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’Archevêché. 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.
Tweed watched, too.
Then the man peeled off a wig and ripped facial hair from his cheeks and chin.
He instantly recognized the face beneath.
Cotton Malone.
THORVALDSEN ALLOWED HIS GRIP ON THE GUN IN HIS POCKET to relax. He casually withdrew his hand and watched as Stephanie Nelle stepped toward him.
“This can’t be good,” Meagan muttered.
He agreed.
The tour boat was approaching the bridge. He’d watched as the source of the smoke had been tossed overboard, then two men had jumped into a smaller craft—one of them had been Ashby—which roared away in the opposite direction, following the current, as the Seine wound deeper into Paris.
The tour boat glided past beneath the brid
ge and he caught sight of Sam and Cotton Malone standing at the aft railing, surrounded by people. The upward angle and the fact that Sam and Malone were facing away, watching the retreating motorboat, made it impossible for them to see him.
Meagan and Stephanie saw them, too.
“Now do you see what you’re interfering with?” Stephanie asked as she stopped a meter away.
“How did you know we were here?” Meagan asked.
“Your cell phones,” Stephanie said. “They have embedded trackers. When Henrik came on the line earlier, I realized there’d be trouble. We’ve been watching.”
Stephanie faced him. “What were you going to do? Shoot Ashby from here?”
He threw her a fierce, indignant stare. “Seemed like a simple thing to do.”
“You’re not going to allow us to handle this, are you?”
He knew exactly what was meant by us. “Cotton seems not to have the time to answer my calls, but plenty of time to be a part of your operation.”
“He’s trying to solve all of our problems. Yours included.”
“I don’t require his assistance.”
“Then why did you involve him?”
Because, at the time, he’d thought him a friend. One who’d be there for him. As he’d been for Malone.
“What was happening on that boat?” he asked.
Stephanie shook her head. “As if I’m going to explain that to you. And you,” she added, pointing at Meagan. “Were you going to just let him kill a man?”
“I don’t work for you.”
“You’re right.” She motioned to one of the French policemen standing beside the car. “Get her out of here.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Thorvaldsen made clear. “We’ll leave together.”
“You’re coming with me.”
He’d already anticipated that response, which was why he’d slipped his right hand back into his pocket and regripped the gun.
He withdrew the weapon.
“What do you plan to do? Shoot me?” Stephanie quietly asked.
“I wouldn’t recommend you push me. At the moment, I seem nothing more than an obedient participant in my own humiliation, but it’s my problem, Stephanie, not yours, and I intend to finish what I started.”