The Paris Vendetta (23 page)

FORTY-THREE

LONDON
6:40 PM

A
SHBY SEARCHED THE DARKNESS AND THE HUNDRED OR SO
faces for a green-and-gold Harrods scarf. Most of the people surrounding him were clearly tourists, their guide yelling something about the
feel of gaslight and fog and August
1888 when Jack the Ripper
struck terror into drink-sodden East End prostitutes
.

He grinned.

The Ripper seemed to interest only foreigners. He wondered if those same people would pay money in their own countries to be taken on a tour of a mass murderer’s haunts.

He was on the city’s east side, in Whitechapel, walking down a crowded sidewalk. To his left, across a busy street, rose the Tower of London, its taupe-colored stones awash in sodium vapor light. What was once an enormous moat was now a sea of emerald winter grass. A cold breeze eased inland off the nearby Thames, with the Tower Bridge lighted in the distance.

“Good evening, Lord Ashby.”

The woman who appeared beside him was petite with short-cut hair, late fifties, early sixties, definitely American, and wearing a green-and-gold scarf. Exactly as he’d been told.

However.

“You are new,” he said to her.

“I’m the one in charge.”

That information caught his attention.

He’d met his regular contact with American intelligence on several of London’s walking tours. They’d taken the British Museum stroll, Shakespeare’s London, Old Mayfair, and now Jack the Ripper Haunts.

“And who are you?” he casually asked.

“Stephanie Nelle.”

The group halted for the guide to spew out something about how the building just ahead was where the Ripper’s first victim had been found. She grasped his arm and, as others focused on the guide, they drifted into the crowd’s wake.

“Fitting we should meet on this tour,” she said. “Jack the Ripper terrorized people and was never caught, either.”

He didn’t smile at her attempt toward irony. “I could end my involvement now and leave, if you no longer require my help.”

The group again started forward.

“I realize the price we’re going to have to pay is your freedom. But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

He told himself to stay calm. This woman, and who she represented, had to be stroked, at least for another twenty-four hours, and at least until he obtained the book.

“The last I was told we were in this endeavor together,” he said.

“You promised to deliver information today. I came to personally hear what you have to offer.”

The group stopped at another notable site.

“Peter Lyon will bomb the Church of the Dome, at the Invalides, tomorrow,” he said in a low voice. “Christmas Day. As a demonstration.”

“Of what?”

“Eliza Larocque is a fanatic. She has some ancient wisdom that her family has lived by for centuries. Quite complicated and, to me, generally irrelevant, but there is a French extremist group—isn’t there always one?—that wants to make a statement.”

“Who is it this time?”

“It involves immigrant discrimination under French law. North Africans, who flooded into France years ago, welcomed then as guest workers. Now they’re ten percent of the population and tired of being held down. They want to make a statement. Larocque has the means and wants no credit, so Peter Lyon brokered a partnership.”

“I want to understand the purpose of this partnership.”

He sighed. “Can’t you decipher it? France is in the middle of a demographic shift. Those Algerian and Moroccan immigrants are becoming a problem. They are now far more French than African, but the xenophobic right and the secularist left hate them. If birthrates continue as they are, within two decades those immigrants will outnumber the native French.”

“And what does blowing up the Invalides have to do with that inevitability?”

“It’s all a symbol. Those immigrants resent their second-class status. They want their mosques. Their freedom. Political expression. Influence. Power. What everyone else has. But the native French don’t want them to have those. I’m told a great many laws have been passed trying to keep these people at a distance.” He paused. “And anti-Semitism is also on a sharp rise throughout France. Jews are becoming afraid once again.”

“And those immigrants are to blame for that?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps some. To me, if the truth be told, the radical French are more responsible. But the political right and the extreme left have done a good job blaming those immigrants for all the ills that befall the country.”

“I’m still waiting for my answer.”

The tour stopped at another point of interest, and the guide droned on.

“Eliza is conducting a test,” he said. “A way to channel French national aggression onto something other than war. An attack by some perceived radical element against a French national monument, the grave of its beloved Napoleon—whom she despises, by the way—would, to her way of thinking, channel that collective aggression. At least that’s her way of explaining it.”

“Why does she hate Napoleon?”

He shrugged. “How would I know? Family tradition, I assume. One of her ancestors carried on a Corsican
vendetta
against Napoleon. I’ve never really understood.”

“Does the Paris Club meet tomorrow at the Eiffel Tower?”

He nodded his head in appreciation. “You’ve been busy. Would it not have been more prudent to ask me a direct question to see if I would be truthful?”

“I’m in a hurry, and I don’t necessarily believe a word you say anyway.”

He shook his head. “Impertinent. And arrogant. Why? I’ve cooperated with your people—”

“When you wanted to. You deliberately held back this information on an attack.”

“As you would have done, if in my place. But you now know, in plenty of time, so prepare accordingly.”

“I don’t know anything. How is it going to be done?”

“Good heavens, why would I be privy to that information?”

“You’re the one who made the deal with Lyon.”

