by Steve Berry
He then left the library, knowing that the computer that controlled the security door had recorded the time of his visit. Magnetic strips affixed in each of the two volumes would identify that both had been removed. Since there was no other way out except through the doorway lined with sensors, and removing the tags could well damage the books, little choice existed. He could only hope that in the confusion of the days ahead, no one would take the time to examine the computer log.
Rule was clear.
Theft of Order property was punishable by banishment.
But that was a chance he would have to take.
11:50 PM
MALONE TOOK NO CHANCES AND DEPARTED THE CHURCH through a rear door, beyond the sacristy. He could not worry about the two unconscious men. Right now, he needed to get to Stephanie, her surly attitude be damned. Clearly, the man from the cathedral, the one who'd killed Peter Hansen, had his own problems. Somebody had taken out his two accomplices. Malone had no idea who or why, but he was grateful, since escaping from that crypt could have proven tough. He cursed himself again for getting involved, but it was too late to walk away now. He was in--whether he liked it or not.
He took a roundabout path out of the Stroget and eventually made his way to Kongens Nytorv, a typically busy city square encircled by stately buildings. His senses were on maximum alert and he kept a sharp lookout for any tails, but no one was behind him. At this late hour, traffic in the square was light. Nyhavn, just beyond the square's east side, with its colorful harbor promenade of gabled houses, continued to accommodate waterfront diners at outdoor tables lively with music.
He hustled down the sidewalk toward the Hotel d'Angleterre. The brightly lit seven-story structure faced the sea and stretched an entire city block. The elegant building dated from the eighteenth century, its rooms, he knew, having hosted kings, emperors, and presidents.
He entered the lobby and passed the desk. A soft melody drifted from the main lounge. A few late-night patrons milled about. A row of house phones dotted a marble counter and he used one to call Stephanie Nelle's room. The phone rang three times before it was answered.
"Wake up," he said.
"You don't listen well, do you, Cotton?" The voice still carried the same desultory tone from Roskilde.
"Peter Hansen is dead."
A moment of silence passed.
"I'm in six ten."
HE STEPPED INTO THE ROOM. STEPHANIE WORE ONE OF THE HOTEL'S signature robes. He told her everything that had just happened. She listened in silence, just like in years past when he'd made reports. But he saw a sense of defeat in her tired features, one he hoped signaled a change in attitude.
"Are you going to let me help you now?" he asked.
She studied him through eyes that, he'd often noticed, changed shades as her mood shifted. In some ways she reminded him of his mother, though Stephanie was only a dozen or so years older than him. Her anger from earlier was not out of character. She didn't like making mistakes and she hated having them pointed out. Her talent was not in gathering information but in analyzing and assessing--a meticulous organizer who plotted and planned with the cunning of a leopard. He'd watched her many times make tough decisions without hesitation--both attorneys general and presidents had relied on her cool head--so he wondered about her present quandary and its strange effect on her usually sound judgment.
"I pointed them to Hansen," she muttered. "In the cathedral, I didn't correct him when he implied Hansen may have Lars's journal." She told him about the conversation.
"Describe him." When she did he said, "That's the same guy who started the shooting and the one who shot Hansen."
"The jumper from the Round Tower worked for him. He came to steal my bag, which contained Lars's journal."
"Then he goes to the same auction, knowing you'd be there. Who knew you were going?"
"Just Hansen. The office knows only that I'm on vacation. I have my world phone, but I left word not to be disturbed unless it was a catastrophic emergency."
"Where did you learn about the auction?"
"Three weeks ago a package arrived postmarked from Avignon, France. Inside was a note and Lars's journal." She paused. "I hadn't seen that notebook in years."
He knew this would ordinarily be a forbidden subject. Lars Nelle had taken his own life eleven years ago, found hanging from a bridge in southern France, a note in his pocket that merely said GOODBYE STEPHANIE. For an academician who'd penned a multitude of books, such a simple salutation seemed almost an insult. Though she and her husband were separated at the time, Stephanie took the loss hard, and Malone recalled how difficult the months after had been. Never had they spoken about his death, and for her to even mention it now was extraordinary.
