“I have Ashby.”
He told her exactly what happened since leaving the Eiffel Tower.
“You weren’t supposed to follow him,” she made clear.
“And a plane wasn’t supposed to fly into us, either.”
“I appreciate your ingenuity. Stay where you are-”
Henrik relieved him of the phone. Clearly his friend wanted to speak with Stephanie Nelle, and he wanted to know why, so Sam stepped back and listened.
“IT’S GOOD TO KNOW THAT THE AMERICAN GOVERNMENT IS DIRECTLY atop things,” Thorvaldsen said.
“And it’s good to talk to you, too, Henrik,” Stephanie replied, in a tone that signaled she was ready for battle.
“You interfered in my business,” he said.
“On the contrary. You interfered in ours.”
“How is that possible? None of this concerns America.”
“Don’t be so sure. You’re not the only one who’s interested in Ashby.”
His stomach went hollow. He’d suspected as much, hoping he was wrong. “He’s valuable to you?”
“You realize I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
He didn’t require any admissions from her. What just happened at the Eiffel Tower explained everything. “It’s not hard to imagine what’s happening here.”
“Let’s just say that there’s more at stake here than your revenge.”
“Not to me.”
“Would it do any good if I said I understand? That I’d do the same, if the roles were reversed?”
“You still interfered.”
“We saved your life.”
“You gave Ashby the book.”
“Which was a good idea. It rocked him to sleep. Lucky for you, I might add, or you’d be dead right now.”
He wasn’t in the mood to be grateful. “Cotton betrayed me. I have not the time, at the moment, to deal with that disappointment. But I will.”
“Cotton used his brain. You should, too, Henrik.”
“My son is dead.”
“I don’t need a reminder.”
“Apparently, you do.” He paused, grabbed a breath, and steadied himself. “This is my affair, not yours, not Cotton’s, not the U.S. government’s.”
“Henrik, listen to me. This is not about you. There’s a terrorist involved here. A man named Peter Lyon. We’ve been trying to nail him for a decade. He’s finally out in the open where we can see him. You have to let us finish this. But we need Ashby in order to do that.”
“And when it’s over? What of my son’s murderer?”
The other end of the phone remained silent. Which told him what he already knew. “That’s what I thought. Goodbye, Stephanie.”
“What are you going to do?”
He switched off the phone and handed it to Sam. The younger man and Meagan Morrison had stood silent, watching him through concerned eyes.
“Will you betray me, too?” he asked Sam.
“No.”
The answer came quick. Perhaps too quick. But this eager soul was anxious to prove himself.
“Something’s happening,” Meagan said.
He turned and focused across the boulevard at the hotel.
Ashby appeared out front and spoke to the doorman, who quickly motioned for a cab. Thorvaldsen turned away and faced the buildings behind them. His face might be seen.
“He’s in the cab,” Sam said.
“Flag us one, too.”
SIXTY-THREE
ASHBY STEPPED OFF THE DOCK AT PONT DE L’ALMA AND ONTO the tour boat. Off to the east a carillon of bells pealed for three PM. He’d never toured the Seine by boat, though he assumed the cruises were quite popular. Today only about twenty strangers filled the seats under a sooty Plexiglas canopy, the boat not quite half full. He wondered why Peter Lyon insisted on meeting in such tacky surroundings. The call had come an hour ago, a gruff voice instructing him on the time and place. He’d told Caroline to keep working on what she’d discovered and that he’d return shortly. He’d debated ignoring Lyon’s summons, but knew better. Besides, Lyon had been the one who failed, not him. And there was the matter of the fee already paid, and the balance owed.
He settled into a seat on the last row and waited ten minutes until the engines revved and the flat hull glided out into the river, heading east toward the Ile de la Cite. Through a loudspeaker a woman’s voice described, in English, the two banks and the sights while cameras clicked.
A tap on the shoulder diverted his attention and he turned to see a tall, urbane-looking man with blond hair. He appeared to be midsixties, the face drawn and shielded by a bushy beard and mustache. A vastly different look from the other day, yet the eyes remained the same amber color. The man was dressed in a tweed coat and corduroy slacks, appearing, as usual, quite European.
Ashby followed him toward the stern, outside the Plexiglas enclosure, where they stood in the cold. The tour guide inside continued to hold the crowd’s attention.
“What do I call you today?” he asked.
“How about Napoleon?” The voice was husky, throaty, more American this time.
The boat eased past the Grand Palais on the Right Bank.
“May I ask what happened?”
“No, you may not,” Lyon said.
He wasn’t about to accept that rebuke. “You are the one who failed. Not only that, you caused me to be exposed. The Americans are applying pressure. Do you have any idea the situation you have generated?”
“The Americans are the ones who interfered.”
“And that was a surprise? You knew they were involved. I paid three times your fee to compensate for their involvement.” His exasperation showed, but he did not care. “You said it would be quite a show.”
“I don’t know, as yet, who to blame,” Lyon said. “My planning was precise.”
He registered the same condescending tone he’d grown to hate. Since he could not reveal that he’d been using Lyon to do his dirty work, he asked, “What can be done to rectify the situation?”
“That will be your problem. I’m done.”
He could not believe what he was hearing. “You’re-”
“I want to know,” Lyon said, interrupting. “What did you hope to gain from killing those people at the tower?”
“How do you know I wanted to kill them?”
“The same way I know about the Americans.”
This man knew an awful lot. But he sensed that Lyon was not nearly as confident today. Good to know that even the devil failed occasionally. He decided not to rub the disaster in the man’s face. He still needed Lyon.
“I would have never been rid of them,” he said. “Larocque, especially. So I decided to terminate the relationship, in a way she would appreciate.”
“And how much money was involved?”
He chuckled. “You like to come to the point, don’t you?”
Lyon shifted on his feet as he stood, propped against the aft railing. “It’s always about money.”
