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.
'WHY DON'T YOU SIT?' THORVALDSEN SAID.
'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.
'As I said, Stephanie, it is time you learn the truth.'
She approached the table and sat across from Malone. 'Then by all means, destroy all my preconceived notions about you.'
'And what would those be?'
'I could go on for a while. Here are the highlights. Three years ago you were linked to an art theft syndicate with radical Israeli connections. You interfered last year in the German national elections, funneling money illegally to certain candidates. For some reason, though, both the Germans and Israelis chose not to prosecute you.'
Thorvaldsen made an impatient gesture of assent. 'Guilty on both counts. Those radical Israeli connections, as you call them, are settlers who do not feel their homes should be bargained away by a corrupt Israeli government. To help their cause, we provided funds from wealthy Arabs who trafficked in stolen art. The items were simply stolen back from the thieves. Perhaps your files noted the art was returned to its owners.'
'For a fee.'
'Which any private art investigator would charge. We merely channeled the money raised to more worthy causes. I saw a certain justice in the act. And the German elections? I financed several candidates who faced stiff opposition from the radical right. With my help, they all won. I saw no reason to allow fascism to gain any foothold. Do you?'
'What you did was illegal and caused a multitude of problems.'
'What I did was solve a problem. Which is far more than the Americans have done.'
Stephanie seemed unimpressed. 'Why are you in my business?'
'How is this your business?'
'It concerns my husband's work.'
Thorvaldsen's face stiffened. 'I don't recall you having any interest in Lars's work when he was alive.'
Malone caught the critical words I don't recall. Which meant a high level of past knowledge concerning Lars Nelle. Uncharacteristically, Stephanie seemed not to be listening.
'I don't intend to discuss my private life. Just tell me why you bought that book tonight.'
'Peter Hansen informed me of your interest. He also told me that another man wanted you to have the book, too. But not before the man made a copy. He paid Hansen a fee to make sure that happened.'
'He say who?' she asked.
Thorvaldsen shook his head.
'Hansen's dead,' Malone said.
'Not surprising.' No emotion claimed Thorvaldsen's voice.
Malone told him what had happened.
'Hansen was greedy,' the Dane said. 'He believed the book had great value, so he wanted me to purchase it secretly so he could offer it to the other man-at a price.'
'Which you agreed to do, being the humanitarian sort you are.' Stephanie was apparently not going to cut him any slack.
'Hansen and I did much business together. He told me what was happening and I offered to assist. I was concerned he would simply go somewhere else for an anonymous buyer. I, too, wanted you to have the book, so I agreed to his terms, but I had no intention of turning the book over to Hansen.'
'You don't honestly believe-'
'How is the cake?' Thorvaldsen asked.
Malone realized that his friend was trying to take control of the conversation. 'Excellent,' he said through a mouthful.
'Get to the point,' Stephanie demanded. 'That truth I need to know.'
'Your husband and I were close friends.'
Stephanie's face darkened into a look of disgust. 'Lars never mentioned a word of that to me.'
'Considering your strained relationship, that's understandable. But, even so, just as in your profession, there were secrets in his.'
Malone finished his cake and watched as Stephanie contemplated what she clearly did not believe.
'You're a liar,' she finally declared.
'I can show you correspondence that will prove what I am saying. Lars and I communicated often. Ours was a collaborative effort. I financed his initial research and helped him out when times were tough. I paid for his house in Rennes-le-Chateau. I shared his passion, and was glad to accommodate him.'
'What passion?' she asked.
Thorvaldsen appraised her with an even glare. 'You know so little about him. How your regrets must torment you.'
'I don't need analyzing.'
'Really? You come to Denmark to buy a book you know nothing about that concerns the work of a man dead for more than a decade. And you have no regrets?'
