Walls scabbed of brick and stone rose fifty feet around him. Light trickled in from windows high up, near a vaulted ceiling, the space chilly, with the look and feel of a dungeon. Some repair work was ongoing, as scaffolding had been erected against one of the rough-hewn walls.
“You can go or stay,” the woman said to him. “But I really need you to stay.”
“Who are you?”
“Meagan Morrison. GreedWatch is my website.”
“Not his?” he asked, pointing at Foddrell.
She shook her head. “All mine.”
“What’s he doing here?”
She seemed to be deciding what—and how much—to say. “I wanted you to see that I’m not crazy. That there are people after me. They’ve been watching me for weeks. Michael works with me on the site. I made up the Foddrell name and used him as a decoy.”
“So you led me and Malone here?” he asked the man she’d called Michael.
“It was pretty easy, actually.”
Yes, it was.
“I work here, at the museum,” she said. “When you emailed and said you wanted to meet, I was glad. Those two guys who were shot have been following Michael for two weeks. If I’d told you that, you wouldn’t have believed me. So I showed you. There are some other men who also come nearly every day and check on me, but they think I don’t notice.”
“I have people who can help.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t want people. In fact, it’s probably some of your people doing that other watching. FBI. Secret Service. Who knows? I want to deal with you.” She paused. “You and I”—the anger had dropped form her voice—“see eye-to-eye.”
He was transfixed by her earnestness, along with the attractive, wounded look on her face. But he had to say, “People were shot in there. One of the guards was hurt bad.”
“And I hate that, but I didn’t start this.”
“Actually, you did. Yelling at those two guys.”
She was petite, full-bosomed, slender-waisted, and feisty. Her fiery blue eyes sparkled with an almost fiendish delight—commanding and confident. He was actually the tense one, his palms moist, and he desperately didn’t want to show his anxiety. So he assumed a casual pose and weighed his options.
“Sam,” she said, her voice softer. “I need to talk with you. Privately. Those guys have been on Michael’s trail. Not mine. The others, the Americans who watch me, we just avoided them by getting out of there.”
“Are they the ones who shot those two?”
She shrugged. “Who else?”
“I want to know who sent those two we followed here. Who do they work for?”
She stared back with an expression of undisguised boldness. He felt himself being appraised. Part of him was repelled, another part hoped she was at least somewhat impressed.
“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”
MALONE LISTENED AS STEPHANIE EXPLAINED ABOUT GREEDWATCH.
“It’s run by the woman who started this melee. Meagan Morrison. She’s an American, educated here, at the Sorbonne, in economics. She set you up sending the other young man—Foddrell. That’s a pseudonym Morrison uses to operate the website.”
He shook his head. “Played by an idiot who eats kidneys for lunch. Story of my life.”
She chuckled. “I’m glad you fell for it. Made it easy for us to connect. Daniels told me that Sam has been in contact with GreedWatch for over a year now. He was told to stop, but he didn’t listen. The Secret Service, through its Paris field office, has been monitoring the site, and Morrison herself, for the past few months. She’s a sly one. The guy who led you here is set up as the official webmaster. For the past two weeks, he’s been under separate surveillance, which the Service traced back to Eliza Larocque.”
“None of which tells me why you’re here and know all this.”
“We think that website is privy to some inside info, and apparently so does Larocque.”
“You didn’t come here just to tell me about a website. What’s really going on?”
“Peter Lyon.”
He knew about the South African. One of the world’s most wanted men. Into illicit arms, political assassination, terrorism, whatever the client wanted. Billed himself as a broker of chaos. When Malone retired two years ago, at least a dozen bombings and hundreds of deaths were linked to Lyon.
“He’s still in business?” he asked.
“More so than ever. Ashby has been meeting with him. Larocque is planning something that involves Lyon. Men like him don’t surface often. This may be the best chance we ever have to nail him.”
“And Ashby holding out information on that possible opportunity isn’t a problem?”
“I know. I wasn’t running this operation. I would have never allowed him to call those shots.”
“It’s obvious he’s playing both ends against the middle. They sure as hell can’t let him continue to hold back.”
“He won’t. Not anymore. This is now a Billet operation. As of twelve hours ago, I’m in charge. So I want the SOB squeezed.”
“Before or after Henrik kills him?”
“Preferably before. Ashby met with Lyon in Westminister just a few hours ago. We had parabolic mikes on the conversation.”
“I see somebody was thinking. What about Lyon?”
“They let him be. No tail, and I agreed with that. If he gets spooked, he’ll go to ground. Right now he’s comfortable coming to Ashby.”
He smiled at Lyon’s cockiness. “Glad to know everyone screws up.”
“Some keys were passed from Ashby to Lyon and a two-day time frame mentioned, but not much else. I have a tape of the conversation.” She paused. “Now, where is the merry Dane? I need to talk to him.”
“He went to see Eliza Larocque.”
He knew that revelation would grab her attention.
“Please tell me Thorvaldsen’s not going to spook her, too?”
He noticed a flash of anger in her eyes. Stephanie liked to run her operations her way.
“He’s going to get his revenge,” he made clear.
“Not as long as I’m here. Ashby is all we have, at the moment, to learn what Lyon is doing.”
“Not necessarily. By now, Henrik’s wiggled his way into the Paris Club. He could actually prove helpful.”