PARIS, FRANCE JANUARY 1308

JACQUES DEMOLAY SOUGHT DEATH, BUT KNEW SALVATION WOULD never be offered. He was the twenty-second master of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a religious order that had existed under God's charge for two hundred years. But for the past three months, he, like five thousand of his brothers, had been a prisoner of Philip IV, king of France.

You will stand, Gufllaume Imbert ordered from the doorway. De Molay remained on the bed.

You are insolent, even in the face of your own demise, Imbert said. Arrogance is about all I have left.

Imbert was an impish man with a face like that of a horse who, de Molay had noted, seemed as impassible as a statue. He was France's grand inquisitor and Philip IV's personal confessor, which meant he possessed the king's ear. Yet de Molay had many times wondered what, besides pain, brought joy to the Dominican's soul. But he knew what irritated him. I will do nothing you desire.

You have already done more than you realize.

That was true, and de Molay once more rued his weakness. Imbert's torture in the days after the October 13 arrests had been brutal, and many brothers had confessed to wrongdoing. De Molay cringed at the memory of his own admissionsuthat those who were received in the Order denied the Lord Jesus Christ and spat upon a cross in contempt of Him. De Molay had even broken down and written a letter calling on the brothers to confess as he'd done, and a sizable lot had obeyed.

But just a few days ago emissaries from His Holiness, Clement V, had finally arrived in Paris. Clement was known to be Philip's puppet, which was why de Molay had brought gold florins and twelve pack horses laden with silver with him to France last summer. If things went awry, that money would have been used to buy the king's favor. Yet he'd underestimated Philip. The king longed not for partial tributes. He wanted all that the Order possessed. So charges of heresy had been fabricated and thousands of Templar arrests made in a single day. To the pope's emissaries de Molay had reported the torture and publicly recanted his confession, which he knew would bring reprisals. So he said, I imagine Philip is presently concerned that his pope may actually have a backbone.

Insulting your captor is not wise, Imbert said. And what would be wise?

Doing as we wish.

And then how would I answer to my God?

Your God is waiting for you, and every other Templar, to answer. Imbert spoke in his usual metallic voice, which betrayed no vestige of emotion.

De Molay no longer wanted to debate. Over the past three months he'd endured ceaseless questioning and sleep deprivation. He'd been placed in irons, his feet smeared with fat and held close to flames, his body stretched on the rack. He'd even been forced to watch while drunken jailers tortured other Templars, the vast majority of whom were merely farmers, diplomats, accountants, craftsmen, navigators, clerks. He was ashamed of what he'd already been forced to say, and he wasn't going to volunteer anything further. He lay back on the stinking bed and hoped his jailer would go away.

Imbert motioned, and two guards squeezed through the doorway and yanked de Molay upright.

Bring him, Imbert ordered.

De Molay had been arrested at the Paris Temple and held there since last October. The tall keep with four corner turrets was a Templar headquartersua financial centeruand did not possess any torture chamber. Imbert had improvised, converting the chapel into a place of unimaginable anguishuone that de Molay had visited often over the past three months.

De Molay was dragged inside the chapel and brought to the center of the black-and-white-checkered floor. Many a brother had been welcomed into the Order beneath this star-studded ceiling.

I am told, Imbert said, that this is where the most secret of your ceremonies were performed. The Frenchman, dressed in a black robe, strutted to one side of the long room, near a carved receptacle de Molay knew well. I have studied the contents of this chest. It contains a human skull, two thighbones, and a white burial shroud. Curious, no?

He was not about to say anything. Instead, he thought of the words every postulant had uttered when welcomed into the Order. I will suffer all that is pleasing to God.

Many of your brothers have told us how these items were used. Imbert shook his head. So disgusting has your Order become.

He'd had enough. We answer only to our pope, as servants to the servant of God. He alone judges us.

Your pope is subject to my liege lord. He will not save you.

It was true. The pope's emissaries had made clear they would convey de Molay's recanting of his confession, but they doubted it would make much difference as to the Templar's fate.

Strip him, Imbert ordered.

The smock he'd worn since the day after his arrest was torn from his body. He wasn't necessarily sad to see it go, as the filthy cloth smelled of feces and urine. But Rule forbid any brother from showing his body. He knew the Inquisition preferred its victims nakeduwithout prideuso he told himself not to shrink from Imbert's insulting act. His fifty-six-year-old frame still possessed great stature. Like all brother knights, he'd taken care of himself. He stood tall, clung to his dignity, and calmly asked, Why must I be humiliated?

Whatever do you mean? The question carried an air of incredulousness.

This room was a place of worship, yet you strip me and stare at my nakedness, knowing that the brothers frown on such displays.

Imbert reached down, hinged open the chest, and removed a long twill cloth. Ten charges have been leveled against your precious Order.

De Molay knew them all. They ranged from ignoring the sacraments, to worshiping idols, to profiting from immoral acts, to condoning homosexuality.

The one that is of most concern to me, Imbert said, is your requirement that each brother deny that Christ is our Lord and that he spit and trample on the true cross. One of your brothers has even told us of how some would piss on an image of our Lord Jesus on the cross. Is that true?

Ask that brother.

Unfortunately, he was overmatched by his ordeal. De Molay said nothing.

My king and His Holiness were more disturbed by this one charge than all others. Surely, as a man born into the Church, you can see how they would be angered over your denial of Christ as our Savior?

I prefer to speak only to my pope.

Imbert motioned, and the two guards clamped shackles onto both of de Molay's wrists, then stepped back and stretched out his arms with little regard for his tattered muscles. Imbert produced a multi-tailed whip from beneath his robe. The ends clinked and de Molay saw that each was tipped with bone.

Imbert lashed the whip beneath the outstretched arms and onto de Molay's bare back.

The pain surged through him then receded, leaving behind a sharpness that did not dull. Before the flesh had time to recover, another blow came, then another. De Molay did not want to give Imbert any notion of satisfaction, but the pain overcame him and he shrieked in agony.

You will not mock the Inquisition, Imbert declared.

De Molay gathered his emotions. He was ashamed that he'd screamed. He stared into the oily eyes of his inquisitor and waited for what was next.

Imbert stared back. You deny our Savior, say he was merely a man and not the son of God? You defile the true cross? Very well. You will see what it is like to endure the cross.

The whip came againuto his back, his buttocks, his legs. Blood splattered as the bone tips ripped skin.

The world drifted away.

Imbert stopped his thrashing. Crown the master, he yelled.

De Molay lifted his head and tried to focus. He saw what looked like a round piece of black iron. Nails were bound to the edges, their tips angled down and in.

Imbert came close. See what our Lord endured. The Lord Jesus Christ whom you and your brothers denied.

The crown was wedged onto his skull and pounded down tight. The nails bit into his scalp and blood oozed from the wounds, soaking the mane of his oily hair.

Imbert tossed the whip aside. Bring him.

De Molay was dragged across the chapel to a tall wooden door that once had led to his private apartment. A stool was produced and he was balanced on top. One of the guards held him upright while another stood ready in case he resisted, but he was far too weak to challenge.

The shackles were removed.

Imbert handed three nails to another guard.

His right arm to the top, Imbert ordered, as we discussed.

The arm was stretched above his head. The guard came close and de Molay saw the hammer.

And realized what they intended to do. Dear God.

He felt a hand clamp his wrist, the point of a nail pressed to his sweaty flesh. He saw the hammer swing back and heard metal clang metal.

The nail pierced his wrist and he screamed. Did you find veins? Imbert asked the guard. Clear of them.

Good. He is not to bleed to death.

De Molay, as a young brother, had fought in the Holy Land when the Order had made its last stand at Acre. He recalled the feel of a sword blade to flesh. Deep. Hard. Lasting. But a nail to the wrist was something altogether worse.

His left arm was pulled out at an angle and another nail driven through the flesh at the wrist. He bit his tongue, trying to contain himself, but the agony sent his teeth deep. Blood filled his mouth and he swallowed.

Imbert kicked the stool away and the weight of de Molay's six-foot frame was now borne entirely by the bones in his wrists, particularly his right, as the angle of his left arm stressed his right to the breaking point. Something popped in his shoulder, and pain pummeled his brain.

One of the guards grabbed his right foot and studied the flesh. Apparently, Imbert had taken care in choosing the insertion points, places where few veins coursed. The left foot was then placed behind the right and both feet were tacked to the door with a single nail.

De Molay was beyond screaming.

Imbert inspected the handiwork. Little blood. Well done. He stepped back. As our Lord and Savior endured, so will you. With one difference.

Now de Molay understood why they'd chosen a door. Imbert slowly swung the slab out on its hinges, opening the door, then slamming it shut.

De Molay's body was thrust one way, then another, swaying on the dislocated joints of his shoulders, pivoting off the nails. The agony was of a kind he'd never known existed.

Like the rack, Imbert said. Where pain can be applied in stages. This, too, has an element of control. I can allow you to hang. I can swing you to and fro. Or I can do as you just experienced, which is the worst of all.

The world was blinking in and out, and he could barely breathe. Cramps claimed every muscle. His heart beat wildly. Sweat poured from his skin and he felt as if he had the fever, his body a roaring blaze.

Do you mock the Inquisition now? Imbert asked.

He wanted to tell Imbert that he hated the Church for what it was doing. A weak pope controlled by a bankrupt French monarch had somehow managed to topple the greatest religious organization man had ever known. Fifteen thousand brothers scattered over Europe. Nine thousand estates. A band of brothers that had once dominated the Holy Land and spanned two hundred years. The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon were the epitome of everything good. But success had bred jealousy and, as master, he should have fully appreciated the political storms churning around him. Been less stiff, more bending, not so outspoken. Thank heaven he'd anticipated some of what had already occurred and taken precautions. Philip IV would never see an ounce of Templar gold and silver.

And he would never see the greatest treasure of all.

So de Molay mustered his last remaining bits of energy and raised his head. Imbert clearly thought he was about to speak and drew close.

Damn you to hell, he whispered. Damn you and all who aid your hellish cause.

His head collapsed back to his chest. He heard Imbert scream for the door to be swung, but the pain was so intense and swept into his brain from so many directions that he felt little.

He was being taken down. How long he'd hung he did not know, but the relaxation to his limbs went unnoticed because his muscles had long ago numbed. He was carried some distance and then realized that he was back in his cell. His captors laid him onto the mattress, and as his body sunk into the soft folds a familiar stench filled his nostrils. His head was elevated by a pillow, his arms stretched out at each side.

I have been told, Imbert quietly said, that when a new brother was accepted into your Order, the candidate was draped about the shoulders in a linen shroud. Something about symbolizing death, then resurrecting into a new life as a Templar. You, too, will now have that honor. I have laid out beneath you the shroud from the chest in the chapel. Imbert reached down and folded the long herringbone cloth over de Molay's feet, down the length of his damp body. His gaze was now shielded by the cloth. I am told this was used by the Order in the Holy Land, brought back here and wrapped around every Paris initiate. You are now reborn, Imbert mocked. Lie here and think about your sins. I shall return.

De Molay was too weak to respond. He knew that Imbert had most likely been ordered not to kill him, but he also realized that no one was going to care for him. So he lay still. The numbness was receding, replaced by an intense agony. His heart still pounded and he was sweating frightening amounts of moisture. He told himself to calm down and think pleasant thoughts. One that kept coming to mind was what he knew his captors wanted to know above all else. He was the only man alive who knew. That was the way of the Order. One master passed the knowledge to the next in a way that only the next would know. Unfortunately, because of his sudden arrest and the purge of the Order, the passing this time would have to be accomplished another way. He would not allow Philip or the Church to win. They would only learn what he knew when he wanted them to know. What had the Psalm said? Thy tongue deviseth mischiefs like a sharp razor, working deceitfully.

But then another biblical passage occurred to him, one that brought a measure of comfort to his beleaguered soul. So as he lay wrapped in the shroud, his body pouring forth blood and sweat, he thought of Deuteronomy.

Let me alone, that I may destroy them.

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK THURSDAY, JUNE 22, THE PRESENT 2:50 PM

COTTONMALONE SPOTTED THE KNIFE AT THE SAME TIME HE SAW Stephanie Nelle. He was sitting at a table outside the CafT Nikolaj, comfortable in a white lattice chair. The sunny afternoon was pleasant and Hdegjbro Plads, the popular Danish square that spanned out before him, bristled with people. The cafT was doing its usual brisk businessuthe mood feverishuand for the past half hour he'd been waiting for Stephanie.

She was a petite woman, in her sixties, though she never confirmed her age and the Justice Department personnel records that Malone once saw contained only a winking N/A in the space reserved for date of birth. Her dark hair was streaked with waves of silver, and her brown eyes offered both the compassionate look of a liberal and the fiery glint of a prosecutor. Two presidents had tried to make her attorney general, but she'd turned both offers down. One attorney general had lobbied hard to fire heruespecially after she was enlisted by the FBI to investigate himubut the White House nixed the idea since, among other things, Stephanie Nelle was scrupulously honest.

In contrast, the man with the knife was short and stout, with narrow features and brush-cut hair. Something haunted loomed on his East European faceua forlornness that worried Malone more than the glistening bladeuand he was dressed casually in denim pants and a blood-red jacket.

Malone rose from his seat but kept his eyes trained on Stephanie.

