He knew this woman sought strength from her heritage. She spoke of it often, and with pride. In that respect they were similar.
“Unlike Napoleon,” she said, “di Borgo remained a true Corsican patriot. He loved his homeland and always placed its interests first. When Napoleon finally occupied Corsica for France, di Borgo’s name was specifically excluded from the list of those granted political amnesty. So he fled. Napoleon hunted him all over Europe. Di Borgo, though, managed to elude capture.”
“And, at the same time, maneuvered the emperor’s downfall. Quite a feat.”
Thorvaldsen had been schooled on how Pozzo di Borgo exerted pressure on the French court and cabinet, inflaming the jealousies of Napoleon’s many brothers and sisters, eventually becoming a conduit for any and all French opposition. He served with the British at their embassy in Vienna, becoming persona grata in Austrian political circles. Then his real opportunity came when he entered the Russian diplomatic service, as commissioner to the Prussian army. Eventually, he became the tsar’s right hand in all affairs connected with France and convinced Alexander not to make peace with Napoleon. For twelve years he skillfully kept France embroiled in controversy, knowing Napoleon could fight, and win, on only so many fronts. In the end his efforts worked, but his life was one of unrecognized success. History hardly mentioned him. He died in 1842, mentally deranged but incredibly wealthy. His assets were bequeathed to nephews, one of whom was Eliza Larocque’s ancestor, whose descendants multiplied that wealth a hundred times over, establishing one of the great European fortunes.
“Di Borgo carried the vendetta to its end,” he said, “but I wonder, madame, did your Corsican ancestor, in his hatred of Napoleon, have an ulterior purpose?”
Her cold eyes communicated a look of begrudging respect. “Why don’t you tell me what you already know.”
“You’re looking for Napoleon’s lost cache. That’s why Lord Ashby is part of your group. He is—shall we politely say—a collector.”
She smiled at the word. “I see I made a serious error not approaching you long ago.”
Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Thankfully, I do not hold a grudge.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
TWENTY-FOUR
PARIS
MALONE’S PATIENCE WITH JIMMY FODDRELL WAS WEARING thin. “All this cloak-and-dagger crap isn’t necessary. Who the hell’s after you?”
“You have no idea how many people I’ve riled up.”
Malone waved off the younger man’s fear. “News flash. Nobody gives a damn. I’ve read your site. It’s a bunch of garbage. And by the way, there’s medication you can take that’ll ease your paranoia.”
Foddrell faced Sam. “You said you had someone who wanted to learn. Who had an open mind. It’s not this guy, is it?”
“Teach me,” Malone said.
Foddrell’s thin lips parted to show the top of a gold tooth. “Right now, I’m hungry.”
Foddrell motioned for a waiter. Malone listened as the younger man ordered pan-fried veal kidneys in a mustard sauce. Just the thought of that turned his stomach. Hopefully, they’d be done talking before the food arrived. He declined ordering anything for himself.
“I’ll take the c?te de boeuf,” Sam said.
“For what?” Malone asked.
“I’m hungry, too.”
He shook his head.
The waiter left and he again asked Foddrell, “Why are you so afraid?”
“There are some powerful people in this town who know all about me.”
Malone told himself to let the fool talk. Somewhere, somehow, they might stumble onto a nugget or two.
“They make us follow them,” Foddrell said. “Even though we don’t know it. They create policy, and we don’t know it. They create our needs and possess the means to satisfy them, and we don’t know it. We work for them, and, we don’t know it. We buy their products, and—”
“Who is they?” he asked.
“People like the U.S. Federal Reserve. One of the most powerful groups in the world.”
He knew he shouldn’t ask, but, “Why do you say that?”
“I thought you said this guy was cool,” Foddrell said to Sam. “He doesn’t know spit.”
“Look,” Malone answered, “I’ve been into the whole alien autopsy, Area 51 thing, for the past few years. This monetary stuff is new to me.”
Foddrell pointed a nervous finger. “Okay, you’re a funny man. You think this is all a big joke.”
“Why don’t you just explain yourself?”
“The Federal Reserve makes money from thin air. Then it loans it back to America and gets repaid by the taxpayers with interest. America owes the Federal Reserve trillions upon trillions. Just the annual interest on that debt, which by the way is mostly controlled by private investors, is approximately eight times bigger than the wealth of the richest man on the planet. It’ll never be paid off. A lot of people are getting filthy rich off that debt. And it’s all a cheat. If you or I printed money, then loaned it out, we’d go to jail.”
Malone recalled something he’d read earlier on Foddrell’s website. Supposedly, John Kennedy had wanted to end the Federal Reserve and signed Executive Order 11110, which instructed the U.S. government to retake control of the nation’s money supply from the Reserve. Three weeks later, Kennedy was dead. When Lyndon Johnson took office, he immediately rescinded that order. Malone had never heard such an accusation before, so he’d checked further and read Executive Order 11110, an innocuous directive whose effect, had it been carried through, would have actually strengthened, rather than weakened, the Federal Reserve system. Any relation to the signing of that order and Kennedy’s assassination was purely coincidental. And Johnson never rescinded the order. Instead, it was purged decades later along with a host of other outdated regulations.
More conspiratorial bullshit.
He decided to get to the point. “What do you know about the Paris Club?”
“Enough to know that we need to be afraid.”