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  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 Café 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.”

  “Are you saying the shooting would not have occurred but for Mr. Malone’s interference?”

  “Not at all. Only that the situation grew out of control—through no fault of Mr. Malone’s.”

  The inspector appraised her observation with obvious apprehension. Malone wondered what Stephanie was doing. Lying was not her forte, but he decided not to challenge her in front of the inspector.

  “Were you in the cathedral on official United States government business?” the inspector asked her.

  “That I cannot say. You understand.”

  “Your job involves activities that cannot be discussed? I thought you were a lawyer?”

  “I am. But my unit is routinely involved in national security investigations. In fact, that’s our main purpose for existing.”

  The inspector did not seem impressed. “What is your business in Denmark, Ms. Nelle?”

  “I came to visit Mr. Malone. I haven’t seen him in more than a year.”

  “That was your only purpose?”

  “Why don’t we wait for the Home Office.”

  “It is a miracle that no one was hurt in that mélange. There is damage to a few sacred monuments, but no injuries.”

  “I shot one of the gunmen,” Malone said.

  “If you did, he did not bleed.”

  Which meant they were armored. The team had come prepared, but for what?

  “How long will you be staying in Denmark?” the inspector asked Stephanie.

  “Gone tomorrow.”

  The door opened and a uniformed officer handed the inspector a sheet of paper. The man read, then said, “You apparently have some well-placed friends, Ms. Nelle. My superiors say to let you go and ask no questions.”

  Stephanie headed for the door.

  Malone stood, too. “That paper mention
me?”

  “I’m to release you, as well.”

  Malone reached for the gun. The man did not offer it.

  “There is no instruction that I am to return the weapon.”

  He decided not to argue. He could deal with that issue later. Right now, he needed to speak with Stephanie.

  He rushed off and found her outside.

  She whirled to face him, her features set tight. “Cotton, I appreciate what you did in the cathedral. But listen to me, and listen good. Stay out of my business.”

  “You have no idea what you’re doing. In the cathedral you walked right into something with no preparation. Those three men wanted to kill you.”

  “Then why didn’t they? There was every opportunity before you arrived.”

  “Which raises even more questions.”

  “Don’t you have enough to do at your bookshop?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Then do it. When you quit last year, you made clear that you were tired of getting shot at. I believe you said that your new Danish benefactor offered a life you always wanted. So go enjoy it.”

  “You’re the one who called me and wanted to stop by for a visit.”

  “Which was a bad idea.”

  “That was no purse snatcher today.”

  “Stay out of this.”

  “You owe me. I saved your neck.”

  “Nobody told you to do that.”

  “Stephanie—”

  “Dammit, Cotton. I’m not going to say it again. If you keep on, I’ll have no choice but to take action.”

  Now his back was stiff. “And what do you plan to do?”

  “Your Danish friend doesn’t have all the connections. I can make things happen, too.”

  “Go for it,” he said to her, his anger building.

  But she did not reply. Instead, she stormed off.

  He wanted to go after her and finish what they’d started, but decided she was right. This was none of his concern. And he’d made enough trouble for one night.

  Time to go home.

  NINE

  COPENHAGEN

  10:30 PM

  De Roquefort approached the bookshop. The pedestrians-only street out front was deserted. Most of the district’s many cafés and restaurants were blocks away—this part of the Strøget closed for the night. After tending to his two remaining chores, he planned to leave Denmark. His physical description, along with those of his two compatriots, had now most likely been obtained from witnesses in the cathedral. So it was important that they linger no longer than necessary.

  He’d brought all four of his subordinates from Roskilde with him and planned to supervise every detail of their action. There’d been enough improvising for one day, some of which had cost the life of one of his men earlier at the Round Tower. He did not want to lose anyone else. Two of his men were already scouting the rear of the bookshop. The other two stood ready at his side. Lights burned on the building’s top floor.

  Good.

  He and the owner needed to talk.

  Malone grabbed a Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator and walked down four flights of stairs to the ground floor. His shop filled the entire building, the first floor for books and customers, the next two for storage, the fourth a small apartment that he called home.

  He’d grown accustomed to the cramped living space, enjoying it far better than the two-thousand-square-foot house he’d once owned in north Atlanta. Its sale last year, for a little over three hundred thousand dollars, had netted him sixty thousand dollars to invest into his new life, one offered to him by, as Stephanie had early chided, his new Danish benefactor, an odd little man named Henrik Thorvaldsen.

  A stranger fourteen months ago, now his closest friend.

