But the book had been stolen. Paris’ leading newspaper had reported the theft. How did Thorvaldsen know so much? Was Ashby, indeed, a security leak? No time to answer those inquiries at the moment. She had to focus on the task at hand.
“I thought I would begin by telling you a story. Signore Mastroianni will have to excuse the repetition. I told him this same story a couple of days ago, but for the remainder of you it will be instructive. It’s about what happened to Napoleon while in Egypt.”
MALONE RUSHED FROM THE CHURCH OF THE DOME, THROUGH its shattered main entrance. Stephanie followed. The van continued to burn at the foot of the stairs. Besides the glass doors of the entrance itself, little damage had occurred to the church. He realized that a van loaded with explosives this close should have obliterated the entire south fa?ade, not to mention the nearby buildings housing the hospital and veterans’ center.
“That wasn’t much of a bomb,” he said. “More flash in the pan.”
Sirens blared in the distance. Fire and police were headed this way. Heat from the smoldering van warmed the chilly midday air.
“Could have been a malfunction?” she said.
“I don’t think so.”
Sirens grew louder.
Stephanie’s radio came to life. She answered the call, and Malone heard what the man on the other end reported.
“We have a live bomber in the Court of Honor.”
THORVALDSEN LISTENED AS LAROCQUE FINISHED HER EGYPTIAN tale, explained Napoleon’s original concept of a Paris Club, and provided an overview of the four papyri. He noticed she hadn’t mentioned that he, too, had been previously told much of the information. Clearly, she wanted their conversations private. Her reading of the newspaper clipping had surely affected her.
How could it not?
Her reaction also told him something else. Ashby had not reported that, thanks to Stephanie and Cotton, he now possessed the book.
But what was the Magellan Billet doing in this business?
He’d tried to make contact with Malone during the night and all morning, but his friend had not answered his phone. He’d left messages, and none had been returned. Malone’s room at the Ritz went unused last night. And though his investigators had not spied the title of the book Stephanie gave to Ashby, he knew that it was the one from the Invalides.
What else could it be?
There had to be a good reason why Malone handed the book over to Stephanie, but he could not conceive of one.
Ashby sat calmly across the table, watching Larocque with attentive eyes. Thorvaldsen wondered if the other men and women sitting in this room realized what they’d actually signed on for. He doubted Eliza Larocque was solely interested in illicit profits. He sensed from their two meetings that she was a woman on a mission—determined to prove something, perhaps justify her family’s denied heritage. Or maybe rewrite history? Whatever it may be, it was more than simply making money. She’d assembled this group here, at the Eiffel Tower, on Christmas Day, for a reason.
So he told himself, for the moment, to forget about Malone and concentrate on the problem at hand.
MALONE AND STEPHANIE RACED INTO THE COURT OF HONOR and stared out into the elegant square. In the center stood a young woman. Maybe early thirties, long dark hair, wearing corduroy trousers and a faded red shirt beneath a black coat. One hand held an object.
Two security men, guns aimed, were positioned in the shadows of the opposite arcade, near the scaffolding where Malone had entered the museum yesterday. Another armed man stood to the left, at the archway that led out through the Invalides’ north fa?ade, the iron gates closed.
“What the hell?” Stephanie muttered.
A man appeared behind them, entering the arcade from glass doors that led into the museum. He wore the protective vest and uniform of the French police.
“She appeared a few moments ago,” the man informed them.
“I thought you searched these buildings,” Stephanie said.
“Madame, there are hundreds of thousands of square meters of buildings here. We have been going as fast as we can, without drawing attention, per your instructions. If someone wanted to evade us, it would not be hard.”
He was right.
“What does she want?” Stephanie asked.
“She told the men she controlled a bomb and told them to stand their ground. I radioed you.”
Malone wanted to know, “Did she appear before or after the van exploded in front of the church.”
“Just after.”
“What are you thinking?” Stephanie asked him.
He stared at the woman. She swung around, looking at the various men who continued to train their weapons on her. Wisely, she kept the hand with the controller moving, too.
“Gardez vos distances et baissez les armes,” she screamed.
Malone silently translated. Keep your distance and lower your weapons.
None of the men complied.
“Il se pourrait que la bombe soit à l’h?pital. Ou à l’hospice. Fautil prendre le risque?” she yelled, displaying the controller. The bomb could well be in the hospital. Or the pensioners’ home. Do you risk it?
The policeman standing beside them whispered, “We searched both of those buildings first. Carefully. There is nothing there.”
“Je ne le redirai pas,” the woman called out. I shall not say it again.
Malone realized that it was Stephanie’s call on what the French would do, and she was not one to be bluffed.
Still.
“Lower the weapons,” she ordered.
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
FIFTY-ONE
ELIZA STROLLED TOWARD THE STAGE AT ONE END OF THE HALL. A quick glance at her watch confirmed the time. 11:35 AM.
Twenty-five minutes left.
“We will take our trip to the top soon. First, though, I want to explain what I am proposing for our near future.”