“And I hate that, but I didn’t start this.”
“Actually, you did. Yelling at those two guys.”
She was petite, full-bosomed, slender-waisted, and feisty. Her fiery blue eyes sparkled with an almost fiendish delight-commanding and confident. He was actually the tense one, his palms moist, and he desperately didn’t want to show his anxiety. So he assumed a casual pose and weighed his options.
“Sam,” she said, her voice softer. “I need to talk with you. Privately. Those guys have been on Michael’s trail. Not mine. The others, the Americans who watch me, we just avoided them by getting out of there.”
“Are they the ones who shot those two?”
She shrugged. “Who else?”
“I want to know who sent those two we followed here. Who do they work for?”
She stared back with an expression of undisguised boldness. He felt himself being appraised. Part of him was repelled, another part hoped she was at least somewhat impressed.
“Come with me, and I’ll show you.”
MALONE LISTENED AS STEPHANIE EXPLAINED ABOUT GREEDWATCH.
“It’s run by the woman who started this melee. Meagan Morrison. She’s an American, educated here, at the Sorbonne, in economics. She set you up sending the other young man-Foddrell. That’s a pseudonym Morrison uses to operate the website.”
He shook his head. “Played by an idiot who eats kidneys for lunch. Story of my life.”
She chuckled. “I’m glad you fell for it. Made it easy for us to connect. Daniels told me that Sam has been in contact with GreedWatch for over a year now. He was told to stop, but he didn’t listen. The Secret Service, through its Paris field office, has been monitoring the site, and Morrison herself, for the past few months. She’s a sly one. The guy who led you here is set up as the official webmaster. For the past two weeks, he’s been under separate surveillance, which the Service traced back to Eliza Larocque.”
“None of which tells me why you’re here and know all this.”
“We think that website is privy to some inside info, and apparently so does Larocque.”
“You didn’t come here just to tell me about a website. What’s really going on?”
“Peter Lyon.”
He knew about the South African. One of the world’s most wanted men. Into illicit arms, political assassination, terrorism, whatever the client wanted. Billed himself as a broker of chaos. When Malone retired two years ago, at least a dozen bombings and hundreds of deaths were linked to Lyon.
“He’s still in business?” he asked.
“More so than ever. Ashby has been meeting with him. Larocque is planning something that involves Lyon. Men like him don’t surface often. This may be the best chance we ever have to nail him.”
“And Ashby holding out information on that possible opportunity isn’t a problem?”
“I know. I wasn’t running this operation. I would have never allowed him to call those shots.”
“It’s obvious he’s playing both ends against the middle. They sure as hell can’t let him continue to hold back.”
“He won’t. Not anymore. This is now a Billet operation. As of twelve hours ago, I’m in charge. So I want the SOB squeezed.”
“Before or after Henrik kills him?”
“Preferably before. Ashby met with Lyon in Westminister just a few hours ago. We had parabolic mikes on the conversation.”
“I see somebody was thinking. What about Lyon?”
“They let him be. No tail, and I agreed with that. If he gets spooked, he’ll go to ground. Right now he’s comfortable coming to Ashby.”
He smiled at Lyon’s cockiness. “Glad to know everyone screws up.”
“Some keys were passed from Ashby to Lyon and a two-day time frame mentioned, but not much else. I have a tape of the conversation.” She paused. “Now, where is the merry Dane? I need to talk to him.”
“He went to see Eliza Larocque.”
He knew that revelation would grab her attention.
“Please tell me Thorvaldsen’s not going to spook her, too?”
He noticed a flash of anger in her eyes. Stephanie liked to run her operations her way.
“He’s going to get his revenge,” he made clear.
“Not as long as I’m here. Ashby is all we have, at the moment, to learn what Lyon is doing.”
“Not necessarily. By now, Henrik’s wiggled his way into the Paris Club. He could actually prove helpful.”
They sat in silence while Stephanie pondered the situation.
“Meagan Morrison” she said, “took Sam off at gunpoint. I watched on the museum’s closed-circuit TV. I decided to allow that to happen for a reason.”
“That boy’s no field operative.”
“He’s trained Secret Service. I expect him to act the part.”
“What’s his story?”
She shook her head. “You’re as bad as Thorvaldsen. He’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Another sad and sorry tale. Found abandoned as an infant and was raised in an orphanage.”
“No adoption?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea why not.”
“Where?”
“New Zealand, of all places. He came to America when he was eighteen on a student visa and eventually became a citizen. Attended Columbia University, graduated top third in his class. Worked hard for a few years as an accountant, then earned his way into the Secret Service. All in all, a good kid.”
“Except he doesn’t listen to his superiors.”
“Hell, you and me both fit into that category.”
He grinned. “I assume Meagan Morrison is harmless.”
“More or less. It’s Thorvaldsen who’s the problem. Sam Collins left Washington a couple of weeks ago, just after being questioned again about his website. The Secret Service tracked him straight to Copenhagen. They decided to leave him alone, but when they learned Thorvaldsen had Ashby under close watch, they went to the president. That’s when Daniels dragged me in. He thought something big was happening, and he was right. He decided, considering my close personal relationship with Thorvaldsen, I was the best person to handle it.”
He smiled at her sarcasm. “Does Eliza Larocque know Meagan Morrison is harmless?”
The tension that rose from her silence charged the room.
Finally, she said, “I don’t know.”
“She didn’t send those men for the fun of it. We’d better find out. That could be a problem for Morrison and Sam, considering what just happened here.”
“I’ll deal with Sam. I need you to concentrate on Graham Ashby.”
“How in the world did I get myself in the middle of this mess?”
“You tell me.”
But they both knew the answer, so he simply asked, “What do you want me to do?”
THIRTY-THREE
5:15 PM
THORVALDSEN WAS DROPPED OFF AT THE HOTEL RITZ BY THE private car that had brought him north, from the Loire Valley, into central Paris. Along the way he’d worked the phone, planning his next move.
He fled the late-afternoon cold and entered the hotel’s famous lobby, adorned with a collection of museum- caliber antiques. He especially loved the tale of when Hemingway liberated the Ritz in 1944. Armed with machine
