on further acquaintance. In so many ways he was like Lisette. Many times he felt as if he were actually talking to her again .
“I would allow you to make decisions,” he made clear. “I’m ready to retire.”
Cai shook his head. “Papa, you will never retire.”
He’d taught his son what his father had taught him. People can be read by gauging what they wanted in life. And his son knew him well .
“How about only another year with public service,” he said. “Then home. Is that acceptable?”
A feeling of remorse filled him.
Another year .
He faced Malone.
“Cotton, Amando Cabral killed my only child. He’s now dead. Graham Ashby likewise will be held accountable.”
“So kill him and be done with it.”
“Not good enough. First I want to take from him all that is precious. I want him humiliated and disgraced. I want him to feel the pain I feel every day.” He paused. “But I need your help.”
“You’ve got it.”
He reached out and clasped his friend’s shoulder.
“What about Sam and his Paris Club?” Malone asked.
“We’re going to deal with that, too. It can’t be ignored. We have to see what’s there. Sam derived much of his information from a friend in Paris. I’d like for you two to pay that man a visit. Learn what you can.”
“And when we do, are you going to kill all of them, too?”
“No. I’m going to join them.”
EIGHTEEN
PARIS, FRANCE
1:23 PM
M ALONE LOVED P ARIS . H E REGARDED IT AS A DELIGHTFUL CONJUNCTION of old and new, every corner volatile and alive. He’d visited the city many times when he worked with the Magellan Billet, and knew his way around its medieval hovels. He wasn’t happy, though, with this assignment.
“How did you get to know this guy?” he asked Sam.
They’d flown from Copenhagen on a midmorning flight directly to Charles de Gaulle Airport and taken a taxi downtown into the boisterous Latin Quarter, named long ago for the only language then permitted within the university precinct. Like almost everything else, Napoleon abolished the use of Latin, but the name stuck. Officially known as the fifth arrondissement , the quarter remained a haven for artists and intellectuals. Students from the nearby Sorbonne dominated its cobblestones, though tourists were drawn to both the ambience and the staggering array of shops, cafés, galleries, bookstalls, and nightclubs.
“We met online,” Sam said.
He listened as Sam told him about Jimmy Foddrell, an American expatriate who’d come to Paris to study economics and decided to stay. Foddrell had started a website three years ago—GreedWatch.net—that became popular among the New Age/world conspiratorialist crowd. The Paris Club was one of its more recent obsessions.
You never know , Thorvaldsen had said earlier. Foddrell is getting his information somewhere, and there might be something we can use .
Since Malone couldn’t argue with that logic, he’d agreed to come.
“Foddrell has a master’s in global economics from the Sorbonne,” Sam told him.
“And what has he done with it?”
They stood before a squatty-looking church labeled ST.-JULIENLE-PAUVRE, supposedly the oldest in Paris. Down Rue Galande, off to their right, Malone recognized the line of old houses and steeples as one of the most painted scenes of the Left Bank. To their left, just across a busy boulevard and the tranquil Seine, stood Notre Dame, busy with Christmastime visitors.
“Nothing I know of,” Sam said. “He seems to work on his website—big into worldwide economic conspiracies.”
“Which makes it tough to get a real job.”
They left the church and walked toward the Seine, following a well-kept lane checkered by winter sunlight. A chilly breeze stirred leaves along the dry pavement. Sam had emailed Foddrell and requested a meeting, which led to another email exchange, which finally instructed them to go to 37 Rue de la Bûcherie, which Malone now saw was, of all things, a bookshop.
Shakespeare &
“I would allow you to make decisions,” he made clear. “I’m ready to retire.”
Cai shook his head. “Papa, you will never retire.”
He’d taught his son what his father had taught him. People can be read by gauging what they wanted in life. And his son knew him well .
“How about only another year with public service,” he said. “Then home. Is that acceptable?”
A feeling of remorse filled him.
Another year .
He faced Malone.
“Cotton, Amando Cabral killed my only child. He’s now dead. Graham Ashby likewise will be held accountable.”
“So kill him and be done with it.”
“Not good enough. First I want to take from him all that is precious. I want him humiliated and disgraced. I want him to feel the pain I feel every day.” He paused. “But I need your help.”
“You’ve got it.”
He reached out and clasped his friend’s shoulder.
“What about Sam and his Paris Club?” Malone asked.
“We’re going to deal with that, too. It can’t be ignored. We have to see what’s there. Sam derived much of his information from a friend in Paris. I’d like for you two to pay that man a visit. Learn what you can.”
“And when we do, are you going to kill all of them, too?”
“No. I’m going to join them.”
EIGHTEEN
PARIS, FRANCE
1:23 PM
M ALONE LOVED P ARIS . H E REGARDED IT AS A DELIGHTFUL CONJUNCTION of old and new, every corner volatile and alive. He’d visited the city many times when he worked with the Magellan Billet, and knew his way around its medieval hovels. He wasn’t happy, though, with this assignment.
“How did you get to know this guy?” he asked Sam.
They’d flown from Copenhagen on a midmorning flight directly to Charles de Gaulle Airport and taken a taxi downtown into the boisterous Latin Quarter, named long ago for the only language then permitted within the university precinct. Like almost everything else, Napoleon abolished the use of Latin, but the name stuck. Officially known as the fifth arrondissement , the quarter remained a haven for artists and intellectuals. Students from the nearby Sorbonne dominated its cobblestones, though tourists were drawn to both the ambience and the staggering array of shops, cafés, galleries, bookstalls, and nightclubs.
“We met online,” Sam said.
He listened as Sam told him about Jimmy Foddrell, an American expatriate who’d come to Paris to study economics and decided to stay. Foddrell had started a website three years ago—GreedWatch.net—that became popular among the New Age/world conspiratorialist crowd. The Paris Club was one of its more recent obsessions.
You never know , Thorvaldsen had said earlier. Foddrell is getting his information somewhere, and there might be something we can use .
Since Malone couldn’t argue with that logic, he’d agreed to come.
“Foddrell has a master’s in global economics from the Sorbonne,” Sam told him.
“And what has he done with it?”
They stood before a squatty-looking church labeled ST.-JULIENLE-PAUVRE, supposedly the oldest in Paris. Down Rue Galande, off to their right, Malone recognized the line of old houses and steeples as one of the most painted scenes of the Left Bank. To their left, just across a busy boulevard and the tranquil Seine, stood Notre Dame, busy with Christmastime visitors.
“Nothing I know of,” Sam said. “He seems to work on his website—big into worldwide economic conspiracies.”
“Which makes it tough to get a real job.”
They left the church and walked toward the Seine, following a well-kept lane checkered by winter sunlight. A chilly breeze stirred leaves along the dry pavement. Sam had emailed Foddrell and requested a meeting, which led to another email exchange, which finally instructed them to go to 37 Rue de la Bûcherie, which Malone now saw was, of all things, a bookshop.
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