by Steve Berry
“I can answer that,” Sam said. “He’s a rich Brit. Old, old money, but his actual worth is unknown. Lots of hidden assets. He got caught up in something a few years ago. Retter der Verlorenen Antiquitäten. Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. A group of people who stole art that was already stolen and traded it among themselves.”
“I remember that,” Malone said. “That’s when they found the Amber Room.”
Sam nodded. “Along with a ton of other lost treasures when they raided the participants’ homes. Ashby was implicated, but nothing was ever proven. Amando Cabral worked for one of the members. Acquisitors, they called them. The ones who did the actual collecting.” He paused. “Or stealing, depending on how you look at it.”
Malone seemed to comprehend. “So Ashby got himself into trouble in Mexico City with collecting?”
Thorvaldsen nodded. “The case was building, and Elena Ramirez Rico was on the right path. She’d eventually tie Cabral and Ashby together, so Ashby decided she had to be eliminated.”
“There’s more,” Sam said.
Malone faced him.
“Ashby is also involved with another covert group that’s working a more widespread conspiracy.”
“Is that the agent talking, or the webmaster?” Malone asked.
He shook off the skepticism. “It’s real. They intend to wreak havoc with the world’s financial systems.”
“That seems to be happening without their efforts.”
“I realize that you think I’m nuts, but economics can be a powerful weapon. It could be argued that it is the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.”
“How do you know about this secret group?”
“There are some of us who’ve been watching. I have an acquaintance in Paris who found this one. They’re just getting started. They’ve tinkered here and there with currency markets. Small stuff. Things few would even notice, unless paying close attention.”
“Which you and your friends have apparently been doing. You probably told your superiors, and they didn’t believe you. I assume the problem is a lack of proof.”
He nodded. “They’re out there. I know it, and Ashby is a part of them.”
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “I met Sam about a year ago. I came across his website and his unconventional theories, especially his opinions relative to Ashby. There’s a lot he says that makes sense.” The older man smiled at Sam. “He’s bright and ambitious. Perhaps you might recognize those qualities?”
Malone grinned. “Okay. I was young once, too. But apparently Ashby knows you’re after him. And he knows about Sam.”
Thorvaldsen shook his head. “I don’t know about that. The men tonight came from Cabral. I specifically provoked him. I wasn’t sure if Sam would be a target. I was hoping Cabral’s anger would focus on me, but I told Sam to find you if he needed help.”
Jesper dragged one of the bagged bodies from the room.
“They came by boat,” Thorvaldsen said. “It’ll be found tomorrow adrift in the Øresund, a long way from here.”
“And what are you going to do now?” Malone asked.
Thorvaldsen sucked a succession of quick breaths. Sam wondered if his friend was okay.
“Ashby likes to acquire art and treasure that is either unknown, unclaimed, or stolen,” Thorvaldsen finally said. “No lawyers, legal battles, or press to worry about. I’ve studied the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. They were around for a long time. Pretty clever, actually. To steal what’s already stolen. Ashby’s Acquisitor was a man named Guildhall, who still works for him. Cabral was hired by Ashby, after the Retrievers were exposed, for some specialized tasks. Cabral went after some of the items that weren’t recovered when the Retrievers were caught, things Ashby knew existed. The list of what was recovered when the Retrievers were finally discovered is staggering. But Ashby may have moved on to other things, trading treasure hunting for something on a grander scale.” Thorvaldsen faced Sam. “Your information makes sense. All of your analysis on Ashby, so far, has proven accurate.”
“But you don’t see any new financial conspiracy,” Malone said.
The Dane shrugged. “Ashby has lots of friends, but that’s to be expected. After all, he heads one of England’s largest banks. To be honest, I’ve confined my investigation only to his association with Cabral—”
“Why not just kill him and be done with it? Why all these games?” Malone asked.
The answer to both questions struck Sam immediately. “Because you do believe me. You think there is a conspiracy.”
Thorvaldsen’s countenance beamed with a mild delight, the first sign of joviality Sam had seen on his friend’s face in a while.
