by Steve Berry
Needing a moment to think, she wandered around the royal sepulcher. Monstrous wall-sized paintings, encased with elaborate trompe l’oeil, sheathed the dazzling marble walls. Five embellished coffins filled the center beneath an enormous arched ceiling.
The man motioned to the coffins. “Christian IV is regarded as Denmark’s greatest monarch. As with Henry VIII in England, Francis II in France, and Peter the Great of Russia, he fundamentally changed this country. His mark remains everywhere.”
She wasn’t interested in a history lesson. “What do you want?”
“Let me show you something.”
He stepped toward the metal grating at the chapel’s entrance. She followed.
“Legend says that the devil himself designed these ironworks. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. It contains the king and queen’s monograms and a multitude of fabulous creatures. But look closely at the bottom.”
She saw words engraved into the decorative metal.
“It reads,” he said, “Caspar Fincke bin ich genannt, dieser Arbeit binn ich bekannt. Caspar Fincke is my name, to this work I owe my fame.”
She faced him. “Your point?”
“Atop the Round Tower in Copenhagen, around its edge, is another iron grating. Fincke designed that, too. He fashioned it low so the eye could see the city rooftops, but it also makes for an easy leap.”
She got the message. “That man who jumped today worked for you?”
He nodded.
“Why did he die?”
“Soldiers of Christ securely fight the battles of the Lord, fearing no sin from the slaughter of the enemy, nor danger from their own death.”
“He killed himself.”
“When death is to be given, or received, it has naught of a crime in it but much glory.”
“You don’t know how to answer a question.”
He smiled. “I was merely quoting a great theologian, who wrote those words eight hundred years ago. St. Bernard of Clairvaux.”
“Who are you?”
“Why not call me Bernard.”
“What do you want?”
“Two things. First, the book we both lost in the bidding. But I recognize you cannot provide that. The second, you do have. It was sent to you a month ago.”
She kept her face stoic. This was indeed the man who knew her business. “And what is that?”
“Ah, a test. A way for you to judge my credibility. All right. The package sent to you contained a journal that once belonged to your husband—a personal notebook he kept until his untimely death. Did I pass?”
She said nothing.
“I want that journal.”
“Why is it so important?”
“Many called your husband odd. Different. New age. The academic community scoffed at him, and the press made fun of him. But I called him brilliant. He could see things others never noticed. Look what he accomplished. He originated the entire modern-day attraction with Rennes-le-Château. His book was the first to realert the world to the locale’s wonders. Sold five million copies worldwide. Quite an accomplishment.”
“My husband sold many books.”
“Fourteen, if I’m not mistaken, but none was of the magnitude of his first, The Treasure at Rennes-le-Château. Thanks to him, there are now hundreds of volumes published on that subject.”
“What makes you think I have my husband’s journal?”
“We both know that I would have it now but for the interference of a man named Cotton Malone. I believe he once worked for you.”
“Doing what?”
He seemed to understand her continued challenge. “You are a career official with the United States Justice Department and head a unit known as the Magellan Billet. Twelve lawyers, each chosen specially by you, who work under your sole direction and handle, shall we say, sensitive matters. Cotton Malone worked a number of years for you. But he retired early last year and now owns a bookshop in Copenhagen. If not for the unfortunate actions of my acolyte, you would have enjoyed a light lunch with Mr. Malone, bid him farewell, and headed here for the auction, which was your true purpose for coming to Denmark.”
The time for pretense was over. “Who do you work for?”
“Myself.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why would you?”
“Years of practice.”
He smiled again, which annoyed her. “The notebook, if you please.”
“I don’t have it. After today, I thought it needed safekeeping.”
“Does Peter Hansen have it?”
She said nothing.
“No. I assume you would not admit to anything.”
“I think this conversation is over.” She turned for the open gate and hurried through it. To her right, back toward the main doors, she spied two more men with short hair—not the same ones from the auction house—but she instantly knew who gave them orders.
She glanced back at the man whose name was not Bernard.
“Like my associate today on the Round Tower, there is no place for you to go.”
“Screw you.”
And she spun left and rushed deeper into the cathedral.
MALONE ASSESSED THE SITUATION. HE WAS STANDING IN A PUBLIC place, adjacent to a crowded street. People were coming and going from the auction hall, while others were waiting for their cars to be brought by attendants from a nearby lot. Clearly his surveillance of Stephanie had not gone unnoticed, and he cursed himself for not being more alert. But he decided that, contrary to the threats made, the two men on either side of him would not risk exposure. He was being detained, not eliminated. Perhaps their task was to give whatever was happening in the cathedral with Stephanie time to unfold.
Which meant he needed to act.
He watched as more patrons spilled out from the auction hall. One, a gangly Dane, owned a bookshop in the Strøget, near Peter Hansen’s store. He watched as a valet delivered the man’s car.
“Vagn,” Malone called out, stepping away from the gun to his back.
His friend heard his name and turned.
“Cotton, how are you?” the man answered in Danish.
