handling the climb with easy effort, but his own calves ached. She’d said little last evening, after they were taken to the hotel. But he’d made the right choice going with her from the museum. Now he was working with the head of the Magellan Billet.
Ten more minutes of climbing and they tackled the final flight.
The first-floor platform was busy with visitors swarming through a souvenir shop, post office, exhibit hall, snack bar, and restaurant. Elevators on the far side led down to ground level. Another 330 or so steps right-angled upward to the second level. The first-level platform wound around an open center that offered a view down to the plaza.
Stephanie rested against the iron railing. He and Meagan joined her. Together they stared across at a glass wall and doors, above which lettering identified LA SALLE GUSTAV EIFFEL.
“The Paris Club meets in that room tomorrow,” Meagan told Stephanie in a whisper.
“And how do you really know that?”
They’d had this same conversation yesterday. Obviously Stephanie was practicing the old adage, “Ask the same question enough and see if you get the same answer.”
“Look, Ms. Justice Department,” Meagan said. “I’ve played along with your show of authority. I’ve even tried to be helpful. But if you still don’t believe me, then what are we doing here?”
Stephanie did not respond to the challenge. Instead, they continued to lean against the railing and kept their gazes focused on the far side.
“I know they will be here tomorrow,” Meagan finally said. “It’s a big to-do. The whole club coming together on Christmas.”
“Odd time for a meeting,” Sam said.
“Christmas here is a strang
e holiday. I learned that a long time ago. The French aren’t all that big on yuletide cheer. Most leave town for the day, and the rest go to restaurants. They all like to eat this cake called a bûche de Noël. Looks like a log and tastes like wood with butter frosting on it. So it doesn’t surprise me the club’s meeting on Christmas.”
“The Eiffel Tower is open?” Sam asked.
Meagan nodded. “At one PM.”
“Tell me again what you know,” Stephanie said.
Meagan appeared irritated, but complied. “Larocque rented the Gustav Eiffel Room, right over there. The shindig starts at eleven AM and goes to four PM. She’s even catered lunch. I guess she thinks two hundred feet in the air gives her and her accomplices some privacy.”
“Any security?” Stephanie asked.
“Now, how would I know that? But I’m betting you do.”
Stephanie seemed to relish the crisp bite of Meagan’s pronouncement. “The city owns the tower, but the Société Nouvelle d’Exploitation de la Tour Eiffel operates the site. They have a private firm that provides security, along with the Paris police and French military.”
Sam had noticed a police station beneath the south tower entrance, along with some serious-looking men, dressed in combat fatigues, toting automatic rifles.
“I checked,” Stephanie said. “There is a group scheduled in that room tomorrow, for that time frame, which contracted for some additional security. The meeting hall itself will be closed off. The tower is closed until one PM. After that, there should be as many people visiting then as today, which is a considerable number.”
“Like I said,” Meagan made clear. “It’s the first time the club has ventured out of its house in the Marais. The one I showed Sam yesterday.”
“And you think that’s significant?” Stephanie asked Meagan.
“Has to be. This club is trouble.”