FORTY-EIGHT
PARIS
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 25
10:30 AM
MALONE EXPLORED THE CHURCH OF THE DOME AT THE HÔTEL des Invalides. Six chapels jutted from a central core, each housing their respective military heroes and dedicated to either the Virgin Mary or one of the fathers of the Roman Catholic Church. He was patrolling downstairs, twenty feet below the main level, circling Napoleon’s tomb. He still hadn’t called Gary and was mad at himself for it, but last night had been long.
“Anything?” he heard Stephanie call down from above.
She was standing at a marble balustrade, staring at him.
“There’s nowhere to hide anything, much less a bomb, in this mausoleum.”
Dogs had already swept every niche. Nothing had been found. The Invalides itself was now being searched. Nothing, so far. But since Ashby had said the church was the primary target, another careful sweep of every square inch was happening.
He stood at the entrance to a small gallery lit by antique brass lamps. Inside, a floor monument identified the crypt of Napoleon II, King of Rome, 1811–1832. Towering above the son’s grave was a white marble statue of the father, decked out in coronation robes, bearing a scepter and globe with a cross.
Stephanie glanced at her watch. “It’s approaching meeting time. This building is clean, Cotton. Something’s wrong.”
They’d entered the hangar at Heathrow last night, after Peter Lyon fled the terminal, and examined the plane. The Cessna’s registration was to a nondescript Belgium corporation, owned by a fictitious Czech concern. Europol attempted to tag a human being, but all the names and addresses followed a trail to nowhere. The hangar itself was leased to the same Czech corporation, the rental paid three months in advance.
“Lyon confronted me for a reason,” he said. “He wanted us to know that he knew we were there. He left those little Eiffel Towers for us. Hell, he didn’t even shield his eyes with glasses. The question is, does Ashby know we know?”
She shook her head. “He’s at the Eiffel Tower. Arrived a few minutes ago. We would have heard about it by now, if he did know. I’m told by his handlers that he’s never been bashful about expressing himself.”
His mind rifled through the possibilities. Thorvaldsen had tried to call, three times, but he hadn’t answered or returned the calls. Malone had stayed in London last night to avoid the many questions about the book that he simply could not answer. Not now. They’d talk later. The Paris Club had gathered for its meeting. The Eiffel Tower was closed until one PM. Only club members, serving staff, and security would be on the first platform. Malone knew that Stephanie had decided against overly infecting the security detail with loaners from French intelligence. Instead, she’d snuck two sets of eyes and ears into the meeting room.
“Are Sam and Meagan in place?” he asked.
He saw her nod. “Both quite eager, I might add.”
“That’s always a problem.”
“I doubt they’re in any danger there. Larocque insisted that everyone be swept for weapons and listening devices.”
He stared at Napoleon’s monstrous tomb. “You know the thing isn’t even made of red porphyry? It’s aventurine quartzite from Finland.”
“Don’t tell the French,” she said. “But I guess it’s like the cherry tree and George Washington.”
He heard a ding and watched as Stephanie answered her cell phone, listened a moment, then ended the call.
“A new problem,” she said.
He stared up at her.
“Henrik’s at the Eiffel Tower, entering the club meeting.”
SAM WORE THE SHORT JACKET AND BLACK TROUSERS OF THE serving staff, all courtesy of Stephanie Nelle. Meagan was similarly attired. They were part of the eleven who’d set up the banquet room with only two circular tables, each clothed in gold linen and adorned with fine china. The hall itself was maybe seventy-five by fifty feet, with a stage at one end. It could have easily accommodated a couple hundred diners, so the two tables seemed lonely.
He was busy preparing coffee cups and condiments and making sure a steaming samovar worked properly. He had no idea how the machine functioned, but it kept him near where members were making their way into the gathering. To his right, courtesy of a long wall of plate-glass windows, was a spectacular view of the Seine and the Right Bank.
Three older men and two middle-aged women had already arrived, each greeted by a stately-looking woman in a gray business suit.
