The Paris Vendetta (7 page)

TWELVE

CORSICA

A
SHBY SAT ON THE SOFA, SIPPING HIS RUM, WATCHING THE
C
ORSICAN
as
Archimedes
continued its cruise up the coast, following Cap Corse’s rocky east shore.

“Those four Germans left something with the fifth,” Ashby finally said. “That has long been rumor. But I discovered it to be fact.”

“Thanks to information I provided, months ago.”

He nodded. “That’s right. You controlled the missing pieces. That’s why I came and generously offered what I knew, along with a percentage of the find. And you agreed to share.”

“That I did. But we’ve found nothing. So why have this conversation? Why am I a captive?”

“Captive? Hardly. We’re simply taking a short cruise aboard my boat. Two friends. Visiting.”

“Friends don’t assault each other.”

“And neither do they lie to each other.”

He’d approached this man over a year ago, after learning of his connection with that fifth German who’d been there in September 1943. Legend held that one of the four soldiers Hitler executed encoded the treasure’s location and tried to use the information as a bargaining chip. Unfortunately for him Nazis didn’t bargain, or at least never in good faith. The Corsican sitting across from him, surely trying to determine just how far this charade could be taken, had stumbled upon what that ill-fated German had left behind—a book, an innocuous volume on Napoleon—which the soldier had read while imprisoned in Italy.

“That man,” Ashby said, “learned of the Moor’s Knot.” He pointed to the table. “So he created those letters. They were eventually discovered by that fifth participant, after the war, in confiscated German archives. Unfortunately, he never learned the book’s title. Amazingly, you managed to accomplish that feat. I rediscovered these letters and, the last time we met, provided them to you, which showed my good faith. But you didn’t mention anything about knowing the actual book title.”

“Who says I know it?”

“Gustave.”

He saw the shock on the man’s face.

“Have you harmed him?” the Corsican asked again.

“I paid him for the information. Gustave is a talkative individual, with an infectious optimism. He’s also now quite rich.”

He watched as his guest digested the betrayal.

Mr. Guildhall entered the salon and nodded. He knew what that meant. They were near. Engines dulled as the boat slowed. He motioned and his acolyte left.

“And if I decipher the Moor’s Knot?” the Corsican asked, after apparently connecting the dots.

“Then you, too, shall be rich.”

“How rich?”

“One million euros.”

The Corsican laughed. “The treasure is worth a hundred times that.”

Ashby stood from the sofa. “Provided there’s one to find. Even you admit that it may all be a tale.”

He stepped across the salon and retrieved a black satchel. He returned and poured out its contents on the sofa.

Bundles of euros.

The bureaucrat’s eyes widened.

“One million. Yours. No more hunting for you.”

The Corsican immediately leaned forward and slid the book close. “You are most persuasive, Lord Ashby.”

“Everyone has a price.”

“These Roman numerals are clear. The top row are page numbers. The middle set, line numbers. The last show the position of the word. Angling ties the three rows together.”

He watched as the Corsican thumbed though the old book, locating the first page, 95, line 4, word 7. “Santa. Which makes no sense. But if you add the two words after, it does. Santa Maria Tower.”

The steps were repeated four more times.

Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval
.

Ashby watched, then said, “A well-chosen book. Its text describes Napoleon’s exile on St. Helena, along with his early years on Corsica. The correct words would all be there. That German was smart.”

The Corsican sat back. “His secret has stayed hidden for sixty years. Now here it is.”

He allowed a friendly smile to sweeten the atmosphere.

The Corsican examined the euros. “I’m curious, Lord Ashby. You’re a man of obvious wealth. You certainly don’t need this treasure.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You search simply for the joy of it, don’t you?”

He thought of his careful plans, his calculated risks. “Things lost interest me.”

The ship slowed to a stop.

“I search,” the Corsican said, holding up a wad of euros, “for the money. I don’t own such a big boat.”

Ashby’s worries from earlier, on the cruise south from France, had finally receded. His goal was now in sight. He wondered if the prize would be worth all this trouble. That was the problem with things lost—sometimes the end did not justify the means.

Here was a good example.