He thought of shouting a warning, but she was too far away and there was too much noise between them. His view of her was momentarily blocked by one of the modernistic sculptures that dotted Hdegjbro Pladsuthis one of an obscenely obese woman, lying naked on her belly, her obtrusive buttocks rounded like windswept mountains. When Stephanie appeared from the other side of the cast bronze, the man with the knife had moved closer and Malone watched as he severed a strap that draped her left shoulder, jerked a leather bag free, then shoved Stephanie to the flagstones.

A woman screamed and commotion erupted at the sight of a purse snatcher brandishing a knife.

Red Jacket rushed ahead, Stephanie's bag in hand, and shouldered people out of his way. A few pushed back. The thief angled left, around another of the bronzed sculptures, and finally broke into a run. His route seemed aimed at Kdegbmagergade, a pedestrian-only lane that twisted north, out of Hdegjbro Plads, deeper into the city's shopping district.

Malone bounded from the table, determined to cut off the assailant before he could turn the corner, but a cluster of bicycles blocked his way. He circled the cycles and sprinted forward, partially orbiting a fountain before tackling his prey.

They slammed into hard stone, Red Jacket taking most of the impact, and Malone immediately noticed that his opponent was muscular. Red Jacket, undaunted by the attack, rolled once, then brought a knee into Malone's stomach.

The breath left him in a rush and his guts churned.

Red Jacket sprang to his feet and raced up Kdegbmagergade.

Malone stood, but instantly crouched over and sucked a couple of shallow breaths. Damn. He was out of practice.

He caught hold of himself and resumed pursuit, his quarry now possessing a fifty-foot head start. Malone had not seen the knife during their struggle, but as he plowed up the street between shops he saw that the man still grasped the leather bag. His chest burned, but he was closing the gap.

Red Jacket wrenched a flower cart away from a scraggly old man, one of many carts that lined both Hdegjbro Plads and Kdegbmagergade. Malone hated the vendors, who enjoyed blocking his bookshop, especially on Saturdays. Red Jacket flung the cart down the cobbles in Malone's direction. He could not let the cart run freeutoo many people on the street, including childrenuso he darted right, grasped hold, and twisted it to a stop.

He glanced back and saw Stephanie round the corner onto Kdegbmagergade, along with a policeman. They were half a football field away, and he had no time to wait.

Malone dashed ahead, wondering where the man was heading. Perhaps he'd left a vehicle, or a driver was waiting where Kdegbmagergade emptied into another of Copenhagen's busy squares, Hauser Plads. He hoped not. That place was a nightmare of congestion, beyond the web of people-only lanes that formed the shoppers' mecca known as Strdegget. His thighs ached from the unexpected workout, the muscles barely recalling his days with the Navy and the Justice Department. After a year of voluntary retirement, his exercise regimen would not impress his former employer.

Ahead loomed the Round Tower, nestled firmly against the Trinity Church like a thermos bound to a lunch pail. The burly cylindrical structure rose nine stories. Denmark's Christian IV had erected it in 1642, and the symbol of his reignua gilded 4 embraced by a C uglistened on its somber brick edifice. Five streets intersected where the Round Tower stood, and Red Jacket could choose any one of them for his escape.

Police cars appeared.

One screeched to a stop on the south side of the Round Tower. Another came from farther down Kdegbmagergade, blocking any escape to the north. Red Jacket was now contained in the plaza that encircled the Round Tower. His quarry hesitated, seeming to appraise the situation, then scampered right and disappeared inside the Round Tower.

What was the fool doing? There was no way out besides the ground-floor portal. But maybe Red Jacket didn't know that.

Malone ran to the entrance. He knew the man in the ticket booth. The Norwegian spent many hours in Malone's bookshop, English literature his passion.

Arne, where did that man go? he asked in Danish, catching his wind. Ran right by without paying.

Anybody up there?

An older couple went up a little while ago.

No elevator or stairs led to the top. Instead, a spiral causeway wound a path straight to the summit, originally installed so that bulky seventeenth-century astronomical instruments could be wheeled up. The story local tour guides liked to tell was of how Russia's Peter the Great once rode up on horseback while his empress followed in a carriage.

Malone could hear footfalls echoing from the flooring above. He shook his head at what he knew awaited him. Tell the police we're up there.

He started to run.

Halfway up the spiraling incline he passed a door leading into the Large Hall. The glassed entrance was locked, the lights off. Ornamented double windows lined the tower's outer walls, but each was iron-barred. He listened again and could still hear running from above.

He continued ahead, his breathing growing thick and hampered. He slowed his pace when he passed a medieval planet plotter affixed high on the wall. He knew the exit onto the roof platform was just a few feet away, around the ramp's final bend.

He heard no more footsteps.

He crept forward and stepped through the archway. An octagonal observatoryunot from Christian IV's time, but a more recent incarnationurose in the center, with a wide terrace encircling.

To his left a decorative iron fence surrounded the observatory, its only entrance chained shut. On his right, intricate wrought-iron latticework lined the tower's outer edge. Beyond the low railing loomed the city's red-tiled rooftops and green spires.

He rounded the platform and found an elderly man lying prone. Behind the body, Red Jacket stood with a knife to an older woman's throat, his arm encasing her chest. She seemed to want to scream, but fear quelled her voice.

Keep still, Malone said to her in Danish.

He studied Red Jacket. The haunted look was still there in the dark, almost mournful eyes. Beads of sweat glistened in the bright sun. Everything signaled that Malone should not step any closer. Footfalls from below signaled that the police would arrive in a few moments.

How about you cool down? he asked, trying English.

He could see the man understood him, but the knife stayed in place. Red Jacket's gaze kept darting away, off to the sky then back. He seemed unsure of himself and that concerned Malone even more. Desperate people always did desperate things.

Put the knife down. The police are coming. There's no way out.

Red Jacket looked to the sky again, then refocused on Malone. Indecision stared back at him. What was this? A purse snatcher who flees to the top of a hundred-foot tower with nowhere to go?

Footfalls from below grew louder.

The police are here.

Red Jacket backed closer to the iron railing but kept his grip tight on the elderly woman. Malone sensed the steeliness of an ultimatum forcing some choice, so he made clear again, There's no way out.

Red Jacket tightened his grip on the woman's chest, then he staggered back, now firmly against the waist-high outer railing, nothing beyond him and his hostage but air.

The eyes lost their panic and a sudden calm swept over the man. He shoved the old woman forward and Malone caught her before she lost her balance. Red Jacket made the sign of the cross and, with Stephanie's bag in hand, pivoted out over the railing, screamed one word ubeauseantuthen slashed the knife across his throat as his body plunged to the street.

The woman howled as the police emerged from the portal. Malone let her go and rushed to the rail.

Red Jacket lay sprawled on the cobbles one hundred feet below.

He turned and looked back to the sky, past the flagpole atop the observatory, the Danish Dannebrogua white cross upon a red bannerulimp in the still air.

What had the man been looking at? And why did he jump?

He gazed back down and saw Stephanie elbowing her way through the growing crowd. Her leather bag lay a few feet from the dead man and he watched as she yanked it from the cobbles, then dissolved back into the spectators. He followed her with his gaze as she plowed through the people and scuttled away, down one of the streets that led from the Round Tower, deeper into the busy Strdegget, never looking back.

He shook his head at her hasty retreat and muttered, What the hell?

STEPHANIE WAS SHAKEN. AFTER TWENTY-SIX YEARS WORKING for the Justice Department, the past fifteen heading the Magellan Billet, she'd learned that if it stood on four legs, had a trunk, and smelled like peanuts, it was an elephant. No need to hang a sign across its torso. Which meant the man in the red jacket was no purse snatcher.

He was something else altogether.

And that meant somebody knew her business.

She'd watched as the thief leaped from the toweruthe first time she'd ever actually witnessed death. For years she'd heard her agents talk about it, but a vast chasm lay between reading a report and seeing someone die. The body had slammed into the cobbles with a sickening thud. Did he jump? Or had Malone forced him over? Was there a struggle? Had he spoken before leaping?

She'd come to Denmark for a singular purpose and had decided, while there, to visit with Malone. Years ago he'd been one of her original twelve choices for the Magellan Billet. She'd known Malone's father and watched the steady rise of the son, glad to have him when he accepted her offer and moved from Navy JAG to Justice. He eventually grew to be her best agent, and she was saddened when he'd decided last year that he wanted out.

She'd not seen him since, though they'd talked on the phone a few times. When he'd given chase to the thief, she'd noticed that his tall frame remained muscular and his hair thick and wavy, carrying the same light sienna tint she remembered, similar to the olden stone in the buildings surrounding her. For the dozen years he'd worked for her, he'd always been forthright and independent, which had made him a good operativeuone she could trustuyet there was compassion, too. He'd actually been more than an employee.

He was her friend.

But that didn't mean she wanted him in her business.

Pursuing the man in the red jacket was like Malone, but it was also a problem. Visiting with him now would mean there'd be questions, ones she had no intention of answering.

Time with an old friend would have to await another occasion.

MALONE EXITED THEROUNDTOWER AND STARTED AFTER STEPHANIE. As he'd left the roof, paramedics were tending to the older couple. The elderly man was shaken from a blow to the head, but would be all right. The woman remained hysterical and he'd heard one of the attendants urge that she be taken to a waiting ambulance.

Red Jacket's body still lay on the street, beneath a pale yellow sheet, and police were busy moving people out of the way. Edging through the crowd, Malone watched as the sheet was lifted away and the police photographer went to work. The thief had clearly slit his throat. The bloodied knife lay a few feet away from one arm contorted at an unnatural angle. Blood had poured from the neck gash, settling across the cobbles in a dark pool. The skull was caved in, the torso crushed, the legs twisted as if they contained no bone. The police had told Malone not to leaveuthey would need a statementubut at the moment he needed to find Stephanie.

He emerged from the gawkers and glanced back up into the evening sky, where the late-afternoon sun shone with spendthrift glory. Not a cloud loomed in sight. Should be an excellent night to view the stars, but no one would visit the observatory atop the Round Tower. No. That was closed for the evening, as a man had just jumped to his death.

And what of that man?

Malone's thoughts were a tangle of curiosity and apprehension. He knew he should go back to his bookshop and forget all about Stephanie Nelle and whatever she was doing. Her business was no longer his. But he knew that wasn't going to happen.

Something was unfolding, and it wasn't good.

He spotted Stephanie fifty yards ahead on Vestergade, another of the long lanes that spiderwebbed Copenhagen's shopping district. Her pace was brisk, undaunted, then she abruptly veered right and disappeared into one of the buildings.

He trotted forward and saw HANSEN'S ANTIKVARIAT ua bookshop, its proprietor one of the few people in town who'd not offered Malone a warm welcome. Peter Hansen did not like foreigners, especially Americans, and had even tried to block Malone's induction into the Danish Antiquarian Booksellers Association. Thankfully, Hansen's distaste had not proven contagious.

Old instincts were taking over, feelings and senses that had lain dormant since his retirement last year. Sensations he did not like. But ones that had always driven him forward.

He stopped short of the front doorway and saw Stephanie inside, talking to Hansen.

The two then retreated deeper into the store, which filled the ground floor of a three-story building. He knew the interior layout, having last year studied the Copenhagen bookstores. Nearly all of them were a testament to Nordic neatness, the stacks organized by subject, books carefully shelved. Hansen, though, was more haphazard. His was an eclectic mix of old and newumainly new, since he was not one to pay top dollar for private acquisitions.

Malone slipped into the dim space and hoped none of the employees called out his name. He'd had dinner a couple of times with Hansen's manager, which was how he'd learned that he was not Hansen's favorite person. Luckily, she was not around and only ten or so people perused the shelves. He quickly moved toward the back where, he knew, there were myriad cubbyholes, each one brimming with shelves. He was not comfortable being hereuafter all, Stephanie had merely called and said she'd be in town for a few hours and wanted to say helloubut that was before Red Jacket. And he was damn curious to know what that man died wanting.

He shouldn't be surprised by Stephanie's behavior. She'd always kept everything close to her vest, too close sometimes, which had often generated clashes. One thing to be safe in an Atlanta office working a computer, quite another being out in the field. Good decisions could never be made without good information.

He spotted Stephanie and Hansen inside a windowless alcove that served as Hansen's office. Malone had visited there once when he'd first tried to make friends with the idiot. Hansen was a heavy-chested man with a long nose that overhung a grizzly mustache. Malone positioned himself behind a row of overloaded shelves and grabbed a book, pretending to read.

Why have you come such a long way for this? Hansen was saying in his tight, wheezy voice.

Are you familiar with the Roskilde auction?

Typical Stephanie, answering a question she didn't want to answer with another question.

I attend often. Lots of books for sale.

Malone, too, was familiar with the auction. Roskilde lay thirty minutes west of Copenhagen. The town's antique-book dealers convened once a quarter for a sale that brought buyers from all over Europe. Two months after opening his shop, Malone had earned nearly two hundred thousand euros there from four books he'd managed to find at an obscure estate sale in the Czech Republic. Those funds had made his transition from salaried government employee to entrepreneur a lot less stressful. But they also bred jealousy, and Peter Hansen had not hidden his envy.

I need the one book we spoke about. Tonight. You said there would be no problem buying it, Stephanie said, in the tone of someone accustomed to giving orders.

Hansen chuckled. Americans. All alike. The world revolves around you.

