by Steve Berry
"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.
SIX
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 Stroget, 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 she 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 on
e 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."
SEVEN
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 his 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.
On the personal side, Malone was divorced and his fourteen-year-old son lived with his ex-wife in Georgia. Immediately upon retiring, Malone had left America and moved to Copenhagen. He was a confirmed bibliophile and born Catholic, but not noted as overly religious. He was reasonably fluent in several languages, possessed of no known addictions or phobias, and prone to extreme self-motivation and obsessive dedication. He also possessed an eidetic memory. All in all, just the kind of man de Roquefort would rather have in his employ than working against him.
And the past few minutes had proven that.
Three-to-one odds had not seemed to bother Malone, especially when he thought Stephanie Nelle was in jeopardy.
Earlier, de Roquefort's young associate had demonstrated loyalty and courage, too, though the man had acted in haste stealing Stephanie Nelle's bag. He should have waited until after her visit with Cotton Malone, when she was on the way back to her hotel, alone and vulnerable. Perhaps he'd been trying to please, knowing the importance of their mission. Maybe it was simply impatience. But when cornered at the Round Tower, the young man had correctly chosen death over capture. A shame, but the learning process was like that. Those with brains and ability rose. Everyone else was eliminated.
He turned to one of his associates who'd been inside the auction hall and asked, "Did you learn who was the high bidder for the book?"
The young man nodded. "It cost a thousand kroner to bribe the attendant."
He wasn't interested in the price of weakness. "The name?"
"Henrik Thorvaldsen."
The phone in his pocket vibrated. His second in command knew he was occupied, so the call had to be important. He flipped the unit open.
"The time is close," the voice said in his ear.
"How close?"
"Within the next few hours."
An unexpected bonus.
"I have a task for you," he said into the phone. "There's a man. Henrik Thorvaldsen. A wealthy Dane, lives north of Copenhagen. I know some, but I need complete information on him within the hour. Call me back when you have it."
Then he clicked off the phone and turned to his subordinates.
"We must return home. But first there are two more tasks we have to complete before dawn."
EIGHT
MALONE AND STEPHANIE WERE TRANSPORTED TO A POLICE BUILDING on the outskirts of Roskilde. Neither of them spoke on the way, as they both knew enough to keep their mouths shut. Malone fully realized that Stephanie's presence in Denmark had nothing to do with the Magellan Billet. Stephanie never worked the field. She was at the apex of the triangle-everyone reported to her in Atlanta. And besides, when she'd called last week and
said she wanted to drop by and say hello, she'd made clear she was coming to Europe on vacation. Some vacation, he thought, as they were left alone in a brightly lit, windowless room.
"Oh, by the way, the coffee was great at the Cafe Nikolaj," he said. "I went ahead and drank yours. Of course that was after I chased a man to the top of the Round Tower and watched while he jumped."
She said nothing.
"I did manage to see you snatch your bag from the street. Did you happen to notice the dead man lying next to it? Maybe not. You seemed in a hurry."
"That's enough, Cotton," she said in a tone he knew.
"I don't work for you anymore."
"So why are you here?"
"I was asking myself the same thing in the cathedral, but the bullets distracted me."
Before she could say anything further, the door opened and a tall man with reddish blond hair and pale brown eyes entered. He was the Roskilde police inspector who'd brought them from the cathedral and he held Malone's Beretta.
"I made the call you requested," the inspector said to Stephanie. "The American embassy confirms your identity and status with your Justice Department. I'm awaiting word from our Home Office as to what to do." He turned. "You, Mr. Malone, are another matter. You are in Denmark on a temporary residence visa as a shopkeeper." He displayed the gun. "Our laws do not sanction the carrying of weapons, not to mention discharging it in our national cathedral-a World Heritage Site, no less."
"I like to break only the most important laws," he said, not letting the man think he was getting to him.
"I do love humor, Mr. Malone. But this is a serious matter. Not for me, but for you."
"Did the witnesses mention that there were three other men who started the shooting?"
"We have descriptions. But it is unlikely they are around any longer. You, though, are right here."
"Inspector," Stephanie said. "The situation that developed was of my doing, not Mr. Malone's." She threw him a glare. "Mr. Malone once worked for me and thought I required his assistance."
