“Business,” he said, then added, “as always.”
A footman appeared and laid a plate on the table before him. He was delighted to see a celery heart wrapped in ham, smothered in the tart cheese sauce he loved.
He lapped his napkin and lifted a fork.
“No, thank you,” Caroline said to him. “I’m not hungry. None for me.”
He caught the sarcasm but kept eating. “You’re a big girl. I assume you’d have something brought if you wanted it.”
She had the run of the estate, the staff at her complete disposal. His wife never visited the house anymore. Thank goodness. Unlike her, Caroline treated the employees with kindness. She actually did a good job looking after things, which he appreciated.
“I ate a couple of hours ago,” she said.
He finished his celery and was pleased by the entree the footman presented. Roasted partridge with sweet dressing. He acknowledged his pleasure with a nod and signaled for another pat of butter for his roll.
“Did you find the damn gold?” she finally asked.
He’d intentionally kept silent about his success in Corsica, waiting for her to inquire. More of their give-and- take.
Which he knew she liked, too.
He gripped another fork. “Right where you said it would be.”
She’d been the one who’d discovered the connection between Gustave’s and the Corsican’s books and the Roman numerals. She’d also discovered, from some research conducted in Barcelona a few weeks ago, the Moor’s Knot. He was glad to have her on his side, and knew what was now expected of him.
“I’ll have a few bars set aside for you.”
She nodded her appreciation. “And I’ll see to it that you have a lovely evening tonight.”
“I could use some relaxation.”
The charmeuse in her gown shimmered as she edged closer to the table. “That solves your money problems.”
“For the foreseeable future. I estimated as much as a hundred million euros in gold.”
“And my few bars?”
“A million. Maybe more, depending on how lovely my evening is tonight.”
She laughed. “How about dress-up? The schoolgirl sent to the headmaster’s office? That’s always fun.”
He was feeling good. After a disastrous couple of years, things were finally starting to go right. The bad times had begun when Amando Cabral had grown careless in Mexico and nearly brought them both down. Thankfully, Cabral solved that problem. Then a combination of poor investments, failing markets, and inattention cost him millions. With near-perfect timing, Eliza Larocque had appeared at his estate and offered salvation. It had taken all he could do to amass the twenty million euros needed to buy his admittance, but he’d managed.
Now he’d finally generated room to breathe.
He finished his entree.
“I have a surprise for you,” Caroline said.
This woman was a rare combination. Part tramp, part academician, and quite good at both.
“I’m waiting,” he said.
“I think I may have discovered a new link.”
He caught her amused expression and asked, “Think?”
“Actually, I know I have.”
TWENTY-THREE
PARIS
SAM FOLLOWED MALONE AS THEY FLED THE BOOKSTORE INTO the brisk afternoon. Foddrell had turned away from the Seine and plunged deeper into the Latin Quarter’s chaotic streets, each one crowded with excited holiday revelers.
“There’s no way to know if anyone’s on your tail in this crowd,” Malone said. “But he knows our faces, so let’s stay back.”
“He doesn’t seem to care if anyone’s following. He hasn’t looked back once.”
“He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”
“He’s going to the Cafe d’Argent?”
“Where else?”
They kept a normal pace, submerged within the sweeping tide of commerce. Cheese, vegetables, fruit, chocolate, and other delicacies, displayed in wooden bins, spilled into the street. Sam noticed fish lying on gleaming beds of ice, and meat, boned and rolled, chilling in refrigerated cases. Farther on, an ice-cream shop offered Italian gelato in a variety of tempting flavors.
Foddrell stayed a hundred feet ahead.
“What do you really know about this guy?” Malone asked.
“Not a whole lot. He latched on to me maybe a year ago.”
“Which, by the way, is another reason the Secret Service doesn’t want you doing what you’re doing. Too many crazies, too many risks.”
“Then why are we here?” he asked.
“Henrik wanted us to make contact. You tell me, why is that?”
“Are you always so suspicious?”
“It’s a healthy affliction. One that’ll prolong your life.”
They passed more cafes, art galleries, boutiques, and souvenir shops. Sam was pumped. Finally, he was in the field, doing what agents did.
“Let’s split up,” Malone said. “Less chance of him recognizing us. That is if he bothers to look back.”
Sam drifted to one side of the street. He’d been an accounting major at college and almost a CPA. But a government recruiter, who’d visited the campus during his senior year, steered him toward the Secret Service. After graduation, he’d applied and passed the Treasury test, a polygraph exam, complete physical, eye test, and drug screen.
But he was rejected.
Five years later he made it the second time around, after working as an accountant at several national firms, one of which became heavily implicated in a corporate reporting scandal. At the Secret Service’s training center he’d been schooled in firearms, use of force, emergency medical techniques, evidence protection, crime detection, even open-water survival. Then he’d been assigned to the Philadelphia field office, working credit card abuse, counterfeiting, identity theft, and bank fraud.
He knew the score.
Special agents spent their first six to eight years in a field office. After that, depending on performance, they were transferred to a protective detail, where they stayed for another three to five years. Following that, most returned to the field, or transferred to headquarters, or a training office, or some other DC-based assignment. He could have possibly worked overseas in one of the international offices, since he was reasonably fluent in French and Spanish.
Boredom was the reason he’d turned to the Internet. His website had allowed him to explore avenues that he wanted to work as an agent. Investigating electronic fraud had little to do with safeguarding the world’s financial systems. His website provided a forum in which he could express himself. But his extracurricular activities had generated the one thing an agent could never afford. Attention to himself. Twice he was reprimanded. Twice he ignored his superiors. The third time he’d been officially questioned, just two weeks ago, which caused him to flee, flying to Copenhagen and Thorvaldsen. Now here he was, in the liveliest, most picturesque section of Paris, on a cold December day, following a suspect.
Ahead, Foddrell approached one of the quarter’s countless bistros, the quaint sign out front announcing Cafe
