“Pried open the back door. It’s real easy. You need an alarm.”
“I figure if somebody wants to steal old books, they can have ’em.”
“What about guys who want to kill you?”
“Actually, they wanted to kill you. And by the way, that was foolish breaking in. I could have shot you.”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“Glad you knew that, ’cause I didn’t.”
They rode in silence for a few miles, coming ever closer to Christiangade. Sam had made this journey quite a few times over the past year.
“Thorvaldsen’s gone to a lot of trouble,” he finally said. “But the man he’s after acted first.”
“Henrik’s no fool.”
“Maybe not. But every man meets his match.”
“How old are you?”
He wondered about the sudden shift in topic. “Thirty-two.”
“You’ve been with the service how long?”
“Four years.”
He caught Malone’s drift. Why had Henrik needed to connect with a young, inexperienced Secret Service agent who ran an off-the-wall website? “It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time,” Malone said.
“Actually, you don’t. Thorvaldsen has been aggravating a situation that can’t stand much more irritation. He needs help.”
“That the conspiratorialist talking, or the agent?”
Malone gunned the Mazda and sped down a straightaway. More black ocean stretched to their right, the lights of a distant Sweden on the horizon.
“It’s his friend talking.”
“Obviously,” Malone said, “you have no idea about Henrik. He’s afraid of nothing.”
“Everybody’s afraid of something.”
“What’s your fear?”
He pondered the question, one he’d asked himself several times over the past few months, then answered honestly. “The man Thorvaldsen’s really after.”
“You going to tell me a name?”
“Lord Graham Ashby.”
SIX
CORSICA
ASHBY RETURNED TO
“Escort him to the main salon,” Ashby said, and Guildhall led their guest forward. “Make him comfortable.”
He climbed three teak risers to the lighted pool. He still held the book that had been retrieved from the Corsican’s house.
The ship’s captain appeared.
“Head north, along the coast, at top speed,” Ashby ordered.
The captain nodded, then disappeared.
Below, engines revved.
He thought again about that night in September 1943.
All accounts described calm seas with clear skies. Bastia’s fishing fleet had been lying safe at anchor within the harbor. Only a solitary motor launch sliced through the waters offshore. Some said the boat was headed for Cape Sud and the River Golo, situated at the southern base of Cap Corse, Corsica’s northernmost promontory-a finger-like projection of mountains aimed due north to Italy. Others placed the boat in conflicting positions along the northeastern coast. Four German soldiers had been aboard the launch when two American P-39s strafed the deck with cannon fire. A dropped bomb missed and, thankfully, the planes ended their attack without finishing off the vessel. Ultimately, six wooden crates were hidden somewhere either on or near Corsica, a fifth German, on shore, aiding the other four’s escape.
They should be there in under thirty minutes.
He climbed one more deck to the grand salon where white leather, stainless-steel appointments, and cream Berber carpet made guests feel comfortable. His 16th-century English estate was replete with antiquity. Here he preferred modernity.
The Corsican sat on one of the sofas nursing a drink.
“Some of my rum?” Ashby asked.
The older man nodded, still obviously shaken.
“It’s my favorite. Made from first-press juice.”
The boat surged forward, acquiring speed, the bow quickly scything through the water.
He tossed the Napoleon book on the sofa beside his guest.
“Since we last talked, I have been busy. I’m not going to bore you with details. But I know four men brought Rommel’s gold from Italy. A fifth waited here. The four hid the treasure, and did not reveal its location before the Gestapo shot them for dereliction of duty. Unfortunately, the fifth was not privy to where they secreted the cache. Ever since, Corsicans like you have searched and distributed false information as to what happened. There are a dozen or more versions of events that have caused nothing but confusion. Which is why, last time, you lied to me.” He paused. “And why Gustave did the same.”
He poured himself a shot of rum and sat on the sofa opposite the Corsican. A wood-and-glass table rested between them. He retrieved the book and laid it on the table, “If you please, I need you to solve the puzzle.”
“If I could, I would have long ago.”
He grinned. “I recently read that when Napoleon became emperor, he excluded all Corsicans from the administration of their island. Too untrustworthy, he claimed.”
“Napoleon was Corsican, too.”
“Quite true, but you, sir,
The Corsican downed the rest of his rum. “I should have never dealt with you.”
He shrugged. “You like my money. I, on the other hand, should never have dealt with you.”
“You tried to kill me on the tower.”
He laughed. “I simply wanted to acquire your undivided attention.”
The Corsican did not seem impressed. “You came to me because you knew I could provide answers.”
“And the time has come for you to do that.”
He’d spent the past two years examining every clue, interviewing what few secondary witnesses remained alive-all of the main participants were long dead-and he’d learned that no one really knew if Rommel’s gold existed. None of the stories about its origin, and journey from Africa to Germany, rang consistent. The most reliable account stated that the hoard originated from Gabes, in Tunisia, about 160 kilometers from the Libyan border. After the German Afrika Korps commandeered the town for its headquarters, its three thousand Jews were told that for “sixty hundredweight of gold” their lives would be spared. They were given forty-eight hours to produce the ransom, after which it was packed into six wooden crates, taken to the coast, and shipped north to Italy. There the Gestapo
