The Paris Vendetta Read Online Free PDF

witnessed earlier on the desert road .
    He’d been told later that the man had done wrong stabbing his wife, but if God had wanted her vouchsafed for infidelity, she should have already been received into someone’s house and kept on charity. Since that had not occurred, Arab law would not have punished the husband for his two murders .
    “Then it is a good thing we did,” Napoleon declared .
    The night was quiet and dull, so he decided to examine the papyri he’d found near the body. His savants had told him how the locals routinely pillaged sacred sites, stealing what they could to either sell or reuse. What a waste. He’d come to discover this country’s past, not destroy it .
    He popped the string and unrolled the bundle discovering four sheets, written in what appeared to be Greek. He was fluent in Corsican, and could finally speak and read passable French, but beyond that foreign languages were a mystery .
    So he ordered one of his translators to appear.
    “It’s Coptic,” the man told him.
    “Can you read it?”
    “Of course, Général.”
      “What a horrible thing,” Mastroianni said. “Killing that infant.”
    She nodded. “That was the reality of the Egyptian campaign. A bloody, hard-fought conquest. But I assure you, what happened there is why you and I are having this conversation.”

FIVE
    S AM C OLLINS SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT AND WATCHED AS Malone sped out of Copenhagen, heading north on the Danish coast highway.
    Cotton Malone was exactly what he’d expected. Tough, gutsy, decisive, accepting the situation thrown at him, doing what needed to be done. He even fit the physical description Sam had been given. Tall, burnished blond hair, a smile that betrayed little emotion. He knew about Malone’s twelve years of Justice Department experience, his Georgetown legal education, eidetic memory, and love of books. But now he’d seen firsthand the man’s courage under fire.
    “Who are you?” Malone asked.
    He realized he couldn’t be coy. He’d sensed Malone’s suspicions, and didn’t blame him. A stranger breaks into his shop in the middle of the night and armed men follow? “U.S. Secret Service. Or at least I was until a few days ago. I think I’m fired.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because nobody there would listen to me. I tried to tell them. But no one wanted to hear.”
    “Why did Henrik?”
    “How’d you—” He caught himself.
    “Some folks take in stray animals. Henrik rescues people. Why’d you need his help?”
    “Who said I did?”
    “Don’t sweat it, okay? I was once one of those strays.”
    “Actually, I’d say it was Henrik who needed help. He contacted me.”
    Malone shifted the Mazda into fifth gear and sped down the blackened highway, a hundred yards or so away from a dark Øresund sea.
    Sam needed to make something clear. “I didn’t work White House detail at Secret Service. I was in currency and financial fraud.”
    He always laughed at the Hollywood stereotype of agents wearing dark suits, sunglasses, and skin-toned earpieces surrounding the president. Most of the Secret Service, like him, worked in obscurity, safeguarding the American financial system. That was actually its primary mission, since it grew out of the Civil War, created to prevent Confederate counterfeiting. Only after the assassination of William McKinley, thirty-five years later, had it assumed presidential protection responsibility.
    “Why’d you come to my bookshop?” Malone asked.
    “I was staying in town. Henrik sent me to a hotel yesterday. I could tell something was wrong. He wanted me away from the estate.”
    “How long have you been in Denmark?”
    “A week. You’ve been gone. Just got back a few days ago.”
    “You know a lot about me.”
    “Not really. I know you’re Cotton Malone. Former naval officer. Worked with the Magellan Billet. Now retired.”
    Malone tossed him a glance that signaled rapidly depleting patience with his evasion of the original question.
    “I