“Believe me, that devil offers precious little in the way of details. He just wants to know when and if his money has been wired. Beyond that, he explains nothing.”

“Is that all?”

“The Invalides is closed for Christmas Day. At least there will be no people to worry about.”

She did not appear comforted. “You still haven’t answered my question about the Paris Club.”

“We meet tomorrow morning at the Eiffel Tower. Eliza has rented the banquet room on level one and plans to take everyone to the top around noon. As I said, Lyon likes timelines. Noon is when the explosion will occur, and the club will have the perfect vantage point.”

“Do the members know what’s going to happen?”

He shook his head. “Heavens, no. Only she and I, and our South African. I would assume most of them would be appalled.”

“Though they won’t mind profiting from it.”

The tour headed farther into the bowels of London’s darkened east side.

“Morality rarely plays into the quest for profit,” he said.

“So tell me what I really want to know. How do we finally connect with Lyon?” she asked.

“The same way I did.”

“Not good enough. I want him delivered.”

He stopped walking. “How do you propose I do that? I’ve only seen him once, and he was totally disguised. He communicates with me at his choosing.”

They were keeping their voices down, walking behind the main group. Even though he’d worn his thickest wool coat and fur-lined gloves, he was cold. Each exhale vaporized before his eyes.

“Surely you can arrange something,” she said. “Considering we won’t be prosecuting you.”

He caught the unspoken threat. “Is that why I’m honored tonight with your presence? You came to deliver an ultimatum? Your representative wasn’t authoritative enough?”

“Game’s over, Ashby. Your usefulness is rapidly diminishing. I’d suggest you do something to increase your value.”

He’d actually already done just that, but he wasn’t about to tell this woman anything. So he asked, “Why did your people take the book in the Invalides?”

She chuckled. “To show you that there’s been a change in management on this end. New rules apply.”

“Lucky for me that you’re so dedicated to your profession.”

“You really think that there’s some lost treasure of Napoleon out there to find?”

“Eliza Larocque certainly does.”

She reached beneath her coat, removed something, and handed it to him. “That’s my show of good faith.”

He gripped the volume through his gloves. In the ambient glow of a nearby street lamp he caught the title.
The Merovingian Kingdoms 450–751 A.D
.

The book from the Invalides.

“Now,” she said, “give me what I want.”

The tour approached Ten Bells pub and he heard the guide explain how the establishment had played host to many of Jack the Ripper’s victims, perhaps even the Ripper himself. A fifteen-minute break was announced and drinks were available inside.

He should head back to Salen Hall and Caroline. “Are we finished?”

“Until tomorrow.”

“I’ll do everything possible to make sure you get what you want.”

“I hope so,” she said. “For your sake.”

And with that the woman named Stephanie Nelle walked off into the night.

He stared down at the book. Things really were finally falling into place.

“Good evening, Lord Ashby.”

The unexpected voice came near his right ear, low and throaty, below the rhythmic sound of soles slapping pavement around him. He turned and, in the glow of another street lamp, caught a reddish hue in thick hair and thin eyebrows. He noticed an aquiline nose, scarred face, and eyeglasses. The man was dressed, like the others around him, in thick winter wear, including scarf and gloves. One hand clutched the roped handles of a Selfridges shopping bag.

Then he saw the eyes.

A burnt amber.

“Do you ever look the same?” he asked Peter Lyon.

“Hardly.”

“It must be difficult having no identity.”

“I have no problem with my identity. I know exactly who and what I am.” The voice this time seemed almost American.

He was concerned. Peter Lyon should not be here.

“You and I need to speak, Lord Ashby.”

FORTY-FOUR

PARIS, 8:50 PM

S
AM FOLLOWED
M
EAGAN DOWN A SPIRAL STAIRCASE THAT CORKSCREWED
into the earth. They’d dined at a café in the Latin Quarter after being granted a temporary release from Stephanie Nelle’s protective custody.

“Where are we going?” he asked her as they kept descending into pitch blackness.

“To Paris’ basement,” Meagan said.

She was ahead of him, her flashlight dissolving the darkness below. When he reached the bottom, she handed him another light. “They don’t keep flashlights down here for trespassers like us.”

“Trespassers?”

She motioned with her beam. “It’s illegal to be here.”

“What is
here?”

“The quarries. A hundred and seventy miles of tunnels and galleries. Formed when limestone was torn from the ground, used for buildings, to make gypsum for plaster, clay for bricks, and roof tiles. Everything needed to build Paris, and this is what’s left. The Paris underground.”

“And the reason we’re here?”

She shrugged. “I like this place. I thought you might, too.”

She walked ahead, following a damp passage clearly hewn from solid rock and supported by a chalky framework. The air was cool but not cold, the floor uneven and unpredictable.

“Careful of the rats,” she said. “They can pass leptospirosis.”

He stopped. “Excuse me?”

“Bacterial infection. Fatal.”

“Are you nuts?”

She stopped. “Unless you plan on letting one bite you or swishing your fingers in their urine, I’d say you’re okay.”

“What are we doing here?”

“Are you always so antsy? Just follow me. I want to show you something.”

