The Paris Vendetta (15 page)

TWENTY-NINE

LOIRE VALLEY

E
LIZA SAT IN THE DRAWING ROOM, CONCERNED BY THE UNEXPECTED
complications that had arisen during the past few hours. Thorvaldsen had left for Paris. Tomorrow they’d talk more.

Right now she needed guidance.

She’d ordered a fire and the hearth now burned with a lively blaze, illuminating the motto carved into its mantel by one of her ancestors.

S’IL VIENT À POINT, ME SOUVIENDRA
.

If this castle is finished, I will be remembered.

She sat in one of the upholstered armchairs. The display case, which held the four papyri, stood to her right. Only the crackling embers disturbed the silence. She’d been told that it might snow this evening. She loved winter, especially here, in the country, near all that she held dear.

Two days.

Ashby was in England, preparing. Months ago, she’d delegated an array of tasks to him, relying on his supposed expertise. Now she wondered if that trust had been misplaced. A lot depended on what he was doing.

Everything, in fact.

She’d dodged Thorvaldsen’s questions and not allowed him to read the papyri. He hadn’t earned that right. None of the club members had, to this point. That knowledge was sacred to her family, obtained by Pozzo di Borgo himself when his agents stole the documents from shipments scheduled for St. Helena, part of Napoleon’s personal effects sent into exile with him. Napoleon had noticed their omission and officially protested, but any improprieties had been imputed to his British captors.

Besides, no one cared.

By then, Napoleon was impotent. All European leaders wanted was for the once mighty emperor to die a quick, natural death. No foul play, no execution. He could not be allowed to become a martyr, so imprisoning him on a remote south Atlantic island seemed the best way to achieve the desired result.

And it worked.

Napoleon had, indeed, faded away.

Dead within five years.

She stood, approached the glass case, and studied the four ancient writings, safe in their cocoon. They’d long ago been translated and she’d committed every word to memory. Pozzo di Borgo had been quick to realize their potential, but he lived in a post-Napoleonic world, during a time when France stayed in constant upheaval, distrustful of monarchy, incapable of democracy.

So they’d been of little use.

She was truthful when she told Thorvaldsen that it was impossible to know who’d written them. All she knew was that the words made sense.

She slid open a drawer beneath the case. Inside lay translations of the original Coptic into French. Two days from now she’d share these words with the Paris Club. For now she shuffled through the typed pages, reacquainting herself with their wisdom, marveling at their simplicity.

War is a progressive force, naturally generating that which would not otherwise have taken place. Free thinking and innovation are but two of the many positive aspects that war creates. War is an active force for society, a stabilizing and dependable tool. The possibility of war forms the strongest foundation for any ruler’s authority, the extent of which grows in direct relationship to the ever-increasing threat war poses. Subjects will willingly obey so long as there is at least the promise of protection granted them from invaders. Lose the threat of war, or breach the promise of protection, and all authority ends. War can bind the social allegiance of a people like no other institution. Central authority simply would not exist without war and the extent of any ruler’s ability to govern depends on the ability to wage war. Collective aggression is a positive force that both controls dissent and binds social allegiance. War is the best method for channeling collective aggression. Lasting peace is not in the best interest of maintaining central authority, nor is constant, never-ending war. Best is the mere possibility of war, since the perceived threat provides a sense of external necessity, without which no central authority can exist. Lasting stability can come simply from the organization of any society for war.

Amazing that an ancient mind possessed such modern thoughts.

A feared external menace is essential for any central authority to persevere. Such a menace must be believable and of a sufficient magnitude to instill absolute fear, and must affect society as a whole. Without such fear, central authority could well collapse. A societal transition from war to peace will fail if a ruler does not fill the sociological and political void created by the lack of war. Substitutions for the channeling of collective aggression must be found, but these surrogates must be both realistic and compelling.

She laid the translation atop the case.

In Pozzo di Borgo’s time, the mid–19th century, there were no adequate substitutes, so war itself prevailed. First regional conflicts, then two world conflagrations. Today was different. Plenty of substitutes were available. In fact, too many. Had she chosen the right one?

Hard to say.

She returned to her chair.

There was something else she still must know.

After Thorvaldsen departed, she’d retrieved the oracle from her satchel. Now she reverently opened the book and prepared herself with a few deep breaths. From the list of questions she selected
Will the friend I most reckon upon prove faithful or treacherous?
For
friend
she substituted
Thorvaldsen
and then posed the question, out loud, to the burning fire.

She closed her eyes and concentrated.

Then she grasped a pen and slashed vertical lines in five rows, counting each set, determining the proper list of dots.

She quickly consulted the chart and saw that the answer to her question lay on page H. There the oracle proclaimed,
The friend will be unto thee a shield against danger
.

She shut her eyes.

She’d trusted Graham Ashby, allowed him into her confidence, knowing little about him except that he was of old money and an accomplished treasure hunter. She’d offered him a unique opportunity, and provided information that no one else in the world knew, clues passed down through her family starting with Pozzo di Borgo.

