The Paris Vendetta (4 page)

FIVE

S
AM
C
OLLINS SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT AND WATCHED AS
Malone sped out of Copenhagen, heading north on the Danish coast highway.

Cotton Malone was exactly what he’d expected. Tough, gutsy, decisive, accepting the situation thrown at him, doing what needed to be done. He even fit the physical description Sam had been given. Tall, burnished blond hair, a smile that betrayed little emotion. He knew about Malone’s twelve years of Justice Department experience, his Georgetown legal education, eidetic memory, and love of books. But now he’d seen firsthand the man’s courage under fire.

“Who are you?” Malone asked.

He realized he couldn’t be coy. He’d sensed Malone’s suspicions, and didn’t blame him. A stranger breaks into his shop in the middle of the night and armed men follow? “U.S. Secret Service. Or at least I was until a few days ago. I think I’m fired.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because nobody there would listen to me. I tried to tell them. But no one wanted to hear.”

“Why did Henrik?”

“How’d you—” He caught himself.

“Some folks take in stray animals. Henrik rescues people. Why’d you need his help?”

“Who said I did?”

“Don’t sweat it, okay? I was once one of those strays.”

“Actually, I’d say it was Henrik who needed help. He contacted me.”

Malone shifted the Mazda into fifth gear and sped down the blackened highway, a hundred yards or so away from a dark Øresund sea.

Sam needed to make something clear. “I didn’t work White House detail at Secret Service. I was in currency and financial fraud.”

He always laughed at the Hollywood stereotype of agents wearing dark suits, sunglasses, and skin-toned earpieces surrounding the president. Most of the Secret Service, like him, worked in obscurity, safeguarding the American financial system. That was actually its primary mission, since it grew out of the Civil War, created to prevent Confederate counterfeiting. Only after the assassination of William McKinley, thirty-five years later, had it assumed presidential protection responsibility.

“Why’d you come to my bookshop?” Malone asked.

“I was staying in town. Henrik sent me to a hotel yesterday. I could tell something was wrong. He wanted me away from the estate.”

“How long have you been in Denmark?”

“A week. You’ve been gone. Just got back a few days ago.”

“You know a lot about me.”

“Not really. I know you’re Cotton Malone. Former naval officer. Worked with the Magellan Billet. Now retired.”

Malone tossed him a glance that signaled rapidly depleting patience with his evasion of the original question.

“I run a website on the side,” Sam said. “We’re not supposed to do stuff like that, but I did. World Financial Collapse—A Capitalist Conspiracy. That’s what I called it. It’s at Moneywash.net.”

“I can see why you’re superiors might have a problem with your hobby.”

“I can’t. I live in America. I have a right to speak my mind.”

“But you don’t have a right to carry a federal badge at the same time.”

“That’s what they said, too.” He could not hide the defeat in his voice.

“What did you say on this site of yours?” Malone asked him.

“I told the truth. About financiers, like Mayer Amschel Rothschild.”

“Expressing those First Amendment rights of yours?”

“What does it matter? That man wasn’t even American. Just a master with money. His five sons were even better. They learned how to convert debt into fortune. They were lenders to the crowns of Europe. You name it and they were there, one hand to give money out, the other to take even more back.”

“Isn’t that the American way?”

“They weren’t bankers. Banks operate with funds either deposited by customers or created by the government. They worked with personal fortunes, lending them out at obscene interest rates.”

“Again, what’s wrong with that?”

He shifted in his seat. “That’s the attitude that allowed them to get away with what they did. People say, ‘So what? It’s their right to make money.’ No, it’s not.” The fire in his belly surged. “The Rothschilds made a fortune financing war. Did you know that?”

Malone did not reply.

“Both sides, most times. And they didn’t give a damn about the money they loaned. In return, they wanted privileges that could be converted into profit. Things like mining concessions, monopolies, importation exceptions. Sometimes they were even given the right to certain taxes as a guarantee.”

“That was hundreds of years ago. So the hell what?”

“It’s happening again.”

Malone slowed for a sharp curve. “How do you know that?”

“Not everyone who strikes it rich is as benevolent as Bill Gates.”

“You have names? Proof?”

He went silent.

Malone seemed to sense his dilemma. “No, you don’t. Just a bunch of conspiracy crap you posted on the Internet that got you fired.”