Nobody knew if six wooden crates were waiting to be found and, if so, what was actually inside them. It could be nothing more than silver place settings and some gold jewelry. The Nazis were not particular about what they extorted.

But he wasn’t interested in junk. Because the Corsican was wrong. He needed this treasure.

“Where are we?” he was finally asked.

“Off the coast, north of Macinaggio. At the Site Naturel de la Capandula.”

Cap Corse, above Bastia, was dotted with ancient watchtowers, empty convents, and Romanesque churches. The extreme northern tip comprised a national wilderness zone with few roads and even fewer people. Only gulls and cormorants claimed it as home. Ashby had studied its geography. The Tour de Santa Maria was a ruined three-story tower that rose from the sea, a mere few meters from shore, built by the Genoese in the 16th century as a lookout post. A short walk inland from the tower stood the Chapelle Santa Maria, from the 11th century, a former convent, now a tourist attraction.

Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval
.

He checked his watch.

Not yet.

A little longer.

He motioned at the Corsican’s glass. “Enjoy your drink. When you’re done, there’s a tender ready to take us ashore. Time for us to find Rommel’s gold.”

THIRTEEN

DENMARK

S
AM WATCHED
T
HORVALDSEN WITH CONCERN, RECALLING WHAT
one of his Secret Service instructors had taught him.
Stir a person up and they think. Add anger and they usually screw up
.

Thorvaldsen was angry.

“You killed two men tonight,” Malone made clear.

“We’ve known this night would come,” Thorvaldsen said.

“Who’s
we
?”

“Jesper and me.”

Sam watched as Jesper stood obedient, clearly in agreement.

“We’ve been waiting,” Thorvaldsen said. “I tried to contact you last week, but you were away. I’m glad you came back. I needed you to look after Sam.”

“How’d you find out about Cabral and Ashby?” Malone asked.

“Private detectives working for the past two years.”

“You’ve never mentioned this before.”

“It wasn’t relevant to you and me.”

“You’re my friend. I’d say that made it relevant.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but I chose to keep what I was doing to myself. I learned a few months ago that Ashby tried to bribe Elena Rico. When that failed, Cabral hired men to shoot her, Cai, and a lot of others to mask the crime.”

“A bit grandiose.”

“It sent a message to Rico’s successor. Which worked. He was much more agreeable.”

Sam listened, amazed at how his life had changed. Two weeks ago he was an obscure Secret Service agent chasing questionable financial transactions through a maze of dull electronic records. Background work—secondary to the field agents. He’d genuinely wanted to work the field, but had never been offered the chance. He believed himself up to the challenge—he’d reacted well back at Malone’s bookshop—but staring at the corpses across the room, he wondered. Thorvaldsen and Jesper had killed those men. What did it take to do that? Could he?

He watched as Jesper stretched two body bags on the floor. He’d never actually seen someone who’d been shot dead. Smelled the rusty scent of blood. Stared into glassy eyes. Jesper handled the corpses with a cool detachment, stuffing them into the bags, not seeming to care.

Could he do that, too?

“What’s the deal with Graham Ashby?” Malone asked. “Sam here made a point to mention him to me. I assume that was at your insistence.”

Sam could tell Malone was both irritated and concerned.

“I can answer that,” Sam said. “He’s a rich Brit. Old, old money, but his actual worth is unknown. Lots of hidden assets. He got caught up in something a few years ago. Retter der Verlorenen Antiquitäten. Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. A group of people who stole art that was already stolen and traded it among themselves.”

“I remember that,” Malone said. “That’s when they found the Amber Room.”

Sam nodded. “Along with a ton of other lost treasures when they raided the participants’ homes. Ashby was implicated, but nothing was ever proven. Amando Cabral worked for one of the members. Acquisitors, they called them. The ones who did the actual collecting.” He paused. “Or stealing, depending on how you look at it.”

Malone seemed to comprehend. “So Ashby got himself into trouble in Mexico City with collecting?”

Thorvaldsen nodded. “The case was building, and Elena Ramirez Rico was on the right path. She’d eventually tie Cabral and Ashby together, so Ashby decided she had to be eliminated.”

“There’s more,” Sam said.

Malone faced him.

“Ashby is also involved with another covert group that’s working a more widespread conspiracy.”

