HENRIK STEPPED FROM THE CAB BEFORE THE BASILICA OF SAINT-Denis and stared up at the church’s single lateral tower, its twin missing, the building looking like an amputee, missing an appendage.
“The other tower burned in the 19th century,” Meagan told him. “Struck by lightning. It was never replaced.”
She’d explained on the ride north that this was where French kings had been buried for centuries. Begun in the 12th century, fifty years before Notre Dame, the church was a national landmark. Gothic architecture had been born here. During the French Revolution many of the tombs were destroyed, but they’d been restored. Now it was owned by the government.
Scaffolding clung to the outer walls, wrapping what appeared to be the north and west façades at least three-quarters of the way up. A hastily erected plywood barrier encircled the base, which blocked access to the main doors. Two construction trailers were parked on either side of the makeshift fence.
“Seems they’re working on the place,” he said.
“They’re always working on something in this city.”
He glanced at the sky. Gunmetal-gray clouds now shielded the sun, creating dense shadows and lowering the temperature.
A winter storm was coming.
The neighborhood lay about ten kilometers from Paris, traversed by both the Seine and a canal. The suburb was apparently an industrial center, as they’d passed several manufacturing facilities.
A mist began to build.
“The weather is about to get nasty,” Meagan said.
People in the paved plaza before the church hurried off.
“This is a blue-collar area,” Meagan noted. “Not a section of town where the tourists like to come. That’s why you don’t hear much about Saint-Denis, though I think it’s more interesting than Notre Dame.”
He wasn’t interested in history, except as it related to Ashby’s search. Professor Murad had told him some of what he’d deciphered-what Ashby surely knew by now as well, considering that Caroline Dodd was every bit the expert Murad was.
Mist turned to rain.
“What do we do now?” Meagan asked. “The basilica is closed.”
He wondered why Murad wasn’t already here. The professor had called nearly an hour ago and said he was leaving then.
He reached for his phone but, before he could place a call, the unit rang. Thinking it might be Murad, he studied the screen. COTTON MALONE.
He answered.
“Henrik, you’ve got to listen to what I have to say.”
“Why would I have to do that?”
“I’m trying to help.”
“You have an odd way of doing that. Giving that book to Stephanie was uncalled for. All you did was aid Ashby.”
“You know better than that.”
“No, I don’t.”
His voice rose, which startled Meagan. He told himself to remain composed. “All I know is that you gave her the book. Then you were on the boat, with Ashby, doing whatever it is you and your old boss think is right. None of which included me. I’m done with what’s right, Cotton.”
“Henrik, let us handle it.”
“Cotton, I thought you my friend. Actually, I thought you were my best friend. I’ve always been there for you, no matter what. I owed you that.” He fought a wave of emotion. “For Cai. You were there. You stopped his murderers. I admired and respected you. I went to Atlanta two years ago to thank you, and found a friend.” He paused again. “But you haven’t treated me with the same respect. You betrayed me.”
“I did what I had to.”
He didn’t want to hear rationalizations. “Is there anything else you want?”
“Murad’s not coming.”
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.