The full extent of Malone’s duplicity struck hard.
“Whatever is at Saint-Denis, you’re going to have to find it without him,” Malone made clear.
He grabbed hold of his emotions. “Goodbye, Cotton. We shall never speak again.”
He clicked off the phone.
MALONE CLOSED HIS EYES.
The acid declaration—we shall never speak again—burned his gut. A man like Henrik Thorvaldsen did not make statements like that lightly.
He’d just lost a friend.
Stephanie watched from the other side of the car’s rear seat. They were headed away from Notre Dame, toward Gare du Nord, a busy rail terminal, following the first set of instructions Lyon had called back to them after his initial contact.
Rain peppered the windshield.
“He’ll get over it,” she said. “We can’t be concerned with his feelings. You know the rules. We have a job to do.”
“He’s my friend. And besides, I hate rules.”
“You’re helping him.”
“He doesn’t see it that way.”
Traffic was thick, the rain compounding the confusion. His eyes drifted from railings to balconies to roofs, the stately façades on both sides of the street receding upward into a graying sky. He noticed several secondhand-book shops, their stock displayed in windows of advertising posters, hackneyed prints, and arcane volumes.
He thought of his own business.
Which he’d bought from Thorvaldsen—his landlord, his friend. Their Thursday-evening dinners in Copenhagen. His many trips to Christiangade. Their adventures. They’d spent a lot of time together.
“Sam’s going to have his hands full,” he muttered.
A spate of taxis signaled the approach of the Gare du Nord. Lyon’s instructions had been to call when they were in sight of the train station.
Stephanie dialed her phone.
SAM STEPPED FROM THE MÉTRO STATION AND TROTTED through the rain, using the overhangs from the closed shops as an umbrella, racing toward a plaza identified as PL. JEAN JAURèS. To his left rose Saint-Denis basilica, its medieval aesthetic harmony marred by a curiously missing spire. He’d taken advantage of the Métro as the fastest way north, avoiding the late-afternoon holiday traffic.
He searched the frigid plaza for Thorvaldsen. Wet pavement, like black patent leather, reflected street lamps in javelins of yellow light.
Had he gone inside the church?
He stopped a young couple, passing on their way to the Métro, and asked about the basilica, learning that the building had been closed since summer for extensive repairs, that fact confirmed by scaffolding braced against the exterior.
Then he saw Thorvaldsen and Meagan, near one of the trailers parked off to the left, maybe two hundred feet away.
He headed their way
ASHBY FOLDED HIS COAT COLLAR UP AGAINST THE RAIN AND walked down the deserted street with Caroline and Peter Lyon. An overcast sky draped the world in a pewter cloth. They’d used the boat and motored west on the Seine until the river started its wind north, out of Paris. Eventually, they’d veered onto a canal, stopping at a concrete dock near a highway overpass, a few blocks south of Saint-Denis basilica.
They’d passed a columned building identified as LE MUSÉE D’ART ET D’HISTOIRE, and Lyon led them beneath the portico.
Their captor’s phone rang.
Lyon answered, listened a moment, then said, “Take Boulevard de Magenta north and turn on Boulevard de Rochechouart. Call me back when you find Place de Clichy.”
Lyon ended the connection.
Caroline was still terrified. Ashby wondered if she might panic and try to flee. It would be foolish. A man like Lyon would shoot her dead in an instant—treasure or no treasure. The smart play, the only play, was to hope for a mistake. If none occurred, perhaps he could offer this monster something that could prove useful, like a bank through which to launder money where no one asked questions.
He’d deal with that when necessary.
Right now, he simply hoped Caroline knew the answers to Lyon’s coming questions.
SIXTY-EIGHT
THORVALDSEN AND MEAGAN TRUDGED DOWN A GRAVELED PATH adjacent to the basilica’s north side, away from the plaza.
“There’s a former abbey,” Meagan told him, “located on the south side. Not as old as the basilica. Nineteenth century, though parts date way back. It’s some kind of college now. The abbey is at the heart of the legend that surrounds this place. After being beheaded in Montmartre, the evangelist St. Denis, the first bishop of Paris, supposedly started to walk, carrying his head. He was buried where he fell by a saintly woman. An abbey developed at that spot, which eventually became”—she motioned at the church—“this monstrosity.”
He was trying to determine how to get inside. The north façade contained three portals, all iron-barred on the outside. Ahead, he spotted what was surely the ambulatory, a half circle of stone pierced with colored-glass windows.
Rain continued to fall.
They needed to find shelter.
“Let’s round the corner up ahead,” he said, “and try the south side.”
ASHBY ADMIRED THE BASILICA, CLEARLY A MARVEL OF SKILL and craftsmanship. They were walking down a graveled path on the south side of the building, having gained entrance to the church grounds through an opening in a makeshift construction barrier.
