“I’m in a hurry, and I don’t necessarily believe a word you say anyway.”
He shook his head. “Impertinent. And arrogant. Why? I’ve cooperated with your people—”
“When you wanted to. You deliberately held back this information on an attack.”
“As you would have done, if in my place. But you now know, in plenty of time, so prepare accordingly.”
“I don’t know anything. How is it going to be done?”
“Good heavens, why would I be privy to that information?”
“You’re the one who made the deal with Lyon.”
“Believe me, that devil offers precious little in the way of details. He just wants to know when and if his money has been wired. Beyond that, he explains nothing.”
“Is that all?”
“The Invalides is closed for Christmas Day. At least there will be no people to worry about.”
She did not appear comforted. “You still haven’t answered my question about the Paris Club.”
“We meet tomorrow morning at the Eiffel Tower. Eliza has rented the banquet room on level one and plans to take everyone to the top around noon. As I said, Lyon likes timelines. Noon is when the explosion will occur, and the club will have the perfect vantage point.”
“Do the members know what’s going to happen?”
He shook his head. “Heavens, no. Only she and I, and our South African. I would assume most of them would be appalled.”
“Though they won’t mind profiting from it.”
The tour headed farther into the bowels of London’s darkened east side.
“Morality rarely plays into the quest for profit,” he said.
“So tell me what I really want to know. How do we finally connect with Lyon?” she asked.
“The same way I did.”
“Not good enough. I want him delivered.”
He stopped walking. “How do you propose I do that? I’ve only seen him once, and he was totally disguised. He communicates with me at his choosing.”
They were keeping their voices down, walking behind the main group. Even though he’d worn his thickest wool coat and fur-lined gloves, he was cold. Each exhale vaporized before his eyes.
“Surely you can arrange something,” she said. “Considering we won’t be prosecuting you.”
He caught the unspoken threat. “Is that why I’m honored tonight with your presence? You came to deliver an ultimatum? Your representative wasn’t authoritative enough?”
“Game’s over, Ashby. Your usefulness is rapidly diminishing. I’d suggest you do something to increase your value.”
He’d actually already done just that, but he wasn’t about to tell this woman anything. So he asked, “Why did your people take the book in the Invalides?”
She chuckled. “To show you that there’s been a change in management on this end. New rules apply.”
“Lucky for me that you’re so dedicated to your profession.”
“You really think that there’s some lost treasure of Napoleon out there to find?”
“Eliza Larocque certainly does.”
She reached beneath her coat, removed something, and handed it to him. “That’s my show of good faith.”
He gripped the volume through his gloves. In the ambient glow of a nearby street lamp he caught the title. The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D.
The book from the Invalides.
“Now,” she said, “give me what I want.”
The tour approached Ten Bells pub and he heard the guide explain how the establishment had played host to many of Jack the Ripper’s victims, perhaps even the Ripper himself. A fifteen-minute break was announced and drinks were available inside.
He should head back to Salen Hall and Caroline. “Are we finished?”
“Until tomorrow.”
“I’ll do everything possible to make sure you get what you want.”
“I hope so,” she said. “For your sake.”
And with that the woman named Stephanie Nelle walked off into the night.
He stared down at the book. Things really were finally falling into place.
“Good evening, Lord Ashby.”
The unexpected voice came near his right ear, low and throaty, below the rhythmic sound of soles slapping pavement around him. He turned and, in the glow of another street lamp, caught a reddish hue in thick hair and thin eyebrows. He noticed an aquiline nose, scarred face, and eyeglasses. The man was dressed, like the others around him, in thick winter wear, including scarf and gloves. One hand clutched the roped handles of a Selfridges shopping bag.
Then he saw the eyes.
A burnt amber.
“Do you ever look the same?” he asked Peter Lyon.
“Hardly.”
“It must be difficult having no identity.”
“I have no problem with my identity. I know exactly who and what I am.” The voice this time seemed almost American.
He was concerned. Peter Lyon should not be here.
“You and I need to speak, Lord Ashby.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
FORTY-FOUR
PARIS, 8:50 PM
SAM FOLLOWED MEAGAN DOWN A SPIRAL STAIRCASE THAT CORKSCREWED into the earth. They’d dined at a café in the Latin Quarter after being granted a temporary release from Stephanie Nelle’s protective custody.
“Where are we going?” he asked her as they kept descending into pitch blackness.
“To Paris’ basement,” Meagan said.
She was ahead of him, her flashlight dissolving the darkness below. When he reached the bottom, she handed him another light. “They don’t keep flashlights down here for trespassers like us.”
“Trespassers?”
She motioned with her beam. “It’s illegal to be here.”
“What is here?”
“The quarries. A hundred and seventy miles of tunnels and galleries. Formed when limestone was torn from the ground, used for buildings, to make gypsum for plaster, clay for bricks, and roof tiles. Everything needed to build Paris, and this is what’s left. The Paris underground.”
“And the reason we’re here?”
She shrugged. “I like this place. I thought you might, too.”