“I never said I didn’t.”
“What do you know, Henrik?” Malone asked. “You never move in the dark. Tell me what you’re holding back.”
“Sam, when Jesper returns, could you help him with that final bag. It’s a long way to the boat. Though he’d never say it, my old friend is getting up in age. Not as spry as he once was.”
Sam didn’t like being dismissed, but saw that Thorvaldsen wanted to talk to Malone alone. He realized his place—he was an outsider, not in any position to argue. Not a whole lot different from when he was a kid, or from the Secret Service, where he was the low man on the pole as well. He’d done what Thorvaldsen wanted and made contact with Malone. But he’d also helped thwart attackers in Malone’s bookshop. He’d proven he was capable. He thought about protesting, but decided to keep quiet. Over the past year he’d said plenty to his supervisors in Washington, surely enough to get him fired. He desperately wanted to be a part of whatever Thorvaldsen was planning.
Enough to swallow his pride and do as he was told.
So when Jesper returned, he bent down and said, “Let me help you.”
As he grabbed feet sheathed in thick plastic, carrying a corpse for the first time in his life, Malone looked at him. “This financial group you keep talking about. You know a lot about them?”
“My friend in France knows more.”
“You at least know its name?”
He nodded. “The Paris Club.”
FOURTEEN
CORSICA
ASHBY STEPPED ONTO THE DESOLATE CAP CORSE SHORE, ITS dirty sand grass-strewn, its rocks invested with prickly maquis. On the eastern horizon, far across the water, he spied the lights of Elba. The crumbling Tour de Santa Maria sprang from the surf twenty meters away, the shadowy ruin torn and convulsed with the look of something utterly besieged. The winter night was a balmy 18° Celsius, typical for the Mediterranean, and the main reason why so many tourists flocked to the island this time of year.
“We are going to the convent?” the Corsican asked him.
He motioned and the tender motored away. He carried a radio and would contact the ship later. Archimedes rested at anchor, in a calm expanse, just offshore.
“Indeed we are. I checked a map. It’s not far.”
He and his cohort carefully eased their way across the granite, following a defined footpath among the maquis. He caught the distinctive scent of the aromatic scrub, a blend of rosemary, lavender, cistus, sage, juniper, mastic, and myrtle. Not as strong this time of year as it was in spring and summer when Corsica erupted in a blaze of pink and yellow blossoms, but nonetheless pleasant. He recalled that Napoleon, while first exiled on nearby Elba, had remarked that on certain days, with a westerly wind, he could smell his homeland. He imagined himself one of the many Moorish pirates who’d raided this coastline for centuries, using the maquis to mask their trail and shield a retreat. To defend against those raids, the Genoese had erected watchtowers. The Tour de Santa Maria was one of many—each round, nearly twenty meters high, with walls over a meter thick, a cistern in the lower part, living section in the middle, an observatory and fighting platform on top.
Quite an engineering achievement.
Something about history stirred him.
He liked following in its footsteps.
On a dark night in 194
3 five men had managed something extraordinary, something that he had only in the past three weeks been able to comprehend. Unfortunately, the fool of small stature, with a devil-may-care personality, walking ahead of him, had interfered with success. This venture needed to end. Here. Tonight. Ventures far more critical lay ahead.
They abandoned the rocky shoreline and crossed a ridge into a forest of oak, chestnut, and olive trees. Silence had settled about them. Ahead rose the Chapelle Santa Maria. The convent had stood since the 11th century, a tall, gunpowder-gray rectangle of vitrified stone, with a plank roof and a belfry.
The Corsican stopped. “Where do we go? I’ve never been here.”
“Never visited this national preserve? Seems a must for any resident of this island.”
“I live in the south. We have our own natural wonders.”
He motioned left, through the trees. “I am told there’s a cemetery behind the convent.”
He now led the way, a nearly full moon illuminating the path. Not a light shone anywhere. The nearest village was miles away.
