“So kill him and be done with it.”
“Not good enough. First I want to take from him all that is precious. I want him humiliated and disgraced. I want him to feel the pain I feel every day.” He paused. “But I need your help.”
“You’ve got it.”
He reached out and clasped his friend’s shoulder.
“What about Sam and his Paris Club?” Malone asked.
“We’re going to deal with that, too. It can’t be ignored. We have to see what’s there. Sam derived much of his information from a friend in Paris. I’d like for you two to pay that man a visit. Learn what you can.”
“And when we do, are you going to kill all of them, too?”
“No. I’m going to join them.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
EIGHTEEN
PARIS, FRANCE
1:23 PM
MALONE LOVED PARIS. HE REGARDED IT AS A DELIGHTFUL CONJUNCTION of old and new, every corner volatile and alive. He’d visited the city many times when he worked with the Magellan Billet, and knew his way around its medieval hovels. He wasn’t happy, though, with this assignment.
“How did you get to know this guy?” he asked Sam.
They’d flown from Copenhagen on a midmorning flight directly to Charles de Gaulle Airport and taken a taxi downtown into the boisterous Latin Quarter, named long ago for the only language then permitted within the university precinct. Like almost everything else, Napoleon abolished the use of Latin, but the name stuck. Officially known as the fifth arrondissement, the quarter remained a haven for artists and intellectuals. Students from the nearby Sorbonne dominated its cobblestones, though tourists were drawn to both the ambience and the staggering array of shops, cafés, galleries, bookstalls, and nightclubs.
“We met online,” Sam said.
He listened as Sam told him about Jimmy Foddrell, an American expatriate who’d come to Paris to study economics and decided to stay. Foddrell had started a website three years ago—GreedWatch.net—that became popular among the New Age/world conspiratorialist crowd. The Paris Club was one of its more recent obsessions.
You never know, Thorvaldsen had said earlier. Foddrell is getting his information somewhere, and there might be something we can use.
Since Malone couldn’t argue with that logic, he’d agreed to come.
“Foddrell has a master’s in global economics from the Sorbonne,” Sam told him.
“And what has he done with it?”
They stood before a squatty-looking church labeled ST.-JULIENLE-PAUVRE, supposedly the oldest in Paris. Down Rue Galande, off to their right, Malone recognized the line of old houses and steeples as one of the most painted scenes of the Left Bank. To their left, just across a busy boulevard and the tranquil Seine, stood Notre Dame, busy with Christmastime visitors.
“Nothing I know of,” Sam said. “He seems to work on his website—big into worldwide economic conspiracies.”
“Which makes it tough to get a real job.”
They left the church and walked toward the Seine, following a well-kept lane checkered by winter sunlight. A chilly breeze stirred leaves along the dry pavement. Sam had emailed Foddrell and requested a meeting, which led to another email exchange, which finally instructed them to go to 37 Rue de la B?cherie, which Malone now saw was, of all things, a bookshop.
Shakespeare & Company.
He knew the place. Every Parisian guidebook noted this secondhand shop as a cultural landmark. More than fifty years old, started by an American who modeled it after and named it for Sylvia Beach’s famous Parisian store from the early 20th century. Beach’s kindness and free lending policies made her den mother to many a noted writer—Hemingway, Pound, Fitzgerald, Stein, and Joyce included. This reincarnation was little of that, yet it had managed to carve for itself a popular bohemian niche.
“Your friend a book guy?” Malone asked.
“He mentioned this place once. He actually lived here for a while, when he first came to Paris. The owner allows it. There are cots among the shelves inside. In return, you have to work around the store and read a book each day. Sounded a little goofy to me.”
He grinned.
He’d read about those boarders, who called themselves tumble-weeds, some staying for months at a time. And he’d visited the shop in years past, but he actually preferred another secondhand vendor, The Abbey Bookstore, a couple of blocks over, which had provided him with some excellent first editions.
He stared at the eclectic wooden fa?ade, alive with color, which seemed unsteady on its stone foundations. Empty wooden benches lined the storefront beneath rickety casement windows. Christmas being only forty-eight hours away explained why the sidewalk was busy, and why a steady flow of people paraded in and out of the shop’s main doors.
“He told us to go upstairs,” Sam said, “to the mirror of love. Whatever that is.”
They entered.
Inside reeked of age, with twisted oak beams overhead and cracked tiles underfoot. Books were stacked haphazardly on sagging shelves that stretched across every wall. More books were piled on the floor. Light came from bare bulbs screwed into tacky brass chandeliers. People bundled in coats, gloves, and scarves browsed the shelves.
He and Sam climbed a red staircase to the next floor. At the top, amid children’s books, he caught sight of a long wall mirror plastered with handwritten notes and photos. Most were thank-yous from people who’d resided in the shop over the years. Each loving and sincere, reflecting an admiration for their apparent once-in-a-lifetime experience. One card, a bright pink, taped near the center, caught his eye.
Sam, remember our talk last year.
Who I said was right.
Check out his book in the Business section.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Malone muttered. “Is this guy on medication?”