“What about Sam?” Thorvaldsen finally asked. “I’m worried.”
“I’ll deal with that, too.” He recalled what Stephanie had said. “But he’s a big boy, so he’s going to have to take care of himself. At least for a while.”
SAM ENTERED THE APARTMENT IN A SECTION OF TOWN MORRISION had called Montparnasse, not far from the Cluny Museum and Luxembourg Palace, in a building that offered a charm of days long gone. Darkness had swallowed them on the walk from the Métro station.
“Lenin once lived a few blocks over,” she said. “It’s now a museum, though I can’t imagine who’d want to visit.”
“Not a fan of communism?” he asked.
“Hardly. Worse than capitalism, in a multitude of ways.”
The apartment was a spacious studio on the sixth floor with a kitchenette, bath, and the look of a student tenant. Unframed prints and travel posters brightened the walls. Improvised board-and-block shelving sagged under the weight of textbooks and paperbacks. He noticed a pair of men’s boots beside a chair and wadded jeans on the floor, far too large for Morrison.
“This isn’t my place,” she said, catching his interest. “A friend’s.”
She removed her coat, slid the gun free, and casually laid it on a table.
He noticed three computers and a blade server in one corner.
She pointed. “That’s GreedWatch. I run the site from here, but I let everyone think Jimmy Foddrell does.”
“People were hurt at the museum,” he told her again. “This isn’t a game.”
“Sure it is, Sam. A big, terrible game. But it’s not mine. It’s theirs, and people getting hurt is not my fault.”
“You started it when you screamed at those two men.”
“You had to see reality.”
He decided, instead of arguing again about the obvious, he’d do what the Secret Service had taught him—keep her talking. “Tell me about the Paris Club.”
“Curious?”
“You know I am.”
“I thought you would be. Like I said, you and I think alike.”
He wasn’t so sure about that, but kept his mouth shut.
“As far as I can tell, the club is made up of six people. All obscenely wealthy. Typical greedy bastards. Five billion in assets isn’t enough. They want six or seven. I know someone who works for one of the members—”
He pointed. “Same guy who wears those boots?”
Her grin widened into a crescent. “No. Another guy.”
“You’re a busy girl.”
“You have to be to survive in this world.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the gal who’s going to save you, Sam Collins.”
“I don’t need saving.”
“I think you do. What are you even doing here? You told me awhile back that your superiors had forbidden you to keep your website and talk to me. Yet it’s still there and you’re here, wanting to find me. Is this an official visit?”
He couldn’t tell her the truth. “You haven’t told me a thing about the Paris Club.”
She sat sideways across one of the vinyl chairs, legs draped over one arm, her spine pressed to the other. “Sam, Sam, Sam. You don’t get it, do you? These people are planning things. They’re expert financial manipulators, and they intend to actually do all the things we’ve talked about. They’re going to screw with economies. Cheat markets. Devalue currencies. You remember how oil prices were affected last year. Speculators, who artificially drove the market mad with greed, did that. These people are no different.”
“That tells me nothing.”
A knock on the door startled them both, the first time he’d seen a crack in her icy veneer. Her gaze locked on the gun, lying on the table.
“Why don’t you just answer it?” he asked.
Another knock. Light. Friendly.
“Do you think bad guys knock?” he asked, invoking his own measure of cool. “And this isn’t even your place, right?”
She threw him a discerning glance. “You learn fast.”
“I did graduate college.”
She stood and walked to the door.
When she opened it a petite woman in a beige overcoat appeared outside. Perhaps early sixties, with dark hair streaked by waves of silver, and intense brown eyes. A Burberry scarf draped her neck. One hand displayed a leather case with a badge and photo identification.
The other held a Beretta.
“Ms. Morrison,” the woman said. “I’m Stephanie Nelle. U.S. Justice Department.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
THIRTY-FIVE
LOIRE VALLEY
7:00 P.M.
ELIZA PACED THE LONG GALLERY AND EAVESDROPPED ON A WINTER wind that battered the chateau’s windows. Her mind replayed all of what she’d told Ashby over the past year, disturbed by the possibility that she might have made a huge mistake.
History noted how Napoleon Bonaparte had looted Europe, stealing untold amounts of precious metals, jewels, antiquities, paintings, books, sculptures—anything and everything of value. Inventories of that plunder existed, but no one could vouch for their accuracy. Pozzo di Borgo learned that Napoleon had secreted away portions of the spoils in a place only the emperor knew. Rumors during Napoleon’s time hinted at a fabulous cache, but nothing ever pointed the way toward it.
Twenty years her ancestor searched.
She stopped before one of the windows and gazed out into the blackness. Below her, the River Cher surged past. She basked in the room’s warmth and savored its homely perfume. She wore a thick robe over her nightclothes and sought comfort within them both. Finding that lost cache would be her way of vindicating Pozzo di Borgo. Validating her heritage. Making her family relevant.
A vendetta complete.