My husband said you were a man who could find the unfindable. The book I want is already found. I just need it purchased.

It does go to the highest bidder.

Malone winced. Stephanie did not know the perilous territory she was navigating. The first rule of the bargain was never to reveal how badly you wanted something.

It's an obscure book that no one cares about, she said.

But apparently you do, which means there will be others.

Let's make sure we're the highest bidder.

Why is this book so important? I've never heard of it. Its author is unknown.

Did you question my husband's motives? What does that mean?

That it's none of your business. Secure the book and I'll pay your fee, as agreed. Why don't you buy it yourself?

I don't plan to explain myself.

Your husband was much more agreeable. He's dead.

Though the declaration carried no emotion, a moment of silence passed.

Are we to travel to Roskilde together? Hansen asked, apparently getting the message that he was going to learn nothing from her.

I'll meet you there. I can hardly wait.

Stephanie bounded from the office and Malone shrank farther into his alcove, his face turned away as she passed. He heard the door to Hansen's office slam shut and took the opportunity to stride back toward the front entrance.

Stephanie exited the darkened shop and turned left. Malone waited, then crept forward and watched his former boss weave her way through afternoon shoppers back toward the Round Tower.

He dropped back and followed.

Her head never turned. She seemed oblivious that anyone might be interested in what she was doing. Yet she should be, especially after what happened with Red Jacket. He wondered why her guard was not up. Granted, she wasn't a field agent, but she wasn't a fool either.

At the Round Tower, instead of turning right and heading toward Hdegjbro Plads where Malone's bookshop stood, she kept straight. After another three blocks, she disappeared inside the Hotel d'Angleterre.

He watched as she entered.

He was hurt that she was intent on purchasing a book in Denmark and had not asked him to assist. Clearly, she didn't want him involved. In fact, after what happened at the Round Tower, she apparently didn't even want to speak with him.

He glanced at his watch. A little after four thirty. The auction started at sixPM , and Roskilde was half an hour's drive away. He'd not planned on attending. The catalog sent out weeks ago contained nothing of interest. But that was no longer the case. Stephanie was acting strange, even for her. And a familiar voice deep inside his head, one that had kept him alive through twelve years as a government operative, said she was going to need him.

ABBEY DES FONTAINES FRENCH PYR+N+ES 5:00 PM

THE SENESCHAL KNELT BESIDE THE BED TO COMFORT HIS DYING master. For weeks he'd prayed that this moment would not come. But soon, after ruling the Order wisely for twenty-eight years, the old man lying on the bed would achieve a well-earned peace and join his predecessors in heaven. Unfortunately for the seneschal, the tumult of the physical world would continue, and he dreaded that prospect.

The room was spacious, the ancient stone-and-wood walls free of decay, only the pine-hammered ceiling beams blackened by age. A solitary window, like a somber eye, broke the exterior wall and framed the beauty of a waterfall matted by a stark gray mountain. A growing dusk thickened the room's corners.

The seneschal reached for the old man's hand. The grip was cold and clammy. Can you hear me, Master? he asked in French.

The tired eyes opened. I am not gone as yet. But soon.

He'd heard others in their final hour make similar statements and wondered if the body simply did exhaust itself, lacking the energy to compel lungs to breath or a heart to beat, death finally conquering where life had once flourished. He gripped the hand tighter. I'll miss you.

A smile came to the thin lips. You have served me well, as I knew you would. That's why I chose you.

There will be much conflict in the days ahead. You are ready. I have seen to it.

He was the seneschal, second only to the master. He'd risen fast through the ranks, too fast for some, and only the master's firm leadership had quelled the discontent.

But death would soon claim his protector and he feared open revolt might follow. There is no guarantee I'll succeed you.

You underestimate yourself.

I respect the power of our adversaries.

A silence washed over them, allowing the larks and blackbirds beyond the window to announce their presence. He stared down at his master. The old man wore an azure smock besprinkled with golden stars. Though the facial features were sharpened by his approaching death, there remained a vigor to the old man's lean form. A gray beard hung long and unkempt, the hands and feet constricted with arthritis, but the eyes continued to glisten. He knew twenty-eight years of leadership had taught the old warrior much. Perhaps the most vital lesson was how to project, even in the face of death, a mask of civility.

The doctor had confirmed the cancer months ago. As required by Rule, the disease was allowed to run its course, the natural consequences of God's action accepted. Thousands of brothers through the centuries had endured the same end, and it was unthinkable that the master would soil their tradition.

I wish I could smell the water's spray, the old man whispered.

The seneschal glanced toward the window. Its sixteenth-century panes were swung open, allowing the sweet aroma of wet stone and verdant greens to seep into his nostrils. The distant water roared in a bubbly tenor. Your room offers the perfect venue.

One of the reasons I wanted to be master.

He smiled, knowing the old man was being facetious. He'd read the Chronicles and knew that his mentor had ascended by being able to grasp each turn of fortune with the adaptiveness of a genius. His tenure had been one of peace, but all that would soon change.

I should pray for your soul, the seneschal said. Time for that later. Instead, you must prepare. For what?

The conclave. Gather your votes. Be ready. Do not allow your enemies time to rally. Remember all I taught you. The hoarse voice cracked with infirmity, but there was a firmness in the tone's foundation.

I'm not sure that I want to be master. You do.

His friend knew him well. Modesty required that he shun the mantle, but more than anything he wanted to be the next master.

He felt the hand within his shiver. A few shallow breaths were needed for the old man to steady himself.

I have prepared the message. It is there, on the desk.

He knew it would be the next master's duty to study that testament.

The duty must be done, the master said. As it has been done since the Beginning.

The seneschal did not want to hear about duty. He was more concerned with emotion. He looked around the room, which contained only the bed, a prie-dieu that faced a wooden crucifix, three chairs protected by an old tapestried cushion, a writing desk, and two aged marble statues standing in wall niches. There was a time when the chamber would have been filled with Spanish leather, Delft porcelain, English furniture. But audacity had long been purged from the Order's character.

As from his own.

The old man gasped for air.

He stared down at the man lying in an uneasy slumber of disease. The master gathered his wind, blinked a few times, then said, Not yet, old friend. But soon.

ROSKILDE 6:15 PM

MALONE WAITED UNTIL AFTER THE AUCTION STARTED BEFORE slipping into the hall. He was familiar with the setup and knew bidding would not begin before six twenty, as there were preliminary matters of buyer registration and seller agreements that had to be verified before any money began changing hands.

Roskilde was an ancient town nestled beside a slender saltwater fjord. Founded by Vikings, it had served as Denmark's capital until the fifteenth century and continued to exude a regal grace. The auction was held downtown, near the Domkirke, in a building off Skomagergade, where shoemakers had once dominated. Bookselling was an art form in Denmark. There was a nationwide appreciation for the written worduone Malone, as a lifelong bibliophile, had come to admire. Where once books were simply a hobby, a diversion from the pressures of his risky career, now they were his life.

Spotting Peter Hansen and Stephanie near the front, he stayed toward the rear, behind one of the stone pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. He had no intention of bidding, so it mattered not if the auctioneer could see him.

Books came and went, some for respectable numbers of kroner. But he noticed Peter Hansen perk up as the next item was displayed.

Pierres GravTes du Languedoc,by EugFne Stnblein. Copyright 1887, the auctioneer announced. A local history, quite common for the time, printed in only a few hundred copies. This is part of an estate we recently acquired. This book is very fine, leather-bound, no marks, with some extraordinary printsuone is reproduced in the catalog. Not something we normally bother with, but the volume is quite lovely, so we thought there may be some interest. An opening bid, please.

Three came fast, all low, the last at four hundred kroner. Malone did the math. Sixty dollars. Hansen then weighed in at eight hundred. No more bids came from the other potential buyers until one of the representatives who worked phones for those unable to attend called out a bid of one thousand kroner.

Hansen seemed perturbed by the unexpected challenge, especially from a long-distance bidder, and upped his offer to 1,050. Phone Man retaliated with two thousand. A third bidder joined the fray. Shouts continued until the bid soared to nine thousand kroner. Others appeared to sense there might be something more to the book. Another minute of intense bidding ended with Hansen's offer of twenty-four thousand kroner.

More than four thousand dollars.

Malone knew Stephanie was a salaried civil servant, somewhere in the seventy- to eighty-thousand-dollar-a-year range. Her husband had died years ago and left her with some assets, but she was not wealthy and certainly not a book collector, so he wondered why she was willing to pay so much for an unknown travel log. People brought them into his shop by the box, many from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a time when personal accounts of faraway places were popular. Most sported purple prose and were, by and large, worthless.

This one clearly seemed an exception.

Fifty thousand kroner, the representative for Phone Man called out. More than double Hansen's last bid.

Heads turned and Malone retreated behind the pillar as Stephanie whirled to face the phone bank. He peered around the edge and watched as Stephanie and Hansen conversed, then returned their attention to the auctioneer. A moment of silence passed while Hansen seemed to consider his next move, but he was clearly taking his cue from Stephanie.

She shook her head.

Item is sold to the telephone bidder for fifty thousand kroner.

The auctioneer retrieved the book from the display stand and a fifteen-minute break was announced. Malone knew the house was going to take a look at Pierres GravTes du Languedoc to see what made it worth more than eight thousand dollars. He knew the Roskilde dealers were astute and unaccustomed to treasures slipping past 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 eightPM 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.

STEPHANIE ENTERED THEDOMKIRKE. 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 CatholicuLutheran from the dTcor, if she was not mistakenuwith 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-ChGteau 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 butulike you, I'm sureuI 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 fashioned it low so the eye could see the city rooftops, but it also makes for an easy leap.

She got the message. That man who jumped today worked for you? He nodded.

Why did he die?

Soldiers of Christ securely fight the battles of the Lord, fearing no sin from the slaughter of the enemy, nor danger from their own death.

He killed himself.

When death is to be given, or received, it has naught of a crime in it but much glory.

You don't know how to answer a question.

He smiled. I was merely quoting a great theologian, who wrote those words eight hundred years ago. St. Bernard of Clairvaux.

Who are you?

Why not call me Bernard. What do you want?

Two things. First, the book we both lost in the bidding. But I recognize you cannot provide that. The second, you do have. It was sent to you a month ago.

She kept her face stoic. This was indeed the man who knew her business. And what is that?

Ah, a test. A way for you to judge my credibility. All right. The package sent to you contained a journal that once belonged to your husbandua personal notebook he kept until his untimely death. Did I pass?

She said nothing.

I want that journal.

Why is it so important?

Many called your husband odd. Different. New age. The academic community scoffed at him, and the press made fun of him. But I called him brilliant. He could see things others never noticed. Look what he accomplished. He originated the entire modern-day attraction with Rennes-le-ChGteau. His book was the first to realert the world to the locale's wonders. Sold five million copies worldwide. Quite an accomplishment.

My husband sold many books.

Fourteen, if I'm not mistaken, but none was of the magnitude of his first, The Treasure at Rennes-le-ChGteau. Thanks to him, there are now hundreds of volumes published on that subject.

What makes you think I have my husband's journal?

We both know that I would have it now but for the interference of a man named Cotton Malone. I believe he once worked for you.

Doing what?

He seemed to understand her continued challenge. You are a career official with the United States Justice Department and head a unit known as the Magellan Billet.

Twelve lawyers, each chosen specially by you, who work under your sole direction and handle, shall we say, sensitive matters. Cotton Malone worked a number of years for you. But he retired early last year and now owns a bookshop in Copenhagen. If not for the unfortunate actions of my acolyte, you would have enjoyed a light lunch with Mr. Malone, bid him farewell, and headed here for the auction, which was your true purpose for coming to Denmark.

The time for pretense was over. Who do you work for?

Myself.

I doubt that.

Why would you?

Years of practice.

He smiled again, which annoyed her. The notebook, if you please.

I don't have it. After today, I thought it needed safekeeping.

Does Peter Hansen have it?

She said nothing.

No. I assume you would not admit to anything.

I think this conversation is over. She turned for the open gate and hurried through it. To her right, back toward the main doors, she spied two more men with short hairunot the same ones from the auction houseubut she instantly knew who gave them orders.

She glanced back at the man whose name was not Bernard.

Like my associate today on the Round Tower, there is no place for you to go. Screw you.

And she spun left and rushed deeper into the cathedral.

MALONE ASSESSED THE SITUATION. HE WAS STANDING IN A PUBLIC place, adjacent to a crowded street. People were coming and going from the auction hall, while others were waiting for their cars to be brought by attendants from a nearby lot. Clearly his surveillance of Stephanie had not gone unnoticed, and he cursed himself for not being more alert. But he decided that, contrary to the threats made, the two men on either side of him would not risk exposure. He was being detained, not eliminated. Perhaps their task was to give whatever was happening in the cathedral with Stephanie time to unfold.

Which meant he needed to act.

He watched as more patrons spilled out from the auction hall. One, a gangly Dane, owned a bookshop in the Strdegget, near Peter Hansen's store. He watched as a valet delivered the man's car.

Vagn, Malone called out, stepping away from the gun to his back. His friend heard his name and turned.

Cotton, how are you? the man answered in Danish.

Malone casually walked toward the car and looked back to see the short-haired man quickly conceal the weapon beneath his jacket. He'd caught the man off his guard, which only confirmed what he already thought. These guys were amateurs. He was ready to bet that they didn't speak Danish, either.

