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.
FRIDAY, JUNE 23 1:30 AM
MALONE ANDSTEPHANIE RODE OUT OFCOPENHAGEN ONHIGHWAY152. Though he’d driven from Rio de Janeiro to the Petropolis and along the sea from Naples to the Amalfi, Malone believed the path north to Helsingør, along Denmark’s rocky east shore, was by far the most charming of the seaside routes. Fishing villages, beech forest, summer villas, and the gray expanse of the tideless Øresund all combined to offer an ageless splendor.
The weather was typical. Rain peppered the windshield, whipped by a torrential wind. Past one of the smaller seaside resorts, closed for the night, the highway wound inland into a forested expanse. Through an open gate, beyond two white cottages, Malone followed a grassy drive and parked in a pebbled courtyard. The house beyond was a genuine specimen of Danish baroque—three stories, built of brick encased in sandstone, and topped with a gracefully curving copper roof. One wing turned inland. The other faced the sea.
He knew its history. Named Christiangate, the house was built three hundred years ago by a clever Thorvaldsen who’d converted tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce porcelain. In the 1800s the Danish queen proclaimed the glassworks the official royal provider, and Adelgate Glasvaerker, with its distinctive symbol of two circles with a line beneath, still reigned premier throughout Denmark and Europe. The conglomerate’s current head was the family patriarch, Henrik Thorvaldsen.
The manor’s door was answered by a steward who was not surprised to see them. Interesting, considering it was after midnight and Thorvaldsen lived as solitary as an owl. They were shown into a room where oak beams, armor, and oil portraits conveyed the appurtenances of a noble seat. A long table dominated the great hall—four hundred years old, Malone remembered Thorvaldsen once saying, its dark maple reflecting a finish that came only from centuries of dedicated use. Thorvaldsen sat at one end, an orange cake and a steaming samovar on the table before him.
“Please, come in. Take a seat.”
Thorvaldsen rose from the chair with what appeared to be great effort and flashed a smile. His stooped arthritic frame stood no more than five and a half feet, the hump in his spine barely concealed by the folds of an oversized Norwegian sweater. Malone noticed a glint in the bright gray eyes. His friend was up to something. No question about it.
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
“I don’t need to be reminded of that.”
“Sure you do.”
And he left.
FRIDAY, JUNE 23 1:30 AM
MALONE ANDSTEPHANIE RODE OUT OFCOPENHAGEN ONHIGHWAY152. Though he’d driven from Rio de Janeiro to the Petropolis and along the sea from Naples to the Amalfi, Malone believed the path north to Helsingør, along Denmark’s rocky east shore, was by far the most charming of the seaside routes. Fishing villages, beech forest, summer villas, and the gray expanse of the tideless Øresund all combined to offer an ageless splendor.
The weather was typical. Rain peppered the windshield, whipped by a torrential wind. Past one of the smaller seaside resorts, closed for the night, the highway wound inland into a forested expanse. Through an open gate, beyond two white cottages, Malone followed a grassy drive and parked in a pebbled courtyard. The house beyond was a genuine specimen of Danish baroque—three stories, built of brick encased in sandstone, and topped with a gracefully curving copper roof. One wing turned inland. The other faced the sea.
He knew its history. Named Christiangate, the house was built three hundred years ago by a clever Thorvaldsen who’d converted tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce porcelain. In the 1800s the Danish queen proclaimed the glassworks the official royal provider, and Adelgate Glasvaerker, with its distinctive symbol of two circles with a line beneath, still reigned premier throughout Denmark and Europe. The conglomerate’s current head was the family patriarch, Henrik Thorvaldsen.
The manor’s door was answered by a steward who was not surprised to see them. Interesting, considering it was after midnight and Thorvaldsen lived as solitary as an owl. They were shown into a room where oak beams, armor, and oil portraits conveyed the appurtenances of a noble seat. A long table dominated the great hall—four hundred years old, Malone remembered Thorvaldsen once saying, its dark maple reflecting a finish that came only from centuries of dedicated use. Thorvaldsen sat at one end, an orange cake and a steaming samovar on the table before him.
“Please, come in. Take a seat.”
Thorvaldsen rose from the chair with what appeared to be great effort and flashed a smile. His stooped arthritic frame stood no more than five and a half feet, the hump in his spine barely concealed by the folds of an oversized Norwegian sweater. Malone noticed a glint in the bright gray eyes. His friend was up to something. No question about it.
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
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