been described.
Not for the first time, she reminded herself why she was here. Returning a favor. Cassiopeia Vitt had asked her to contact Dyhr. And since she owed her friend at least one favor, she could hardly refuse the request. Before making contact she'd run a check and learned that Dyhr was Dutch born, German educated, and practiced chemistry for a local plastics manufacturer. His obsession was coin collecting--he supposedly possessed an impressive array--and one in particular had drawn the interest of her Muslim friend.
The Dutchman stood alone near a chest-high table, nursing a brown beer and munching fried fish. A rolled cigarette burned in an ashtray and the thick green fog curling upward was not from tobacco.
"I'm Stephanie Nelle," she said in English. "The woman who called."
"You said you were interested in buying."
She caught the curt tone that said, "Tell me what you want, pay me, and I'll be on my way." She also noticed his glassy eyes, which almost couldn't be helped. Even she was starting to feel a buzz. "Like I said on the phone, I want the elephant medallion."
He gulped a swallow of beer. "Why? It's of no consequence. I have many other coins worth much more. Good prices."
"I'm sure you do. But I want the medallion. You said it was for sale."
"I said it depends on what you want to pay."
"Can I see it?"
Klaus reached into his pocket. She accepted the offering and studied the oblong medallion through a plastic sleeve. A warrior on one side, a mounted war elephant challenging a horseman on the other. About the size of a fifty-cent piece, the images nearly eroded away.
"You know nothing of what that is, do you?" Klaus asked.
She decided to be honest. "I'm doing this for someone else."
"I want six thousand euros."
Cassiopeia had told her to pay whatever. Price was irrelevant. But staring at the sheaved piece, she wondered why something so nondescript would be so important.
"There are only eight known," he said. "Six thousand euros is a bargain."
"Only eight? Why sell it?"
He fingered the burning butt, sucked a deep drag, held it, then slowly whistled out thick smoke. "I need the money." His oily eyes returned their gaze downward, staring toward his beer.
"Things that bad?" she asked.
"You sound like you care."
Two men flanked Klaus. One was fair, the other tanned. Their faces and features were a conflicting mixture of Arab and Asian. Rain continued to pour outside, but the men's coats were dry. Fair grabbed Klaus's arm and a knife blade was pressed flat to the man's stomach. Tan wrapped an arm around her in a seemingly friendly embrace and brought the tip of another knife close to her ribs, pressing the blade into her coat.
"The medallion," Fair said, motioning with his head. "On the table."
She decided not to argue and calmly did as he asked.
"We'll be leaving now," Tan said, pocketing the coin. His breath stank of beer. "Stay here."
She had no intention of challenging them. She knew to respect weapons pointed at her.
The men wove their way to the front door and left the cafe.
"They took my coin," Klaus said, his voice rising. "I'm going after them."
She couldn't decide if it was foolishness or the drugs talking. "How about you let me handle it."
He appraised her with a suspicious gaze.
"I assure you," she said. "I came prepared."
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
COPENHAGEN
7:45 P . M .
MALONE FINISHED HIS DINNER. HE WAS SITTING INSIDE THE CAFE Norden, a two-story restaurant that faced into the heart of Hojbro Plads. The evening had turned nasty with a brisk April shower dousing the nearly empty city square. He sat high and dry by an open window, on the upper floor, and enjoyed the rain.
"I appreciate you helping out today," Thorvaldsen said from across the table.
"Almost getting blown up? Twice? What are friends for?"
He finished the last of his tomato bisque soup. The cafe offered some of the best he'd ever eaten. He was full of questions, but realized answers, as always with Thorvaldsen,
Not for the first time, she reminded herself why she was here. Returning a favor. Cassiopeia Vitt had asked her to contact Dyhr. And since she owed her friend at least one favor, she could hardly refuse the request. Before making contact she'd run a check and learned that Dyhr was Dutch born, German educated, and practiced chemistry for a local plastics manufacturer. His obsession was coin collecting--he supposedly possessed an impressive array--and one in particular had drawn the interest of her Muslim friend.
The Dutchman stood alone near a chest-high table, nursing a brown beer and munching fried fish. A rolled cigarette burned in an ashtray and the thick green fog curling upward was not from tobacco.
"I'm Stephanie Nelle," she said in English. "The woman who called."
"You said you were interested in buying."
She caught the curt tone that said, "Tell me what you want, pay me, and I'll be on my way." She also noticed his glassy eyes, which almost couldn't be helped. Even she was starting to feel a buzz. "Like I said on the phone, I want the elephant medallion."
He gulped a swallow of beer. "Why? It's of no consequence. I have many other coins worth much more. Good prices."
"I'm sure you do. But I want the medallion. You said it was for sale."
"I said it depends on what you want to pay."
"Can I see it?"
Klaus reached into his pocket. She accepted the offering and studied the oblong medallion through a plastic sleeve. A warrior on one side, a mounted war elephant challenging a horseman on the other. About the size of a fifty-cent piece, the images nearly eroded away.
"You know nothing of what that is, do you?" Klaus asked.
She decided to be honest. "I'm doing this for someone else."
"I want six thousand euros."
Cassiopeia had told her to pay whatever. Price was irrelevant. But staring at the sheaved piece, she wondered why something so nondescript would be so important.
"There are only eight known," he said. "Six thousand euros is a bargain."
"Only eight? Why sell it?"
He fingered the burning butt, sucked a deep drag, held it, then slowly whistled out thick smoke. "I need the money." His oily eyes returned their gaze downward, staring toward his beer.
"Things that bad?" she asked.
"You sound like you care."
Two men flanked Klaus. One was fair, the other tanned. Their faces and features were a conflicting mixture of Arab and Asian. Rain continued to pour outside, but the men's coats were dry. Fair grabbed Klaus's arm and a knife blade was pressed flat to the man's stomach. Tan wrapped an arm around her in a seemingly friendly embrace and brought the tip of another knife close to her ribs, pressing the blade into her coat.
"The medallion," Fair said, motioning with his head. "On the table."
She decided not to argue and calmly did as he asked.
"We'll be leaving now," Tan said, pocketing the coin. His breath stank of beer. "Stay here."
She had no intention of challenging them. She knew to respect weapons pointed at her.
The men wove their way to the front door and left the cafe.
"They took my coin," Klaus said, his voice rising. "I'm going after them."
She couldn't decide if it was foolishness or the drugs talking. "How about you let me handle it."
He appraised her with a suspicious gaze.
"I assure you," she said. "I came prepared."
Chapter TWENTY-TWO
COPENHAGEN
7:45 P . M .
MALONE FINISHED HIS DINNER. HE WAS SITTING INSIDE THE CAFE Norden, a two-story restaurant that faced into the heart of Hojbro Plads. The evening had turned nasty with a brisk April shower dousing the nearly empty city square. He sat high and dry by an open window, on the upper floor, and enjoyed the rain.
"I appreciate you helping out today," Thorvaldsen said from across the table.
"Almost getting blown up? Twice? What are friends for?"
He finished the last of his tomato bisque soup. The cafe offered some of the best he'd ever eaten. He was full of questions, but realized answers, as always with Thorvaldsen,
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