Free The Paris Vendetta by Steve Berry Page B

I’ve studied the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. They were around for a long time. Pretty clever, actually. To steal what’s already stolen. Ashby’s Acquisitor was a man named Guildhall, who still works for him. Cabral was hired by Ashby, after the Retrievers were exposed, for some specialized tasks. Cabral went after some of the items that weren’t recovered when the Retrievers were caught, things Ashby knew existed. The list of what was recovered when the Retrievers were finally discovered is staggering. But Ashby may have moved on to other things, trading treasure hunting for something on a grander scale.” Thorvaldsen faced Sam. “Your information makes sense. All of your analysis on Ashby, so far, has proven accurate.”
    “But you don’t see any new financial conspiracy,” Malone said.
    The Dane shrugged. “Ashby has lots of friends, but that’s to be expected. After all, he heads one of England’s largest banks. To be honest, I’ve confined my investigation only to his association with Cabral—”
    “Why not just kill him and be done with it? Why all these games?” Malone asked.
    The answer to both questions struck Sam immediately. “Because you do believe me. You think there is a conspiracy.”
    Thorvaldsen’s countenance beamed with a mild delight, the first sign of joviality Sam had seen on his friend’s face in a while.
    “I never said I didn’t.”
    “What do you know, Henrik?” Malone asked. “You never move in the dark. Tell me what you’re holding back.”
    “Sam, when Jesper returns, could you help him with that final bag. It’s a long way to the boat. Though he’d never say it, my old friend is getting up in age. Not as spry as he once was.”
    Sam didn’t like being dismissed, but saw that Thorvaldsen wanted to talk to Malone alone. He realized his place—he was an outsider, not in any position to argue. Not a whole lot different from when he was a kid, or from the Secret Service, where he was the low man on the pole as well. He’d done what Thorvaldsen wanted and made contact with Malone. But he’d also helped thwart attackers in Malone’s bookshop. He’d proven he was capable. He thought about protesting, but decided to keep quiet. Over the past year he’d said plenty to his supervisors in Washington, surely enough to get him fired. He desperately wanted to be a part of whatever Thorvaldsen was planning.
    Enough to swallow his pride and do as he was told.
    So when Jesper returned, he bent down and said, “Let me help you.”
    As he grabbed feet sheathed in thick plastic, carrying a corpse for the first time in his life, Malone looked at him. “This financial group you keep talking about. You know a lot about them?”
    “My friend in France knows more.”
    “You at least know its name?”
    He nodded. “The Paris Club.”

FOURTEEN
    CORSICA
    A SHBY STEPPED ONTO THE DESOLATE C AP C ORSE SHORE, ITS dirty sand grass-strewn, its rocks invested with prickly maquis. On the eastern horizon, far across the water, he spied the lights of Elba. The crumbling Tour de Santa Maria sprang from the surf twenty meters away, the shadowy ruin torn and convulsed with the look of something utterly besieged. The winter night was a balmy 18° Celsius, typical for the Mediterranean, and the main reason why so many tourists flocked to the island this time of year.
    “We are going to the convent?” the Corsican asked him.
    He motioned and the tender motored away. He carried a radio and would contact the ship later. Archimedes rested at anchor, in a calm expanse, just offshore.
    “Indeed we are. I checked a map. It’s not far.”
    He and his cohort carefully eased their way across the granite, following a defined footpath among the maquis. He caught the distinctive scent of the aromatic scrub, a blend of rosemary, lavender, cistus, sage, juniper, mastic, and myrtle. Not as strong this time of year as it was in spring and summer when Corsica erupted in a blaze of pink and yellow blossoms,