All of which might lead to Napoleon’s lost cache.

Di Borgo spent the last two decades of his life searching, but to no avail. His failure eventually drove him mad. But he’d left notes, all of which she’d given to Graham Ashby.

Foolish?

She recalled what the oracle had just predicted about Thorvaldsen.

The friend will be unto thee a shield against danger
.

Perhaps not.

THIRTY

PARIS

M
ALONE HEARD SHOTS
. F
IVE?
S
IX?
T
HEN GLASS CRASHED ONTO
something hard.

He passed through three rooms that displayed a thousand years of French history through elaborate art, colorful altarpieces, intricate metalwork, and tapestries. He turned right and approached another corridor. Twenty or so feet long. Hardwood floor. Coffered ceiling. Writing tools and brass instruments were displayed in two lighted cases built into the right side wall, a doorway opening between them into another lighted room. On the left wall he spied a stone archway and the balustrade where the woman had first shouted down her alarm.

A man appeared at the far end of the corridor.

Burly.

His attention was not on Malone but, when he turned and spotted someone carrying a sword and shield, he whirled his gun and fired.

Malone dove, keeping the shield pointed forward.

The bullet pinged off metal just as Malone released his grip on the shield and slammed into the hard floor. The shield clattered away. Malone rolled into the next room and quickly sprang to his feet.

Hard steps sounded his way. He was in a room that held several more bright cases and altarpieces.

No choice.

He couldn’t go back the way he came, so he fled into the next room ahead.

S
AM WATCHED THE WOMAN CATCH THE GUN—HER HANDS
small but quick—then immediately ease herself forward. The doorway she occupied opened perpendicularly to the entrance into the red room, where the shooters had taken a stand, which gave her cover. She set her feet, aimed, and fired two rounds.

More glass shattered. One more display destroyed.

He risked a look and spotted one of the men as he darted across to the other side. The woman caught his escape, too, and fired another shot, trying to hit the target as he scurried behind another glass case.

The scene swam before him in a daze of uncertainty.

Where was security?

And the police?

M
ALONE SUDDENLY REALIZED THAT HE’D MADE A DANGEROUS
mistake. He recalled the museum brochure and knew that he was headed into the upper chapel, a small, compact space with only one way in and out.

He rushed inside the chapel and caught sight of its flamboyant Gothic style, highlighted by a central pillar rising to a rib vault that spread out like palm branches. Maybe twenty by thirty feet in size, devoid of all furnishings, nowhere to hide.

He still held the sword, but it was little use against a man with a gun.

Think.

S
AM WONDERED WHAT THE WOMAN INTENDED
. S
HE’D OBVIOUSLY
started the fight and now seemed intent on ending it.

Two more shots banged through the museum, but not from her gun, and not directed their way.

Keenly aware of bullets flying past, he carefully risked a glance and saw one of the attackers retreat behind an intact display case and fire his gun in another direction.

The woman saw this, too.

Someone else was firing at their attackers.

Three more rounds entered the red room and the shooter was caught in a crossfire, his attention more on the danger behind him than ahead. The woman seemed to be waiting for the right moment. When it came, she delivered another round.

The shooter lunged for cover, but another shot caught him in the chest. He staggered awkwardly. Sam heard a cry of pain, then watched as the man’s twitching body collapsed to the floor.

M
ALONE BRACED HIMSELF. HIS SCALP TINGLED WITH FEAR
. H
E
could only hope that his attacker approached the chapel with caution, unsure what lay beyond its unobstructed doorway. With a little luck the sword might prove enough of a weapon to grant him a few seconds of advantage, but this whole endeavor was turning into a nightmare—par for the course when Thorvaldsen was involved.

“Halt,” he heard a male voice shout.

A moment passed.

“I said halt.”

A gun exploded.

Flesh and bones thudded to a hard surface. Had the police, or museum security, finally acted? He waited, unsure.

“Mr. Malone, you can come out. He’s down.”

He wasn’t that stupid. He inched his way to the doorway’s edge and stole a peek. Burly lay on the floor, facedown, blood oozing from beneath him in a steady deluge. A few feet away a man in a dark suit stood with both feet planted, hands grasping a Sig Sauer .357 semi-automatic, pointed at the body. Malone noted the brush-cut hair, stern looks, and trim physique. He’d also caught the clear English, with a southern twang.

But the gun was the giveaway.

Model P229. Standard issue.

Secret Service.

The muzzle of the gun swung upward until it was aimed straight at Malone’s chest.

“Drop the sword.”

S
AM WAS RELIEVED THAT THE THREAT SEEMED ELIMINATED
.

“Malone,” he called out, hoping that was who’d taken the man down.

M
ALONE HEARD
S
AM CALL HIS NAME
. H
E STILL HELD THE SWORD
, but the Sig remained pointed his way.

“Keep quiet,” the man softly said. “And drop the damn sword.”

S
AM HEARD NOTHING IN RESPONSE TO HIS SHOUTS
.

He faced the woman, only to see that her gun was now aimed straight at him.

“Time for you and me to go,” she said.