The Alexandria Link

FIVE

4:00 AM

MALONE PARKED HIS CAR IN FRONT OF CHRISTIANGADE, HENRIK Thorvaldsen’s mansion that rose on the Danish Zealand east coast adjacent to the Øresund sea. He’d driven the twenty miles north from Copenhagen in the late-model Mazda he kept parked a few blocks from his bookshop, near the Christianburg Slot.

After finding their way down from the roof, he’d watched as firefighters tried to contain the blaze roaring through his building. He’d realized that his books were gone, and if the flames didn’t devour every last one, heat and smoke would do irreparable damage. Watching the scene, he’d fought a rising anger, trying to practice what he’d learned long ago. Never hate your enemy. That clouded judgment. No. He didn’t need to hate. He needed to think.

But Pam was making that difficult.

“Who lives here?” she asked.

“A friend.”

She’d tried to pry information from him on the drive, but he’d offered little, which only seemed to fuel her rage. Before he dealt with her, he needed to communicate with someone else.

The dark house was a genuine specimen of Danish baroque-three stories, built of sandstone-encased brick, and topped with a gracefully curving copper roof. One wing turned inland, the other faced the sea. Three hundred years ago a Thorvaldsen had erected it, after profitably converting tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce glass. More Thorvaldsens lovingly maintained it over the centuries and eventually transformed Adelgade Glasvaerker, with its distinctive symbol of two circles with a line beneath, into Denmark ’s premier glassmaker. The modern conglomerate was headed by the current family patriarch, Henrik Thorvaldsen, the man responsible for Malone now living in Denmark.

He strode to the stout front door. A medley of bells reminiscent of a Copenhagen church at high noon announced his presence. He pressed the button again, then pounded. A light flashed on in one of the upper windows. Then another. A few moments later he heard locks release, and the door opened. Though the man staring out at him had certainly been asleep, his copper-colored hair was combed, his face a mask of polished control, his cotton robe wrinkle-free.

Jesper. Thorvaldsen’s head of household.

“Wake him up,” Malone said in Danish.

“And the purpose of such a radical act at four in the morning?”

“Look at me.” He was covered in sweat, grime, and soot. “Important enough?”

“I’m inclined to think so.”

“We’ll wait in the study. I need his computer.”

Malone first found his Danish e-mail account to see if any more messages had been sent, but there was nothing. He’d then accessed the Magellan Billet secured server, using the password that his former boss, Stephanie Nelle, had given him. Though he was retired and no longer on the Justice Department payroll, in return for what he’d done for Stephanie recently in France she’d provided him a direct line of communication. With the time difference-it was still only ten o’clock Monday evening in Atlanta -he knew his message would be routed directly to her.

He glanced up from the computer as Thorvaldsen shuffled into the room. The older Dane had apparently taken the time to dress. His short, stooped frame, the product of a spine that long ago refused to straighten, was concealed by the folds of an oversized sweater the color of a pumpkin. His bushy silver hair lay matted to one side, his eyebrows thick and untamed. Deep lines bracketed the mouth and forehead, and his sallow skin suggested an avoidance of the sun-which Malone knew was the case, as the Dane rarely ventured out. On a continent where old money meant billions, Thorvaldsen was at the top of every wealthiest-people list.

“What’s happening?” Thorvaldsen asked.

“Henrik, this is Pam, my ex-wife.”

Thorvaldsen flashed her a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

“We don’t have time for this,” she said, ignoring their host. “We need to be seeing about Gary.”

Thorvaldsen faced him. “You look awful, Cotton, and she looks anxious.”

“Anxious?” Pam said. “I just climbed out of a burning building. My son is missing. I’m jet-lagged, and I haven’t eaten in two days.”

“I’ll have some food prepared.” Thorvaldsen’s voice stayed flat, as if this kind of thing happened every night.

“I don’t want food. I want to see about my son.”

Malone told Thorvaldsen what happened in Copenhagen, then said, “I’m afraid the building’s gone.”

“Which is the least of our worries.”

He caught the choice of words and nearly smiled. He liked that about Thorvaldsen. On your side, no matter what.

