He caught the message. But he had something he wanted to emphasize, too.
“Just kill her.”
SAM DECIDED TO EASE INTO THE LAST ROW OF SEATS BENEATH the canopy. He spied the familiar shape of Notre Dame approaching ahead on the left. On his right, the Latin Quarter and Shakespeare & Company, where yesterday all this had begun. The tour guide, not seen, only heard over the loudspeaker, droned bilingually about the Conciergerie, on the far Right Bank, where Marie Antionette was imprisoned before her execution.
He stood and casually walked toward the rear row, gazing out at the sights. He caught the chatter, picture taking, and pointing among the tourists aboard. Except for one man. Who sat at the end of an aisle, three rows from the end. Withered mushy face, long-eared, nearly chinless, he wore a pea-green coat over black jeans and boots. Blue-black hair was tied in a ponytail. He sat with both hands in his pockets, eyes ahead, disinterested, seemingly enjoying the ride.
Sam hugged the outer wall and crossed an invisible barrier where cold seeping in from the rear overcame warm air beneath the enclosure. He stared ahead and spotted another bridge spanning the Seine, coming closer.
Something rolled across the deck and clanged against the boat’s side.
He gazed down at a metal canister.
He’d been taught about armaments during his Secret Service training, enough to recognize that this was not a grenade.
No.
A smoke bomb.
His gaze shot toward Green Coat, who was staring straight at him, lips curled into a smile.
Purple smoke escaped from the canister.
AN ODOR FILLED ASHBY’S NOSTRILS.
He whirled around and saw that the space beneath the Plexiglas canopy had filled with smoke.
Shouts. Screams.
People escaped the foggy shroud, fleeing toward him, onto the open portion of the deck, coughing away the remnants from inside.
“What in the world?” he muttered.
THORVALDSEN PAID THE CABDRIVER AND STEPPED OUT ON THE Pont de l’Archeveche. Meagan Morrison was right. Not much traffic on the two-lane stone bridge, and only a handful of pedestrians had paused to enjoy a picturesque view of Notre Dame’s backside.
He included an extra fifty euros to the driver and said, “Take this young lady wherever she wants to go.” He stared into the rear seat though the open door. “Good luck to you. Farewell.”
He slammed the door closed.
The cab eased back into the road, and he approached an iron railing that guarded the sidewalk from a ten- meter drop to the river. Inside his coat pocket he fingered the gun, shipped by Jesper yesterday from Christiangade, along with spare magazines.
He’d watched as Graham Ashby and another man had stood outside the tour boat enclosure, propped against the aft railing, just as Sam had reported. The boat was two hundred meters away, cruising toward him against the current. He should be able to shoot Ashby, drop the gun into the Seine, then walk away before anyone realized what happened.
Weapons were no stranger. He could make this kill.
He heard a car brake and turned.
The cab had stopped.
Its rear door opened and Meagan Morrison popped out. She buttoned her coat and trotted straight toward him.
“Old man,” she called out. “You’re about to do something really stupid, aren’t you?”
“Not to me it isn’t.”
“If you’re hell-bent, at least let me help.”
SAM RUSHED AFT WITH EVERYONE ELSE, SMOKE BILLOWING FROM the boat as if it were ablaze.
But it wasn’t.
He fought his way clear of the enclosure and spotted Green Coat, elbowing his way through the panic, toward the railing where Ashby and Tweed still stood.
THORVALDSEN GRIPPED THE GUN IN HIS POCKET AND SPOTTED smoke rushing from the tour boat.
Meagan saw it, too. “Now, that’s not something you see every day.”
He heard more brakes squeal and turned to see a car block traffic at each end of the bridge on which he stood.
Another car roared past and skidded to a stop in the center of the bridge.
The passenger-side door opened
Stephanie Nelle emerged.
ASHBY WATCHED AS A MAN IN A GREEN COAT LUNGED FROM THE crowd and jammed a fist into Peter Lyon’s gut. He heard the breath leave the South African, as he crumbled to the deck.
A gun appeared in Green Coat’s hand, and the man said to Ashby, “Over the side.”
“You must be joking.”
“Over the side.” The man motioned toward the water.
Ashby turned to see a small craft, outfitted with a single outboard, nestled close to the tour boat, a driver at its helm.
He turned back and stared hard at Green Coat.
“I won’t say it again.”
Ashby pivoted over the railing, then dropped a meter or so from the side into the second boat.
Green Coat hoisted himself up to follow, but never made it down.
Instead his body was yanked backward.
SIXTY-FIVE
SAM WATCHED AS TWEED SPRANG TO HIS FEET AND YANKED THE man in the pea-green coat from the railing. Ashby had already leaped over the side. He wondered what was down there. The river would be nearly freezing. Certainly the fool had not plunged into the water.
Tweed and Green Coat slammed onto the deck.
Frightened passengers gave them room.
He decided to do something about the smoke. He stole a breath and rushed back beneath the enclosure. He found the smoke canister, lifted it from the deck, and, just past the last row of seats where the canopy ended, tossed it overboard.
The two men were still scuffling on the deck, the remaining smoke dissipating quickly in the cold, dry air.
He wanted to do something, but he was at a loss.
Engines dimmed. A door in the forward compartment opened and a crewman rushed out. Tweed and Green Coat continued to wrestle, neither man gaining an advantage. Tweed broke free, rolled away, and pushed himself up from the deck. Green Coat, too, was coming to his feet. But instead of rushing his opponent, the man in the green coat pushed through the surrounding onlookers and leaped over the side.
Tweed lunged after him, but the other man was gone.
Sam crossed the deck and spotted a small boat losing speed, drifting to their stern, then motoring away in the opposite direction.
