by Steve Berry
He glided down the wide passageway, following the crimson carpet runner that shielded the rough flagstones. On either side paintings, statuary, and scattered memorials recalled the abbey’s past. Unlike at other Pyrenean monasteries, no looting had occurred here during the French Revolution, so both its art and message had survived.
He found the main staircase and descended to ground level. Through more vaulted corridors he passed areas where visitors were schooled in the monastic way of life. There were not many invitees, a few thousand each year, the income a modest supplement to the annual operating expenses, but enough visited that care was taken to ensure the brothers’ privacy.
The entrance he sought stood at the end of another ground-floor corridor. The door, laced with medieval ironwork, was swung open, as always.
He entered the library.
Few collections could claim to have never been disturbed, yet the innumerable volumes that surrounded him had remained inviolate for seven centuries. Started with only a score of books, the collection had grown through gift, bequest, purchase, and, in the Beginning, production from scribes who labored day and night. The subject matters then and now varied, with emphases on theology, philosophy, logic, history, law, science, and music. The Latin phrase etched into the mortar above the main doorway was fitting. CLAUSTRUM SINE ARMARIO EST QUASI CASTRUM SINE ARMAMENTARIO. A monastery without a library is like a castle without an armory.
He stopped and listened.
No one was around.
Security was of no real concern, as eight hundred years of Rule had proven more than effective in guarding the stacks. No brother would dare intrude without permission. But he was no brother. He was the seneschal. At least for one more day.
He navigated his way through the shelves, toward the rear of the massive expanse, and stopped at a black metal door. He raked a plastic card across the scanner affixed to the wall. Only the master, marshal, archivist, and himself possessed the cards. Access to the volumes beyond was gained only with the master’s direct permission. Even the archivist had to obtain an okay before entering. Stored inside were a variety of precious books, old charters, title deeds, a register of members, and, most important, the Chronicles, which contained a narrative history of the Order’s entire existence. As minutes memorialized what the British Parliament or U.S. Congress accomplished, the Chronicles detailed the Order’s successes and failures. Written journals remained, many with brittle covers and brazen clasps, each one looking like a tiny trunk, but the bulk of the data had now been scanned into computers—making it a simple matter to electronically search the Order’s nine-hundred-year record.
He entered, navigated the dimly lit shelving, and found the codex lying in its designated spot. The tiny volume measured eight inches square and an inch thick. He’d come across it two years ago, its pages bound in wooden boards sheathed with blind-stamped calf. Not quite a book, but an ancestor—an early effort that replaced rolled parchment and allowed text to be inscribed on two sides of a page.
He carefully opened the front cover.
There was no title page, the cursive Latin script framed by an illuminated border of dull red, green, and gold. He’d learned that it had been copied in the fifteenth century by one of the abbey’s scribes. Most of the ancient codices had fallen victim, their parchment used to either bind other books, cover jars, or simply kindle a fire. Thank goodness this one survived. The information it contained was priceless. He’d never told anyone what he’d found within the codex, not even the master, and since he might need the information, and there would be no chances better than the present, he slipped the book into the fold of his cassock.
He walked an aisle over and found another thin volume, its script also hand-penned, but in the latter part of the nineteenth century. Not a book written for an audience, but instead a personal record. He might need it, as well, so he slipped it into his cassock.
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.
THIRTEEN
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 Strøget 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-Château—”
“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-Château,” 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 Pyrénées. 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.”
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.
FOURTEEN
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 Helsingør, 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 Øresund 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.
