The Templar Legacy (11 page)

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 WHEREthe 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 bidder—Henrik Thorvaldsen—and 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 Bibliothèque 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 Øresund 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 man—at 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 believe—”

“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.”

“Considering your strained relationship, that’s understandable. But, even so, just as in your profession, there were secrets in his.”

Malone finished his cake and watched as Stephanie contemplated what she clearly did not believe.

“You’re a liar,” she finally declared.

“I can show you correspondence that will prove what I am saying. Lars and I communicated often. Ours was a collaborative effort. I financed his initial research and helped him out when times were tough. I paid for his house in Rennes-le-Château. I shared his passion, and was glad to accommodate him.”

“What passion?” she asked.

Thorvaldsen appraised her with an even glare. “You know so little about him. How your regrets must torment you.”

“I don’t need analyzing.”

“Really? You come to Denmark to buy a book you know nothing about that concerns the work of a man dead for more than a decade. And you have no regrets?”

“You sanctimonious ass, I want that book.”

“You must first listen to what I have to say.”

“Hurry up.”

“Lars’s first book was a resounding success. Several million copies worldwide, though it sold only modestly in America. His next were not as well received, but they sold—enough to finance his ventures. Lars thought an opposing point of view might help popularize the Rennes legend. So I financed several authors who wrote books critical of Lars, books that analyzed his conclusions on Rennes and pointed out fallacies. One book led to another and another. Some good, some bad. I myself even made some rather unflattering public remarks once about Lars. And soon, as he wanted, a genre was born.”

Her eyes were aflame. “Are you nuts?”

“Controversy generates publicity. And Lars was not writing to a mass audience, so he had to generate his own publicity. After a while, though, it took on a life of its own. Rennes-le-Château is quite popular. Television specials have been made, magazines devoted to it, the Internet is loaded with sites dedicated solely to its mysteries. Tourism is the region’s number one draw. Thanks to Lars, the town itself has now become an industry.”

Malone knew that hundreds of books existed on Rennes. Several shelves in his shop were filled with recycled volumes. But he needed to know, “Henrik, two people died today. One leaped from the Round Tower and slit his throat on the way down. The other was tossed through a window. This isn’t some public relations ploy.”

“I would say that today at the Round Tower you came face-to-face with a brother of the Knights Templar.”

“Ordinarily I’d say you’re nuts, but the man screamed something before he jumped. Beauseant. ”

Thorvaldsen nodded. “The battle cry of the Templars. The screaming of that word by a mass of charging knights was enough to instill absolute fear in an enemy.”

He recalled what he read in the book earlier. “The Templars were eradicated in 1307. There are no knights.”

“Not true, Cotton. An attempt was made to eradicate, but the pope reversed himself. The Chinon Parchment absolves the Templars of all heresy. Clement V issued that bull himself, in secret, in 1308. Many thought the document lost when Napoléon looted the Vatican, but recently it was found. No. Lars believed the Order still exists, and so do I.”

“There were a lot of references in Lars’s books to Templars,” Malone said, “but I never recall him writing that they still actually exist.”

Thorvaldsen nodded. “Intentional on his part. Such a great contradiction they were, and are. Poor by vow, yet rich in assets and knowledge. Introspective, but skilled in the ways of the world. Monks and warriors. The Hollywood stereotype and the real Templar are two different beings. Don’t be swept into the romance. They were a brutal lot.”

Malone was not impressed. “How have they survived for seven hundred years without anyone knowing?”

“How does an insect or animal live in the wild without anyone knowing it exists? Yet new species are cataloged every day.”

Good point, Malone thought, but he still was not convinced. “So what’s this all about?”

Thorvaldsen leaned back in the chair. “Lars was looking for the treasure of the Knights Templar.”

“What treasure?”

“Early in his reign, Philip IV devalued the French currency as a way to stimulate the economy. The act was so unpopular a mob came to kill him. He fled his palace for the Paris Temple and sought protection with the Templars. That was when he first spied the Order’s wealth. Years later, when he was desperate for funds, he concocted a plan to convict the Order of heresy. Remember, anything a heretic owned became the property of the state. Yet, after the 1307 arrests, Philip found that not only the Paris vault, but also every other vault in Temples across France was empty. Not an ounce of Templar wealth was ever found.”

“And Lars thought that treasure was in Rennes-le-Château?” he asked.

“Not necessarily there, but somewhere in the Languedoc,” Henrik said. “There are enough clues to warrant that conclusion. But the Templars made finding its location difficult.”