"Journal of what?" he asked.
"Lars was fascinated with the secrets of Rennes-le-Chateau--"
"I know. I read his books."
"You never mentioned that before."
"You never asked."
She seemed to sense his irritation. A lot was happening and neither one of them had time for chitchat.
"Lars made a living expounding theories on what may or may not be hidden in and around Rennes-le-Chateau," she said. "But he kept many of his private thoughts in the journal, which stayed with him always. After he died, I thought Mark had it."
Another bad subject. Mark Nelle had been an Oxford-educated medieval historian who taught at the University of Toulouse, in southern France. Five years ago he was lost in the Pyrenees. An avalanche. His body never found. Malone knew that tragedy had been accentuated by the fact that Stephanie and her son had not been close. A lot of bad blood flowed in the Nelle family, none of which was any of his business.
"That damn journal was like a ghost come back to haunt me," she said. "There it was. Lars's handwriting. The note told me about the auction and the availability of the book. I remembered Lars speaking of it, and there were references in the journal, so I came to buy it."
"And danger bells weren't clanging in your head?"
"Why? My husband was not involved in my line of work. His was a harmless quest for things that don't exist. How was I to know there were people involved who would kill?"
"That man leaping from the Round Tower was clear enough. You should have come to me then."
"I need to do this alone."
"Do what?"
"I don't know, Cotton."
"Why is that book so important? I learned at the auction that it's a nondescript account of no importance. They were shocked it sold for so much."
"I have no idea." Exasperation returned to her tone. "Truly, I don't. Two weeks ago I sat down, read Lars's notebook, and I have to say I became fascinated. I'm ashamed to say I never read one of his books until last week. When I did, I began to feel awful about my attitude toward him. Eleven years can add a lot of perspective."
"So what did you plan to do?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. Just buy the book. Read it and see what happened from there. While I was over here, I planned to go to France and spend a few days at Lars's house. I haven't been there in a while."
She apparently was trying to make peace with demons, but there was reality to consider. "You need help, Stephanie. There's more happening here, and this is something I do have experience handling."
"Don't you have a bookshop to run?"
"My employees can handle things for a few days."
She hesitated, seemingly considering his offer. "You were the best I ever had. I'm still mad you quit."
"Had to do what I had to do."
She shook her head. "To have Henrik Thorvaldsen steal you away. Insult to injury."
Last year, when he'd retired and told her he planned to move to Copenhagen, she'd been happy for him, until learning about Thorvaldsen's involvement. Characteristically, she'd never explained herself and he knew better than to ask.
"I have some more bad news for you," he said. "The person who outbid you for the book? On the phone? It was Henrik."
&nbs
p; She cast him a look of disdain.
"He was working with Peter Hansen," he said.
"What led you to that conclusion?"
He told her what he learned at the auction and what the man had said to him over the radio. I detest those who deceive me. "Apparently Hansen was playing both ends against the middle and the middle won."
"Wait outside," she said.
"That's why I came. You and Henrik need to talk. But we need to leave here with caution. Those men may still be out there."
"I'll get dressed."
He moved toward the door. "Where's Lars's journal?"
She pointed to the safe.
"Bring it."
"Is that wise?"
"The police are going to find Hansen's body. It won't take them long to connect the dots. We need to be ready to move."
"I can handle the police."
He faced her. "Washington bailed you out of Roskilde because they don't know what you're doing. Right now, I'm sure someone in Justice is trying to find out. You hate questions, and you can't tell the attorney general to go to hell when he calls. I'm still not sure what you're doing, but I know one thing, you don't want to talk about it. So pack up."
"I don't miss that arrogance."
"And your ray-of-sunshine personality has left my life incomplete, too. Could you just for once do what I ask? It's tough enough in the field without acting stupid."
