He watched as Lyon engaged in a conversation with a dowager standing beside him. Malone noticed a copy of The Times lying on the floor. He asked if the paper belonged to anyone and, when no one claimed ownership, he grabbed and read the front page, allowing his gaze to periodically shift from the words.
He also kept track of the stations.
Fifteen came and went before Lyon exited at Earl’s Court. The stop was shared by the District and Piccadilly lines, blue and green signs directing passengers to either route. Lyon followed the blue signs for the Piccadilly Line, headed west, which he boarded with Malone a car behind. He didn’t think it prudent to share the same space again and was able to spy his quarry through windows in the car ahead.
A quick glance at a map over the doors confirmed they were headed straight for Heathrow Airport.
FORTY-SIX
PARIS
THORVALDSEN STUDIED THE TWO PAGES OF WRITING FROM THE Merovingian book. He’d expected Malone to hand over the entire book to Murad when they’d met earlier at the Louvre but, for some reason, that had not occurred.
“He only made me copies of the two pages,” Murad said to him. “He took the book with him.”
They were again sitting at the Ritz, in the crowded Bar Hemingway.
“Cotton didn’t happen to mention where he was going?”
Murad shook his head. “Not a word. I spent the day at the Louvre comparing more handwriting samples. This page, with the fourteen lines of letters, was definitely written by Napoleon. I can only assume that the Roman numerals are in his hand too.”
He checked the clock on the wall behind the bar. Nearly eleven PM. He did not like being kept in the dark. God knows he’d done that enough to others, but it was a different matter when it was his turn.
“The letter you told me about,” Murad said. “The one Ashby found on Corsica, with the raised letters coded to Psalm 31. Any letter written by Napoleon to his family would have been an excercise in futility. His second wife, Marie Louise, had by 1821 birthed a child with another man, while still legally married to Napoleon. The emperor surely never knew that since he kept a portrait of her in his house on St. Helena. He revered her. Of course, she was in Austria, back with her father, the king, who’d aligned himself with Tsar Alexander and helped defeat Napoleon. There’s no evidence that the letter Napoleon wrote ever made it to her, or his son. In fact, after Napoleon died, an emissary traveled to Vienna with some last messages from him, and she refused to even see the messenger.”
“Lucky for us.”
Murad nodded. “Napoleon was a fool when it came to women. The one who could have really helped him, he discarded. Josephine. She was barren and he needed an heir. So he divorced her and married Marie Louise.” The professor motioned with the two photocopies. “Yet here he is, sending secret messages to his second wife, thinking her still an ally.”
“Any clue what the reference to Psalm 31 means from the letter Ashby found?” he asked.
The scholar shook his head. “Have you read that Psalm? Seems his way of feeling sorry for himself. I did come across something interesting, though, this afternoon in one of the texts for sale at the Louvre. After Napoleon abdicated in 1814, the new Paris government sent emissaries to Orleans to confiscate Marie Louise’s clothing, imperial plate, diamonds, everything of value. They questioned her at length about Napoleon’s wealth, but she told them she knew nothing, which was probably true.”
“So the search for his cache started then?”
“It would seem so.”
“And continues to this day.”
Which made him think of Ashby.
Tomorrow they’d finally find themselves face-to-face.
And what about Malone.
What was he doing?
MALONE STEPPED FROM THE TRAIN AND FOLLOWED LYON INTO Terminal Two at Heathrow. He was worried that his quarry was about to leave London, but the man ventured nowhere near any ticket counters or security screening. Instead he passed through the terminal, stopping at a checkpoint, displaying what appeared to be a picture identification. No way Malone could safely follow, as the corridor was empty, a solitary door at its far end. So he stepped into an alcove, removed the cell phone from his coat pocket, and dialed Stephanie’s number.
“I’m at Heathrow Airport at a checkpoint marked 46-B. I need to get past it, and fast. There’s a single guard with a radio.”
“Sit tight. I have the right people here with me now.”
He liked Stephanie’s ability to instantaneously digest a problem, without questions or arguments, then fashion a solution.
He slipped from the alcove and approached the young guard. Lyon was gone, having exited the door at the far end of the corridor. He told the guard who he was, showed him his passport, and explained he needed to go through the door.
“No way,” the man said. “You have to be marked on the list.” A bony finger tapped a notebook open on the desk before him.
“Who was the man that just passed through?” he tried.
“Why would I tell you that? Who the bloody hell are you?”
