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 in--whether he liked it or not.

He took a roundabout path out of the Stroget 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 assessing--a meticulous organizer who plotted and planned with the cunning of a leopard. He'd watched her many times make tough decisions without hesitation--both attorneys general and presidents had relied on her cool head--so 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-Chateau--"

"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-Chateau," 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 Pyrenees. 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.