He laid the bundle on the table and unraveled it.
He wasn’t necessarily concerned about explosives since Lyon had clearly discarded what was inside. He allowed the contents to roll onto the table and was shocked to see four small metal replicas of the Eiffel Tower, the kind of souvenir easily bought anywhere in Paris.
“The bloody hell?” the young guard asked.
His thoughts exactly.
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
FORTY-SEVEN
SALEN HALL
11:40 PM
ASHBY WATCHED AS CAROLINE EXAMINED THE BOOK STEPHANIE Nelle had so conveniently provided. He’d lied and told Caroline that he’d spoken to Larocque and she’d finally agreed to give it to him, promptly ferrying it across the channel by personal courier.
“It’s Napoleon’s handwriting,” she said, excitement in her voice. “No doubt.”
“And this is significant?”
“It has to be. We have information that we didn’t have before. Much more than Pozzo di Borgo ever amassed. I’ve been through every writing Eliza Larocque provided. Not much there, really. Di Borgo worked more off rumor and gossip than historical fact. I think his hatred of Napoleon clouded his ability to effectively study the problem for an answer.”
Hate could well affect judgment. That was why he rarely allowed that emotion to overtake him. “It’s getting late and I have to be in Paris tomorrow.”
“Do I get to go along?”
“This is club business. And it is Christmas Day, so the shops will be closed.”
He knew that one of her favorite pastimes was roaming down Avenue Montaigne and its parade of designer stores. Ordinarily, he’d indulge her, but not tomorrow.
She continued to study the Merovingian book. “I can’t help but think that we have all the pieces.”
But he was still unnerved by Peter Lyon. He’d already made the additional money transfer, as demanded, terrified of the consequences if he balked. Incredibly, the South African was completely aware of the Americans.
“I’m sure you will be able to join these pieces,” he told her.
“Now you’re just trying to get my clothes off.”
He smiled. “The thought had occurred to me.”
“Can I go with you tomorrow?”
He caught the mischief in her eye and knew he had no choice. “All right. Provided I’m… fully satisfied tonight.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
But he saw that her mind was still on the book and Napoleon’s message. She pointed at the handwritten text. “It’s Latin. From the Bible. It deals with the story of Jesus and the disciples eating on the Sabbath. There are three versions of that story, one each in Luke, Matthew, and Mark. I’ve written the fourteen lines out so we can read them.
ET FACTUM EST EUM IN
SABBATO SECUNDO PRIMO A
BIRE PER SCCETES DISCIPULI AUTEM ILLIRIS COE
PERUNT VELLER SPICAS ET FRINCANTES MANIBUS + MANDU
CABANT QUíDAM AUTEM DE FARISAEIS DI
CEBANT El ECCE QUIA FACIUNT DISCIPULI TUI SAB
BAUS + QUOD NON LICET RESPONDENS AUTEM INS
SE IXIT AD EOS NUMQUAM HOC
LECISTIS QUOD FECIT DAVID QUANDO
ESURUT IPSE EL QUI CUM EO ERAI + INTROIBOT IN DOMUM
DEI EE PANES PROPOSITIONIS
MANDUCA VIL EL DEDIL EL QUI
CUM ERANT UXIIO QUIBOS NO
N LICEBAT MANDUCARE SI NON SOLIS SACERDOTIBUS
“There’s a multitude of errors. Díscípulí is spelled with a c, not a g, so I corrected that from the original here in the book. Napoleon also made a complete muddle of ípse díxít. And the letters uxíío make no sense at all. But given all that, here’s what it means.
“‘And it came about that on the second Sabbath he walked through a cornfield. But his disciples began to pluck the ears and rubbing them in their hands ate them. Some of the Pharisees said to him, “Behold because your disciples are doing on the Sabbath that which is not lawful.” Replying, he said to them, “Have you never read what David did when he was hungry? He and those who were with him entered into the house of God and ate the bread of the sacrament and gave it to those who were with him, for whom it was not lawful to eat, except only for priests.”
She glanced up at him. “Damn strange, wouldn’t you say?”
“To say the least.”
“It doesn’t match any of the three biblical verses. More a composite. But there’s something even stranger.”
He waited.
“Napoleon knew no Latin.”
THORVALDSEN SAID GOODBYE TO PROFESSOR MURAD AND RETIRED upstairs to his suite. The time was approaching midnight, but Paris seemed never to sleep. The Ritz’s lobby bustled with activity, people streaming in and out of the noisy salons. As he exited the elevator on his floor, he spotted a dour-faced man with a fleshy complexion and straight dark hair waiting on a settee.
He knew him well, having two years ago hired the man’s Danish firm to investigate Cai’s death. Their contacts were usually by phone, and he actually thought him in England, supervising Ashby’s surveillance.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.
“I flew over from London earlier. But I’ve been monitoring what’s happening there.”
Something was wrong. “Walk with me.”
They strolled down the quiet corridor.
“There’s some information you should be aware of.”
He stopped and faced his investigator.
“We followed Ashby from the time he left Paris. He went home for a few hours, then out, after dark. He took a walking tour about Jack the Ripper.”
He realized the oddity of that for a Londoner.
He was handed a photo. “He met with this woman. We managed to snap a picture.”
Only an instant was needed to recognize the face.
Stephanie Nelle.
Alarm bells sounded in his brain, and he fought hard to keep his concern to himself.
“Malone was there, too.”
Had he heard right? “Malone?”
His investigator nodded and showed him another photo. “In the crowd. He left when the woman did.”
“Did Malone talk with Ashby?”