Might I trouble you for a ride back to Copenhagen? he asked. Certainly. We have room. Climb in.

He reached for the rear passenger door. I appreciate it. My ride is going to hang around awhile and I need to get back home.

As he slammed the car door shut, he waved through the window and saw a confused look on the two men's faces as the car eased away.

Nothing interest you today? Vagn asked.

He turned his attention to the driver. Not a thing.

Me, either. We decided to leave and take an early dinner.

Malone glanced over at the woman next to him. Another man sat in the front. He did not know either, so he introduced himself. The car slowly made its way out of Roskilde's warren of tight streets toward the Copenhagen highway.

He spied the twin spires and copper roof of the cathedral. Vagn, could you let me out? I need to hang around a little longer.

You sure?

I just remembered something I need to do.

STEPHANIE PARALLELED THE NAVE AND PLUNGED DEEPER INTO the cathedral. Past the massive pillars rising to her right, the church service was still in progress. Her low heels clicked off the flagstones, but only she could hear them, thanks to the ponderous organ. The path ahead rounded the main altar, and a series of half walls and memorials divided the ambulatory from the choir.

She glanced back to see the man calling himself Bernard sauntering forward, but the two other men were nowhere to be seen. She realized that she would soon be heading back toward the church's main entrance, only on the other side of the building. For the first time, she fully appreciated the risks her agents took. She'd never worked in the fielduthat was not part of her jobubut this was not an official assignment. This was personal and she was officially on vacation. No one knew she'd traveled to Denmarkuno one besides Cotton Malone. And considering her present predicament, that anonymity was becoming a problem.

She rounded the ambulatory.

Her pursuer stayed a discreet distance back, surely knowing that she had nowhere to go. She passed a set of stone stairs that dropped down into another side chapel and then saw, fifty feet ahead, the two other men appear in the rear vestibule, blocking her way out of the church. Behind her, Bernard continued his steady advance. To her left was another sepulcher, this one identified as the Chapel of Magi.

She darted inside.

Two marble tombs lay within the brilliantly decorated walls, both reminiscent of Roman temples. She retreated toward the farther. Then a wild unreasoning terror seized her as she realized the worst.

She was trapped.

MALONE JOGGED TO THE CATHEDRAL AND ENTERED THROUGH the main doors. To his right he spotted two menustocky, short hair, plainly dressedusimilar to the two he'd just evaded outside the auction. He decided not to take any chances and reached beneath his jacket for a Beretta automatic, standard issue to all Magellan Billet agents. He'd been allowed to keep the weapon when he retired and managed to smuggle it into Denmarkuowning a handgun here was illegal.

He palmed the stock, finger on the trigger, and brought out the gun, shielding it with his thigh. He'd not held a weapon in more than a year. It was a feeling he'd thought part of his past, one he hadn't missed. But a man leaping to his death had grabbed his attention, so he'd come prepared. That was what a good agent did, and one of the reasons he'd served as the pallbearer for a few friends instead of being hauled down the center aisle of a church himself.

The two men were standing with their backs to him, arms at their sides, hands empty. Thunderous organ music masked his approach. He stepped close and said, Busy night, fellows.

Both turned and he flashed the gun. Let's keep this civil.

Over the shoulder of one of the men he caught sight of another man, a hundred feet down the transept, casually striding toward them. He saw the man reach beneath his leather jacket. Malone did not wait for what was next, and dove left into an empty row of pews. A pop echoed over the organ and a bullet tore into the wood pew ahead of him.

He saw the two other men reach for weapons.

From his prone position, he fired twice. The shots exploded through the cathedral, piercing the music. One of the men went down, the other fled. Malone came to his knees and heard three new pops. He dove back down as more bullets found wood near him.

He sent two more shots in the direction of the lone gunman. The organ stopped.

People realized what was happening. The crowd started flooding from the pews past where Malone was hiding, seeking safety outside through the rear doors. He used the confusion to peer above the pew and saw the man in the leather jacket standing near the entrance to one of the side chapels.

Stephanie, he called out over the mayhem.

No answer.

Stephanie. It's Cotton. Let me know if you're okay? Still no answer.

He belly-crawled forward, found the opposite transept, and rose to his feet. The path ahead rounded the church and led to the other side. Pillars lining the way would make any shot at him difficult, and then the choir would block him completely, so he ran forward.

STEPHANIE HEARDMALONE CALL HER NAME. THANK GOODNESS he never could mind his own business. She was still in the Magi Chapel, hiding behind a black marble tomb. She heard shots and realized Malone was doing what he could, but he was outnumbered at least three to one. She needed to help him, but what good could she be? She carried no weapon. At least she ought to let him know she was all right. But before she could answer, through another elaborate iron grille that opened into the church, she saw Bernard, gun in hand.

Fear seized her muscles and gripped her mind in an unfamiliar panic. He entered the chapel.

MALONE ROUNDED THE CHOIR. PEOPLE WERE STILL RUSHING from the church, voices excited, hysterical. Surely someone had called the police. He just needed to contain his attackers until help arrived.

He looped the ambulatory and saw one of the men he'd shot helping the other out the rear doors. The one who'd started the attack was not in sight.

That worried him.

He slowed his pace and brought his gun to the ready.

STEPHANIE STIFFENED. BERNARD WAS TWENTY FEET AWAY.

I know you're in here, he said in a deep, throaty voice. Your savior arrived, so I have no time to deal with you. You know what I want. We shall meet again.

The prospect was not appealing.

Your husband was unreasonable, too. He was made a similar offer eleven years ago with regard to the journal and refused.

She was stung by the man's words. She knew that she should remain silent, but there was no way. Not now. What do you know of my husband?

Enough. Let's leave it at that. She heard him walk away.

MALONE SAWLEATHERJACKET STEP FROM ONE OF THE SIDE chapels. Stop, he called out.

The man whirled and leveled his gun.

Malone dove toward a set of steps that led to another room jutting from the cathedral and rolled down half a dozen stone risers.

Three bullets smacked off the walls above him.

Malone scampered back up, ready to return fire, but Leather Jacket was a hundred feet away, running toward the rear vestibule, turning for the other side of the church.

Malone came to his feet and trotted forward. Stephanie, he called out.

Here, Cotton.

He saw his old boss appear at the far side of the chapel. She walked toward him, a stony expression spread over her calm face. Sirens could be heard outside.

I suggest we get out of here, he said. There are going to be a lot of questions and I have the feeling you're not going to want to answer any of them.

You got that right. She brushed by him.

He was just about to suggest that they use one of the other exits when the main doors were flung open and uniformed police swarmed inside. He still held his gun and they spotted it immediately.

Feet were planted and automatic weapons raised.

He and Stephanie froze.

Hen til den landskab. Nu, came the command. To the ground. Now. What do they want us to do? Stephanie asked.

Malone dropped his gun and started down to his knees. Nothing good.

RAYMOND DEROQUEFORT STOOD OUTSIDE THE CATHEDRAL, BEYOND the circle of onlookers, and watched the unfolding drama. He and his two associates had dissolved into the web of shadows cast by the thick trees that rose across from the cathedral plaza. He'd managed to slip out a side door and retreat just as the police stormed the main entrance. No one seemed to notice him. The authorities would, for the moment, be focused on Stephanie Nelle and Cotton Malone. It would be awhile before witnesses described other men with guns. He was familiar with these kinds of situations and knew how calm heads always prevailed. So he told himself to relax. His men must know that he was in control.

The front of the brick cathedral was awash with strobing red and white light. More police arrived, and he marveled how a town of Roskilde's size possessed so much law enforcement. People were flooding over from the nearby main plaza. The whole scene was quickly turning chaotic. Which was perfect. He'd always found tremendous freedom of movement within chaos, provided he controlled the chaos.

He faced the two who'd been with him inside the church. Are you injured? he asked the one who'd been shot.

The man peeled back his jacket and showed him how the body armor had done its job. Just sore.

From the crowd he saw his remaining two acolytes emergeuthe ones he'd sent to the auction. They'd reported through their radios that Stephanie Nelle had not prevailed in the bidding. So he'd ordered them to send her his way. He'd thought perhaps she could be intimidated, but the effort had failed. Worse, he'd drawn a great deal of attention to his activities. But that was thanks to Cotton Malone. His men had spotted Malone at the auction, so he'd instructed them to detain him while he spoke with Stephanie Nelle. Apparently, that effort had failed, too.

The two approached and one of them said, We lost Malone. I found him.

He's resourceful. With nerve.

He knew that to be true. He'd checked out Cotton Malone after learning Stephanie Nelle would be traveling to Denmark to visit with him. Since Malone could have well been a part of whatever she was planning, he'd made a point to learn all he could.

His given name was Harold Earl Malone. He was forty-six years old, born in the American state of Georgia. His mother was a native Georgian, his father a career military man, an Annapolis graduate, who rose to the rank of navy commander before his submarine sank when Malone was ten years old.

The son followed in the father's footsteps, attending the Naval Academy and graduating in the top third of his class. He was admitted to flight school, eventually earning high enough marks to choose fighter pilot training. Then, interestingly, midway through, he abruptly sought reassignment and was admitted to Georgetown University Law School, earning his law degree while stationed at the Pentagon. After graduation he was transferred to the Judge Advocate General's corps, where he spent nine years as a staff lawyer. Thirteen years ago he was reassigned to the Justice Department and Stephanie Nelle's newly formed Magellan Billet. He remained there until last year, retiring out early as a full commander.

On the personal side, Malone was divorced and his fourteen-year-old son lived with his ex-wife in Georgia. Immediately upon retiring, Malone had left America and moved to Copenhagen. He was a confirmed bibliophile and born Catholic, but not noted as overly religious. He was reasonably fluent in several languages, possessed of no known addictions or phobias, and prone to extreme self-motivation and obsessive dedication. He also possessed an eidetic memory. All in all, just the kind of man de Roquefort would rather have in his employ than working against him.

And the past few minutes had proven that.

Three-to-one odds had not seemed to bother Malone, especially when he thought Stephanie Nelle was in jeopardy.

Earlier, de Roquefort's young associate had demonstrated loyalty and courage, too, though the man had acted in haste stealing Stephanie Nelle's bag. He should have waited until after her visit with Cotton Malone, when she was on the way back to her hotel, alone and vulnerable. Perhaps he'd been trying to please, knowing the importance of their mission. Maybe it was simply impatience. But when cornered at the Round Tower, the young man had correctly chosen death over capture. A shame, but the learning process was like that. Those with brains and ability rose. Everyone else was eliminated.

He turned to one of his associates who'd been inside the auction hall and asked, Did you learn who was the high bidder for the book?

The young man nodded. It cost a thousand kroner to bribe the attendant. He wasn't interested in the price of weakness. The name?

Henrik Thorvaldsen.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. His second in command knew he was occupied, so the call had to be important. He flipped the unit open.

The time is close, the voice said in his ear. How close?

Within the next few hours.

An unexpected bonus.

I have a task for you, he said into the phone. There's a man. Henrik Thorvaldsen. A wealthy Dane, lives north of Copenhagen. I know some, but I need complete information on him within the hour. Call me back when you have it.

Then he clicked off the phone and turned to his subordinates.

We must return home. But first there are two more tasks we have to complete before dawn.

MALONE ANDSTEPHANIE WERE TRANSPORTED TO A POLICE BUILDING on the outskirts of Roskilde. Neither of them spoke on the way, as they both knew enough to keep their mouths shut. Malone fully realized that Stephanie's presence in Denmark had nothing to do with the Magellan Billet. Stephanie never worked the field. She was at the apex of the triangleueveryone reported to her in Atlanta. And besides, when she'd called last week and said she wanted to drop by and say hello, she'd made clear she was coming to Europe on vacation. Some vacation, he thought, as they were left alone in a brightly lit, windowless room.

Oh, by the way, the coffee was great at the CafT Nikolaj, he said. I went ahead and drank yours. Of course that was after I chased a man to the top of the Round Tower and watched while he jumped.

She said nothing.

I did manage to see you snatch your bag from the street. Did you happen to notice the dead man lying next to it? Maybe not. You seemed in a hurry.

That's enough, Cotton, she said in a tone he knew.

I don't work for you anymore.

So why are you here?

I was asking myself the same thing in the cathedral, but the bullets distracted me.

Before she could say anything further, the door opened and a tall man with reddish blond hair and pale brown eyes entered. He was the Roskilde police inspector who'd brought them from the cathedral and he held Malone's Beretta.

I made the call you requested, the inspector said to Stephanie. The American embassy confirms your identity and status with your Justice Department. I'm awaiting word from our Home Office as to what to do. He turned. You, Mr. Malone, are another matter. You are in Denmark on a temporary residence visa as a shopkeeper. He displayed the gun. Our laws do not sanction the carrying of weapons, not to mention discharging it in our national cathedralua World Heritage Site, no less.

I like to break only the most important laws, he said, not letting the man think he was getting to him.

I do love humor, Mr. Malone. But this is a serious matter. Not for me, but for you.

Did the witnesses mention that there were three other men who started the shooting?

We have descriptions. But it is unlikely they are around any longer. You, though, are right here.

Inspector, Stephanie said. The situation that developed was of my doing, not Mr.

Malone's. She threw him a glare. Mr. Malone once worked for me and thought I required his assistance.

