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’Ssignature 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 saidGOODBYE 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-Château—”
“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-Château,” 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
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’Ssignature 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 saidGOODBYE 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-Château—”
“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-Château,” 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
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