"I don't need to be reminded of that."
"Sure you do."
And he left.
FRIDAY, JUNE 23
1:30 AM
MALONE AND STEPHANIE RODE OUT OF COPENHAGEN ON HIGHWAY 152. Though he'd driven from Rio de Janeiro to the Petropolis and along the sea from Naples to the Amalfi, Malone believed the path north to Helsingor, along Denmark's rocky east shore, was by far the most charming of the seaside routes. Fishing villages, beech forest, summer villas, and the gray expanse of the tideless Oresund all combined to offer an ageless splendor.
The weather was typical. Rain peppered the windshield, whipped by a torrential wind. Past one of the smaller seaside resorts, closed for the night, the highway wound inland into a forested expanse. Through an open gate, beyond two white cottages, Malone followed a grassy drive and parked in a pebbled courtyard. The house beyond was a genuine specimen of Danish baroque--three stories, built of brick encased in sandstone, and topped with a gracefully curving copper roof. One wing turned inland. The other faced the sea.
He knew its history. Named Christiangate, the house was built three hundred years ago by a clever Thorvaldsen who'd converted tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce porcelain. In the 1800s the Danish queen proclaimed the glassworks the official royal provider, and Adelgate Glasvaerker, with its distinctive symbol of two circles with a line beneath, still reigned premier throughout Denmark and Europe. The conglomerate's current head was the family patriarch, Henrik Thorvaldsen.
The manor's door was answered by a steward who was not surprised to see them. Interesting, considering it was after midnight and Thorvaldsen lived as solitary as an owl. They were shown into a room where oak beams, armor, and oil portraits conveyed the appurtenances of a noble seat. A long table dominated the great hall--four hundred years old, Malone remembered Thorvaldsen once saying, its dark maple reflecting a finish that came only from centuries of dedicated use. Thorvaldsen sat at one end, an orange cake and a steaming samovar on the table before him.
"Please, come in. Take a seat."
Thorvaldsen rose from the chair with what appeared to be great effort and flashed a smile. His stooped arthritic frame stood no more than five and a half feet, the hump in his spine barely concealed by the folds of an oversized Norwegian sweater. Malone noticed a glint in the bright gray eyes. His friend was up to something. No question about it.
Malone pointed to the cake. "So sure we'd come you baked us a cake?"
"I wasn't sure both of you would make the journey, but I knew you would."
"Why's that?"
"Once I learned you were at the auction, I knew it was only a matter of time before you discovered my involvement."
Stephanie stepped forward. "I want my book."
Thorvaldsen appraised her with a tight gaze. "No hello? Nice to meet you? Just, 'I want my book.' "
"I don't like you."
Thorvadsen retook his seat at the head of the table. Malone decided that the cake looked good, so he sat and cut a slice.
"You don't like me?" Thorvaldsen repeated. "Odd, considering we've never met."
"I know of you."
"Does that mean the Magellan Billet has a file on me?"
"Your name turns up in the strangest places. We call you an international person of interest."
Thorvaldsen's face grimaced, as if he were undergoing some agonizing penance. "You'd think me a terrorist or a criminal."
"Which one are you?"
The Dane stared back at her with a sudden curiosity. "I was told you possess the genius to conceive great deeds and the industry to see them through. Strange, with all that ability, you failed so utterly as a wife and mother."
Stephanie's eyes instantly filled with indignation. "You know nothing of me."
"I know you and Lars had not lived together for years before he died. I know you and he differed on a great many things. I know you and your son were estranged."
A flush of rage colored Stephanie's cheeks. "Go to hell."
Thorvaldsen seemed unfazed by her rebuke. "You're wrong, Stephanie."
"About what?"
"A great many things. And it's time you know the truth."
DE ROQUEFORT FOUND THE MANOR HOUSE PRECISELY WHERE the information he'd requested had directed. Once he'd learned who was working with Peter Hansen to buy the book, it had taken his lieutenant only half an hour to compile a dossier. Now he was staring at the stately home of the book's high bidder--Henrik Thorvaldsen--and it all made sense.