Are you saying the shooting would not have occurred but for Mr. Malone's interference?

Not at all. Only that the situation grew out of controluthrough no fault of Mr. Malone's.

The inspector appraised her observation with obvious apprehension. Malone wondered what Stephanie was doing. Lying was not her forte, but he decided not to challenge her in front of the inspector.

Were you in the cathedral on official United States government business? the inspector asked her.

That I cannot say. You understand.

Your job involves activities that cannot be discussed? I thought you were a lawyer?

I am. But my unit is routinely involved in national security investigations. In fact, that's our main purpose for existing.

The inspector did not seem impressed. What is your business in Denmark, Ms. Nelle?

I came to visit Mr. Malone. I haven't seen him in more than a year. That was your only purpose?

Why don't we wait for the Home Office.

It is a miracle that no one was hurt in that mTlange. There is damage to a few sacred monuments, but no injuries.

I shot one of the gunmen, Malone said.

If you did, he did not bleed.

Which meant they were armored. The team had come prepared, but for what? How long will you be staying in Denmark? the inspector asked Stephanie.

Gone tomorrow.

The door opened and a uniformed officer handed the inspector a sheet of paper. The man read, then said, You apparently have some well-placed friends, Ms. Nelle. My superiors say to let you go and ask no questions.

Stephanie headed for the door.

Malone stood, too. That paper mention me?

I'm to release you, as well.

Malone reached for the gun. The man did not offer it. There is no instruction that I am to return the weapon.

He decided not to argue. He could deal with that issue later. Right now, he needed to speak with Stephanie.

He rushed off and found her outside.

She whirled to face him, her features set tight. Cotton, I appreciate what you did in the cathedral. But listen to me, and listen good. Stay out of my business.

You have no idea what you're doing. In the cathedral you walked right into something with no preparation. Those three men wanted to kill you.

Then why didn't they? There was every opportunity before you arrived. Which raises even more questions.

Don't you have enough to do at your bookshop?

Plenty.

Then do it. When you quit last year, you made clear that you were tired of getting shot at. I believe you said that your new Danish benefactor offered a life you always wanted. So go enjoy it.

You're the one who called me and wanted to stop by for a visit. Which was a bad idea.

That was no purse snatcher today.

Stay out of this.

You owe me. I saved your neck.

Nobody told you to do that.

Stephanieu

Dammit, Cotton. I'm not going to say it again. If you keep on, I'll have no choice but to take action.

Now his back was stiff. And what do you plan to do?

Your Danish friend doesn't have all the connections. I can make things happen, too. Go for it, he said to her, his anger building.

But she did not reply. Instead, she stormed off.

He wanted to go after her and finish what they'd started, but decided she was right. This was none of his concern. And he'd made enough trouble for one night.

Time to go home.

COPENHAGEN 10:30 PM

DEROQUEFORT APPROACHED THE BOOKSHOP. THE PEDESTRIANS-ONLY street out front was deserted. Most of the district's many cafTs and restaurants were blocks awayuthis part of the Strdegget closed for the night. After tending to his two remaining chores, he planned to leave Denmark. His physical description, along with those of his two compatriots, had now most likely been obtained from witnesses in the cathedral. So it was important that they linger no longer than necessary.

He'd brought all four of his subordinates from Roskilde with him and planned to supervise every detail of their action. There'd been enough improvising for one day, some of which had cost the life of one of his men earlier at the Round Tower. He did not want to lose anyone else. Two of his men were already scouting the rear of the bookshop. The other two stood ready at his side. Lights burned on the building's top floor.

Good.

He and the owner needed to talk.

MALONE GRABBED ADIETPEPSI FROM THE REFRIGERATOR AND walked down four flights of stairs to the ground floor. His shop filled the entire building, the first floor for books and customers, the next two for storage, the fourth a small apartment that he called home.

He'd grown accustomed to the cramped living space, enjoying it far better than the two-thousand-square-foot house he'd once owned in north Atlanta. Its sale last year, for a little over three hundred thousand dollars, had netted him sixty thousand dollars to invest into his new life, one offered to him by, as Stephanie had early chided, his new Danish benefactor,an odd little man named Henrik Thorvaldsen.

A stranger fourteen months ago, now his closest friend.

They'd connected from the beginning, the older man seeing in the younger somethinguwhat, Malone was never sure, but somethinguand their first meeting in Atlanta one rainy Thursday evening had sealed both of their futures. Stephanie had insisted he take a month off after the trial of three defendants in Mexico Cityuwhich involved international drug smuggling and the execution-style murder of a DEA supervisor who happened to be a personal friend of the president of the United Statesuhad resulted in carnage. Walking back to court during a lunch break, Malone had been caught in the crossfire of an assassination, an act wholly unrelated to the trial, but something he'd tried to stop. He'd come home with a bullet wound to his left shoulder. The final tally from the shootinguseven dead, nine injured, one of the dead a young Danish diplomat named Cai Thorvaldsen.

I came to speak with you in person, Henrik Thorvaldsen had said.

They were sitting in Malone's den. His shoulder hurt like hell. He didn't bother to ask how Thorvaldsen had located him, or how the older man knew that he understood Danish.

My son was precious to me, Thorvaldsen said. When he joined our diplomatic corps I was thrilled. He asked for the assignment to Mexico City. He was a student of the Aztecs. He would have made a worthy member of our Parliament one day. A statesman.

A swirl of first impressions raced through Malone's mind. Thorvaldsen was certainly high bred with an air of distinction, at once elegant and rakish. But the sophistication was in stark contrast to a deformed body, his spine humped in a grotesque exaggeration and stiff, shaped like an egret. A leathery face suggested a lifetime of impossible choices, the wrinkles more like deep clefts, the crow's-feet sprouting legs, liver spots and forked veins discoloring the arms and hands. Pewter-colored hair was piled thick and bushy and matched the eyebrowsudull silver wisps that made the older man look anxious. Only in the eyes was there passion. Gray-blue, strangely clairvoyant, one flawed from a star-shaped cataract. I came to meet the man who shot my son's killer. Why? he asked.

To thank you.

You could have called.

I prefer to face my listener.

At the moment, I prefer to be left alone.

I understand you were nearly killed.

He shrugged.

And you are quitting your job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.

You know an awful lot.

Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.

He was not impressed. Thanks for the pat on the back. I have a hole in my shoulder that's throbbing. So since you've said your peace, could you leave?

Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa. He simply stared around at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an open archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves.

I love them, too, his guest said. My home is likewise full of books. I've collected them all my life.

He could sense that this man, sixty-plus years old, was given to grandiose tactics. He'd noticed when answering the door that he'd arrived via a limousine. So he wanted to know, How did you know I speak Danish?

You speak several languages. I was proud to learn that my native tongue was one. Not an answer, but had he really expected one?

Your eidetic memory must be a blessing. Mine has gone the way of age. I can hardly remember much anymore.

He doubted that. What do you want? Have you considered your future?

He motioned around the room. Thought I'd open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.

Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you'd like it.

He decided to play along. What the hell. But there was something about the tight points of light in the old man's eyes that told him his visitor was not joking.

Hard flinty hands searched a suit coat pocket and Thorvaldsen laid a business card on the sofa.

My private number. If you're interested, call me. The old man stood.

He stayed seated. What makes you think I'm interested? You are, Mr. Malone.

He resented the assumption, particularly when the old man was right. Thorvaldsen shuffled toward the front door.

Where is this bookstore? he asked, cursing himself for even sounding interested.

Copenhagen. Where else?

He remembered waiting three days before calling. The prospect of living in Europe had always appealed to him. Had Thorvaldsen known that, too? He'd never thought living overseas possible. He was a career government man. American, born and bred. But that was before Mexico City. Before seven dead and nine injured.

He could still see his estranged wife's face the day after he made the call to Copenhagen.

I agree. We've had enough separation, Cotton, it's time for a divorce. The declaration came with the matter-of-factness of the trial lawyer that she was.

Is there someone else? he asked, uncaring.

Not that it matters, but yes. Hell, Cotton, we've been apart five years. I'm sure you haven't been a monk during that time.

You're right. It's time.

You really going to retire from the navy? Already have. Effective yesterday.

She shook her head, like she did when Gary needed motherly advice. Will you ever be satisfied? The Navy, then flight school, law school, JAG, the Billet. Now this sudden retirement. What's next?

He'd never liked her condescending tone. I'm moving to Denmark.

Her face registered nothing. He might as well had said he was moving to the moon. What is it you're after?

I'm tired of being shot at.

Since when? You love the Billet.

Time to grow up.

She smiled. So you think moving to Denmark will accomplish that miracle?

He had no intention of explaining himself. She didn't care. Nor did he want her to. It's Gary I need to talk with.

Why?

I want to know if he's okay with that.

Since when have you cared what we thought?

He's why I got out. I wanted him to have a father aroundu

That's bullshit, Cotton. You got out for yourself. Don't use that boy as an excuse. Whatever it is you're planning, it's for you, not him.

I don't need you telling me what I think.

Then who does tell you? We were married a long time. You think it was easy waiting for you to come back from who-knows-where? Wondering if it was going to be in a body bag? I paid the price, Cotton. Gary did, too. But that boy loves you. No, he worships you, unconditionally. You and I both know what he'll say, since his head is screwed on better than either of ours. For all our failures together, he was a success.

She was right again.

Look, Cotton. Why you're moving across the ocean is your business. But if it that makes you happy, then do it. Just don't use Gary as an excuse. The last thing he needs is a discontented parent around trying to make up for his own sad childhood.

You enjoy insulting me?

Not really. But the truth has to be said and you know it.

He stared around at the darkened bookshop. Nothing good ever came from thinking about Pam. Her animosity toward him ran deep and stemmed back fifteen years to when he was a brash ensign. He'd not been faithful and she knew it. They'd gone to counseling and resolved to make the marriage work, but a decade later he'd returned home one day from an assignment to find her gone. She'd rented a house on the other side of Atlanta for her and Gary, taking only what they needed. A note informed him of their new address and that the marriage was over. Pragmatic and cold, that was Pam's way. Interestingly, though, she'd not sought an immediate divorce. Instead, they'd simply lived apart, remained civil, and spoke only when necessary for Gary's sake.

But eventually the time came for decisionsuacross the board.

So he quit his job, resigned his commission, ended his marriage, sold his house, and left America, all in the span of one long, terrible, lonely, exhausting, but satisfying week.

He checked his watch. He really should e-mail Gary. They communicated at least once a day, and it was still late afternoon in Atlanta. His son was due in Copenhagen in three weeks to spend a month with him. They'd done the same thing last summer, and he was looking forward to the time together.

His confrontation with Stephanie still bothered him. He'd seen nanvetT like hers before in agents who, though aware of risks, simply ignored them. What was it she always told him? Say it, do it, preach it, shout it, but never, absolutely never, believe your own bullshit. Good advice she should heed. She had no idea what she was doing. But then, did he? Women were not his strong point. Though he'd spent half his life with Pam, he never really took the time to know her. So how could he possibly understand Stephanie? He should stay out of her business. After all, it was her life.

But something nagged at him.

When he was twelve he'd learned that he'd been born with an eidetic memory. Not photographic, as movies and books liked to portray, just an excellent recall of details that most people forgot. It certainly helped with studying, and languages came easy, but trying to pluck one detail from so many could, at times, aggravate him.

Like now.

DEROQUEFORT TRIPPED THE FRONT DOOR LOCK AND ENTERED the bookshop. Two of his men followed him inside. The other two were stationed outside to watch the street.

They crept past darkened shelves to the rear of the cluttered ground floor and climbed narrow stairs. No sound betrayed their presence. On the top floor, de Roquefort stepped through an open doorway into a lit apartment. Peter Hansen was ensconced in a chair reading, a beer on the table beside him, a cigarette burning in an ashtray.

Surprise flooded the book dealer's face. What are you doing here? Hansen demanded in French.

We had an arrangement.

The dealer sprang to his feet. We were outbid. What was I to do?

You told me there'd be no problem. His associates moved to the far side of the room, near the windows. He stayed at the door.

That book sold for fifty thousand kroner. An outrageous price, Hansen said. Who outbid you?

The auction will not reveal such information.

De Roquefort wondered if Hansen thought him that stupid. I paid you to ensure that Stephanie Nelle was the purchaser.

And I tried. But no one told me the book would go for such a price. I stayed with the bidding, but she waved me off. Were you willing to pay more than fifty thousand kroner?

I would have paid whatever it took.

You weren't there, and she was not as determined. Hansen seemed to relax, the initial surprise replaced with a smugness de Roquefort fought hard to ignore. And besides, what makes that book so valuable?

He surveyed the tight room, which reeked of alcohol and nicotine. Hundreds of books lay scattered among stacks of newspapers and magazines. He wondered how anyone lived in such disarray. You tell me.

Hansen shrugged. I have no idea. She wouldn't say why she wanted it.

De Roquefort's patience was wearing thin. I know who outbid you. How?

As you well know, the attendants at the auction are negotiable. Ms. Nelle contacted you to act as her agent. I contacted you to make sure she obtained the book so that I might have a copy before you turned it over to her. Then you arranged for a telephone bidder.

Hansen smiled. Took you long enough to figure that one out. Actually it took me only a few moments, once I had information.

Since I now have control of the book and Stephanie Nelle is out of the picture, what is it worth for just you to have it?

