them. But apparently, something had this time.
He continued to hug the pillar while Stephanie and Hansen remained near their seats. A number of familiar faces filled the hall and he hoped no one called out his name. Most were idling toward the other corner where refreshments were being offered. He noticed two men approach Stephanie and introduce themselves. Both were stocky, with short hair, dressed in chinos and crew-necked shirts beneath loose-fitting tan jackets. As one bent to shake Stephanie's hand, Malone noticed the distinctive bulge of a weapon nestled against his spine.
After some discussion, the men withdrew. The conversation had appeared friendly, and while Hansen drifted toward the free beer, Stephanie approached one of the attendants, spoke a moment, then left the hall through a side door.
Malone moved straight for the same attendant, Gregos, a thin Dane whom he knew well.
'Cotton, so good to see you.'
'Always on the lookout for a bargain.'
Gregos smiled. 'Tough to find those here.'
'Looked like that last item was a shock.'
'I thought it would fetch maybe five hundred kroner. But fifty thousand? Amazing.'
'Any idea why?'
Gregos shook his head. 'Beyond me.'
Malone motioned toward the side door. 'The woman you were just talking to. Where was she headed?'
The attendant gave him a knowing look. 'You interested in her?'
'Not like that. But I am interested.'
Malone had been a favorite of the auction house since a few months back when he helped find a wayward seller who'd offered three volumes of Jane Eyre, circa 1847, that turned out to be stolen. When the police seized the books from the new buyer, the auction house had to refund every krone, but the seller had already cashed the house check. As a favor, Malone found the man in England and retrieved the money. In the process, he'd made some grateful friends in his new home.
'She was asking about the Domkirke, where it is located. Particularly the chapel of Christian IV.'
'She say why?'
Gregos shook his head. 'Only that she was going to walk over.'
He reached out and shook the man's hand. In his grasp lay a folded thousand-krone note. He saw that Gregos appreciated the offering and casually slipped the money into his pocket. Gratuities were frowned upon by the auction house.
'One more thing,' he said. 'Who was the high bidder on the phone for that book?'
'As you know, Cotton, that information is strictly confidential.'
'As you know, I hate rules. Do I know the bidder?'
'He owns the building that you rent in Copenhagen.'
He nearly smiled. Henrik Thorvaldsen. He should have known.
The auction was reconvening. As buyers retook their seats, he made his way toward the entrance and noticed Peter Hansen sitting down. Outside, he stepped into a cool Danish evening, and though nearly eight PM the summer sky remained backlit with bars of dull crimson from a slowly setting sun. Several blocks away loomed the redbrick cathedral, the Domkirke, where Danish royalty had been buried since the thirteenth century.
What was Stephanie doing there?
He was just about to head that way when two men approached. One pressed something hard into his back.
'Nice and still, Mr. Malone, or I will shoot you here and now,' the voice whispered in his ear.
He glanced left and right.
The two men who'd been talking to Stephanie in the hall flanked him. And in their features he saw the same anxious look he'd seen a few hours ago on Red Jacket's face.
FIVE
STEPHANIE ENTERED THE DOMKIRKE. THE MAN AT THE AUCTION had said the building was easy to find and he'd been right. The monstrous brick edifice, far too big for the town around it, dominated the evening sky.
Inside the grandiose building she found extensions, chapels, and porches, all topped by a high vaulted ceiling and towering stained-glass windows that lent the ancient walls a celestial air. She could tell the cathedral was no longer Catholic-Lutheran from the decor, if she was not mistaken-with architecture that cast a distinctively French air.
She was angry that she'd lost the book. She'd thought it would sell for no more than three hundred kroner, fifty dollars or so. Instead, some anonymous buyer paid more than eight thousand dollars for an innocuous account of southern France written over a hundred years ago.
Again, somebody knew her business.
Maybe it was the person waiting for her? The two men who'd approached her after the bidding had said all would be explained if she would simply walk to the cathedral and find Christian IV's chapel. She'd thought the trip foolish, but what choice did she have? She had a limited amount of time in which to do a great deal.
She followed the directions provided to her and circled the vestibule. A service was being held in the nave to her right, before the main altar. About fifty people knelt in the pews. Music from a pipe organ banged through the interior with a metallic vibration. She found Christian IV's chapel and entered through an elaborate iron grille.
Waiting for her was a short man with wispy, iron-gray hair that lay flat upon his head like a cap. He had a rugged, clean-shaven face and wore light-colored cotton trousers beneath an open collar shirt. A leather jacket covered his thick chest, and as she drew closer, she noticed that his dark eyes cast a look she immediately thought cold and suspicious. Perhaps he sensed her apprehension because his expression softened and he threw her a disarming grin.
'Ms. Nelle, so good to meet you.'
'How do you know who I am?'
'I was well acquainted with your husband's work. He was a great scholar on several subjects that interest me.'
'Which ones? My husband dealt in many subjects.'
'Rennes-le-Chateau is my main interest. His work on the so-called great secret of that town and the land surrounding it.'
'Are you the person who just outbid me?'
He held up his hands in mock surrender. 'Not I, which is why I asked to speak with you. I had a representative bidding but-like you, I'm sure-I was shocked at the final price.'
Needing a moment to think, she wandered around the royal sepulcher. Monstrous wall-sized paintings, encased with elaborate trompe l'oeil, sheathed the dazzling marble walls. Five embellished coffins filled the center beneath an enormous arched ceiling.
The man motioned to the coffins. 'Christian IV is regarded as Denmark's greatest monarch. As with Henry VIII in England, Francis II in France, and Peter the Great of Russia, he fundamentally changed this country. His mark remains everywhere.'
She wasn't interested in a history lesson. 'What do you want?'
'Let me show you something.'
He stepped toward the metal grating at the chapel's entrance. She followed.
'Legend says that the devil himself designed these ironworks. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. It contains the king and queen's monograms and a multitude of fabulous creatures. But look closely at the bottom.'
She saw words engraved into the decorative metal.
'It reads,' he said, ' Caspar Fincke bin ich genannt, dieser Arbeit binn ich bekannt. Caspar Fincke is my name, to this work I owe my fame.'
She faced him. 'Your point?'
'Atop the Round Tower in Copenhagen, around its edge, is another iron grating. Fincke designed that, too. He
