The Templar Legacy (7 page)

“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 eyebrows—dull 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 around—”

“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 decisions—across 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 naïveté 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 ENTEREDthe 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 HISTORYsection. 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 warriors—a 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.