Part Three
THIRTY-NINE
12:15 PM
SAM FOLLOWED MEAGAN MORRISON AND STEPHANIE NELLE AS they each paid admission to the Eiffel Tower. The lines at the other two entrances, with elevators to the first and second platforms, were massive, at least a two-hour wait. But the one here at the south pylon was much shorter, since the only way to the first platform was to climb 347 steps.
“We don’t have time to wait in line,” Stephanie Nelle had said.
Sam had spent the night at a Left Bank hotel in one room, Meagan Morrison in another, two Secret Service agents guarding their doors. Stephanie had listened to the information Meagan had to offer, then she’d made a few phone calls. After apparently confirming at least some of what she’d heard, she’d insisted on protective custody.
“Do field agents wear the same clothes all the time?” he asked Stephanie as they climbed the stairs. He was going on three days with his current ensemble.
“Few tuxedos or designer digs,” she said. “You make do, and get the job done.”
They passed a riser marked 134. Four immense, lattice-girder piers, the space within them larger than a football field, supported the tower’s first platform-189 feet high, as a sign at the bottom of the stairs had informed. The pylons tapered upward to a second platform, at 379 feet, then continued rising to the top level observation deck, at 905 feet. The tallest structure in Paris-a gangly network of exposed puddle iron, riveted together, painted a brownish gray, the image of which had evolved into one of the most recognizable in the world.
Meagan was handling the climb with easy effort, but his own calves ached. She’d said little last evening, after they were taken to the hotel. But he’d made the right choice going with her from the museum. Now he was working with the head of the Magellan Billet.
Ten more minutes of climbing and they tackled the final flight.
The first-floor platform was busy with visitors swarming through a souvenir shop, post office, exhibit hall, snack bar, and restaurant. Elevators on the far side led down to ground level. Another 330 or so steps right-angled upward to the second level. The first-level platform wound around an open center that offered a view down to the plaza.
Stephanie rested against the iron railing. He and Meagan joined her. Together they stared across at a glass wall and doors, above which lettering identified LA SALLE GUSTAV EIFFEL.
“The Paris Club meets in that room tomorrow,” Meagan told Stephanie in a whisper.
“And how do you
They’d had this same conversation yesterday. Obviously Stephanie was practicing the old adage, “Ask the same question enough and see if you get the same answer.”
“Look, Ms. Justice Department,” Meagan said. “I’ve played along with your show of authority. I’ve even tried to be helpful. But if you still don’t believe me, then what are we doing here?”
Stephanie did not respond to the challenge. Instead, they continued to lean against the railing and kept their gazes focused on the far side.
“I know they will be here tomorrow,” Meagan finally said. “It’s a big to-do. The whole club coming together on Christmas.”
“Odd time for a meeting,” Sam said.
“Christmas here is a strange holiday. I learned that a long time ago. The French aren’t all that big on yuletide cheer. Most leave town for the day, and the rest go to restaurants. They all like to eat this cake called a
“The Eiffel Tower is open?” Sam asked.
Meagan nodded. “At one PM.”
“Tell me again what you know,” Stephanie said.
Meagan appeared irritated, but complied. “Larocque rented the Gustav Eiffel Room, right over there. The shindig starts at eleven AM and goes to four PM. She’s even catered lunch. I guess she thinks two hundred feet in the air gives her and her accomplices some privacy.”
“Any security?” Stephanie asked.
“Now, how would I know that? But I’m betting you do.”
Stephanie seemed to relish the crisp bite of Meagan’s pronouncement. “The city owns the tower, but the Societe Nouvelle d’Exploitation de la Tour Eiffel operates the site. They have a private firm that provides security, along with the Paris police and French military.”
Sam had noticed a police station beneath the south tower entrance, along with some serious-looking men, dressed in combat fatigues, toting automatic rifles.
“I checked,” Stephanie said. “There is a group scheduled in that room tomorrow, for that time frame, which contracted for some additional security. The meeting hall itself will be closed off. The tower is closed until one PM. After that, there should be as many people visiting then as today, which is a considerable number.”
“Like I said,” Meagan made clear. “It’s the first time the club has ventured out of its house in the Marais. The one I showed Sam yesterday.”
“And you think that’s significant?” Stephanie asked Meagan.
“Has to be. This club is trouble.”
MALONE LEFT LE GRAND VEFOUR AND GRABBED A TAXI OUTSIDE the restaurant for a short hop south to the Louvre. He paid the driver and crossed beneath a grand archway into the Cour Napoleon, immediately spotting the signature geometric glass pyramid that served as a skylight for the museum’s entrance below. The classical facade of the Louvre engulfed the massive parade ground on three sides, while the Arc du Carousel, a pastiche of a Roman arch with rose marble columns, stood guard at the open east end.
Seven triangular granite basins surrounded the glass pyramid. On the edge of one sat a slender man with thin features and thick sandy hair touched by gray at the temples. He wore a dark wool coat and black gloves. Though the afternoon air had warmed from the morning chill, Malone estimated it was maybe the high 40s at the most. Thorvaldsen had told him the man would be waiting here, once he obtained the book. So he walked over and sat on the cold edge.
“You must be Cotton Malone,” Professor Murad said in English.
Taking a cue from Jimmy Foddrell, he’d been carrying the book out in the open, so he handed it over. “Fresh from the Invalides.”
“Was it easy to steal?”
“Just sitting there waiting, like I was told it would be.”
He watched as Murad thumbed through the brittle pages. He’d already studied them during the two cab rides and knew where the perusing would stop. The first halt came halfway through, where the manuscript divided itself into two parts. On a blank page, which acted as a divider, was written:
He watched as the professor’s forehead crinkled and a frown signaled reluctance. “I didn’t expect that.”
Malone blew warmth into his ungloved hands and watched the frenetic hustle and bustle in the courtyard as hundreds of tourists came and went from the Louvre.