Pam was pacing like a caged lioness. Malone noticed that she’d lost a few pounds since they’d last spoken. She’d always been slender, with long reddish hair, and time had not darkened the pale tone of her freckled skin. Her clothes were as frayed as her nerves, though overall she carried the same good looks from years ago, when he’d married her soon after joining the navy JAG. That was the thing about Pam-great on the outside-the inside was the problem. Even now her blue eyes, burned red from crying, managed to convey an icy fury. She was an intelligent, sophisticated woman, but at the moment she was confused, dazed, angry, and afraid. None of which, by his estimation, was good.

“What are you waiting for?” she spat out.

He glanced at the computer screen. Access into the Billet server had yet to be granted. But since he was no longer active, his request was surely being forwarded directly to Stephanie for approval. He knew that once she saw who was calling she’d immediately log on.

“Is this what you used to do?” she asked. “People trying to set you on fire. Shooting guns. This is what you did? See what it got us? See where we are?”

“Mrs. Malone,” Henrik said.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I should have changed that last name. Good sense told me to do it in the divorce. But no, I didn’t want my name different from Gary ’s. Can’t say a damn thing about his precious father. Not a word. No, Cotton, you’re the man. A king in that boy’s eyes. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She wanted a fight, and he half wished he had the time to give her one.

The computer dinged. The screen converted to the Billet’s access page.

He typed in the password, and a moment later two-way communication was established. The words KNIGHTS TEMPLAR appeared. Stephanie’s coded introduction. He typed ABBEY DES FONTAINES, the place where he and Stephanie had, a few months ago, found the modern-day remnants of that medieval order. A few seconds later What is it, Cotton? appeared.

He typed in a summary of what had happened. She answered:

We’ve had a breach here. Two months ago. The secured files were accessed.

Care to explain that one?

Not at the moment. We wanted it kept secret. I need to check some things. Sit tight and I’ll be back to you shortly. Where are you?

At your favorite Dane’s house.

Give him my love.

He heard Henrik snicker and knew that, like two divorced parents, Stephanie and Henrik tolerated each other simply for his sake.

“We’re just going to sit here and wait?” Pam said. They’d both been reading over Malone’s shoulder.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

She stormed for the door. “You can. I’m going to do something.”

“Like what?” he asked.

“I’m going to the police.”

She yanked open the door. Jesper stood in the hallway, blocking the way. Pam stared at the chamberlain. “Get out of my way.”

Jesper stood firm.

She turned and glared at Henrik. “Tell your manservant to move or I’ll move him.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Thorvaldsen said.

Malone was glad Henrik had anticipated her foolishness. “Pam. My guts are ripped up, just like yours. But there’s zero the police can do. We’re dealing with a pro who’s at least two days ahead of us. To do the best thing for Gary, I need information.”

“You haven’t shed a tear. Not a hint of surprise, nothing from you at all. Like always.”

He resented that, particularly coming from a woman who just two months ago calmly informed him that he was not their son’s father. He’d come to the conclusion that the revelation meant nothing when it came to how he felt about Gary-the boy was his son and would always be his son-but the lie made a huge difference in what he thought about his ex-wife. Anger surged up his neck. “You’ve already messed this up. You should have called me the second it happened. You’re so damn smart, you should have found a way to get in touch with me or with Stephanie. She’s right there in Atlanta. Instead you gave these guys two days. I don’t have the time or the energy to fight you and them. Sit your ass down and shut up.”

She stood rock-still with a brooding silence. Finally she surrendered and sank limply onto a leather couch.

Jesper gently closed the door and remained outside.

“Tell me one thing,” Pam said, eyes fixed on the floor, her face stiff as marble.

He knew what she wanted to know. “Why can’t I give him what he wants? It’s not that simple.”

“A boy’s life is at stake.”

“Not a boy, Pam. Our son.”

She did not reply. Maybe she’d finally realized he was right. Before acting, they needed information. He was stalled. Like the day after law school exams, or when he requested a transfer from the navy to the Magellan Billet, or when he strode into Stephanie Nelle’s office and quit.

Waiting, wishing, wanting, all combined with not knowing.

So he, too, wondered what Stephanie was doing.