“I came to see you,” a male said from inside the storage room.
He stopped and noted the voice’s nuances. Young. Late twenties, early thirties. American, with a trace of an accent. And calm. Just matter-of-fact.
“So you break into my shop?”
“I had to.”
The voice was close now, just on the other side of the doorway. He retreated from the wall and aimed the gun, waiting for the speaker to show himself.
A shadowy form appeared in the doorway.
Medium height, thin, wearing a waist-length coat. Short hair. Hands at his sides, both empty. The face blocked by the night.
He kept the gun aimed and said, “I need a name.”
“Sam Collins.”
“What do you want?”
“Henrik Thorvaldsen is in trouble.”
“What else is new?”
“People are coming to kill him.”
“What people?”
“We have to get to Thorvaldsen.”
He kept the gun aimed, finger on the trigger. If Sam Collins so much as shuddered he’d cut him down. But he had a feeling, the sort agents acquired through hard-fought experience, one that told him this young man was not lying.
“What people?” he asked again.
“We need to go to him.”
He heard glass break from below.
“Another thing,” Sam Collins said. “Those people. They’re coming after me, too.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
TWO
BASTIA, CORSICA
1:05 AM
GRAHAM ASHBY STOOD ATOP THE PLACE DU DUJON AND ADMIRED the tranquil harbor. Around him, crumbly pastel houses were stacked like crates among churches, the olden structures overshadowed by the plain stone tower that had become his perch. His yacht, Archimedes, lay at anchor half a kilometer away in the Vieux Port. He admired its sleek, illuminated silhouette against the silvery water. Winter’s second night had spawned a cool dry wind from the north that swept across Bastia. A holiday stillness hung heavy, Christmas was only two days away, but he could not care less.
The Terra Nova, once Bastia’s center of military and administrative activity, had now become a quarter of affluence with lofty apartments and trendy shops lining a maze of cobbled streets. A few years ago, he’d almost invested in the boom, but decided against it. Real estate, especially along the Mediterranean shoreline, no longer brought the return it once had.
He gazed northeast at the Jetée du Dragon, an artificial quay that had not existed just a few decades ago. To build it, engineers had destroyed a giant lion-shaped rock dubbed the Leone, which once blocked the harbor and had figured prominently in many pre-twentieth-century engravings. When Archimedes had cruised into the protected waters two hours ago, he’d quickly spotted the unlit castle keep upon which he now stood—built by the island’s 14th century Genoese governors—and wondered if tonight would be the night.
He hoped so.
Corsica was not one of his favorite places. Nothing but a mountain springing from the sea, 115 miles long, 52 miles wide, 5,500 square miles, 600 miles of coast. Its geography varied from alpine peaks to deep gorges, pine forests, glacial lakes, pastures, fertile valleys, and even some desert. At one time or another Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, Aragonese, Italians, Brits, and the French had conquered, but none had ever subjugated the island’s rebellious spirit.
Another reason why he’d passed on investing. Far too many variables in this unruly French département.
The industrious Genoese founded Bastia in 1380 and built fortresses to protect it, his tower perch one of the last remaining. The town had served as the capital of the island until 1791, when Napoleon decided that his birthplace, Ajaccio, in the south, would be better. He knew the locals had still not forgiven the little emperor for that transgression.
He buttoned his Armani overcoat and stood close to a medieval parapet. His tailored shirt, trousers, and sweater clung to his fifty-eight-year-old frame with a reassuring feel. He bought all his ensembles at Kingston & Knight, as had his father and grandfather. Yesterday a London barber had spent half an hour trimming his gray mane, eliminating those pale waves that seemed to make him look older. He was proud at how he retained the appearance and vigor of a more youthful man and, as he continued to gaze out past a dark Bastia, at the Tyrrhenian Sea, he savored the satisfaction of a man who’d truly arrived.
He glanced at his watch.
He’d come to solve a mystery, one that had tantalized treasure hunters for more than sixty years, and he detested tardiness.
He heard footsteps from the nearby staircase that angled its way twenty meters upward. During the day, tourists climbed to gawk at the scenery and snap pictures. At this hour no one visited.
A man appeared in the weak light.
He was small, with a headful of bushy hair. Two deep lines cut the flesh from above the nostrils to his mouth. His skin was as brown as a walnut shell, the dark pigments heightened by a white mustache.
And he was dressed like a cleric.
The skirts of a black soutane swished as he walked closer.
“Lord Ashby, I apologize for my lateness, but it could not be helped.”
“A priest?” he asked, pointing to the robe.
“I thought a disguise best for tonight. Few ask questions of them.” The man grabbed a few breaths, winded from the climb.
Ashby had selected this hour with great care and timed his arrival with English precision. But everything was now out of kilter by nearly half an hour.
“I detest unpleasantness,” he said, “but sometimes a frank, face-to-face discussion is necessary.” He pointed a finger. “You, sir, are a liar.”
“That I am. I freely admit.”
“You cost me time and money, neither of which I like to expend.”
“Unfortunately, Lord Ashby, I find myself in short supply of both.” The man paused. “And I knew you needed my help.”
Last time he’d allowed this man to learn too much.