MALONE SUDDENLY REALIZED THAT HE’D MADE A DANGEROUS mistake. He recalled the museum brochure and knew that he was headed into the upper chapel, a small, compact space with only one way in and out.
He rushed inside the chapel and caught sight of its flamboyant Gothic style, highlighted by a central pillar rising to a rib vault that spread out like palm branches. Maybe twenty by thirty feet in size, devoid of all furnishings, nowhere to hide.
He still held the sword, but it was little use against a man with a gun.
Think.
SAM WONDERED WHAT THE WOMAN INTENDED. SHE’D OBVIOUSLY started the fight and now seemed intent on ending it.
Two more shots banged through the museum, but not from her gun, and not directed their way.
Keenly aware of bullets flying past, he carefully risked a glance and saw one of the attackers retreat behind an intact display case and fire his gun in another direction.
The woman saw this, too.
Someone else was firing at their attackers.
Three more rounds entered the red room and the shooter was caught in a crossfire, his attention more on the danger behind him than ahead. The woman seemed to be waiting for the right moment. When it came, she delivered another round.
The shooter lunged for cover, but another shot caught him in the chest. He staggered awkwardly. Sam heard a cry of pain, then watched as the man’s twitching body collapsed to the floor.
MALONE BRACED HIMSELF. HIS SCALP TINGLED WITH FEAR. HE could only hope that his attacker approached the chapel with caution, unsure what lay beyond its unobstructed doorway. With a little luck the sword might prove enough of a weapon to grant him a few seconds of advantage, but this whole endeavor was turning into a nightmare—par for the course when Thorvaldsen was involved.
“Halt,” he heard a male voice shout.
A moment passed.
“I said halt.”
A gun exploded.
Flesh and bones thudded to a hard surface. Had the police, or museum security, finally acted? He waited, unsure.
“Mr. Malone, you can come out. He’s down.”
He wasn’t that stupid. He inched his way to the doorway’s edge and stole a peek. Burly lay on the floor, facedown, blood oozing from beneath him in a steady deluge. A few feet away a man in a dark suit stood with both feet planted, hands grasping a Sig Sauer .357 semi-automatic, pointed at the body. Malone noted the brush-cut hair, stern looks, and trim physique. He’d also caught the clear English, with a southern twang.
But the gun was the giveaway.
Model P229. Standard issue.
Secret Service.
The muzzle of the gun swung upward until it was aimed straight at Malone’s chest.
“Drop the sword.”
SAM WAS RELIEVED THAT THE THREAT SEEMED ELIMINATED.
“Malone,” he called out, hoping that was who’d taken the man down.
MALONE HEARD SAM CALL HIS NAME. HE STILL HELD THE SWORD, but the Sig remained pointed his way.
“Keep quiet,” the man softly said. “And drop the damn sword.”
SAM HEARD NOTHING IN RESPONSE TO HIS SHOUTS.
He faced the woman, only to see that her gun was now aimed straight at him.
“Time for you and me to go,” she said.
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
THIRTY-ONE
MALONE WAS LED AT GUNPOINT THROUGH THE DESERTED MUSEUM. All of the patrons were gone, and apparently the interior had been locked down. There’d been a lot of shooting, which made him wonder about the lack of police or museum security.
“What’s the Secret Service doing here?” As if he had to ask. “Did you happen to see one of your own? Young guy. Good looking. A bit eager. Name’s Sam Collins.”
But it won him only more silence.
They passed through an exhibit hall with dark red walls, more altarpieces, and three display cases in shambles. Somebody in an official capacity was really going to be pissed.
He spotted another bleeding body lying on the floor.
Flat Face.
At the room’s other exit a stairway dropped down to his right and an open double doorway broke the wall to his left. A laminated placard announced that beyond was LA DAME à LA LICORNE.
Malone pointed. “In there?”
The man nodded, then lowered his gun and withdrew back into the red gallery. The agent’s diffident way amused him.
He stepped into a dark space that displayed six colorful tapestries, each carefully illuminated with indirect light. Ordinarily he’d be impressed, as he recalled that these were among the museum’s most prized possessions, 15th-century originals, but it was the solitary figure sitting on one of three benches in the center of the room that connected all the dots.
Stephanie Nelle.
His former boss.
“You managed to destroy another national treasure,” she said, rising and facing him.
“Wasn’t me this time.”
“Who slammed a chair into a glass case to get a sword and shield?”
“I see you were watching.”
“The French want you,” she made clear.
“Which means I owe you—” He caught himself. “No. I probably owe President Daniels. Right?”
“He personally intervened, once I reported that all hell had broken loose.”
“What about the museum guard who was shot?”
“On the way to the hospital. He should make it.”
“The guy outside. Secret Service?”
She nodded. “On loan.”
He’d known Stephanie a long time, having worked for her twelve years at the Justice Department in the Magellan Billet. They’d been through a lot together, especially over the past two years, ever since he’d supposedly retired.
“I’m sorry about your father,” she told him.
He hadn’t thought about the last two weeks in a few hours. “Thanks for what you did on your end.”
“It needed to be done.”
“Why are you here?
“Sam Collins. I understand you two have met.”
He sat on one of the benches and allowed the tapestries to draw his gaze. Each comprised a dark blue rounded isle, strewn with flowery plants, in vibrant colors that ranged from deep red to bright pink. A noble lady with a unicorn and a lion was depicted on all six, in varying scenes. He knew the allegory—representations of the five senses, mythical enchantment. Subtle messages from long ago, which he’d had more than his share of lately.