Before she could attract everyone’s attention, Thorvaldsen approached and quietly said, “Did you read this morning’s Le Parisien?”
“It’s waiting for me later today. The morning was busy.”
She watched as he reached into his suit pocket and removed a newspaper clipping. “Then you should see this. From page 12A. Top right column.”
She quickly scanned the piece, which reported a theft yesterday at the H?tel des Invalides and its Musée de l’Armée. In one of the galleries being renovated, thieves had taken an item from the Napoleon exhibit.
A book.
The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D.
Significant only since it was specifically mentioned in the emperor’s will, but otherwise not all that valuable, which was one reason it had been left in the gallery. The museum staff was in the process of inventorying the remaining artifacts to ascertain if anything else had been stolen.
She stared at Thorvaldsen. “How could you possibly know that this may be relevant to me?”
“As I made clear at your chateau, I’ve studied you, and him, in great detail.”
Thorvaldsen’s warning from yesterday rang in her ears.
If I’m right about him, he’s going to tell you that he wasn’t able to retrieve whatever it is, that it wasn’t there, or some other such excuse.
And that’s exactly what Graham Ashby had told her.
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
FIFTY
MALONE CLIMBED THROUGH AN OPENING IN THE FLOOR INTO the lantern. Frigid air and sunshine greeted him as he stood out in the bright midday, at the top of the church. The view in all directions was stunning. The Seine wound a path through the city to his north, the Louvre rose toward the northeast, the Eiffel Tower less than two miles to the west.
Stephanie followed him up. The security man climbed up last, but remained on the ladder, only his head and shoulders visible.
“I decided to examine the cupola myself,” the man said. “Nothing was there, but I wanted a cigarette, so I climbed up here and saw that.”
Malone followed the man’s pointing finger and spotted a blue box, maybe four inches square, affixed to the lantern’s ceiling. A decorative brass railing guarded each of the cupola’s four archways. Carefully, he hoisted himself onto one of the railings and stood within a few inches of the box. He spotted a thin wire, perhaps a foot long, extending from one side, dangling in the breeze.
He stared down at Stephanie. “It’s a transponder. A beacon to draw that plane here.” He wrenched the unit free, held in place with strong adhesive. “Remote-activated. Has to be. But placing it up here took effort.”
“Not a problem for Peter Lyon. He’s accomplished tougher things than this.”
He hopped down, still holding the transponder, and clicked the unit off with a switch on its side. “That should complicate the matter for him.” He handed the device to Stephanie. “You realize this is way too easy.”
He saw that she agreed.
He stepped to another railing and gazed down to where streets converged at an empty plaza before the church’s southern fa?ade. Christmas Day had siphoned away the vast majority of the daily traffic. So as not to alert anyone on the nearby Eiffel Tower, which offered an unobstructed view of the Invalides, no police had cordoned off the streets.
He spotted a light-colored van, speeding northward, down the Boulevard des Invalides. Moving unusually fast. The van whipped left onto Avenue de Tourville, which ran perpendicular to the Church of the Dome’s main entrance.
Stephanie noticed his interest.
The van slowed, veered right, then abandoned the street and clunked its way up a short set of stone steps toward the church’s main doors.
Stephanie found her radio.
The van cleared the steps and sped forward on a walkway between patches of winter grass. It skidded to a halt at the base of more steps.
The driver’s-side door opened.
Stephanie activated her radio, calling for attention, but before she could utter a word a man fled the vehicle and raced toward a car that had appeared on the street.
He jumped in and the car accelerated away.
Then the van exploded.
“LET ME WISH EACH OF YOU A HAPPY CHRISTMAS,” ELIZA SAID, standing before the group. “So glad to have everyone here. I thought this locale would be excellent for today’s gathering. A little different for us. The tower itself does not open until one, so we have privacy until then.” She paused. “And we have a delicious lunch prepared.”
She was especially pleased that Robert Mastroianni had come, keeping the pledge he’d made on the plane.
“We have about an hour of business, then I thought a short trip to the top, before the crowds arrive, would be wonderful. It’s not often that one has the opportunity to be at the summit of the Eiffel Tower with so few people. I made sure that was included in our lease.”
Her suggestion met with a clear approval.
“We’re also privileged to have our final two members present.”
And she introduced Mastroianni and Thorvaldsen.
“It’s wonderful to have you both involved with our group. That brings us to eight, and I believe we’ll keep it at that number. Any objections?”
No one voiced a word.
“Excellent.”
She glanced around at the eager and attentive faces. Even Graham Ashby seemed exuberant. Had he lied to her about the Merovingian book?
Apparently so.
They’d met earlier, before the others arrived, and Ashby had again told her that the book had not been in its display case. She’d listened carefully, watched his every nuance, and concluded that either he was telling the truth or he was one of the finest liars she’d ever known.