would be in short supply. Across the empty expanse rose a church. A faint glow was evident through darkened stained-glass windows. In summer, Copenhagen's churches were all left open to midnight. He needed a place to hide, at least for a while. So he raced across to its marble portal.
The lock clicked open.
He shoved the leadened door inward, then closed it gently, hoping his pursuers wouldn't notice.
Scattered incandescent fixtures lit the empty interior. An impressive altar and sculpted statues cast ghostly images through the sullen air. He searched the darkness toward the altar and spotted stairs and a pallid glow from below. He headed for it and descended, a cold cloud of worry filling him.
An iron gate at the bottom opened into a three-naved wide space with a low vaulted ceiling. Two stone sarcophagi topped with immense slabs of carved granite stood in the center. The only break in the darkness came from a tiny amber light near a small altar. This seemed like a good place to park for a while. He couldn't go back to his shop. They certainly knew where he lived. He told himself to calm down, but his momentary relief was shattered by a door opening above. His gaze shot to the top of the vault not three feet from the crown of his head.
Two sets of footsteps bounded across the floor above.
He moved deeper into the shadows. His mind filled with a familiar panic, which he suppressed with a wave of self-control. He needed something to defend himself with, so he searched the darkness. In an apse twenty feet away he spotted an iron candelabrum.
He crept over.
The ornament stood about five feet tall, a solitary wax candle, about four inches thick, rising from its center. He removed the candle and tested the metal stem. Heavy. With the candelabrum in hand, he tiptoed across the crypt and took up a position behind another pillar.
Someone started down the steps.
He peered past the tombs, through the blackness, his body alive with an energy that had always, in the past, clarified his thoughts.
At the base of the stairs appeared the silhouette of a man. He carried a gun, a sound suppressor at the end of the barrel distinctive even in shadow. Malone tightened his grip on the iron stem and cocked his arm. The man was moving toward him. His muscles tensed. He silently counted to five, clenched his teeth, then swung the candelabrum and caught the man square in the chest, propelling the shadow back onto one of the tombs.
He tossed the iron aside and swung his fist into the man's jaw. The pistol flew away and rattled across the floor.
His attacker went down.
He searched for the gun as another set of footsteps bounded into the crypt. He found the pistol and locked his hand on the grip.
Two shots came in his direction.
Dust snowed down from the ceiling as bullets found stone. He dove for the nearest pillar and fired. A muffled retort sent a shot through the darkness, ricocheting off the far wall.
The second attacker stopped his advance, taking up a position behind the farther tomb.
Now he was trapped.
Between him and the only way out was an armed man. The first pursuer was starting to come to his feet, groaning from the blows. Malone was armed, but the odds weren't good.
He stared through the dimly lit chamber and readied himself.
The man rising from the floor suddenly collapsed back down.
A few seconds passed.
Silence.
One set of footsteps echoed from above. Then the church door opened and closed. He did not move. The stillness was unnerving. His gaze raked the darkness. No movement anywhere.
He decided to risk it and crept forward.
The first assailant lay sprawled on the floor. The other man was likewise prone and still. He checked both men for pulses. Beating, but weak. Then he spotted something at the back of one of the necks. He bent close and plucked out a small dart, the tip a half-inch needle.
His savior was privy to some sophisticated equipment.
The two men lying on the floor were the same two from outside the auction earlier. But who'd disabled them? He bent back down and retrieved both guns, then searched the bodies. No identification on either. One man wore a radio beneath his jacket. He removed the unit along with the earpiece and microphone.
'Anyone there?' he said into the mike.
'And who is this?'
'You the same man that was in the cathedral? The one who just killed Peter Hansen.'
'Half correct.'
He realized no one was going to say much over an open channel, but the message was clear. 'Your men are down.'
'Your doing?'
'Wish I could take credit. Who are you?'
'That's not relevant to our discussion.'
'How was Peter Hansen a problem for you?'
'I detest those who deceive me.'
'Obviously. But somebody just caught your two guys by surprise. I don't know who, but I like them.'
No response. He waited a moment more and was about to speak when the radio crackled. 'I trust you will take advantage of your good fortune and go back to selling books.'
The other radio clicked off.
TWELVE
11:30 PM
THE SENESCHAL AWOKE. HE'D DRIFTED OFF IN A CHAIR BESIDE THE bed. A quick glance at the clock on the night table told him that he'd been asleep for about an hour. He glanced over at his sick master. The familiar sound of labored breath was gone. In the scattered rays of incandescent light that washed in from the abbey's exterior, he saw the film of death had gathered in the old man's eyes.
He felt for a pulse.
The master was dead.
His courage forsook him as he knelt and said a prayer for his departed friend. The cancer had won. The battle was over. But another conflict of differing proportion would soon begin. He beseeched the Lord to allow the old man's soul into heaven. No one deserved salvation more. He'd learned everything from the master-his personal failings and emotional loneliness long ago tossed him under the old man's influence. His had been a quick education, and he'd tried never to disappoint. Mistakes are tolerated, so long as they are not made again, he'd been told-only once, since the master never repeated himself.
Many of the brothers took that directness for arrogance. Others resented what they believed to be a condescending attitude. But none ever questioned the master's authority. A brother's duty was to obey. The time for inquiry came only with the selection of the master.
Which was what the day ahead now promised.
For the sixty-seventh time since Inception, a point dating back to the early part of the twelfth century, another man would be chosen master. For the sixty-six who'd come before, the average tenure was a mere eighteen years, the contributions varying from nonexistent to beyond compare. Each, though, had served the Order until death.