They started back down the corridor, the roof just above his head. Her light beam revealed about fifty feet of tunnel ahead of them.

“Norstrum,” he called out to the blackness
.

He wondered why he’d disobeyed and come, but the promise of an adventure had been too enticing to ignore. The caves were not far from the school, and everyone knew about them. Funny how no one ever used the word
orphanage.
Always the
school.
Or the
institute.
Who were his parents? He had no idea. He’d been abandoned at birth, and how he arrived in Christchurch the police never determined. The school insisted students know all they could about themselves. No secrets—he actually appreciated that rule—but there was simply nothing for him to learn
.

“Sam.”

Norstrum’s voice
.

He’d been told that Norstrum, when he’d first arrived at the school, had named him Sam Collins, after a beloved uncle
.

“Where are you?” he called out to the blackness
.

“Not far.”

He aimed his light and kept walking
.

“It’s just up here,” Meagan said, as the tunnel ended in what appeared to be a spacious gallery, with multiple exits and a high ceiling. Stone pillars supported a curved roof. Meagan shone her light on the rough walls and he spied myriad graffiti, paintings, inscriptions, cartoons, mosaics, poetry, even musical lyrics.

“It’s a collage of social history,” she said. “These drawings date back to the time of the French Revolution, the Prussian siege in the late 19th century, and the German occupation in the 1940s. The Paris underground has always been a refuge from war, death, and destruction.”

One drawing caught his eye. A sketch of a guillotine.

“From the
Grande Terreur,”
she said, over his shoulder. “Two hundred years old. A testament to a time when bloody deaths were a part of everyday life here. That was made with black smoke. Quarrymen of that day carried candles and oil lamps, and they’d place the flame close against the wall, which baked carbon into the stone. Pretty smart.”

He pointed with his light. “That’s from the French Revolution?”

She nodded. “This is a time capsule, Sam. The entire underground is that way. See why I like it?”

He glanced around at the images. Most seemed conceived with sobriety, but humor and satire were also evident, along with several titillating pornographic additions.

“This is a pretty amazing place,” she said to the darkness. “I come here a lot. It’s peaceful and silent. Like a return to the womb. Going back to the surface, to me, can be like a rebirth.”

He was taken aback by her frankness. Apparently cracks did exist in her tough veneer. Then he understood.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

She faced him and, in the glow from her light, he caught sincerity in her eyes. “You know I am.”

“I am, too.”

“It’s okay to be scared,” Norstrum had said when he finally found him in the cave. “But you should not have come here alone.”

He knew that now
.

“Fear can be an ally,” Norstrum said. “Always take it with you, no matter what the fight. It’s what keeps you sharp.”

“But I don’t want to be afraid. I hate being afraid.”

Norstrum laid a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no choice, Sam. It’s the circumstances that create fear. How you respond is all you can control. Concentrate on that, and you’ll always succeed.”

He gently laid his hand on her shoulder. It was the first time they’d touched, and she did not pull away.

Surprising himself, he was glad.

“We’ll be okay,” he told her.

“Those men yesterday, in the museum, I think they would have eventually hurt me.”

“That’s really why you forced things, while I was there?”

A hesitation, then she nodded.

He appreciated her honesty. Finally. “Looks like we’ve both bit off a lot.”

She grinned. “Apparently so.”

He withdrew his hand and wondered about her show of vulnerability. Through emails, they’d communicated many times over the past year. He’d thought he was speaking to a man named Jimmy Foddrell. Instead, an intriguing woman had been on the other end of the Internet. Thinking back, she’d actually reached out in some of those communiqués. Never like this—but enough that he’d felt a connection.

She pointed with her light. “Down those corridors you’ll eventually find the catacombs. The bones of six million people are stacked there. Ever been?”

He shook his head.

“Don’t.”

He kept silent.

“These drawings,” she said, “were made by ordinary people. But they’re a historical essay. The walls down here, for miles, are covered in pictures. They show people’s life and times, fears, and superstitions. They are a record.” She paused. “We have a chance, Sam, to do something real. Something that could make a difference.”

They were so much alike. Both of them lived in a virtual world of paranoia and speculation. And both of them harbored good intentions.

“Then let’s do it,” he said.

She chuckled. “I wish it were that easy. I have a bad feeling about this.”

She seemed to draw strength from this underground spectacle. Perhaps even some wisdom, too.

“Care to explain that one?”

She shook her head. “I can’t, really. Just a feeling.”

She came closer. Barely a few inches away. “Did you know that a kiss shortens life by three minutes?”

He considered her strange inquiry, then shook his head.

“Not a peck on the cheek. A real kiss, like you mean it, causes palpitations to such a degree that the heart works harder in four seconds than it normally would in three minutes.”

“Really, now?”

“There was a study. Hell, Sam, there’s a study for everything. 480 kisses—again, like you mean it—will shorten a person’s life by one day. 2,300 will cost a week. 120,000? There goes a year.”

She inched closer.

He smiled. “And the point?”

“I can spare three minutes of my life, if you can.”