“It’s not far-fetched,” he was quick to say. “Those men came to kill me.”

“You sound almost glad they did.”

“It proves I was right.”

“That’s a big leap. Tell me what happened.”

“I was cooped up in a hotel room, so I went out for a walk. Two guys started following me. I hauled ass and they kept coming. That’s when I found your place. Henrik told me to wait at the hotel until I heard from him, then make contact with you. But when I spotted those two I called Christiangade. Jesper said to find you pronto, so I headed for your shop.”

“How’d you get inside?”

“Pried open the back door. It’s real easy. You need an alarm.”

“I figure if somebody wants to steal old books, they can have ’em.”

“What about guys who want to kill you?”

“Actually, they wanted to kill you. And by the way, that was foolish breaking in. I could have shot you.”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“Glad you knew that, ’cause I didn’t.”

They rode in silence for a few miles, coming ever closer to Christiangade. Sam had made this journey quite a few times over the past year.

“Thorvaldsen’s gone to a lot of trouble,” he finally said. “But the man he’s after acted first.”

“Henrik’s no fool.”

“Maybe not. But every man meets his match.”

“How old are you?”

He wondered about the sudden shift in topic. “Thirty-two.”

“You’ve been with the service how long?”

“Four years.”

He caught Malone’s drift. Why had Henrik needed to connect with a young, inexperienced Secret Service agent who ran an off-the-wall website? “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Malone said.

“Actually, you don’t. Thorvaldsen has been aggravating a situation that can’t stand much more irritation. He needs help.”

“That the conspiratorialist talking, or the agent?”

Malone gunned the Mazda and sped down a straightaway. More black ocean stretched to their right, the lights of a distant Sweden on the horizon.

“It’s his friend talking.”

“Obviously,” Malone said, “you have no idea about Henrik. He’s afraid of nothing.”

“Everybody’s afraid of something.”

“What’s your fear?”

He pondered the question, one he’d asked himself several times over the past few months, then answered honestly. “The man Thorvaldsen’s really after.”

“You going to tell me a name?”

“Lord Graham Ashby.”

SIX

CORSICA

A
SHBY RETURNED TO
A
RCHIMEDES
AND HOPPED FROM THE TENDER
onto the aft platform. He’d brought the Corsican back with him, after acquiring the man’s undivided attention atop the tower. They’d shed the ridiculous soutane and the man had given them no trouble on the journey.

“Escort him to the main salon,” Ashby said, and Guildhall led their guest forward. “Make him comfortable.”

He climbed three teak risers to the lighted pool. He still held the book that had been retrieved from the Corsican’s house.

The ship’s captain appeared.

“Head north, along the coast, at top speed,” Ashby ordered.

The captain nodded, then disappeared.

Archimedes’
sleek black hull stretched seventy meters. Twin diesels powered her at twenty-five knots, and she could cruise transatlantic at a respectable twenty-two knots. Her six decks accommodated three suites, an owner’s apartment, office, gourmet kitchen, sauna, gym, and all the other amenities expected on a luxury vessel.

Below, engines revved.

He thought again about that night in September 1943.

All accounts described calm seas with clear skies. Bastia’s fishing fleet had been lying safe at anchor within the harbor. Only a solitary motor launch sliced through the waters offshore. Some said the boat was headed for Cape Sud and the River Golo, situated at the southern base of Cap Corse, Corsica’s northernmost promontory—a finger-like projection of mountains aimed due north to Italy. Others placed the boat in conflicting positions along the northeastern coast. Four German soldiers had been aboard the launch when two American P-39s strafed the deck with cannon fire. A dropped bomb missed and, thankfully, the planes ended their attack without finishing off the vessel. Ultimately, six wooden crates were hidden somewhere either on or near Corsica, a fifth German, on shore, aiding the other four’s escape.

Archimedes
eased ahead.

They should be there in under thirty minutes.

He climbed one more deck to the grand salon where white leather, stainless-steel appointments, and cream Berber carpet made guests feel comfortable. His 16th-century English estate was replete with antiquity. Here he preferred modernity.

The Corsican sat on one of the sofas nursing a drink.

“Some of my rum?” Ashby asked.

The older man nodded, still obviously shaken.

“It’s my favorite. Made from first-press juice.”

The boat surged forward, acquiring speed, the bow quickly scything through the water.