  They’d connected from the beginning, the older man seeing in the younger something—what, Malone was never sure, but something—and their first meeting in Atlanta one rainy Thursday evening had sealed both of their futures. Stephanie had insisted he take a month off after the trial of three defendants in Mexico City—which involved international drug smuggling and the execution-style murder of a DEA supervisor who happened to be a personal friend of the president of the United States—had resulted in carnage. Walking back to court during a lunch break, Malone had been caught in the crossfire of an assassination, an act wholly unrelated to the trial, but something he’d tried to stop. He’d come home with a bullet wound to his left shoulder. The final tally from the shooting—seven dead, nine injured, one of the dead a young Danish diplomat named Cai Thorvaldsen.

  “I came to speak with you in person,” Henrik Thorvaldsen had said.

  They were sitting in Malone’s den. His shoulder hurt like hell. He didn’t bother to ask how Thorvaldsen had located him, or how the older man knew that he understood Danish.

  “My son was precious to me,” Thorvaldsen said. “When he joined our diplomatic corps I was thrilled. He asked for the assignment to Mexico City. He was a student of the Aztecs. He would have made a worthy member of our Parliament one day. A statesman.”

  A swirl of first impressions raced through Malone’s mind. Thorvaldsen was certainly high bred with an air of distinction, at once elegant and rakish. But the sophistication was in stark contrast to a deformed body, his spine humped in a grotesque exaggeration and stiff, shaped like an egret. A leathery face suggested a lifetime of impossible choices, the wrinkles more like deep clefts, the crow’s-feet sprouting legs, liver spots and forked veins discoloring the arms and hands. Pewter-colored hair was piled thick and bushy and matched the eyebrows—dull silver wisps that made the older man look anxious. Only in the eyes was there passion. Gray-blue, strangely clairvoyant, one flawed from a star-shaped cataract.

  “I came to meet the man who shot my son’s killer.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “To thank you.”

  “You could have called.”

  “I prefer to face my listener.”

  “At the moment, I prefer to be left alone.”

  “I understand you were nearly killed.”

  He shrugged.

  “And you are quitting your job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.”

  “You know an awful lot.”

  “Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.”

  He was not impressed. “Thanks for the pat on the back. I have a hole in my shoulder that’s throbbing. So since you’ve said your peace, could you leave?”

  Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa. He simply stared around at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an open archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves.

  “I love them, too,” his guest said. “My home is likewise full of books. I’ve collected them all my life.”

  He could sense that this man, sixty-plus years old, was given to grandiose tactics. He’d noticed when answering the door that he’d arrived via a limousine. So he wanted to know, “How did you know I speak Danish?”

  “You speak several languages. I was proud to learn that my native tongue was one.”

  Not an answer, but had he really expected one?

  “Your eidetic memory must be a blessing. Mine has gone the way of age. I can hardly remember much anymore.”

  He doubted that. “What do you want?”

  “Have you considered your future?”

  He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”

  “Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like it.”

  He decided to play along. What the hell. But there was something about the tight points of light in the old man’s eyes that told him his visitor was not joking.

  Hard flinty hands searched a suit coat pocket and Thorvaldsen laid a business card on the sofa.

  “My private number. If you’re interested, call me.”

  The old man stood.

  He stayed seated. “What makes you think I’m interested?”

  “You are, Mr. Malone
.”

  He resented the assumption, particularly when the old man was right. Thorvaldsen shuffled toward the front door.

  “Where is this bookstore?” he asked, cursing himself for even sounding interested.

  “Copenhagen. Where else?”

  He remembered waiting three days before calling. The prospect of living in Europe had always appealed to him. Had Thorvaldsen known that, too? He’d never thought living overseas possible. He was a career government man. American, born and bred. But that was before Mexico City. Before seven dead and nine injured.

  He could still see his estranged wife’s face the day after he made the call to Copenhagen.

  “I agree. We’ve had enough separation, Cotton, it’s time for a divorce.” The declaration came with the matter-of-factness of the trial lawyer that she was.

  “Is there someone else?” he asked, uncaring.

  “Not that it matters, but yes. Hell, Cotton, we’ve been apart five years. I’m sure you haven’t been a monk during that time.”

  “You’re right. It’s time.”

  “You really going to retire from the navy?”

  “Already have. Effective yesterday.”

  She shook her head, like she did when Gary needed motherly advice. “Will you ever be satisfied? The Navy, then flight school, law school, JAG, the Billet. Now this sudden retirement. What’s next?”

  He’d never liked her condescending tone. “I’m moving to Denmark.”

  Her face registered nothing. He might as well had said he was moving to the moon. “What is it you’re after?”

  “I’m tired of being shot at.”

  “Since when? You love the Billet.”

  “Time to grow up.”

  She smiled. “So you think moving to Denmark will accomplish that miracle?”

  He had no intention of explaining himself. She didn’t care. Nor did he want her to. “It’s Gary I need to talk with.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to know if he’s okay with that.”