They rounded the ancient building and found an iron archway that opened into a graveyard. His research had revealed that the medieval lords of Cap Corse had been afforded a certain latitude by their Genoese masters. Positioned so far north, on a mountainous, inhospitable strip of land that cleaved the sea, those Corsican lords had profited from both the French and the Italians. Two local families once shared territorial control. The da Gentiles and da Mares. Some of the da Mares were buried here, behind the convent, in graves centuries old.
Three beams of light suddenly appeared from the blackness. Electric torches, switched on at their approach.
“Who’s there?” the Corsican called out.
One of the beams revealed a stiff face. Guildhall.
The Corsican faced Ashby. “What is this?”
Ashby motioned ahead. “I’ll show you.”
They walked toward the lights, threading a path through crumbling stone markers, maybe fifty or so overgrown with more fragrant maquis. As they came closer the lights revealed a rectangle dug into the earth, maybe a meter and a half deep. Two younger men stood with Guildhall, holding shovels. Ashby produced his own flashlight and shone its beam on a gravestone, which revealed the name MéNéVAL.
“He was a da Mare, from the 17th century. Those four German soldiers used his grave as their hiding place. They buried six crates here, just as the Moor’s Knot revealed from the book. Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval.”
He adjusted the angle of the light and revealed the inside of the freshly excavated grave.
Empty.
“No crates. No Ménéval. Nothing. Can you explain that?”
The Corsican did not offer a reply.
Ashby had not expected one. With his light, he revealed the faces of the other two men, then said, “These gentlemen have worked for me a long time. As has their father. Once, so did their uncles. They are absolutely loyal. Sumner,” he called out.
From the darkness more forms appeared, and a new torch beam revealed two more men.
“Gustave,” the Corsican said, recognizing one of the faces as his co-conspirator. “What are you doing here?”
“This man, Sumner, brought me.”
“You sold me out, Gustave.”
The other man shrugged. “You would have done the same.”
The Corsican laughed. “That I would. But we have both been made rich.”
Ashby noticed they spoke Corsican, so he added, in their language, “I apologize for this inconvenience. But we needed privacy to conclude our business. And I needed to know if there was, indeed, anything to find.”
The Corsican motioned to the empty hole. “As you can see, Lord Ashby, there are no crates. No treasure. As you feared.”
“Which is entirely understandable, given you both recently found the crates and carted them away.”
“That’s preposterous,” the Corsican said. “Completely, utterly false.”
Time for all pretense to end. “I have spent three years searching for Rommel’s gold. It has cost me much time and money. Six months ago I finally located that fifth German’s family. He lived a long life and died in Bavaria a decade ago. His widow, for a fee of course, allowed me inside her home. Among his belongings, I found the Roman numerals.”
“Lord Ashby,” the Corsican said. “We have not betrayed you.”
“Sumner, if you please, inform these gentlemen what you found.”
The shadowy form motioned at Gustave with his light. “Buried in this bugger’s backyard. Six crates.” The voice paused. “Full of gold bars bearing the swastika.”
Ashby savored the revelation. He hadn’t known, to this moment, what they’d discovered. While he’d hosted the Corsican, Sumner Murray and his sons had located Gustave, outside Bastia, and determined whether his suspicions proved correct. And while they’d sailed north, the Murrays had driven up the coast highway. Then Mr. Guildhall had come ashore and excavated the grave.
“I dealt with you in good faith,” Ashby told the two liars. “I offered you a percentage of the find, and I would have honored that agreement. You chose to deceive me, so I owe you nothing. I withdraw the one million euros I extended you both.”
He’d read of the famed Corsican vendettas—blood feuds that erupted between families and generated body counts normally associated with national civil wars. Usually begun over trivial matters of honor, the murderous fights could smolder for decades. The da Gentiles and da Mares had, for centuries, fought each other, some of the victims of those feuds decaying in the ground around him. Officially, vendettas no longer existed, but Corsican politics continued to be riddled with remnants. Assassination and violence were common. The political tactic even had a name. Règlement de comte. Settling of scores.