Malone casually walked toward the car and looked back to see the short-haired man quickly conceal the weapon beneath his jacket. He’d caught the man off his guard, which only confirmed what he already thought. These guys were amateurs. He was ready to bet that they didn’t speak Danish, either.
“Might I trouble you for a ride back to Copenhagen?” he asked.
“Certainly. We have room. Climb in.”
He reached for the rear passenger door. “I appreciate it. My ride is going to hang around awhile and I need to get back home.”
As he slammed the car door shut, he waved through the window and saw a confused look on the two men’s faces as the car eased away.
“Nothing interest you today?” Vagn asked.
He turned his attention to the driver. “Not a thing.”
“Me, either. We decided to leave and take an early dinner.”
Malone glanced over at the woman next to him. Another man sat in the front. He did not know either, so he introduced himself. The car slowly made its way out of Roskilde’s warren of tight streets toward the Copenhagen highway.
He spied the twin spires and copper roof of the cathedral. “Vagn, could you let me out? I need to hang around a little longer.”
“You sure?”
“I just remembered something I need to do.”
STEPHANIE PARALLELED THE NAVE AND PLUNGED DEEPER INTO the cathedral. Past the massive pillars rising to her right, the church service was still in progress. Her low heels clicked off the flagstones, but only she could hear them, thanks to the ponderous organ. The path ahead rounded the main altar, and a series of half walls and memorials divided the ambulatory from the choir.
She glanced back to see the man calling himself Bernard sauntering forward, but the two other men were nowhere to be seen. She realized that she would soon be heading back toward the church’s main entrance
, only on the other side of the building. For the first time, she fully appreciated the risks her agents took. She’d never worked in the field—that was not part of her job—but this was not an official assignment. This was personal and she was officially on vacation. No one knew she’d traveled to Denmark—no one besides Cotton Malone. And considering her present predicament, that anonymity was becoming a problem.
She rounded the ambulatory.
Her pursuer stayed a discreet distance back, surely knowing that she had nowhere to go. She passed a set of stone stairs that dropped down into another side chapel and then saw, fifty feet ahead, the two other men appear in the rear vestibule, blocking her way out of the church. Behind her, Bernard continued his steady advance. To her left was another sepulcher, this one identified as the Chapel of Magi.
She darted inside.
Two marble tombs lay within the brilliantly decorated walls, both reminiscent of Roman temples. She retreated toward the farther. Then a wild unreasoning terror seized her as she realized the worst.
She was trapped.
MALONE JOGGED TO THE CATHEDRAL AND ENTERED THROUGH the main doors. To his right he spotted two men—stocky, short hair, plainly dressed—similar to the two he’d just evaded outside the auction. He decided not to take any chances and reached beneath his jacket for a Beretta automatic, standard issue to all Magellan Billet agents. He’d been allowed to keep the weapon when he retired and managed to smuggle it into Denmark—owning a handgun here was illegal.
He palmed the stock, finger on the trigger, and brought out the gun, shielding it with his thigh. He’d not held a weapon in more than a year. It was a feeling he’d thought part of his past, one he hadn’t missed. But a man leaping to his death had grabbed his attention, so he’d come prepared. That was what a good agent did, and one of the reasons he’d served as the pallbearer for a few friends instead of being hauled down the center aisle of a church himself.
The two men were standing with their backs to him, arms at their sides, hands empty. Thunderous organ music masked his approach. He stepped close and said, “Busy night, fellows.”
Both turned and he flashed the gun. “Let’s keep this civil.”
Over the shoulder of one of the men he caught sight of another man, a hundred feet down the transept, casually striding toward them. He saw the man reach beneath his leather jacket. Malone did not wait for what was next, and dove left into an empty row of pews. A pop echoed over the organ and a bullet tore into the wood pew ahead of him.
He saw the two other men reach for weapons.
From his prone position, he fired twice. The shots exploded through the cathedral, piercing the music. One of the men went down, the other fled. Malone came to his knees and heard three new pops. He dove back down as more bullets found wood near him.
He sent two more shots in the direction of the lone gunman.
The organ stopped.
People realized what was happening. The crowd started flooding from the pews past where Malone was hiding, seeking safety outside through the rear doors. He used the confusion to peer above the pew and saw the man in the leather jacket standing near the entrance to one of the side chapels.
“Stephanie,” he called out over the mayhem.
No answer.
“Stephanie. It’s Cotton. Let me know if you’re okay?”
Still no answer.
He belly-crawled forward, found the opposite transept, and rose to his feet. The path ahead rounded the church and led to the other side. Pillars lining the way would make any shot at him difficult, and then the choir would block him completely, so he ran forward.
STEPHANIE HEARD MALONE CALL HER NAME. THANK GOODNESS he never could mind his own business. She was still in the Magi Chapel, hiding behind a black marble tomb. She heard shots and realized Malone was doing what he could, but he was outnumbered at least three to one. She needed to help him, but what good could she be? She carried no weapon. At least she ought to let him know she was all right. But before she could answer, through another elaborate iron grille that opened into the church, she saw Bernard, gun in hand.
