She could see that he was interested in what she was saying.
“Herre Thorvaldsen, it was long ago realized, even by ancient monarchs, that their subjects would not tolerate in peace that which they would willingly accept in war. This concept is particularly true today, in modern democracies. Again, look at America. In the 1950s it allowed the trampling of its First Amendment when the threat of encroaching communism was thought real. Free speech became unimportant when compared with the imagined danger of the Soviet Union. Even more recently, after the September 11 attacks in 2001, laws were passed that, at any other time, Americans would have found repulsive. The Patriot Act suppressed liberties and invaded privacies on an unprecedented level. Surveillance laws curbed civil liberties and restricted established freedoms. Identification laws came into being that, heretofore, Americans found repugnant. But they allowed those violations so that they could be safe—”
“Or at least perceive themselves to be safe.”
She smiled. “Precisely. That is exactly what I’m talking about. A credible external threat equals expanded political power—so long as the threat remains credible.”
She paused.
“And within that formula, there exists the potential for great profit.”
MALONE POINTED AT THE BOOK PROFESSOR MURAD HELD AND the curious lines of writing. “Henrik isn’t going to like that we don’t know what that is.”
Murad continued to examine the anomaly. “I have an idea. Let’s go inside the Louvre. I need to check something.”
THORVALDSEN WAS ABSORBING ALL THAT ELIZA LAROCQUE WAS explaining. She’d obviously invested a lot of thought into what she was planning. He decided to steer her back toward Ashby.
“You haven’t asked me a thing about your security problem,” he said in a kindly voice.
“I assumed you would tell me when ready.”
He sipped his wine and arranged his thoughts. “Ashby is nearly thirty million euros in debt. Most of that is unsecured, high-interest personal loans.”
“I have found Lord Ashby to be straightforward and quite dedicated. He’s done everything I’ve requested of him.”
“Lord Ashby is a thief. As you well know, a few years back he was involved with a group of illicit art collectors. Many of the group ultimately faced justice—”
“Nothing was ever proven regarding Lord Ashby.”
“Again, none of which exonerates him. I know he was involved. You know he was involved. That’s why he’s part of your club.”
“And he’s making excellent progress doing what I requested. In fact, he’s here, right now, in Paris, following up on a promising lead. One that could lead straight to our goal. And for that, Herre Thorvaldsen, I might be willing to forgive a gracious plenty.”
MALONE FOLLOWED PROFESSOR MURAD INTO THE GLASS PYRAMID and down a series of escalators. A low rumble of noise seeped from crowds waiting to enter the museum. He wondered where they were headed and was grateful when the professor bypassed the long lines at ticket counters and headed into the bookstore.
The two-story shop was packed with information—thousands of books for sale, all arranged by country and period. Murad headed for the expansive French section and several tables stacked with tomes relative to the Napoleonic Age.
“I come here all the time,” the academician said. “It’s a great store. They carry so many obscure texts that ordinary places never would stock.”
He could understand that obsession. Bibliophiles were all alike.
Murad hastily searched the titles.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“I’m looking for a French volume.” His eyes kept raking the table. “It’s on St. Helena. I almost bought it a few weeks ago but—” He reached down and slid out one of the hardbacks. “Here it is. Too expensive. So I settled for admiring it from afar.”
Malone smiled. He liked this man. Nothing pretentious about him.
Murad laid the volume down and thumbed through the pages. He seemingly found what he was searching for and asked Malone to open the book from the Invalides to the page with the curious lines of writing.
“Just what I thought,” Murad said, pointing to the book they’d come to see. “This is a picture of some notes from St. Helena, written during Napoleon’s exile. We know that his steward, Saint-Denis, rewrote many of Napoleon’s drafts, since the emperor’s penmanship was atrocious.” Murad pointed. “See. The two samples we have here are nearly identical.”
Malone compared the books and saw that the script was indeed similar. The same rounded M’s——and stilted E’s— The flare at the base of the F’s—. The odd-shaped A’s——that looked like slanted D’s.
“So Saint-Denis wrote what’s in this Merovingian book?” he asked.
“No, he didn’t.”
Malone was puzzled.
Murad pointed to the open Louvre book. “Read the caption beneath the photo.”
He did—and now realized. “That’s Napoleon’s handwriting?”
Murad nodded and pointed to the Merovingian text. “He personally wrote what’s in this book, then left it specifically in Saint-Denis’ charge. That makes this writing significant.”
He recalled what Henrik had told him about the conversation between Ashby and Caroline Dodd. A letter she’d located, also written in Napoleon’s hand. Unusual to see the emperor’s handwriting, she’d told Ashby.
He mentioned that to Murad.
“I was thinking the same thing,” the professor said. “Henrik briefed me, too. Mighty curious.”
He studied the fourteen lines of odd letters and other random markings written by Napoleon Bonaparte himself.
“There’s a message here,
” Malone said. “There has to be.”
THORVALDSEN DECIDED TO SINK THE KNIFE DEEPER INTO ELIZA Larocque and asked, “What if Lord Ashby can’t deliver that which you want?”
She shrugged. “Few, besides my ancestor, have ever searched for Napoleon’s cache. It’s generally regarded as myth. I’m hoping they are wrong. I don’t think it will be Ashby’s fault if he fails. He’s at least trying.”
“While deceiving you about his finances.”
She fingered her wineglass. “I admit, that’s a problem. I’m not happy about it.” She paused. “But I’ve yet to see any proof.”
“What if Ashby finds the cache and doesn’t tell you?”
“How would I ever know?”
“You won’t.”
“Is there a point to your badgering?”
He saw that she’d heard the hint of an unspoken promise. “Whatever he’s after, here, today, in Paris, seems important. You yourself said it might hold the key. If I’m right about him, he’s going to tell you that he wasn’t able to retrieve whatever it is—that it wasn’t there or some other such excuse. It will be for you to judge whether that be truth or a lie.”
FORTY-ONE
MALONE LEFT DR. MURAD AT THE LOUVRE, AFTER PHOTOCOPYING the two pages in the Merovingian book with Napoleon’s writing and leaving the copies with the professor. He needed to keep the book.
He grabbed a taxi, crossed the Seine, and headed to the Eiffel Tower. Beneath the ironworks, among a bustling crowd of visitors waiting in line to ascend the elevators, he spotted Stephanie, Sam, and another woman—Meagan Morrison.
“Good to see you’re okay,” he said to Sam. “Of course, you didn’t listen to a thing I said in the museum.”
“I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”
“Actually you could and should have.”
Malone faced Morrison. She was exactly as Stephanie described—short, anxious, attractive, and interesting.