Time to settle this score.
“Normally I would have my solicitor deal with you.”
“A lawyer? You plan to sue us?” the Corsican asked.
“Heavens, no.”
The Corsican laughed. “I was beginning to wonder. Can’t we make some sort of arrangement? We did, after all, supply part of the answer. Can we keep the money you have already given us in return?”
“To do that, I would have to forgive your deceit.”
“It’s my nature,” the Corsican said. “I can’t help it. How about half the money for our trouble?”
He watched as Guildhall slowly backed away from the two men. Sumner and the two younger Murrays had already retreated, sensing what was about to happen.
“Half seems a bit much to me,” he said. “How about—”
Two pops disturbed the night.
Both Corsicans lurched as bullets from Guildhall’s gun pierced their skulls. Their bodies went limp, then flesh and bones collapsed forward, tumbling into the open grave.
Problem solved.
“Cover this up and make sure it’s unnoticed.” He knew the Murrays would handle things.
Mr. Guildhall came close, and Ashby asked, “How long will it take to retrieve the gold?”
“We have it already. It’s in the truck.”
“Excellent. Load it on Archimedes. We need to leave. Tomorrow, I have business elsewhere.”
FIFTEEN
DENMARK
MALONE AND THORVALDSEN LEFT THE BEDROOM AND WALKED toward Christiangade’s main foyer. There Thorvaldsen climbed a staircase to the next floor, where he followed a wide corridor adorned with Danish art and antiques to a closed door. Malone knew where they were headed.
Cai’s room.
Inside was an intimate chamber, with high ceilings, soft-colored plaster walls, and a four-poster English bed.
“He always called this his thinking space,” Thorvaldsen said, switching on three lamps. “This room was redecorated many times. It went from a nursery, to a little boy’s room, to a young man’s haven, to a grown man’s retreat. Lisette loved changing it.”
He knew the subject of Thorvaldsen’s late wife was taboo. In
the two years they’d been together they’d discussed her but once, and then only fleetingly. Her portrait remained downstairs, more photographs of her scattered throughout the house. It seemed only visual reminders were permitted of this sacred memory.
He’d never before been allowed in Cai’s room, and he noticed more visual reminders here, too—shelves littered with knickknacks.
“I come here often,” Thorvaldsen said.
He had to ask, “Is that healthy?”
“Probably not. But I have to hold on to something, and this room is all I have left.”
He wanted to know what was happening so he kept his mouth shut and his ears open and indulged his friend. Thorvaldsen stooped against a dresser adorned with family photographs. An abyss of unfathomable grief seemed to engulf him.
“He was murdered, Cotton. Gunned down in the prime of his life for nothing more than the proving of a point.”
“What evidence do you have?”
“Cabral hired four shooters. Three went to that plaza—”
“And I killed them.” His vehemence at that reality alarmed him.
Thorvaldsen faced him. “Rightly so. I found the fourth. He told me what happened. He saw what you did. How you shot the two. He was to cover the third man, the one who shot you, but fled the plaza when you started firing. He was terrified of Cabral, so he disappeared.”
“So why not have Cabral prosecuted?”
“Not necessary. He’s dead.”
Then he knew. “He’s in one of those body bags?”
Thorvaldsen nodded. “He came to finish me himself.”
He caught what was not said. “Tell me the rest.”
“I didn’t want to speak in front of Sam. He’s so eager. Perhaps too eager. He believes himself right and wants vindication or, more correctly, validation. I hate that he was almost harmed.”
Thorvaldsen’s gaze returned to the dresser. Malone watched as emotions writhed within the older Dane.
“What did you discover?” Malone quietly asked.
“Something I never expected.”
SAM CLIMBED ABOARD THE BOAT AS JESPER TIED THE OTHER craft to the stern. Cold Scandinavian winter air burned his face. They’d laid both bodies, outside the bags, in the other boat and were now towing the craft into the open sound. Jesper had already told him how strong currents would sweep the boat toward Sweden, where it would be found after the sun rose.