Fear seized her muscles and gripped her mind in an unfamiliar panic.
He entered the chapel.
MALONE ROUNDED THE CHOIR. PEOPLE WERE STILL RUSHING from the church, voices excited, hysterical. Surely someone had called the police. He just needed to contain his attackers until help arrived.
He looped the ambulatory and saw one of the men he’d shot helping the other out the rear doors. The one who’d started the attack was not in sight.
That worried him.
He slowed his pace and brought his gun to the ready.
STEPHANIE STIFFENED. BERNARD WAS TWENTY FEET AWAY.
“I know you’re in here,” he said in a deep, throaty voice. “Your savior arrived, so I have no time to deal with you. You know what I want. We shall meet again.”
The prospect was not appealing.
“Your husband was unreasonable, too. He was made a similar offer eleven years ago with regard to the journal and refused.”
She was stung by the man’s words. She knew that she should remain silent, but there was no way. Not now. “What do you know of my husband?”
“Enough. Let’s leave it at that.”
She heard him walk away.
MALONE SAW LEATHER JACKET STEP FROM ONE OF THE SIDE chapels.
“Stop,” he called out.
The man whirled and leveled his gun.
Malone dove toward a set of steps that led to another room jutting from the cathedral and rolled down half a dozen stone risers.
Three bullets smacked off the walls above him.
Malone scampered back up, ready to return fire, but Leather Jacket was a hundred feet away, running toward the rear vestibule, turning for the other side of the church.
Malone came to his feet and trotted forward.
“Stephanie,” he called out.
“Here, Cotton.”
He saw his old boss appear at the far side of the chapel. She walked toward him, a stony expression spread over her calm face. Sirens could be heard outside.
“I suggest we get out of here,” he said. “There are going to be a lot of questions and I have the feeling you’re not going to want to answer any of them.”
“You got that right.” She brushed by him.
He was just about to suggest that they use one of the other exits when the main doors were flung open and uniformed police swarmed inside. He still held his gun and they spotted it immediately.
Feet were planted and automatic weapons raised.
He and Stephanie froze.
“Hen til den landskab. Nu,” came the command. To the ground. Now.
“What do they want us to do?” Stephanie asked.
Malone dropped his gun and started down to his knees. “Nothing good.”
RAYMOND DE ROQUEFORT STOOD OUTSIDE THE CATHEDRAL, BEYOND the circle of onlookers, and watched the unfolding drama. He and his two associates had dissolved into the web of shadows cast by the thick trees that rose across from the cathedral plaza. He’d managed to slip out a side door and retreat just as the police stormed the main entrance. No one seemed to notice him. The authorities would, for the moment, be focused on Stephanie Nelle and Cotton Malone. It would be awhile before witnesses described other men with guns. He was familiar with these kinds of situations and knew how calm heads always prevailed. So he told himself to relax. His men must know that he was in control.
The front of the brick cathedral was awash with strobing red and white light. More police arrived, and he marveled how a town of Roskilde’s size possessed so much law enforcement. People were flooding over from the nearby main plaza. The whole scene was quickly turning chaotic. Which was perfect. He’d always found tremendous freedom of movement within chaos, provided he controlled the chaos.
He faced the two who’d been with him inside the church. “Are you injured?” he asked the one who’d been shot.
The man peeled back h
is jacket and showed him how the body armor had done its job. “Just sore.”
From the crowd he saw his remaining two acolytes emerge—the ones he’d sent to the auction. They’d reported through their radios that Stephanie Nelle had not prevailed in the bidding. So he’d ordered them to send her his way. He’d thought perhaps she could be intimidated, but the effort had failed. Worse, he’d drawn a great deal of attention to his activities. But that was thanks to Cotton Malone. His men had spotted Malone at the auction, so he’d instructed them to detain him while he spoke with Stephanie Nelle. Apparently, that effort had failed, too.
The two approached and one of them said, “We lost Malone.”
“I found him.”
“He’s resourceful. With nerve.”
He knew that to be true. He’d checked out Cotton Malone after learning Stephanie Nelle would be traveling to Denmark to visit with him. Since Malone could have well been a part of whatever she was planning, he’d made a point to learn all he could.
His given name was Harold Earl Malone. He was forty-six years old, born in the American state of Georgia. His mother was a native Georgian, his father a career military man, an Annapolis graduate, who rose to the rank of navy commander before his submarine sank when Malone was ten years old.
The son followed in the father’s footsteps, attending the Naval Academy and graduating in the top third of his class. He was admitted to flight school, eventually earning high enough marks to choose fighter pilot training. Then, interestingly, midway through, he abruptly sought reassignment and was admitted to Georgetown University Law School, earning his law degree while stationed at the Pentagon. After graduation he was transferred to the Judge Advocate General’s corps, where he spent nine years as a staff lawyer. Thirteen years ago he was reassigned to the Justice Department and Stephanie Nelle’s newly formed Magellan Billet. He remained there until last year, retiring out early as a full commander.
