The bureaucrat’s eyes widened.
“One million. Yours. No more hunting for you.”
The Corsican immediately leaned forward and slid the book close. “You are most persuasive, Lord Ashby.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“These Roman numerals are clear. The top row are page numbers. The middle set, line numbers. The last show the position of the word. Angling ties the three rows together.”
He watched as the Corsican thumbed though the old book, locating the first page, 95, line 4, word 7. “Santa. Which makes no sense. But if you add the two words after, it does. Santa Maria Tower.”
The steps were repeated four more times.
Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval.
Ashby watched, then said, “A well-chosen book. Its text describes Napoleon’s exile on St. Helena, along with his early years on Corsica. The correct words would all be there. That German was smart.”
The Corsican sat back. “His secret has stayed hidden for sixty years. Now here it is.”
He allowed a friendly smile to sweeten the atmosphere.
The Corsican examined the euros. “I’m curious, Lord Ashby. You’re a man of obvious wealth. You certainly don’t need this treasure.”
“Why would you say that?”
“You search simply for the joy of it, don’t you?”
He thought of his careful plans, his calculated risks. “Things lost interest me.”
The ship slowed to a stop.
“I search,” the Corsican said, holding up a wad of euros, “for the money. I don’t own such a big boat.”
Ashby’s worries from earlier, on the cruise south from France, had finally receded. His goal was now in sight. He wondered if the prize would be worth all this trouble. That was the problem with things lost—sometimes the end did not justify the means.
Here was a good example.
Nobody knew if six wooden crates were waiting to be found and, if so, what was actually inside them. It could be nothing more than silver place settings and some gold jewelry. The Nazis were not particular about what they extorted.
But he wasn’t interested in junk. Because the Corsican was wrong. He needed this treasure.
“Where are we?” he was finally asked.
“Off the coast, north of Macinaggio. At the Site Naturel de la Capandula.”
Cap Corse, above Bastia, was dotted with ancient watchtowers, empty convents, and Romanesque churches. The extreme northern tip comprised a national wilderness zone with few roads and even fewer people. Only gulls and cormorants claimed it as home. Ashby had studied its geography. The Tour de Santa Maria was a ruined three-story tower that rose from the sea, a mere few meters from shore, built by the Genoese in the 16th century as a lookout post. A short walk inland from the tower stood the Chapelle Santa Maria, from the 11th century, a former convent, now a tourist attraction.
Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval.
He checked his watch.
Not yet.
A little longer.
He motioned at the Corsican’s glass. “Enjoy your drink. When you’re done, there’s a tender ready to take us ashore. Time for us to find Rommel’s gold.”
Malone 5 - The Paris Vendetta
THIRTEEN
DENMARK
SAM WATCHED THORVALDSEN WITH CONCERN, RECALLING WHAT one of his Secret Service instructors had taught him. Stir a person up and they think. Add anger and they usually screw up.
Thorvaldsen was angry.
“You killed two men tonight,” Malone made clear.
“We’ve known this night would come,” Thorvaldsen said.
“Who’s we?”
“Jesper and me.”
Sam watched as Jesper stood obedient, clearly in agreement.
“We’ve been waiting,” Thorvaldsen said. “I tried to contact you last week, but you were away. I’m glad you came back. I needed you to look after Sam.”
“How’d you find out about Cabral and Ashby?” Malone asked.
“Private detectives working for the past two years.”
“You’ve never mentioned this before.”
“It wasn’t relevant to you and me.”
“You’re my friend. I’d say that made it relevant.”
“Perhaps you’re right, but I chose to keep what I was doing to myself. I learned a few months ago that Ashby tried to bribe Elena Rico. When that failed, Cabral hired men to shoot her, Cai, and a lot of others to mask the crime.”
“A bit grandiose.”
“It sent a message to Rico’s successor. Which worked. He was much more agreeable.”
Sam listened, amazed at how his life had changed. Two weeks ago he was an obscure Secret Service agent chasing questionable financial transactions through a maze of dull electronic records. Background work—secondary to the field agents. He’d genuinely wanted to work the field, but had never been offered the chance. He believed himself up to the challenge—he’d reacted well back at Malone’s bookshop—but staring at the corpses across the room, he wondered. Thorvaldsen and Jesper had killed those men. What did it take to do that? Could he?
He watched as Jesper stretched two body bags on the floor. He’d never actually seen someone who’d been shot dead. Smelled the rusty scent of blood. Stared into glassy eyes. Jesper handled the corpses with a cool detachment, stuffing them into the bags, not seeming to care.
Could he do that, too?
“What’s the deal with Graham Ashby?” Malone asked. “Sam here made a point to mention him to me. I assume that was at your insistence.”
Sam could tell Malone was both irritated and concerned.
“I can answer that,” Sam said. “He’s a rich Brit. Old, old money, but his actual worth is unknown. Lots of hidden assets. He got caught up in something a few years ago. Retter der Verlorenen Antiquit?ten. Retrievers of Lost Antiquities. A group of people who stole art that was already stolen and traded it among themselves.”