His hair and face were soaking wet, his ears burning from the cold. Thank goodness he’d worn a heavy coat, thick leather gloves, and long underwear. Caroline, too, had dressed for the weather, but her blond hair was matted to her head. Piles of broken masonry, blocks of travertine, and marble fragments lay just off the path, which cut a route between the basilica and a stone wall that separated the church from some adjacent buildings. A construction trailer stood ahead on concrete blocks, scaffolding rising behind it up the articulated walls. On the trailer’s far side, up a few dozen stone steps, rose a Gothic portal, narrowed from front to back through the thickness of the walls toward two double doors clamped tight with plates of blue-washed iron.
Lyon climbed the steps and tested the latch.
Locked.
“See that piece of iron pipe?” Lyon said, pointing to the rubble pile. “We need it.”
He wanted to know, “Are you going to smash your way inside?”
Lyon nodded. “Why not?”
MALONE WATCHED AS STEPHANIE DIALED ASHBY’S MOBILE NUMBER one more time. They’d arrived at the Place de Clichy, an interchange busy with activity.
“South down Rue d’Amsterdam, past Gare St. Lazare,” Lyon instructed through the speakerphone. “The church you seek is across from that train station. I’d hurry. It’s going to happen within the next thirty minutes. And don’t call again. I won’t answer.”
The driver heard the location and sped ahead. Gare St. Lazare appeared in less than three minutes.
Two churches lay across from the busy station, side by side.
“Which one?” Stephanie muttered.
SAM SKIRTED THE BASILICA’S NORTH SIDE, FOLLOWING HENRIK and Meagan through the rain. They’d already rounded the corner a hundred feet ahead. This far side of the basilica was rounded, full of curves, different from the straight edges on the plaza side.
He carefully advanced, not wanting to alert Thorvaldsen to his presence.
He followed the church’s half circle and swung around to the building’s south side.
Immediately he spotted Thorvaldsen and Meagan, huddled beneath a covered section that jutted from the basilica and connected with an adjacent structure. He heard something clang from farther down, past where Thorvaldsen stood.
Then more clangs.
ASHBY CRASHED THE HEAVY METAL PIPE ONTO THE LATCH. ON the fourth blow, the handle gave way.
Another swipe and the black iron lever tumbled down the stone steps.
Lyon eased the door open. “That was easy.”
Ashby tossed the pipe away.
Lyon held his gun, incentive enough not to try anythin
g stupid, and motioned with it toward Caroline.
“Time to find out if her suspicions prove correct.”
MALONE MADE A DECISION. “YOU DIDN’T THINK LYON WOULD make it simple, did you? You take the church on the right, I’ll go left.”
The car stopped and they both leaped out into the rain.
ASHBY WAS GLAD TO BE INSIDE. THE BASILICA’S INTERIOR WAS both warm and dry. Only a handful of overhead light fixtures burned, but they were enough for him to appreciate the lofty nave’s majesty. Soaring fluted columns, perhaps thirty meters high, graceful arches, and pointed vaulting conveyed an awe-inspiring sense. Stained-glass windows, too many to even count, dark to the dismal day, projected none of the sensuous power their luminous tones surely could convey. But the impression of seemingly weightless walls was heightened by the lack of any visible feature holding something so tall upright. He knew, of course, that the supports were outside in the form of flying buttresses. He was forcing himself to concentrate on details as a way to relieve his mind of stress. He needed to think. To be ready to act when the moment was right.
“Miss Dodd,” Lyon said. “What now?”
“I can’t think with that gun out,” Caroline blurted. “There’s no way. I don’t like guns. I don’t like you. I don’t like being here.”
Lyon’s brutish eyes narrowed. “If it helps, then here.” He stuffed the weapon beneath his coat and displayed two empty, gloved hands. “That better?”
Caroline fought to regain her composure. “You’re just going to kill us anyway. Why should I tell you anything?”
All congeniality faded from Lyon’s face. “Once we find whatever there is to find, I might have a change of heart. Besides, Lord Ashby there is watching my every move, waiting for me to err. Then we’ll have a chance to see if he’s really a man.”
Ashby clung to his last tatters of courage. “Perhaps I might have such an opportunity.”
Lyon’s lips parted in an amused grin. “I do hope so. Now, Miss Dodd, where to?”
THORVALDSEN LISTENED FROM THE HALF-OPEN DOOR THAT Ashby had battered. He and Meagan had crept forward after Ashby, Caroline Dodd, and the man in the green coat had slipped inside. He was reasonably sure that the third participant was the second man who’d leaped from the tour boat with Ashby.