De Roquefort already knew what course he would be taking. Actually, the question is, how much is the book worth to you?

It means nothing to me.

He motioned and his two associates grabbed Hansen's arms. De Roquefort jammed a fist into the book dealer's abdomen. Hansen spit out a breath, then slumped forward, held upright by his limbs.

I wanted Stephanie Nelle to have the book, after I made a copy, de Roquefort said. That was what I paid you to do. Nothing more. You once possessed a use to me. That's no longer the case.

I . . . have the . . . book.

He shrugged. That's a lie. I know exactly where the book is. Hansen shook his head. You won't . . . get it.

You're wrong. In fact, it will be an easy matter.

MALONE FLIPPED ON THE FLUORESCENT LIGHTS OVER THE HISTORY section. Books of every shape, size, and color consumed the black lacquered shelves. But there was one volume in particular he recalled from a few weeks back. He'd bought it, along with several other mid-twentieth-century histories, from an Italian who'd thought his wares worth far more than Malone was willing to pay. Most sellers did not understand that value was a factor of desire, scarcity, and uniqueness. Age was not necessarily important since, just as in the twenty-first century, a lot of junk had always been printed.

He recalled selling a few of the Italian's books, but was hoping that one of them was still around. He could not remember it leaving the store, though one of his employees might have made a sale. But thankfully the book remained on the second row from the bottom, precisely where he'd first placed it.

No dust jacket protected the clothbound cover, which was once surely a deep green, now faded to light lime. Its pages were tissue-thin, gilt-edged, and littered with engravings. The title was still visible in patchy gold lettering.

The Knights of the Temple of Solomon.

The copyright read 1922 and, when he first saw it, Malone had become interested since the Templars were a subject he'd read little about. He knew they were not mere monks, more religious warriorsua sort of spiritualized special forces unit. But his rather simplistic conception was of white-clad men sporting stylish red crosses. A Hollywood stereotype, surely. And he recalled being fascinated as he'd thumbed through the volume.

He carried the book to one of several club chairs that dotted the store, settled himself into the soft folds, and started to read. Gradually, a summary began to formulate.

ByAD 1118 Christians once again controlled the Holy Land. The First Crusade had been a resounding success. And though the Muslims were defeated, their lands confiscated, their cities occupied, they'd not been vanquished. Instead, they remained on the fringe of the newly established Christian kingdoms, wreaking havoc on all who ventured to the Holy Land.

Safe pilgrimage to holy sites was one of the reasons for the Crusades, and road tolls were the chief revenue source for the newly formed Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem. Pilgrims were streaming by the day into the Holy Land, arriving alone, in pairs, groups, or sometimes as entire uprooted communities. Unfortunately, the roads in and out were not secure. Muslims lay in wait, bandits roamed freely, even Christian soldiers were a threat since pillage was, to them, a normal course of forage.

So when a knight from Champagne, Hugh de Payens, founded a new movement consisting of himself and eight others, a monastic order of fighting brothers dedicated to providing safe passage to pilgrims, the concept was met with widespread approval. Baldwin II, who ruled Jerusalem, granted the new order shelter under the al Aqsa mosque, a place Christians believed to be the former Temple of Solomon, so the new order took its name from its headquarters: the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon at Jerusalem.

The brotherhood initially stayed small. Each knight pledged vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. They owned nothing individually. All of their worldly goods became the Order's. They lived in common and took their meals in silence. They cropped their hair, but let their beards grow. Charity supplied their food and clothing and St. Augustine provided the model for their monasticism. The Order's seal was particularly symbolic: two knights riding a single mountua clear reference to the days when knights could not afford their own horse.

A religious order of fighting men was not, to the medieval mind, a contradiction. Instead, the new Order appealed to both religious fervor and martial prowess. Its creation also solved another problemuthat of manpowerusince now there existed a constant presence of trusted fighters.

By 1128 the fellowship had expanded, finding political support in powerful places. European princes and prelates donated land, money, and materials. The pope ultimately sanctioned the Order, and soon the Knights Templar became the only standing army in the Holy Land.

A strict Rule of 686 laws governed them. Hunting was forbidden. No gaming, hawking, or gambling. Speech was practiced sparingly and without laughter. Ornamentation was banned. They slept with the lights on, dressed in shirts, vests, and pantaloons, ready for battle.

The master was absolute ruler. Next were the seneschals, who acted as deputies and advisers. Marshals commanded troops during battles. Servientes in Latin, serpents in French, were the craftsmen, laborers, and attendants who supported the brother knights and formed the backbone of the Order. By a papal decree in 1148, each knight wore the red cross patee of four equal arms, wide at the ends, atop a white mantle. They were the first disciplined, equipped, and regulated standing army since Roman times. The brother knights participated in each of the subsequent Crusades, being the first into the fray, the last to retreat, and never were they ransomed. They believed service to the Order would clean their slate with heaven and, over the course of two hundred years of constant warring, twenty thousand Templars gained their martyrdom by dying in battle.

In 1139 a papal bull placed the Order under the exclusive control of the pope, which allowed it to operate freely throughout Christendom, unaffected by monarchs. It was an unprecedented action and, as the Order gained political and economic strength, it amassed a huge reserve of wealth. Kings and patriarchs left great sums in their wills. Loans were made to barons and merchants on the promise that their houses, lands, vineyards, and gardens would pass to the Order at their death. Pilgrims were given safe transport to and from the Holy Land in return for generous donations. By the beginning of the fourteenth century the Templars rivaled the Genovese, the Lombards, and even the Jews as controllers of currency. The kings of France and England kept their treasury in the Order's vaults. Even the Muslims banked with them.

The Order's Paris Temple became the center of the world's currency market. Slowly, the organization evolved into a financial and military complex, both self-supporting and self-regulating. Eventually Templar property, some 9,000 estates, was wholly exempt from taxation, and that unique position led to conflicts with local clergy since their churches suffered while Templar lands prospered. Competition from other Orders, particularly the Knights Hospitallers, only heightened tension.

During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries control of the Holy Land seesawed back and forth between Christian and Arab. The rise of Saladin, as ruler of the Muslims, provided the Arabs with their first great military leader, and Christian Jerusalem finally fell in 1187. In the chaos that followed the Templars confined their activities to Acre, a fortified stronghold close to the Mediterranean shore. For the next hundred years they languished in the Holy Land but flourished in Europe, where they established an extensive network of churches, abbeys, and estates. When Acre fell in 1291, the Order lost both its last base in the Holy Land and its purpose for existence.

Its own rigid adherence to secrecy, which initially set it apart, eventually encouraged slander. Philip IV of France, in 1307, eyeing the vast Templar assets, arrested many of the brothers. Other monarchs followed suit. Seven years of accusations and trials followed. Clement V formally dissolved the Order in 1312. The final blow came on March 18, 1314, when the last master, Jacques de Molay, was burned at the stake.

Malone kept reading. There was still that tug at the back of his brainusomething he'd read when he'd first thumbed through the book weeks ago. Paging through, he read about how, before the suppression in 1307, the Order became expert in seafaring, property development, animal husbandry, agriculture, and, most important, finance. While the Church forbade scientific experimentation, the Templars learned from their enemy, the Arabs, whose culture encouraged independent thought. The Templars also secreted away, much as modern banks scatter wealth among so many vaults, a vast amount of assets. There was even a medieval French verse quoted that aptly described the overly solvent Templars and their sudden disappearance:

The brethren, the masters of the Temple, who were well filled and ample with gold and silver and with wealth. Where are they? How have they fared? Who had such power that none dared take aught from them, no man so bold: forever buying, they never sold.

History had not been kind to the Order. Though they captured the imagination of poets and chroniclersuthe Knights of the Grail in Parzival were Templars, as were the demonic antiheroes in Ivanhoe uas the Crusades acquired the label of European aggression and imperialism, the Templars became an integral part of their brutal fanaticism.

Malone continued to scan the book until he finally found the passage he recalled from his first perusal. He knew it was there. His memory never failed him. The words talked of how, on the battlefield, the Templars always displayed a vertical banner divided into two blocksuone black to represent the sin that brother knights had left behind, the other white to symbolize their new life within the Order. The banner was labeled in French. Translated it meant a lofty, noble, glorious state. The term also doubled as the Order's battle cry.

Beauseant. Be glorious.

Precisely the word Red Jacket had uttered as he'd leaped from the Round Tower. What was happening?

Old motivations stirred inside him. Feelings he'd thought a year of retirement had quelled. Good agents were both inquisitive and cautious. Forget either attribute and something was inevitably overlookedusomething potentially disastrous. He'd made that mistake once years ago on one of his early assignments, and his impetuousness cost the life of a hired operative. It would not be the last person he felt responsible for getting killed, but it was the first, and he never forgot his carelessness.

Stephanie was in trouble. No question. She'd ordered him to stay out of her business, so talking to her again would be useless. But maybe Peter Hansen would prove informative.

He glanced at his watch. Late, but Hansen was known as a night owl and should still be up. If not, he'd awaken him.

He tossed the book aside and headed for the door.

WHERE ISLARSNELLE'S JOURNAL? DE ROQUEFORT ASKED.

Still in the grasp of the two men, Peter Hansen stared up at him. He knew Hansen had once been closely associated with Lars Nelle. When he'd discovered that Stephanie Nelle was coming to Denmark to attend the Roskilde auction, he'd surmised that she might contact Peter Hansen. Which was why he'd approached the book dealer first.

Surely Stephanie Nelle mentioned her husband's journal? Hansen shook his head. Nothing. Nothing at all.

When Lars Nelle was alive, did he mention that he kept a journal? Never.

Do you understand your situation? Nothing I wanted has occurred and, worse, you deceived me.

I know that Lars kept meticulous notes. Resignation filled Hansen's voice. Tell me more.

Hansen seemed to steel himself. When I'm released.

De Roquefort allowed the fool a victory. He motioned and his men released their hold. Hansen quickly gulped a deep swallow of beer, then tabled the mug. Lars wrote lots of books about Rennes-le-ChGteau. All that stuff about lost parchments, hidden geometry, and puzzles made for great sales. Hansen seemed to catch hold of himself. He alluded to every treasure he could imagine. Visigoth gold, Templar wealth, Cathar loot. Take a thread and weave a blanket, that's what he used to say.

De Roquefort knew all about Rennes-le-ChGteau, a tiny hamlet in southern France that had existed since Roman times. A priest in the latter part of the nineteenth century spent enormous sums of money remodeling the local church. Decades later, rumors started that the priest financed the decorations with a great treasure he'd found. Lars Nelle learned of the intriguing place thirty years ago and wrote a book about the tale, which became an international bestseller.

So tell me what was recorded in the notebook, he asked. Information different from Lars Nelle's published material?

I told you, I don't know anything about a notebook. Hansen grabbed the mug and savored another gulp. But knowing Lars, I doubt he told the world everything in those books.

And what was it he concealed?

A sly smile came to the Dane's lips. As if you don't already know. But I assure you, I have no idea. I only know what I read in Lars's books.

I wouldn't assume anything, if I were you.

Hansen seemed unfazed. So tell me, what's so important about that book tonight? It's not even about Rennes-le-ChGteau.

It is the key to everything.

How could a nothing book, more than a hundred and fifty years old, be the key to anything?

Many times it's the simplest of things that are most important.

Hansen reached for his cigarette. Lars was a strange man. I never could figure him out. He was obsessed with the whole Rennes thing. He loved the place. Even bought a house there. I went once. Dreary.

Did Lars say if he found anything?

Hansen appraised him again with a suspicious glare. Like what?

Don't be coy. I'm not in the mood.

You must know something or you wouldn't be here. Hansen bent down to balance the cigarette back onto the ashtray. But his hand kept going, straight into an open drawer in the side table, and a gun appeared. One of de Roquefort's men kicked the pistol from the book dealer's grip.

That was foolish, de Roquefort said.

Screw you, Hansen spat out, rubbing his hand.

The radio clipped to de Roquefort's waist crackled in his ear, and a voice said, A man is approaching. A pause. It's Malone. Coming straight for the shop.

Not unexpected, but perhaps it was time to send a clear message that this was not Malone's affair. He caught the attention of his two subordinates. They advanced and again seized Peter Hansen by the arms.

Deceit has a price, de Roquefort said. Who the hell are you?

Someone you should not have toyed with. De Roquefort made the sign of the cross. May the Lord be with you.

MALONE SAW LIGHTS IN THE THIRD-FLOOR WINDOWS. THE STREET in front of Hansen's bookshop was empty. Only a few parked cars lined the dark cobbles, which he knew would all be gone by morning, when shoppers once again invaded this part of the pedestrians-only Strdegget.

What had Stephanie said earlier when she'd been inside Hansen's shop? My husband said you were a man who could find the unfindable. So Peter Hansen was apparently connected to Lars Nelle, and that former association would explain why Stephanie had sought out Hansen, rather than coming to him. But it did not answer the multitude of other questions Malone possessed.