He tossed the Napoleon book on the sofa beside his guest.

“Since we last talked, I have been busy. I’m not going to bore you with details. But I know four men brought Rommel’s gold from Italy. A fifth waited here. The four hid the treasure, and did not reveal its location before the Gestapo shot them for dereliction of duty. Unfortunately, the fifth was not privy to where they secreted the cache. Ever since, Corsicans like you have searched and distributed false information as to what happened. There are a dozen or more versions of events that have caused nothing but confusion. Which is why, last time, you lied to me.” He paused. “And why Gustave did the same.”

He poured himself a shot of rum and sat on the sofa opposite the Corsican. A wood-and-glass table rested between them. He retrieved the book and laid it on the table, “If you please, I need you to solve the puzzle.”

“If I could, I would have long ago.”

He grinned. “I recently read that when Napoleon became emperor, he excluded all Corsicans from the administration of their island. Too untrustworthy, he claimed.”

“Napoleon was Corsican, too.”

“Quite true, but you, sir,
are
a liar. You know how to solve the puzzle, so please do it.”

The Corsican downed the rest of his rum. “I should have never dealt with you.”

He shrugged. “You like my money. I, on the other hand, should never have dealt with you.”

“You tried to kill me on the tower.”

He laughed. “I simply wanted to acquire your undivided attention.”

The Corsican did not seem impressed. “You came to me because you knew I could provide answers.”

“And the time has come for you to do that.”

He’d spent the past two years examining every clue, interviewing what few secondary witnesses remained alive—all of the main participants were long dead—and he’d learned that no one really knew if Rommel’s gold existed. None of the stories about its origin, and journey from Africa to Germany, rang consistent. The most reliable account stated that the hoard originated from Gabès, in Tunisia, about 160 kilometers from the Libyan border. After the German Afrika Korps commandeered the town for its headquarters, its three thousand Jews were told that for “sixty hundredweight of gold” their lives would be spared. They were given forty-eight hours to produce the ransom, after which it was packed into six wooden crates, taken to the coast, and shipped north to Italy. There the Gestapo assumed control, eventually entrusting four soldiers with transporting the crates west to Corsica. What the containers contained remained unknown, but the Jews of Gabès were wealthy, as were the surrounding Jewish communities, the local synagogue a famous place of pilgrimage—the recipient, through the centuries, of many jeweled artifacts.

But was the treasure gold?

Hard to say.

Yet it had acquired the name
Rommel’s gold—
thought to be one of the last great caches from World War II.

The Corsican held out his empty glass and Ashby rose to refill it. He might as well indulge the man, so he returned with a tumbler three-quarters full of rum.

The Corsican enjoyed a long swallow.

“I know about the cipher,” Ashby said. “It’s actually quite ingenious. A clever way to hide a message. The Moor’s Knot, I believe it’s called.”

Pasquale Paoli, a Corsican freedom fighter from the 18th century, now a national hero, had coined the name. Paoli needed a way to effectively communicate with his allies, one that assured total privacy, so he adapted a method learned from the Moors who, for centuries, had raided the coastline as freebooting pirates.

“You acquire two identical books,” Ashby explained. “Keep one. Give the other to the person to whom you want to send the message. Inside the book you find the right words for the message, then communicate the page, line, and word number to the recipient through a series of numbers. The numbers, by themselves, are useless, unless you have the right book.”

He tabled his rum, found a folded sheet of paper in his pocket, and smoothed the page out on the glass-topped table. “These are what I provided you the last time we spoke.”

His captive examined the sheet.

“They mean nothing to me,” the Corsican said.

He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re going to have to stop this. You know it’s the location of Rommel’s gold.”

“Lord Ashby. Tonight, you’ve treated me with total disrespect. Hanging me from that tower. Calling me a liar. Saying that Gustave lied to you. Yes, I had this book. But these numbers mean nothing with reference to it. Now we are sailing to someplace that you have not even had the courtesy to identify. Your rum is delicious, the boat magnificent, but I must insist that you explain yourself.”

All his adult life Ashby had searched for treasure. Though his family were financiers of long standing, he cherished the quest for things lost over the challenge of simply making money. Sometimes the answers he sought were discovered from hard work. Sometimes informants brought, for a price, what he needed to know. And sometimes, like here, he simply stumbled upon the solution.

“I would be more than happy to explain.”