The man’s radio squawked and he unclipped the unit and replied. An ear fob prevented Malone from hearing, but from the way he was now being eyed he assumed the conversation concerned him.
The guard finished his conversation.
“I’m the guy who made that call happen,” Malone said. “Now, who was the man who just passed through here?”
“Robert Pryce.”
“What’s his business?”
“No clue, but he’s been here before. What is it you need, Mr. Malone?”
He had to admire the English respect for authority.
“Where is Pryce headed?”
“His credentials assign him to Hangar 56-R.”
“Tell me how to get there.”
The guard quickly sketched a map on a piece of paper and pointed to the door at the far end of the hall. “That leads onto the apron.”
Malone trotted off and exited into the night.
He quickly found Hangar 56-R, three of its windows lit with orange and white light. Jet engines roared in the distance above a busy Heathrow. An array of buildings of varying sizes surrounded him. This area seemed the realm of private aviation companies and corporate jets.
He decided a quick view in one of the windows was the safest course. He rounded the building and passed the retracting door. On the other side he crept to a window and glanced in, spotting a single-engine Cessna Skyhawk. The man who called himself Robert Pryce, but who was surely Peter Lyon, was busy inspecting the wings and engine. The fuselage was white, striped blue and yellow, and Malone memorized the tail identification numbers. No one else could be seen in the hangar and Lyon seemed focused on a visual inspection. The Selfridges bag rested on the concrete floor near an exit door.
He watched as Lyon climbed inside the plane, lingered for a few minutes, then slipped out, slamming the cabin door shut. Lyon grabbed the shopping bag and switched off the hangar lights.
He needed to beat a retreat while he still could. Exposure was a real possibility.
Malone heard a metal door open, then close.
He froze, hoping his prey was heading back toward the terminal. If he came this way, there’d be no escape.
He crept to the corner and stole a quick glance.
Lyon was making his way back toward the terminal, but not before he stepped to a dumpster between the darkened hangars and tossed the Selfridges bag inside.
Malone wanted that bag, but he also did not want to lose his target.
So he waited until Lyon reentered the terminal, then rushed to the trash bin. No time to climb inside, so he hustled to the door, hesitated a moment, then cautiously turned the knob.
Only the guard was visible, still sitting at his desk.
Malone entered and asked, “Where did he go?”
The guard pointed toward the main terminal.
“There’s a Selfridges bag in a dumpster outside. Stash it somewhere s
afe. Don’t open or disturb the contents in any way. I’ll be back. Understand?”
“What’s not to?”
He liked this young man’s attitude.
In the heart of the terminal, Malone did not spot Peter Lyon. He raced for the Underground station and saw that a train was not scheduled to arrive for another ten minutes. He backtracked and scanned the assortment of rental car counters, shops, and currency exchange vendors. A good number of people milled about for nearly ten PM on Christmas Eve.
He drifted toward a men’s room and entered.
The dozen or so urinals were unused, white tiles glistening under the glare of bright fluorescent lights. Warm air smelled of bleach. He used one of the urinals, then washed his hands, lathering soap and cleaning his face.
The cold water felt good.
He rinsed the suds away and reached for a paper towel, dabbing his cheeks and forehead dry, swiping soapy water from his eyes. When he opened them, in the mirror, he saw a man standing behind him.
“And who are you?” Lyon asked in a deep throaty voice, more American than European.
“Somebody who’d like to put a bullet in your head.”
The deep amber color of the eyes drew his attention, their oily sheen casting a spell.
Lyon slowly removed his hand from his coat pocket, revealing a small-caliber pistol. “A shame you can’t. Did you enjoy the tour? Jack the Ripper is fascinating.”
“I can see how he would be to you.”
Lyon gave a light chuckle. “I so enjoy dry wit. Now—”
A small boy rushed inside the restroom, rounding the open doorway that led back out to the terminal, calling after his dad. Malone used the unexpected distraction to slam his right elbow into Lyon’s gun hand.
The weapon discharged with a loud retort, the bullet finding the ceiling.
Malone lunged forward and propelled both himself and Lyon into a marble partition. His left hand clamped onto Lyon’s wrist and forced the gun upward.
He heard the boy yell, then other voices.
He brought a knee into Lyon’s abdomen, but the man seemed to anticipate the move and pivoted away.
Lyon apparently realized the confines were tightening, so he darted for the door. Malone raced after him and wrapped his arm around Lyon’s neck, one hand on the face, yanking back, but the gun butt suddenly slammed into Malone’s forehead.
The room winked in and out.
His balance and grip failed.