Malone had never met Lars Nelle. He died about a year after Malone joined the Magellan Billet, at a time when he and Stephanie were just getting to know one another. But he'd subsequently read all of Nelle's books, which were mixtures of history, fact, conjecture, and grand coincidence. Lars was an international conspiratorialist who'd thought the region of southern France known as the Languedoc harbored some sort of great treasure. Which was partly understandable. The area had long been the land of troubadours, a place of castles and crusades, where the legend of the Holy Grail was first born. Unfortunately, Lars Nelle's work had not generated any serious scholarship. Instead, his theories only stirred the interest of new age writers and independent filmmakers who expanded on his original premise, ultimately proposing theories that ranged from extraterrestrials, to Roman plunder, to the hidden essence of Christianity itself. Nothing, of course, had ever been proven or found. But Malone was certain the French tourist industry loved the speculation.

The book Stephanie had tried to buy at the Roskilde auction was titled Pierres GravTes du Languedoc. Inscribed Stones of the Languedoc. An odd title on an even odder subject. What relevance could it have? He knew that Stephanie had always been unimpressed with her husband's work. That dispute was the number one problem in their marriage and eventually led to a continental separationuLars living in France, she in America. So what was she doing in Denmark eleven years after his death? And why were others intent on interfering with herueven to the point of dying?

He kept walking and tried to organize his thoughts. He knew Peter Hansen would not be glad to see him, so he told himself to choose his words carefully. He needed to placate the idiot and learn what he could. He'd even pay if he had to.

Something burst from one of the top-floor windows in Hansen's building.

He stared up as a body ejected headfirst, flipped in midair, then slammed onto the bonnet of a parked car.

He raced forward and saw Peter Hansen. He tried for a pulse. Faint.

Amazingly, Hansen opened his eyes. Can you hear me? he asked Hansen. No response.

Something whizzed by close to his head and Hansen's chest lurched upward. Another swoosh and the skull ripped apart, blood and sinew splattering his jacket.

He whirled around.

In the shattered window three floors above, a man with a gun stood. The same man in the leather jacket who'd started the shooting in the cathedraluthe one intent on assaulting Stephanie. In the instant it took the shooter to re-aim, Malone leaped behind the car.

More bullets rained down.

The pop of each shot was muffled, like hands clapping. A sound-suppressed weapon. One bullet pinged off the hood next to Hansen. Another shattered the windshield.

Mr. Malone. This affair does not concern you, the man said from above. Does now.

He wasn't going to stay around and debate the point. He crouched low and used the parked cars as shields while working his way down the street.

More shots, like pillows fluffing, tried to find a way through metal and glass.

Twenty yards away, he glanced back. The face disappeared from the window. He stood and ran, turning at the first corner. He rounded another, trying to use the labyrinth of streets to his advantage, stacking buildings between him and his pursuers. Blood pounded in his temples. His heart thumped. Damn. He was back in the game.

He stopped a moment and gulped in the cool air.

Running footsteps were approaching from behind. He wondered if his pursuers knew their way around the Strdegget. He had to assume they did. Around another corner and more darkened shops encased him. Tension built in his stomach. He was running out of options. Ahead was one of the district's many open squares, a fountain churning in the center. All the cafTs lining its perimeter were closed for the night. No one was in sight. Hiding places here would be in short supply. Across the empty expanse rose a church. A faint glow was evident through darkened stained-glass windows. In summer, Copenhagen's churches were all left open to midnight. He needed a place to hide, at least for a while. So he raced across to its marble portal.

The lock clicked open.

He shoved the leadened door inward, then closed it gently, hoping his pursuers wouldn't notice.

Scattered incandescent fixtures lit the empty interior. An impressive altar and sculpted statues cast ghostly images through the sullen air. He searched the darkness toward the altar and spotted stairs and a pallid glow from below. He headed for it and descended, a cold cloud of worry filling him.

An iron gate at the bottom opened into a three-naved wide space with a low vaulted ceiling. Two stone sarcophagi topped with immense slabs of carved granite stood in the center. The only break in the darkness came from a tiny amber light near a small altar. This seemed like a good place to park for a while. He couldn't go back to his shop. They certainly knew where he lived. He told himself to calm down, but his momentary relief was shattered by a door opening above. His gaze shot to the top of the vault not three feet from the crown of his head.

Two sets of footsteps bounded across the floor above.

He moved deeper into the shadows. His mind filled with a familiar panic, which he suppressed with a wave of self-control. He needed something to defend himself with, so he searched the darkness. In an apse twenty feet away he spotted an iron candelabrum.

He crept over.

The ornament stood about five feet tall, a solitary wax candle, about four inches thick, rising from its center. He removed the candle and tested the metal stem. Heavy. With the candelabrum in hand, he tiptoed across the crypt and took up a position behind another pillar.

Someone started down the steps.

He peered past the tombs, through the blackness, his body alive with an energy that had always, in the past, clarified his thoughts.

At the base of the stairs appeared the silhouette of a man. He carried a gun, a sound suppressor at the end of the barrel distinctive even in shadow. Malone tightened his grip on the iron stem and cocked his arm. The man was moving toward him. His muscles tensed. He silently counted to five, clenched his teeth, then swung the candelabrum and caught the man square in the chest, propelling the shadow back onto one of the tombs.

He tossed the iron aside and swung his fist into the man's jaw. The pistol flew away and rattled across the floor.

His attacker went down.

He searched for the gun as another set of footsteps bounded into the crypt. He found the pistol and locked his hand on the grip.

Two shots came in his direction.

Dust snowed down from the ceiling as bullets found stone. He dove for the nearest pillar and fired. A muffled retort sent a shot through the darkness, ricocheting off the far wall.

The second attacker stopped his advance, taking up a position behind the farther tomb.

Now he was trapped.

Between him and the only way out was an armed man. The first pursuer was starting to come to his feet, groaning from the blows. Malone was armed, but the odds weren't good.

He stared through the dimly lit chamber and readied himself. The man rising from the floor suddenly collapsed back down. A few seconds passed.

Silence.

One set of footsteps echoed from above. Then the church door opened and closed. He did not move. The stillness was unnerving. His gaze raked the darkness. No movement anywhere.

He decided to risk it and crept forward.

The first assailant lay sprawled on the floor. The other man was likewise prone and still. He checked both men for pulses. Beating, but weak. Then he spotted something at the back of one of the necks. He bent close and plucked out a small dart, the tip a half-inch needle.

His savior was privy to some sophisticated equipment.

The two men lying on the floor were the same two from outside the auction earlier. But who'd disabled them? He bent back down and retrieved both guns, then searched the bodies. No identification on either. One man wore a radio beneath his jacket. He removed the unit along with the earpiece and microphone.

Anyone there? he said into the mike. And who is this?

You the same man that was in the cathedral? The one who just killed Peter Hansen. Half correct.

He realized no one was going to say much over an open channel, but the message was clear. Your men are down.

Your doing?

Wish I could take credit. Who are you? That's not relevant to our discussion. How was Peter Hansen a problem for you? I detest those who deceive me.

Obviously. But somebody just caught your two guys by surprise. I don't know who, but I like them.

No response. He waited a moment more and was about to speak when the radio crackled. I trust you will take advantage of your good fortune and go back to selling books.

The other radio clicked off.

ABBEY DES FONTAINES FRENCH PYR+N+ES 11:30 PM

THE SENESCHAL AWOKE. HE'D DRIFTED OFF IN A CHAIR BESIDE THE bed. A quick glance at the clock on the night table told him that he'd been asleep for about an hour. He glanced over at his sick master. The familiar sound of labored breath was gone. In the scattered rays of incandescent light that washed in from the abbey's exterior, he saw the film of death had gathered in the old man's eyes.

He felt for a pulse. The master was dead.

His courage forsook him as he knelt and said a prayer for his departed friend. The cancer had won. The battle was over. But another conflict of differing proportion would soon begin. He beseeched the Lord to allow the old man's soul into heaven. No one deserved salvation more. He'd learned everything from the masteruhis personal failings and emotional loneliness long ago tossed him under the old man's influence. His had been a quick education, and he'd tried never to disappoint. Mistakes are tolerated, so long as they are not made again, he'd been tolduonly once, since the master never repeated himself.

Many of the brothers took that directness for arrogance. Others resented what they believed to be a condescending attitude. But none ever questioned the master's authority. A brother's duty was to obey. The time for inquiry came only with the selection of the master.

Which was what the day ahead now promised.

For the sixty-seventh time since Inception, a point dating back to the early part of the twelfth century, another man would be chosen master. For the sixty-six who'd come before, the average tenure was a mere eighteen years, the contributions varying from nonexistent to beyond compare. Each, though, had served the Order until death. Some had even died fighting, but the days of open warfare were long over. The quest today was more subtle, modern battlegrounds places the Fathers could never have imagined. The courts, the Internet, books, magazines, newspapersuall were venues that the Order regularly patrolled, making sure its secrets were safe, its existence unnoticed. And every master, no matter how inept he might have been, had succeeded in that singular goal. But the seneschal feared that the next tenure would be particularly decisive. A civil war was brewing, one the dead man lying before him had kept in check with an uncanny ability to predict his enemy's thoughts.

In the silence that engulfed him the rushing water from outside seemed closer.

During summer the brothers often visited the falls and enjoyed a swim in the frigid pool, and he longed for such pleasures but knew there'd be no respites anytime soon. He decided not to alert the brotherhood of the master's death until prayers at Prime, which would not be for another five hours. In times past they'd all gathered just after midnight for Matins, but that devotional went the way of many Rules. A more realistic schedule now governed, one that recognized the importance of sleep, geared to the practicalities of the twenty-first rather than the thirteenth century.

He knew that no one would dare enter the master's chamber. Only he, as seneschal, was granted that privilege, particularly while the master lay ill. So he reached for the comforter and stretched the blanket over the old man's dead face.

Several thoughts raced through his mind and he fought the rising temptation. Rule, if nothing else, instilled a sense of discipline, and he was proud that he'd never knowingly committed any violations. But several were now screaming to him. He'd thought about them all day while he watched his friend die. If death had claimed the master while the abbey was alive with activity, it would have been impossible to do what he now contemplated. But at this hour he would have free reign, and depending on what happened over the next day this might be his only chance.

So he reached down, slid back the blanket, and parted the azure robe, exposing the old man's lifeless chest. The chain was there, precisely where it should be, and he slipped the gold links over the head.

A silver key dangled from the end.

Forgive me, he whispered as he replaced the blanket.

He hustled across the room to a Renaissance armoire darkened by countless waxings. Inside lay a bronze box adorned with a silver crest. Only the seneschal knew of its existence, and he'd seen the master open it many times, though he'd never been allowed to study its contents. He carried the container to the desk, inserted the key, and once again begged for forgiveness.

He was searching for a leather-bound volume that the master had possessed for several years. He knew it was kept inside the strongboxuthe master had placed it there in his presenceubut when he hinged open the lid, he saw that there was only a rosary, a few papers, and a missal. No book.

His fear was now a reality. Where before he'd only suspected, now he knew. He replaced the strongbox in the armoire and left the bedchamber.

The abbey was a maze of multistory wings, each added in a differing century, the architecture conspiring to create a jumbled complex that now housed four hundred brothers. There was the obligatory chapel, a stately cloister garth, workshops, offices, a gym, common rooms for hygiene, eating, and entertainment, a chapter house, a sacristy, a refectory, parlors, an infirmary, and an impressive library. The master's bedchamber was situated in a section built originally in the fifteenth century, facing sheer rock precipices that towered over a narrow glen. Lodgings for the brothers were nearby, and the seneschal passed an arched portal that led into the cavernous dormitory where lights burned, as Rule forbid the chamber to ever be totally dark. He noticed no movement and heard nothing except intermittent snores. Centuries ago a guard would have been posted at the door, and he wondered if perhaps that custom would have to be revived in the days ahead.

He glided down the wide passageway, following the crimson carpet runner that shielded the rough flagstones. On either side paintings, statuary, and scattered memorials recalled the abbey's past. Unlike at other Pyrenean monasteries, no looting had occurred here during the French Revolution, so both its art and message had survived.

He found the main staircase and descended to ground level. Through more vaulted corridors he passed areas where visitors were schooled in the monastic way of life. There were not many invitees, a few thousand each year, the income a modest supplement to the annual operating expenses, but enough visited that care was taken to ensure the brothers' privacy.

The entrance he sought stood at the end of another ground-floor corridor. The door, laced with medieval ironwork, was swung open, as always.

He entered the library.

Few collections could claim to have never been disturbed, yet the innumerable volumes that surrounded him had remained inviolate for seven centuries. Started with only a score of books, the collection had grown through gift, bequest, purchase, and, in the Beginning, production from scribes who labored day and night. The subject matters then and now varied, with emphases on theology, philosophy, logic, history, law, science, and music. The Latin phrase etched into the mortar above the main doorway was fitting. CLAUSTRUM SINE ARMARIO EST QUASI CASTRUM SINE ARMAMENTARIO. A monastery without a library is like a castle without an armory.

He stopped and listened. No one was around.

Security was of no real concern, as eight hundred years of Rule had proven more than effective in guarding the stacks. No brother would dare intrude without permission. But he was no brother. He was the seneschal. At least for one more day.

He navigated his way through the shelves, toward the rear of the massive expanse, and stopped at a black metal door. He raked a plastic card across the scanner affixed to the wall. Only the master, marshal, archivist, and himself possessed the cards.