Eliza Larocque.
Three hours ago Stephanie Nelle had shown him photographs of the seven club members, and he connected a face to each picture. Three controlled major lending institutions, one served in the European parliament. Each had paid 20 million euros to be a part of what was happening—which, according to Stephanie, had already netted them far more than 140 million in illicit profits.
Here was the living embodiment of all he’d long suspected existed.
He and Meagan were to look and listen. Above all, Stephanie had cautioned, take no unnecessary chances that could compromise their identities.
He finished fiddling with the coffee machine and turned to leave.
Another guest arrived.
Dressed similarly to the other men in an expensive charcoal-gray business suit, white shirt, and pale yellow tie.
Henrik Thorvaldsen.
THORVALDSEN ENTERED LA SALLE GUSTAV EIFFEL AND WAS IMMEDIATELY greeted by Eliza Larocque. He extended his hand, which she lightly shook.
“I am so glad you are here,” she said. “That suit looks quite elegant.”
“I rarely wear one. But I thought it best for today’s occasion.”
She nodded in gratitude. “I appreciate the consideration. It is an important day.”
He’d kept his gaze locked on Larocque. It was important for her to think him interested. He noted the small talk occurring elsewhere in the room as a few of the other members milled about. The serving staff were busy preparing the dining and refreshment stations. Long ago he’d taught himself a useful lesson. Within two minutes of entering any room, know if you are among friends or enemies.
He recognized at least half the faces. Men and women of business and finance. A couple were genuine surprises, as he’d never thought them conspiratorialists. They were all wealthy, but not enormously, certainly not in his league, so it made some sense they would latch on to a scheme that could possibly generate some fast, easy, and unaccounted-for profits.
Before he could fully assess his surroundings, a tall, swarthy man with a silver-streaked beard and intense gray eyes approached.
Larocque smiled and extended her arm, sweeping the newcomer close, and saying, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
She faced him.
“Henrik, this is Lord Graham Ashby.”
FORTY-NINE
MALONE ASCENDED FROM NAPOLEON’S CRYPT BY WAY OF A MARBLE staircase, flanked at the top by two bronze funerary spirits. One bore the crown and hand of justice, the other a sword and globe. Stephanie waited for him, standing before the church’s great altar with its canopy of twisted columns reminiscent of Bernini’s in St. Peter’s Basilica.
“Seems Henrik’s efforts were successful,” she said. “He managed an invitation to the club.”
“He’s on a mission. You can understand that.”
“That I can. But I’m on one too, and you can understand that. I want Peter Lyon.”
He glanced around at the deserted church. “This whole thing feels wrong. Lyon knows we’re on to him. That plane at Heathrow was useless to him from the start.”
“But he also knows that we can’t tip our hand.”
Which was why the Church of the Dome was not surrounded by police. Why the Invalides’ hospital and retirement center had not been evacuated. Its ultramodern surgical unit catered to veterans, and about a hundred lived there full-time in buildings that flanked the Church of the Dome. The search for explosives had started there quietly, last night. Nothing to alert
anyone that there may be a problem. Just a calm search. A full-scale alarm would have ended any chance of nailing Lyon or the Paris Club.
But the task had proven daunting.
The Invalides comprised hundreds of thousands of square feet, spread over dozens of multistory buildings. Far too many places to hide an explosive.
The radio Stephanie carried crackled with her name, then a male voice said, “We have something.”
“Where?” she answered.
“In the cupola.”
“We’re on our way.”
THORVALDSEN SHOOK GRAHAM ASHBY’S HAND, FORCED HIS LIPS to smile, and said, “A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you as well. I’ve known of your family for many years. I also admire your porcelain.”
He nodded at the compliment.
He realized Eliza Larocque was watching his every move, performing her own assessment of both he and Ashby, so he summoned all of his charm and continued to play the role.
“Eliza tells me,” Ashby said, “that you want to join.”