left of his son’s face. He’d insisted. He needed that horrific image burned into his memory because he knew that he’d never rest until that death was fully explained.
Now, after two years, he knew the truth.
And he was within hours of revenge.
He’d lied to Malone. Even if he managed to incite Eliza Larocque into moving on Ashby, he’d still kill the bastard himself.
No one else would do it.
Just him.
Same as last night when he’d stopped Jesper and shot Amando Cabral and his cohort. What was he becoming? A murderer? No. An avenger. But was there really a difference?
He held his glass against the light and admired the alcohol’s rich color. He savored another swallow of brandy, longer this time, more satisfying.
He closed his eyes.
Scattered recollections flickered through his mind, faded a moment, then reappeared. Each came in a smooth, silent process, like shifting images from a projector.
His lips quivered.
Memories he’d nearly forgotten-from a life he hadn’t known for many years-swam into view, blurred, then disappeared.
He’d buried Cai on the estate, in the family cemetery, beside Lisette, among other Thorvaldsens who’d rested there for centuries, his son wearing a simple gray suit and a yellow rose. Cai had loved yellow roses, as had Lisette.
He remembered the peculiar smell from within the casket-a little acidic, a little dank-the smell of death.
His loneliness returned in a fresh surge.
He emptied the snifter of the remaining brandy.
A rush of sadness broke over him with an intolerable force.
No more doubts nagged him.
Yes, he’d kill Graham Ashby himself.
THIRTY-SIX
PARIS
MONDAY, DECEMBER 24
11:00 AM
MALONE ENTERED THE CHURCH OF THE DOME, ATTACHED LIKE a stray appendage to the south end of the imposing Hotel des Invalides. The baroque edifice, with a facade of Doric columns and a single pediment, was capped by an imposing gilded dome-the second tallest structure in Paris-crowned by a lantern and spire. Originally a royal place of worship, erected by Louis XIV to extol the glory of the French monarchy, it had been converted by Napoleon into a warriors’ tomb. Three of the greatest names in French military history-Turene, Vaubon, Foch-rested here. In 1861 Napoleon himself was buried beneath the dome, and eventually his two brothers and son joined him.
Christmas Eve had not diminished the crowds. The interior, though only open for the past hour, was packed with people. Though the place was no longer used for religious services, a placard reminded everyone to remove their hats and speak in a low voice.
He’d stayed last night at the Ritz, in a room Thorvaldsen had arranged, groping for sleep, but finding only disturbing thoughts. He was worried about Sam, but trusted that Stephanie had the situation under control. He was more concerned about Thorvaldsen.
And fast.
He ambled toward a waist-high marble balustrade and glanced upward into the towering dome. Images of the Evangelists, the kings of France, and Apostles stared back. Glancing down, beneath the dome, past the banister, he studied Napoleon’s sarcophagus.
He knew the particulars. Seven coffins held the imperial remains, one inside the other, two of lead, the rest in mahogany, iron, ebony, oak, and-the visible one-red porphyry, the stuff of Roman sepulchres. Nearly twelve feet long and six feet high, shaped like an ark adorned with laurel wreaths, it rested on an emerald granite base. Twelve colossal figures of victory, and the names of Napoleon’s chief battles, etched into the floor, surrounded the tomb.
He stared across the busy church at Graham Ashby.
The Brit matched the description Stephanie had provided and stood on the far side, near the circular railing.
Thorvaldsen had told him an hour ago that his operatives had tracked Ashby from London to Paris to here. Beside him stood an attractive woman with long flowing hair. She brought to mind another blonde who’d consumed his attention the previous two weeks. One of those mistakes in judgment that had nearly cost him his life.
The blonde stood with her hips touching the railing, her back arched, pointing upward to the impressive entablature that circled the church, seemingly explaining something that Ashby found interesting. She had to be Caroline Dodd. Thorvaldsen had briefed him on her. Ashby’s mistress, but also the holder of degrees in medieval history and literature. Her being here signified that Ashby believed there was something significant to find.
The level of noise surrounding him rose and he turned. A sea of people flooded in through the main doors. He watched as each new visitor paid the admission.
He glanced around and admired the collage of marble rising around him, the dome held aloft by majestic Corinthian columns. Symbols of the monarchy sprang from the sculpted decor, reminding the visitor that this was once a church of kings, now the home of an emperor.
“Napoleon died in 1821 on St. Helena,” he heard one of the tour guides explain in German to a nearby group. “The British buried him there, with little honor, in a quiet hollow. But in his last will Napoleon wrote that he wanted his ashes
He stepped away from the marble railing as the Germans pressed close and gazed down at the imposing sarcophagus. More groups in tight phalanxes swept across the floor. He noticed that another man had joined Ashby. Medium height. Blank face. Sparse gray hair. He wore an overcoat that sheathed a thin frame.
Guildhall.
Thorvaldsen had briefed him on this man as well.
The three turned from the railing to leave.
That’s what he’d told Sam agents did.
He shook his head.
Yeah, right.
ASHBY EXITED THE CHURCH OF THE DOME AND ROUNDED THE exterior, finding a long arcade, lined with cannon, that led into the Invalides. The massive complex encompassed two churches, a Court of Honor, a military museum, garden, and an elegant esplanade that stretched from the north facade to the Seine, nearly a kilometer away. Founded in 1670 by Louis XIV to house and care for invalid soldiers, the connected multistory buildings were
