Steve Berry - The Templar legacy

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.

Thorvaldsen was one of the wealthiest citizens in Denmark, with family roots reaching back to the Vikings. His corporate holdings were impressive. In addition to Adelgate Glasvaerker, he possessed interests in British banks, Polish mines, German manufacturing, and European transportation. On a continent where old money meant billions, Thorvaldsen was at the top of most fortune lists. He was an odd sort, an introvert who ventured from his estate only sparingly. His charitable contributions were legendary, especially to Holocaust survivors, anti-communist organizations, and international medical relief.

He was sixty-two years old and close with the Danish royal family, especially the queen. His wife and son were dead, the wife from cancer, the son shot more than a year before while working for the Danish mission in Mexico City. The man who'd taken down one of the killers was an American lawyer-agent named Cotton Malone. Even a link to Lars Nelle existed, though not a favorable one, as Thorvaldsen was credited with some unflattering public comments about Nelle's research. A nasty incident fifteen years ago at the Bibliotheque Sainte-Genevieve in Paris, where the two had engaged in a shouting match, had been widely reported in the French press. All of which might explain why Henrik Thorvaldsen had been interested in Peter Hansen's offer, but not entirely.

He needed to know it all.

Bracing ocean air whipped in off the black Oresund and the rain had slackened into a mist. Two of his acolytes stood beside him. The other two waited in the car, parked beyond the property, their heads woozy from whatever drug had been shot into them. He was still puzzled by who'd interfered. He'd sensed no one watching him all day, yet somebody had covertly traced his movements. Somebody with the sophistication to utilize tranquilizing darts.

But first things first. He led the way across the spongy yard to a row of hedges that fronted the elegant house. Lights burned in a ground-floor room that would, in daylight, offer a spectacular seaside view. He'd observed no guards, dogs, or alarm system. Curious, but not surprising.

He approached the lighted window. He'd noticed a car parked in the drive and wondered if his luck was about to change. He carefully peered inside and saw Stephanie Nelle and Cotton Malone talking with an older man.

He smiled. His luck was indeed changing.

He motioned and one of his men produced a nylon case. He unzipped the pouch and removed a microphone. He carefully affixed its rubber suction cup to the corner of the damp window pane. The state-of-the-art receiver inside the nylon bag could now hear every word.

He wedged a tiny speaker into his ear.

Before he killed them, he needed to listen.

"So kind of you, Herr Thorvaldsen, but I prefer to stand," Stephanie made clear, contempt in her voice.

Thorvaldsen reached for the coffee and filled his cup. "I would suggest calling me anything but herr. " He set the samovar down. "I detest all things even remotely German."

Malone watched as Stephanie took in the command. Surely, if he was a "person of interest" within Billet files, she knew that Thorvaldsen's grandfather, uncles, aunts, and cousins had all fallen victim to the Nazi occupation of Denmark. Even so, he expected her to retaliate, but instead her face softened. "Henrik it is, then."

Thorvaldsen dropped one lump of sugar into his cup. "Your facetiousness is noted." He stirred his coffee. "I learned long ago that all things can be settled over a cup of coffee. A person will tell you more of their private life after one good cup of coffee than after a magnum of champagne or a quart of port."

Malone knew Thorvaldsen liked to ease his listener with nonsense while he appraised the situation. The old man sipped from the steaming cup.