“Again, Robert, if you don’t like me, why are you here?”
His eyes focused tight on hers. “Because I’m intrigued. You know that I am. Yes, I’d like to be rid of bankers and governments.”
She stood from her seat, stepped aft to a leather sofa, and opened her Louis Vuitton day satchel. Inside rested a small leather-bound volume, first published in 1822.
“This was given to me by my Corsican grandmother, who received it from her grandmother.” She laid the thin tome on the table. “Do you believe in oracles?”
“Hardly.”
“This one is quite unique. It was supposedly found in a royal tomb in the Valley of the Kings, near Luxor, by one of Napoleon’s
Mastroianni chuckled. “Why is that not surprising?”
“The original manuscript was indeed found in Egypt. But unlike the papyri I mentioned earlier-”
“Which you failed to tell me about,” he said.
“That comes with a commitment.”
He smiled. “A lot of mystery to your Paris Club.”
“I have to be careful.” She pointed to the oracle on the table. “The original text was written in Greek, probably part of the lost library at Alexandria. Hundreds of thousands of similar scrolls were stored in that library, all gone by the 5th century after Christ. Napoleon did indeed have this transcribed, but not into German. He couldn’t read that language. He was actually quite poor with foreign languages. Instead, he had it converted to Corsican. He did keep this oraculum with him, at all times, in a wooden cabinet. That cabinet had to be discarded after the disastrous Battle of Leipzig in 1815, when his empire first began to crumble. It is said that he risked his life trying to retrieve it. A Prussian officer eventually found and sold it to a captured French general, who recognized it as a possession of the emperor. The general planned to return it, but died before he could. The cabinet eventually made it to Napoleon’s second wife, Empress Marie Louise, who did not join her husband in his forced exile on St. Helena. After Napoleon’s death, in 1821, a man named Kirchenhoffer claimed that the empress gave the manuscript to him for publication.”
She parted the book and carefully thumbed though the opening pages.
“Notice the dedication. HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS, THE EX-EMPRESS OF FRANCE.”
Mastroianni seemed not to care.
“Would you like to try it?” she asked.
“What will it do?”
“Predict your future.”
NINE
MALONE’S INITIAL ESTIMATE REGARDING SAM COLLINS HAD been correct. Early thirties, with an anxious face that projected a mix of innocence and determination. Thin, reddish blond hair was cut short and matted to his head like feathers. He spoke with the same trace of an accent Malone had first detected-Australian, or maybe New Zealand-but his diction and syntax were all American. He was antsy and cocky, like a lot of thirty-somethings, Malone himself once included, who wanted to be treated like they were fifty.
One problem.
All of them, himself once again included, failed to possess those extra twenty years of mistakes.
Sam Collins had apparently tossed away his Secret Service career, and Malone knew that if you failed with one security branch, rarely did another extend a hand.
He wheeled the Mazda around another tight curve as the coastal highway veered inland into a darkened, forested expanse. All of the land for the next few miles, between the road and sea, was owned by Henrik Thorvaldsen. Four of those acres belonged to Malone, presented unexpectantly by his Danish friend a few months ago.
“You’re not going to tell me why you’re here, in Denmark, are you?” he asked Collins.
“Can we deal with Thorvaldsen? I’m sure he’ll answer all of your questions.”
“More of Henrik’s instructions?”
A hesitation, then, “That’s what he said to tell you-if you asked.”
He resented being manipulated, but knew that was Thorvaldsen’s way. To learn anything meant he’d have to play along.
He slowed the car at an open gate and navigated between two white cottages that served as the entrance to Christiangade. The estate was four centuries old, built by a 17th-century Thorvaldsen ancestor who smartly converted tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce fine porcelain. By the 19th century Adelgate Glasvaerker had been declared the Danish royal glass provider. It still held that title, its glassware reigning supreme throughout Europe.
He followed a grassy drive lined by trees bare to winter. The manor house was a perfect specimen of Danish baroque-three stories of brick-encased sandstone, topped with a curving copper roof. One wing turned inland, the other faced the sea. Not a light burned in any window. Normal for the middle of the night.
But the front door hung half open.
That was unusual.
He parked, stepped from the car, and walked toward the entrance, gun in hand.
Collins followed.
Inside, the warm air reeked with a scent of boiled tomatoes and a lingering cigar. Familiar smells for a house that he’d visited often during the past two years.
“Henrik,” Collins called out.
He glared at the younger man and whispered, “Are you a complete idiot?”
“They need to know we’re here.”
“Who’s
“The door was open.”
“Precisely my point. Shut up and stay behind me.”
He eased across polished flagstones to the hardwood of a nearby corridor and followed a wide hall, past the conservatory and billiard parlor, to a ground-floor study, the only light courtesy of a three-quarter winter moon stealing past the windows.
He needed to check something.
He threaded his way through the furniture to an elaborate gun cabinet, fashioned of the same rich maple that encased the rest of the salon. He knew that at least a dozen hunting rifles, along with several handguns, a crossbow, and three assault rifles were always displayed.
The beveled glass door hung open.
One of the automatic weapons was gone, as were two hunting rifles. He reached for one of the pistols. A Welby target revolver-blued finish, six-inch barrel. He knew how Thorvaldsen admired the weapon. None had been made since 1945. A bitter scent of oil filled his nostrils. He checked the cylinder. Six shots. Fully loaded. Thorvaldsen never displayed an empty gun.
He handed it to Collins and mouthed,
The younger man nodded.
They left the room through the nearest doorway.
Familiar with the house’s geography, he followed another corridor until he came to an intersection. Doors framed with elaborate molding lined both sides of the hall, spaced sufficiently apart to indicate that the rooms beyond were spacious.
At the far end loomed a pedimented entrance. The master bedchamber.
Thorvaldsen hated climbing stairs, so he’d long ago occupied the ground floor.
