A mistake.
Something had happened in Corsica on September 15, 1943. Six crates were brought west from Italy by boat. Some said they were dumped into the sea, near Bastia, others believed they were hauled ashore. All accounts agreed that five Germans participated. Four of them were court-martialed for leaving the treasure in a place that would soon be in Allied hands, and they were shot. The fifth was exonerated. Unfortunately he was not privy to the final hiding place, so he searched in vain for the rest of his life.
As had many others.
“Lies are all the weapons I possess,” the Corsican made clear. “It’s what keeps powerful men like you at bay.”
“Old man—”
“I dare say, I’m not much older than you. Though my status is not as infamous. Quite a reputation you have, Lord Ashby.”
He acknowledged the observation with a nod. He understood what an image could do to, and for, a person. His family had, for three centuries, possessed a controlling interest in one of England’s oldest lending institutions. He was now the sole holder of that interest. The British press once described his luminous gray eyes, Roman nose, and flick of a smile as the visage of an aristocrat. A reporter a few years ago labeled him imposing, while another described him as swarthy and saturnine. He didn’t necessarily mind the reference to his dark complexion—something his half-Turkish mother had bestowed upon him—but it bothered him that he might be regarded as sullen and morose.
“I assure you, good sir,” he said. “I am not a man you should fear.”
The Corsican laughed. “I should hope not. Violence would accomplish nothing. After all, you seek Rommel’s gold. Quite a treasure. And I might know where it waits.”
This man was as obtrusive as he was observant. But he was also an admitted liar. “You led me on a tangent.”
The dark form laughed. “You were pushing hard. I can’t afford any public attention. Others could know. This is a small island and, if we find this treasure, I want to be able to keep my portion.”
This man worked for the Assemblée de Corse, out of Ajaccio. A minor official in the Corsican regional government, who possessed convenient access to a great deal of information.
“And who would take what we find from us?” he asked.
“People here, in Bastia, who continue to search. More who live in France and Italy. Men have died for this treasure.”
This fool apparently preferred conversations to move slowly, offering mere hints and suggestions, leading by tiny degrees to his point.
But Ashby did not have the time.
He signaled and another man exited the stairway. He wore a charcoal overcoat that blended well with his stiff gray hair. His eyes were piercing, his thin face tapered to a pointed chin. He walked straight to the Corsican and stopped.
“This is Mr. Guildhall,” Ashby said. “Perhaps you recall him from our last visit?”
The Corsican extended his hand, but Guildhall kept his hands in his coat pockets.
“I do,” the Corsican said. “Does he ever smile?”
Ashby shook his head. “Terrible thing. A few years ago Mr. Guildhall was involved in a nasty altercation, during which his face and neck were slashed. He healed, as you can see, but the lasting effect was nerve damage that prevents the muscles in his face from fully functioning. Hence, no smile.”
“And the person who slashed him?”
“Ah, an excellent inquiry. Quite dead. Broken neck.”
He saw that his point had been made, so he turned to Guildhall and asked, “What did you find?”
His employee removed a small volume from his pocket and handed it over. In the weak light he noted the faded title, in French. Napoleon, From the Tuileries to St. Helena. One of countless memoirs that had appeared in print after Napoleon died in 1821.
“How … did you get that?” the Corsican asked.
He smiled. “While you made me wait here atop the tower, Mr. Guildhall searched your house. I’m not a total fool.”
The Corsican shrugged. “Just a dull memoir. I read a lot on Napoleon.”
“That’s what your co-conspirator said, too.”
He saw that he now commanded his listener’s total attention. “He and I, and Mr. Guildhall, had a great talk.”
“How did you know of Gustave?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t hard to determine. You and he have searched for Rommel’s gold a long time. You are each, perhaps, the two most knowledgeable people on the subject.”
“Have you harmed him?”
He caught the alarm in the question. “Heavens no, my good man. Do you take me for a villain? I am of an aristocratic family. A lord of the realm. A respectable financier. Not a hoodlum. Of course, your Gustave lied to me as well.”
A flick of his wrist and Guildhall grabbed the man by a shoulder and one trouser leg projecting from the soutane. The tiny Corsican was vaulted upward between the parapets, Guildhall sliding him out and adjusting his grip to both ankles, the body now upside down outside the wall, twenty meters above stone pavement.
The soutane flapped in the night breeze.
Ashby poked his head out another parapet. “Unfortunately, Mr. Guildhall does not have the same reservations toward violence as I harbor. Please know that if you utter a sound of alarm, he’ll drop you. Do you understand?”
He saw a head bob up and down.
“Now, it’s time you and I have a serious conversation.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
THREE
COPENHAGEN
MALONE STARED AT THE FEATURELESS FORM OF SAM COLLINS as more glass shattered below.
“I think they want to kill me,” Collins said.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I have a gun pointed at you, too.”
“Mr. Malone, Henrik sent me here.”
He had to choose. The danger in front of him, or the one two floors down.
He lowered the gun. “You led those people downstairs here?”
“I needed your help. Henrik said to come.”