“Is that the agent talking, or the webmaster?” Malone asked.

He shook off the skepticism. “It’s real. They intend to wreak havoc with the world’s financial systems.”

“That seems to be happening without their efforts.”

“I realize that you think I’m nuts, but economics can be a powerful weapon. It could be argued that it is the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.”

“How do you know about this secret group?”

“There are some of us who’ve been watching. I have an acquaintance in Paris who found this one. They’re just getting started. They’ve tinkered here and there with currency markets. Small stuff. Things few would even notice, unless paying close attention.”

“Which you and your friends have apparently been doing. You probably told your superiors, and they didn’t believe you. I assume the problem is a lack of proof.”

He nodded. “They’re out there. I know it, and Ashby is a part of them.”

“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “I met Sam about a year ago. I came across his website and his unconventional theories, especially his opinions relative to Ashby. There’s a lot he says that makes sense.” The older man smiled at Sam. “He’s bright and ambitious. Perhaps you might recognize those qualities?”

Malone grinned. “Okay. I was young once, too. But apparently Ashby knows you’re after him. And he knows about Sam.”

Thorvaldsen shook his head. “I don’t know about that. The men tonight came from Cabral. I specifically provoked him. I wasn’t sure if Sam would be a target. I was hoping Cabral’s anger would focus on me, but I told Sam to find you if he needed help.”

Jesper dragged one of the bagged bodies from the room.

“They came by boat,” Thorvaldsen said. “It’ll be found tomorrow adrift in the Øresund, a long way from here.”

“And what are you going to do now?” Malone asked.

Thorvaldsen sucked a succession of quick breaths. Sam wondered if his friend was okay.

“Ashby likes to acquire art and treasure that is either unknown, unclaimed, or stolen,” Thorvaldsen finally said. “No lawyers, legal battles, or press to worry about. I’ve studied the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. They were around for a long time. Pretty clever, actually. To steal what’s already stolen. Ashby’s Acquisitor was a man named Guildhall, who still works for him. Cabral was hired by Ashby, after the Retrievers were exposed, for some specialized tasks. Cabral went after some of the items that weren’t recovered when the Retrievers were caught, things Ashby knew existed. The list of what was recovered when the Retrievers were finally discovered is staggering. But Ashby may have moved on to other things, trading treasure hunting for something on a grander scale.” Thorvaldsen faced Sam. “Your information makes sense. All of your analysis on Ashby, so far, has proven accurate.”

“But you don’t see any new financial conspiracy,” Malone said.

The Dane shrugged. “Ashby has lots of friends, but that’s to be expected. After all, he heads one of England’s largest banks. To be honest, I’ve confined my investigation only to his association with Cabral—”

“Why not just kill him and be done with it? Why all these games?” Malone asked.

The answer to both questions struck Sam immediately. “Because you
do
believe me. You think there is a conspiracy.”

Thorvaldsen’s countenance beamed with a mild delight, the first sign of joviality Sam had seen on his friend’s face in a while.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“What do you know, Henrik?” Malone asked. “You never move in the dark. Tell me what you’re holding back.”

“Sam, when Jesper returns, could you help him with that final bag. It’s a long way to the boat. Though he’d never say it, my old friend is getting up in age. Not as spry as he once was.”

Sam didn’t like being dismissed, but saw that Thorvaldsen wanted to talk to Malone alone. He realized his place—he was an outsider, not in any position to argue. Not a whole lot different from when he was a kid, or from the Secret Service, where he was the low man on the pole as well. He’d done what Thorvaldsen wanted and made contact with Malone. But he’d also helped thwart attackers in Malone’s bookshop. He’d proven he was capable. He thought about protesting, but decided to keep quiet. Over the past year he’d said plenty to his supervisors in Washington, surely enough to get him fired. He desperately wanted to be a part of whatever Thorvaldsen was planning.

Enough to swallow his pride and do as he was told.

So when Jesper returned, he bent down and said, “Let me help you.”

As he grabbed feet sheathed in thick plastic, carrying a corpse for the first time in his life, Malone looked at him. “This financial group you keep talking about. You know a lot about them?”

“My friend in France knows more.”

“You at least know its name?”

He nodded. “The Paris Club.”