He nodded. “A way for us to finally catch this shadow.”
ASHBY STARED AT A PHOTO OF DAGOBERT’S FUNERARY MONUMENT that Caroline found online. A Gothic flair dominated its busy design.
“It depicts the legend of John the Hermit,” she said. “He dreamed that the soul of Dagobert was stolen away by demons, eventually snatched from their clutches by Saints Denis, Maurice, and Martin.”
“And this sits inside the basilica at Saint-Denis?”
She nodded. “Adjacent to the main altar. It somehow escaped the wrath of the French Revolution. Prior to 1800, just about every French monarch was buried in Saint-Denis. But most of the bronze tombs were melted down during the French Revolution, the rest shattered and piled in a garden behind the building. The remains of every Bourbon king were dumped into a nearby cemetery pit.”
That wild vengeance made him think of Eliza Larocque. “The French take their anger quite to heart.”
“Napoleon stopped the vandalism and restored the church,” she said. “He again made it an imperial burying place.”
He caught the significance. “So he was familiar with the basilica?”
“The Merovingian connection surely attracted his interest. Several Merovingians are buried there. Including, to his mind, Dagobert.”
The suite’s door opened and Guildhall reappeared. A discreet nod told Ashby that the Murrays were on their way. He’d feel better when surrounded by loyalists. Something would have to be done about Eliza Larocque. He could not be constantly glancing over his shoulder, wondering if today was the day she finally caught up to him. Perhaps he could make a deal? She was negotiable. But he’d tried to kill her, a fact she certainly now knew. No matter. He’d deal with her later. Right now—“All right, my dear. Tell me. What happens when we visit Saint-Denis?”
“How about I answer that question once we’re there.”
“Do you have the answer?”
“I think I do.”
THORVALDSEN EXITED THE CAB AND SPOTTED SAM AND A woman standing across the street. He stuffed his bare hands into his coat pockets and crossed. Little traffic filled the tree-lined boulevard, all of the nearby upscale boutiques closed for Christmas.
Sam seemed anxious. He immediately introduced the woman and explained who she was.
“You two seem to have been drafted into quite a mess,” he said.
“We didn’t have a whole lot of choice,” Meagan Morrison said.
“Is Ashby still inside?” he asked, motioning toward the hotel.
Sam nodded. “As long as he decided not to leave by another exit.”
He stared across at the Four Seasons and wondered what his schemer was planning next.
“Henrik, I was on top of the tower,” Sam said. “I came up after Ashby came down. That plane—was coming for the club, wasn’t it?”
He nodded. “Indeed it was. What were you doing up there?”
“I came to see about you.”
The words made him think of Cai. Sam was near the age Cai would have been, if he’d lived. Lots about this young American reminded him of his son. Perhaps that’s why he’d gravitated toward him. Misplaced love and all that other psychological nonsense that, prior to two years ago, meant nothing to him.
Now it consumed him.
But through the dense cloud of bitterness that seemed to envelop his every thought, a faint voice of reason could still be heard. One that told him to slow down and think. So he faced Sam and said, “Cotton stopped that disaster from happening. He was flying the plane.”
He caught the incredulous look in the younger man’s eyes.
“You’ll learn that both he and Stephanie are most resourceful. Luckily, they were on top of the matter.” He paused. “As were you, apparently. That was a brave thing you did. I appreciate it.” He came to the point of his visit. “You said you have a way of contacting Stephanie Nelle?”
Sam nodded.
“You know her?” Meagan asked him.
“She and I have worked together several times. We’re—acquaintances.”
The younger woman clearly was not impressed. “She’s a bitch.”
“That she can be.”
“I’ve been reluctant to call her,” Sam said.
“You shouldn’t be. She must know about Ashby. Dial the phone and we’ll talk with her together.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
SIXTY-TWO
ELIZA SAID HER GOODBYES TO THE LAST OF THE PARIS CLUB AS the members exited La Salle Gustav Eiffel. She’d managed to contain herself during the afternoon and alleviate the tidal wave of anxiety that had swept through the room. Thorvaldsen’s accusations had seemed forgotten, or at least addressed, by the time the session finished.
Her own fears, though, were another matter.
So two hours ago, during a break, she’d made a call.
The man she’d sought was pleased to hear from her. His flat tone conveyed no emotion, only the fact that he was available and ready to do business with her. She’d stumbled on to him a few years ago when she’d required some unorthodox assistance with a debtor—someone who thought friendship made defaulting on his obligation an option. She’d asked around, learned of the man’s abilities, met him, and four days later the debtor paid the several million euros owed, in full. She’d never asked how that was accomplished, simply pleased that it occurred. Since then there had been three other “situations.” Each time she’d made contact. Each time the task had been accomplished.
She hoped today would be no exception.
He lived in the Montmartre, within the shadow of the domes and campaniles that rose from Paris’ highest point. She found the building on the Rue Chappe, a shaded avenue of Second Empire homes, populated now with trendy shops, cafés, and expensive, upper-story flats.
She climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked lightly on the door marked with a brass 5. The man who answered was short and slender, with straw-thin gray hair. The crook of his nose and the cut of his jaw reminded her of a hawk, which seemed a fitting symbol for Paolo Ambrosi.