Thorvaldsen was one of the wealthiest citizens in Denmark, with family roots reaching back to the Vikings. His corporate holdings were impressive. In addition to Adelgate Glasvaerker, he possessed interests in British banks, Polish mines, German manufacturing, and European transportation. On a continent where old money meant billions, Thorvaldsen was at the top of most fortune lists. He was an odd sort, an introvert who ventured from his estate only sparingly. His charitable contributions were legendary, especially to Holocaust survivors, anti-communist organizations, and international medical relief.
He was sixty-two years old and close with the Danish royal family, especially the queen. His wife and son were dead, the wife from cancer, the son shot more than a year before while working for the Danish mission in Mexico City. The man who'd taken down one of the killers was an American lawyer-agent named Cotton Malone. Even a link to Lars Nelle existed, though not a favorable one, as Thorvaldsen was credited with some unflattering public comments about Nelle's research. A nasty incident fifteen years ago at the Bibliotheque Sainte-Genevieve in Paris, where the two had engaged in a shouting match, had been widely reported in the French press. All of which might explain why Henrik Thorvaldsen had been interested in Peter Hansen's offer, but not entirely.
He needed to know it all.
Bracing ocean air whipped in off the black Oresund and the rain had slackened into a mist. Two of his acolytes stood beside him. The other two waited in the car, parked beyond the property, their heads woozy from whatever drug had been shot into them. He was still puzzled by who'd interfered. He'd sensed no one watching him all day, yet somebody had covertly traced his movements. Somebody with the sophistication to utilize tranquilizing darts.
But first things first. He led the way across the spongy yard to a row of hedges that fronted the elegant house. Lights burned in a ground-floor room that would, in daylight, offer a spectacular seaside view. He'd observed no guards, dogs, or alarm system. Curious, but not surprising.
He approached the lighted window. He'd noticed a car parked in the drive and wondered if his luck was about to change.
He carefully peered inside and saw Stephanie Nelle and Cotton Malone talking with an older man.
He smiled. His luck was indeed changing.
He motioned and one of his men produced a nylon case. He unzipped the pouch and removed a microphone. He carefully affixed its rubber suction cup to the corner of the damp window pane. The state-of-the-art receiver inside the nylon bag could now hear every word.
He wedged a tiny speaker into his ear.
Before he killed them, he needed to listen.
"WHY DON'T YOU SIT?" THORVALDSEN SAID.
"So kind of you, Herr Thorvaldsen, but I prefer to stand," Stephanie made clear, contempt in her voice.
Thorvaldsen reached for the coffee and filled his cup. "I would suggest calling me anything but herr." He set the samovar down. "I detest all things even remotely German."
Malone watched as Stephanie took in the command. Surely, if he was a "person of interest" within Billet files, she knew that Thorvaldsen's grandfather, uncles, aunts, and cousins had all fallen victim to the Nazi occupation of Denmark. Even so, he expected her to retaliate, but instead her face softened. "Henrik it is, then."
Thorvaldsen dropped one lump of sugar into his cup. "Your facetiousness is noted." He stirred his coffee. "I learned long ago that all things can be settled over a cup of coffee. A person will tell you more of their private life after one good cup of coffee than after a magnum of champagne or a quart of port."
Malone knew Thorvaldsen liked to ease his listener with nonsense while he appraised the situation. The old man sipped from the steaming cup.
"As I said, Stephanie, it is time you learn the truth."
She approached the table and sat across from Malone. "Then by all means, destroy all my preconceived notions about you."
"And what would those be?"
"I could go on for a while. Here are the highlights. Three years ago you were linked to an art theft syndicate with radical Israeli connections. You interfered last year in the German national elections, funneling money illegally to certain candidates. For some reason, though, both the Germans and Israelis chose not to prosecute you."