Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

"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."

"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 melange. 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.

DE ROQUEFORT APPROACHED THE BOOKSHOP. THE PEDESTRIANS-ONLY street out front was deserted. Most of the district's many cafes and restaurants were blocks away-this part of the Stroget 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.