The Paris Vendetta Page 0,33

its charming frontage of brick, stone, turrets, spires, and a conical slate roof bordered on the fantastical. Not gray, or severely constructed for defense, or decaying from neglect, instead it cast a whimsical air of medieval majesty.

He sat in the chateau's main salon beneath chestnut rafters, magnificent in their centuries-old workmanship. Two wrought-iron electric candelabra provided harsh light. The paneled walls were dotted with superb canvases by Le Sueur, a work by Van Dyck, and some first-rate oil portraits of what he assumed were cherished ancestors. The chateau's owner sat across from him in an exquisite Henri II leather armchair. She possessed a charming voice, quiet manners, and memorable features. From everything he knew about Eliza Larocque, she was clear-sighted and decisive, but also stubborn and obsessive.

He could only hope that the latter trait proved correct.

"I'm somewhat surprised by your visit," she said to him.

Though her smile seemed sincere, it flashed too automatically.

"I've known of your family for many years," he told her.

"And I know your porcelain. We have quite a collection in the dining room. Two circles, with a line beneath-that symbol represents the ultimate in quality."

He bowed his head, acknowledging her compliment. "My family has worked for centuries to establish that reputation."

Her dark eyes displayed a peculiar mixture of curiosity and caution. She was clearly uneasy, and trying hard to conceal it. His detectives had informed him of her jet's arrival. They'd then tracked her from Orly Airport until sure of her destination. So while Malone and Sam trawled for information in Paris, he'd headed south to do some fishing of his own.

"I have to say, Herre Thorvaldsen," she said, keeping to English, "I agreed to see you out of curiosity. I flew from New York last night, so I'm a bit fatigued and not up to visitors."

He watched her face, a pleasant composition of graceful curves, noticing the corners of her mouth as they angled into another smile of an accomplished manipulator.

"Is this your family's country estate?" he asked, trying to keep her off guard, and he caught a momentary flush of annoyance.

She nodded. "Built in the 16th century. Modeled after Chenonceau, which stands not far from here. Another idyllic wonder."

He admired a dark oak mantelpiece across the room. Unlike other French homes he'd visited, which were bare and suggestive of tombs, this house was clearly no sepulcher.

"You realize, Madame Larocque, that my financial resources are substantially greater than yours. Perhaps by as much as ten billion euros."

He studied her high cheekbones, serious eyes, and firm mouth. He thought the stark contrast between her creamy patina and her ebony hair intentional. Given her age, he doubted if the hair color was natural. She was, without question, an attractive woman. Confident and smart, too. Accustomed to having her way-unaccustomed to bluntness.

"And how would the fact of your obvious wealth interest me?"

He allowed a measured pause to break the natural flow between them, then said, "You've insulted me."

Puzzlement crept into her eyes. "How is that possible? We just met."

"I control one of the largest and most successful corporations in Europe. My ancillary businesses, which include oil and gas, telecommunications, and manufacturing, stretch globally. I employ more than eighty thousand people. My annual revenues far exceed those of all your entities combined. Yet you insult me."

"Herre Thorvaldsen, you must explain yourself."

She was off guard. But that was the beauty of blind attacks. The advantage always lay with the attacker. True in Mexico City two years ago-equally true here today.

"I want to be a part of what you're planning," he declared.

"And what is that?"

"Though I wasn't on your jet last evening, I can only surmise Robert Mastroianni-a friend of mine, by the way-has been extended an invitation. Yet I am to be shunned."

She kept her face as stone cold as a grave marker. "An invitation to what?"

"The Paris Club."

He decided to not allow her the luxury of a response. "You have a fascinating ancestry. Directly descended from Carlo Andrea Pozzo di Borgo, who was born near Ajaccio, Corsica, on March 8, 1764. He became the implacable foe of Napoleon Bonaparte. With marvelous skill, he manipulated international politics to the eventual undoing of his lifelong enemy. A classic Corsican vendetta. His weapons not guns or bombs, but the intrigues of diplomacy. Its coup de grace, the destiny of nations."

He paused while her mind chewed on his facts.

"Don't be alarmed," he said. "I'm not an enemy. Quite the contrary. I admire what you are doing, and want to be a part."

"Assuming for a