Access to the volumes beyond was gained only with the master's direct permission. Even the archivist had to obtain an okay before entering. Stored inside were a variety of precious books, old charters, title deeds, a register of members, and, most important, the Chronicles, which contained a narrative history of the Order's entire existence. As minutes memorialized what the British Parliament or U. S. Congress accomplished, the Chronicles detailed the Order's successes and failures. Written journals remained, many with brittle covers and brazen clasps, each one looking like a tiny trunk, but the bulk of the data had now been scanned into computersumaking it a simple matter to electronically search the Order's nine-hundred-year record.

He entered, navigated the dimly lit shelving, and found the codex lying in its designated spot. The tiny volume measured eight inches square and an inch thick. He'd come across it two years ago, its pages bound in wooden boards sheathed with blind-stamped calf. Not quite a book, but an ancestoruan early effort that replaced rolled parchment and allowed text to be inscribed on two sides of a page.

He carefully opened the front cover.

There was no title page, the cursive Latin script framed by an illuminated border of dull red, green, and gold. He'd learned that it had been copied in the fifteenth century by one of the abbey's scribes. Most of the ancient codices had fallen victim, their parchment used to either bind other books, cover jars, or simply kindle a fire. Thank goodness this one survived. The information it contained was priceless. He'd never told anyone what he'd found within the codex, not even the master, and since he might need the information, and there would be no chances better than the present, he slipped the book into the fold of his cassock.

He walked an aisle over and found another thin volume, its script also hand-penned, but in the latter part of the nineteenth century. Not a book written for an audience, but instead a personal record. He might need it, as well, so he slipped it into his cassock.

He then left the library, knowing that the computer that controlled the security door had recorded the time of his visit. Magnetic strips affixed in each of the two volumes would identify that both had been removed. Since there was no other way out except through the doorway lined with sensors, and removing the tags could well damage the books, little choice existed. He could only hope that in the confusion of the days ahead, no one would take the time to examine the computer log.

Rule was clear.

Theft of Order property was punishable by banishment. But that was a chance he would have to take.

11:50 PM

MALONE TOOK NO CHANCES AND DEPARTED THE CHURCH through a rear door, beyond the sacristy. He could not worry about the two unconscious men. Right now, he needed to get to Stephanie, her surly attitude be damned. Clearly, the man from the cathedral, the one who'd killed Peter Hansen, had his own problems. Somebody had taken out his two accomplices. Malone had no idea who or why, but he was grateful, since escaping from that crypt could have proven tough. He cursed himself again for getting involved, but it was too late to walk away now. He was inuwhether he liked it or not.

He took a roundabout path out of the Strdegget and eventually made his way to Kongens Nytorv, a typically busy city square encircled by stately buildings. His senses were on maximum alert and he kept a sharp lookout for any tails, but no one was behind him. At this late hour, traffic in the square was light. Nyhavn, just beyond the square's east side, with its colorful harbor promenade of gabled houses, continued to accommodate waterfront diners at outdoor tables lively with music.

He hustled down the sidewalk toward the Hotel d'Angleterre. The brightly lit seven-story structure faced the sea and stretched an entire city block. The elegant building dated from the eighteenth century, its rooms, he knew, having hosted kings, emperors, and presidents.

He entered the lobby and passed the desk. A soft melody drifted from the main lounge. A few late-night patrons milled about. A row of house phones dotted a marble counter and he used one to call Stephanie Nelle's room. The phone rang three times before it was answered.

Wake up, he said.

You don't listen well, do you, Cotton? The voice still carried the same desultory tone from Roskilde.

Peter Hansen is dead.

A moment of silence passed. I'm in six ten.

HE STEPPED INTO THE ROOM. STEPHANIE WORE ONE OF THE HOTEL'S signature robes. He told her everything that had just happened. She listened in silence, just like in years past when he'd made reports. But he saw a sense of defeat in her tired features, one he hoped signaled a change in attitude. Are you going to let me help you now? he asked.

She studied him through eyes that, he'd often noticed, changed shades as her mood shifted. In some ways she reminded him of his mother, though Stephanie was only a dozen or so years older than him. Her anger from earlier was not out of character. She didn't like making mistakes and she hated having them pointed out. Her talent was not in gathering information but in analyzing and assessingua meticulous organizer who plotted and planned with the cunning of a leopard. He'd watched her many times make tough decisions without hesitationuboth attorneys general and presidents had relied on her cool headuso he wondered about her present quandary and its strange effect on her usually sound judgment.

I pointed them to Hansen, she muttered. In the cathedral, I didn't correct him when he implied Hansen may have Lars's journal. She told him about the conversation.

Describe him. When she did he said, That's the same guy who started the shooting and the one who shot Hansen.

The jumper from the Round Tower worked for him. He came to steal my bag, which contained Lars's journal.

Then he goes to the same auction, knowing you'd be there. Who knew you were going?

Just Hansen. The office knows only that I'm on vacation. I have my world phone, but I left word not to be disturbed unless it was a catastrophic emergency.

Where did you learn about the auction?

Three weeks ago a package arrived postmarked from Avignon, France. Inside was a note and Lars's journal. She paused. I hadn't seen that notebook in years.

He knew this would ordinarily be a forbidden subject. Lars Nelle had taken his own life eleven years ago, found hanging from a bridge in southern France, a note in his pocket that merely said GOODBYE STEPHANIE . For an academician who'd penned a multitude of books, such a simple salutation seemed almost an insult. Though she and her husband were separated at the time, Stephanie took the loss hard, and Malone recalled how difficult the months after had been. Never had they spoken about his death, and for her to even mention it now was extraordinary.

Journal of what? he asked.

Lars was fascinated with the secrets of Rennes-le-ChGteauu I know. I read his books.

You never mentioned that before. You never asked.

She seemed to sense his irritation. A lot was happening and neither one of them had time for chitchat.

Lars made a living expounding theories on what may or may not be hidden in and around Rennes-le-ChGteau, she said. But he kept many of his private thoughts in the journal, which stayed with him always. After he died, I thought Mark had it.

Another bad subject. Mark Nelle had been an Oxford-educated medieval historian who taught at the University of Toulouse, in southern France. Five years ago he was lost in the PyrTnTes. An avalanche. His body never found. Malone knew that tragedy had been accentuated by the fact that Stephanie and her son had not been close. A lot of bad blood flowed in the Nelle family, none of which was any of his business.

That damn journal was like a ghost come back to haunt me, she said. There it was. Lars's handwriting. The note told me about the auction and the availability of the book. I remembered Lars speaking of it, and there were references in the journal, so I came to buy it.

And danger bells weren't clanging in your head?

Why? My husband was not involved in my line of work. His was a harmless quest for things that don't exist. How was I to know there were people involved who would kill?

That man leaping from the Round Tower was clear enough. You should have come to me then.

I need to do this alone. Do what?

I don't know, Cotton.

Why is that book so important? I learned at the auction that it's a nondescript account of no importance. They were shocked it sold for so much.

I have no idea. Exasperation returned to her tone. Truly, I don't. Two weeks ago I sat down, read Lars's notebook, and I have to say I became fascinated. I'm ashamed to say I never read one of his books until last week. When I did, I began to feel awful about my attitude toward him. Eleven years can add a lot of perspective.

So what did you plan to do?

She shook her head. I don't know. Just buy the book. Read it and see what happened from there. While I was over here, I planned to go to France and spend a few days at Lars's house. I haven't been there in a while.

She apparently was trying to make peace with demons, but there was reality to consider. You need help, Stephanie. There's more happening here, and this is something I do have experience handling.

Don't you have a bookshop to run?

My employees can handle things for a few days.

She hesitated, seemingly considering his offer. You were the best I ever had. I'm still mad you quit.

Had to do what I had to do.

She shook her head. To have Henrik Thorvaldsen steal you away. Insult to injury.

Last year, when he'd retired and told her he planned to move to Copenhagen, she'd been happy for him, until learning about Thorvaldsen's involvement. Characteristically, she'd never explained herself and he knew better than to ask.

I have some more bad news for you, he said. The person who outbid you for the book? On the phone? It was Henrik.

She cast him a look of disdain.

He was working with Peter Hansen, he said. What led you to that conclusion?

He told her what he learned at the auction and what the man had said to him over the radio. I detest those who deceive me. Apparently Hansen was playing both ends against the middle and the middle won.

Wait outside, she said.

That's why I came. You and Henrik need to talk. But we need to leave here with caution. Those men may still be out there.

I'll get dressed.

He moved toward the door. Where's Lars's journal? She pointed to the safe.

Bring it.

Is that wise?

The police are going to find Hansen's body. It won't take them long to connect the dots. We need to be ready to move.

I can handle the police.

He faced her. Washington bailed you out of Roskilde because they don't know what you're doing. Right now, I'm sure someone in Justice is trying to find out. You hate questions, and you can't tell the attorney general to go to hell when he calls. I'm still not sure what you're doing, but I know one thing, you don't want to talk about it. So pack up.

I don't miss that arrogance.

And your ray-of-sunshine personality has left my life incomplete, too. Could you just for once do what I ask? It's tough enough in the field without acting stupid.

I don't need to be reminded of that. Sure you do.

And he left.

FRIDAY, JUNE 23 1:30 AM

MALONE ANDSTEPHANIE RODE OUT OF COPENHAGEN ON HIGHWAY152. Though he'd driven from Rio de Janeiro to the Petropolis and along the sea from Naples to the Amalfi, Malone believed the path north to Helsingdegr, along Denmark's rocky east shore, was by far the most charming of the seaside routes. Fishing villages, beech forest, summer villas, and the gray expanse of the tideless +resund all combined to offer an ageless splendor.

The weather was typical. Rain peppered the windshield, whipped by a torrential wind. Past one of the smaller seaside resorts, closed for the night, the highway wound inland into a forested expanse. Through an open gate, beyond two white cottages, Malone followed a grassy drive and parked in a pebbled courtyard. The house beyond was a genuine specimen of Danish baroqueuthree stories, built of brick encased in sandstone, and topped with a gracefully curving copper roof. One wing turned inland. The other faced the sea.

He knew its history. Named Christiangate, the house was built three hundred years ago by a clever Thorvaldsen who'd converted tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce porcelain. In the 1800s the Danish queen proclaimed the glassworks the official royal provider, and Adelgate Glasvaerker, with its distinctive symbol of two circles with a line beneath, still reigned premier throughout Denmark and Europe. The conglomerate's current head was the family patriarch, Henrik Thorvaldsen.

The manor's door was answered by a steward who was not surprised to see them. Interesting, considering it was after midnight and Thorvaldsen lived as solitary as an owl. They were shown into a room where oak beams, armor, and oil portraits conveyed the appurtenances of a noble seat. A long table dominated the great hallufour hundred years old, Malone remembered Thorvaldsen once saying, its dark maple reflecting a finish that came only from centuries of dedicated use. Thorvaldsen sat at one end, an orange cake and a steaming samovar on the table before him.

Please, come in. Take a seat.

Thorvaldsen rose from the chair with what appeared to be great effort and flashed a smile. His stooped arthritic frame stood no more than five and a half feet, the hump in his spine barely concealed by the folds of an oversized Norwegian sweater. Malone noticed a glint in the bright gray eyes. His friend was up to something. No question about it.

Malone pointed to the cake. So sure we'd come you baked us a cake?

I wasn't sure both of you would make the journey, but I knew you would. Why's that?

Once I learned you were at the auction, I knew it was only a matter of time before you discovered my involvement.

Stephanie stepped forward. I want my book.

Thorvaldsen appraised her with a tight gaze. No hello? Nice to meet you? Just, 'I want my book.'

I don't like you.

Thorvadsen retook his seat at the head of the table. Malone decided that the cake looked good, so he sat and cut a slice.

You don't like me? Thorvaldsen repeated. Odd, considering we've never met. I know of you.

Does that mean the Magellan Billet has a file on me?

Your name turns up in the strangest places. We call you an international person of interest.

Thorvaldsen's face grimaced, as if he were undergoing some agonizing penance. You'd think me a terrorist or a criminal.

Which one are you?

The Dane stared back at her with a sudden curiosity. I was told you possess the genius to conceive great deeds and the industry to see them through. Strange, with all that ability, you failed so utterly as a wife and mother.

Stephanie's eyes instantly filled with indignation. You know nothing of me.

I know you and Lars had not lived together for years before he died. I know you and he differed on a great many things. I know you and your son were estranged.

A flush of rage colored Stephanie's cheeks. Go to hell.

Thorvaldsen seemed unfazed by her rebuke. You're wrong, Stephanie. About what?

A great many things. And it's time you know the truth.

DEROQUEFORT FOUND THE MANOR HOUSE PRECISELY WHERE the information he'd requested had directed. Once he'd learned who was working with Peter Hansen to buy the book, it had taken his lieutenant only half an hour to compile a dossier. Now he was staring at the stately home of the book's high bidderuHenrik Thorvaldsenuand it all made sense.

Thorvaldsen was one of the wealthiest citizens in Denmark, with family roots reaching back to the Vikings. His corporate holdings were impressive. In addition to Adelgate Glasvaerker, he possessed interests in British banks, Polish mines, German manufacturing, and European transportation. On a continent where old money meant billions, Thorvaldsen was at the top of most fortune lists. He was an odd sort, an introvert who ventured from his estate only sparingly. His charitable contributions were legendary, especially to Holocaust survivors, anti-communist organizations, and international medical relief.

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 BibliothFque 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 +resund 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 manuat 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 believeu

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.