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 Fran?ois’ 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.”