crime.”
“A bit grandiose.”
“It sent a message to Rico’s successor. Which worked. He was much more agreeable.”
Sam listened, amazed at how his life had changed. Two weeks ago he was an obscure Secret Service agent chasing questionable financial transactions through a maze of dull electronic records. Background work-secondary to the field agents. He’d genuinely wanted to work the field, but had never been offered the chance. He believed himself up to the challenge-he’d reacted well back at Malone’s bookshop-but staring at the corpses across the room, he wondered. Thorvaldsen and Jesper had killed those men. What did it take to do that? Could he?
He watched as Jesper stretched two body bags on the floor. He’d never actually seen someone who’d been shot dead. Smelled the rusty scent of blood. Stared into glassy eyes. Jesper handled the corpses with a cool detachment, stuffing them into the bags, not seeming to care.
Could he do that, too?
“What’s the deal with Graham Ashby?” Malone asked. “Sam here made a point to mention him to me. I assume that was at your insistence.”
Sam could tell Malone was both irritated and concerned.
“I can answer that,” Sam said. “He’s a rich Brit. Old, old money, but his actual worth is unknown. Lots of hidden assets. He got caught up in something a few years ago. Retter der Verlorenen Antiquitaten. Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. A group of people who stole art that was already stolen and traded it among themselves.”
“I remember that,” Malone said. “That’s when they found the Amber Room.”
Sam nodded. “Along with a ton of other lost treasures when they raided the participants’ homes. Ashby was implicated, but nothing was ever proven. Amando Cabral worked for one of the members. Acquisitors, they called them. The ones who did the actual collecting.” He paused. “Or stealing, depending on how you look at it.”
Malone seemed to comprehend. “So Ashby got himself into trouble in Mexico City with collecting?”
Thorvaldsen nodded. “The case was building, and Elena Ramirez Rico was on the right path. She’d eventually tie Cabral and Ashby together, so Ashby decided she had to be eliminated.”
“There’s more,” Sam said.
Malone faced him.
“Ashby is also involved with another covert group that’s working a more widespread conspiracy.”
“Is that the agent talking, or the webmaster?” Malone asked.
He shook off the skepticism. “It’s real. They intend to wreak havoc with the world’s financial systems.”
“That seems to be happening without their efforts.”
“I realize that you think I’m nuts, but economics can be a powerful weapon. It could be argued that it is the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.”
“How do you know about this secret group?”
“There are some of us who’ve been watching. I have an acquaintance in Paris who found this one. They’re just getting started. They’ve tinkered here and there with currency markets. Small stuff. Things few would even notice, unless paying close attention.”
“Which you and your friends have apparently been doing. You probably told your superiors, and they didn’t believe you. I assume the problem is a lack of proof.”
He nodded. “They’re out there. I know it, and Ashby is a part of them.”
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said, “I met Sam about a year ago. I came across his website and his unconventional theories, especially his opinions relative to Ashby. There’s a lot he says that makes sense.” The older man smiled at Sam. “He’s bright and ambitious. Perhaps you might recognize those qualities?”
Malone grinned. “Okay. I was young once, too. But apparently Ashby knows you’re after him. And he knows about Sam.”
Thorvaldsen shook his head. “I don’t know about that. The men tonight came from Cabral. I specifically provoked him. I wasn’t sure if Sam would be a target. I was hoping Cabral’s anger would focus on me, but I told Sam to find you if he needed help.”
Jesper dragged one of the bagged bodies from the room.
“They came by boat,” Thorvaldsen said. “It’ll be found tomorrow adrift in the Oresund, a long way from here.”
“And what are you going to do now?” Malone asked.
Thorvaldsen sucked a succession of quick breaths. Sam wondered if his friend was okay.
“Ashby likes to acquire art and treasure that is either unknown, unclaimed, or stolen,” Thorvaldsen finally said. “No lawyers, legal battles, or press to worry about. I’ve studied the Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. They were around for a long time. Pretty clever, actually. To steal what’s already stolen. Ashby’s Acquisitor was a man named Guildhall, who still works for him. Cabral was hired by Ashby, after the Retrievers were exposed, for some specialized tasks. Cabral went after some of the items that weren’t recovered when the Retrievers were caught, things Ashby knew existed. The list of what was recovered when the Retrievers were finally discovered is staggering. But Ashby may have moved on to other things, trading treasure hunting for something on a grander scale.” Thorvaldsen faced Sam. “Your information makes sense. All of your analysis on Ashby, so far, has proven accurate.”
“But you don’t see any new financial conspiracy,” Malone said.
The Dane shrugged. “Ashby has lots of friends, but that’s to be expected. After all, he heads one of England’s largest banks. To be honest, I’ve confined my investigation only to his association with Cabral-”
“Why not just kill him and be done with it? Why all these games?” Malone asked.
The answer to both questions struck Sam immediately. “Because you
Thorvaldsen’s countenance beamed with a mild delight, the first sign of joviality Sam had seen on his friend’s face in a while.
“I never said I didn’t.”
“What do you know, Henrik?” Malone asked. “You never move in the dark. Tell me what you’re holding back.”
“Sam, when Jesper returns, could you help him with that final bag. It’s a long way to the boat. Though he’d never say it, my old friend is getting up in age. Not as spry as he once was.”
Sam didn’t like being dismissed, but saw that Thorvaldsen wanted to talk to Malone alone. He realized his place-he was an outsider, not in any position to argue. Not a whole lot different from when he was a kid, or from the Secret Service, where he was the low man on the pole as well. He’d done what Thorvaldsen wanted and made contact with Malone. But he’d also helped thwart attackers in Malone’s bookshop. He’d proven he was capable. He thought about protesting, but decided to keep quiet. Over the past year he’d said plenty to his supervisors in Washington, surely enough to get him fired. He desperately wanted to be a part of whatever Thorvaldsen was planning.
Enough to swallow his pride and do as he was told.
So when Jesper returned, he bent down and said, “Let me help you.”
As he grabbed feet sheathed in thick plastic, carrying a corpse for the first time in his life, Malone looked at him. “This financial group you keep talking about. You know a lot about them?”
“My friend in France knows more.”
“You at least know its name?”
He nodded. “The Paris Club.”
FOURTEEN
CORSICA
ASHBY STEPPED ONTO THE DESOLATE CAP CORSE SHORE, ITS dirty sand grass-strewn, its rocks invested with prickly maquis. On the eastern horizon, far across the water, he spied the lights of Elba. The crumbling Tour de Santa Maria sprang from the surf twenty meters away, the shadowy ruin torn and convulsed with the look of
