But Ashby did not have the time.
He signaled and another man exited the stairway. He wore a charcoal overcoat that blended well with his stiff gray hair. His eyes were piercing, his thin face tapered to a pointed chin. He walked straight to the Corsican and stopped.
“This is Mr. Guildhall,” Ashby said. “Perhaps you recall him from our last visit?”
The Corsican extended his hand, but Guildhall kept his hands in his coat pockets.
“I do,” the Corsican said. “Does he ever smile?”
Ashby shook his head. “Terrible thing. A few years ago Mr. Guildhall was involved in a nasty altercation, during which his face and neck were slashed. He healed, as you can see, but the lasting effect was nerve damage that prevents the muscles in his face from fully functioning. Hence, no smile.”
“And the person who slashed him?”
“Ah, an excellent inquiry. Quite dead. Broken neck.”
He saw that his point had been made, so he turned to Guildhall and asked, “What did you find?”
His employee removed a small volume from his pocket and handed it over. In the weak light he noted the faded title, in French. Napoleon, From the Tuileries to St. Helena. One of countless memoirs that had appeared in print after Napoleon died in 1821.
“How … did you get that?” the Corsican asked.
He smiled. “While you made me wait here atop the tower, Mr. Guildhall searched your house. I’m not a total fool.”
The Corsican shrugged. “Just a dull memoir. I read a lot on Napoleon.”
“That’s what your co-conspirator said, too.”
He saw that he now commanded his listener’s total attention. “He and I, and Mr. Guildhall, had a great talk.”
“How did you know of Gustave?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t hard to determine. You and he have searched for Rommel’s gold a long time. You are each, perhaps, the two most knowledgeable people on the subject.”
“Have you harmed him?”
He caught the alarm in the question. “Heavens no, my good man. Do you take me for a villain? I am of an aristocratic family. A lord of the realm. A respectable financier. Not a hoodlum. Of course, your Gustave lied to me as well.”
A flick of his wrist and Guildhall grabbed the man by a shoulder and one trouser leg projecting from the soutane. The tiny Corsican was vaulted upward between the parapets, Guildhall sliding him out and adjusting his grip to both ankles, the body now upside down outside the wall, twenty meters above stone pavement.
The soutane flapped in the night breeze.
Ashby poked his head out another parapet. “Unfortunately, Mr. Guildhall does not have the same reservations toward violence as I harbor. Please know that if you utter a sound of alarm, he’ll drop you. Do you understand?”
He saw a head bob up and down.
“Now, it’s time you and I have a serious conversation.”
THREE
COPENHAGEN
MALONE STARED AT THE FEATURELESS FORM OF SAM COLLINS as more glass shattered below.
“I think they want to kill me,” Collins said.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I have a gun pointed at you, too.”
“Mr. Malone, Henrik sent me here.”
He had to choose. The danger in front of him, or the one two floors down.
He lowered the gun. “You led those people downstairs here?”
“I needed your help. Henrik said to come.”
He heard three pops. Sound-suppressed shots. Then the front door banged open. Footsteps thumped across the plank floor.
He motioned with the gun. “In there.”
They retreated into the third-floor storage room, seeking refuge behind a stack of boxes. He realized the intruders would immediately head toward the top floor, drawn by lights. Then, once they realized no one was there, they would start searching. Trouble was, he didn’t know how many had come to visit.
He risked a peek and saw a man transition from the third-floor landing to the fourth floor. He motioned for quiet and to follow. He darted for the doorway and used the brass railing to slide down to the next landing. Collins mimicked his action. They repeated the process down to the final flight of stairs that led to ground level and the bookshop.
Collins moved toward the last railing, but Malone grabbed his arm and shook his head. The fact that this young man would do something that stupid showed either ignorance or a deceptive brilliance. He wasn’t sure which, but they couldn’t linger here for long, considering there was an armed man above them.
He motioned for Collins to remove his coat.
The dark face seemed to hesitate, unsure about the request, then relented and slipped it off without a sound. Malone grabbed the thick wool bundle, sat on the rail, and slowly wiggled halfway down. With the gun firmly gripped in his right hand, he tossed the coat outward.
Pops erupted as the garment was peppered with bullets.
He slid the remainder of the way down, left the railing, and vaulted behind the front counter as more rounds thudded into wood around him.
He pinpointed a location.
The shooter was to his right, near the front windows, where the shop’s History and Music categories were shelved.
He came to his knees and sent a round in that direction.
“Now,” he yelled at Collins, who seemed to sense what was expected, fleeing the stairway and leaping behind the counter.
Malone knew they’d have more company shortly, so he crept to the left. Luckily, they weren’t hemmed in. During the recent remodel he’d insisted that the counter be open at both ends. His shot had not been sound-suppressed, so he wondered if anyone outside had heard the loud retort. Unfortunately, Højbro Plads stayed fairly deserted from midnight to dawn.
He scooted to the end, Collins beside him. His gaze stayed locked on the stairway as he waited for the inevitable. He spotted a dark form, growing in size as
the attacker from upstairs slowly aimed his gun around the corner.
Malone fired and caught the man in the forearm.
He heard a grunt and the gun disappeared.
The first gunman laid down enough fire to allow the man on the stairway to flee toward him.
Malone sensed a stalemate. He was armed. So were they. But they probably carried more ammunition than he, since he’d failed to bring a spare magazine for the Beretta. Luckily, they didn’t know that.
“We need to aggravate them,” Collins whispered.
“And how many is them?”
“Looks like two.”
“We don’t know that.” His mind drifted back to the dream, when he’d once before made the mistake of failing to count to three.
“We can’t just sit here.”
“I could give you to them and go back to sleep.”
“You could. But you won’t.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
He still remembered what Collins had said. Henrik Thorvaldsen is in trouble.
Collins eased past and reached for the fire extinguisher behind the counter. Malone watched as Collins yanked the safety pin and, before he could object, fled the counter and spewed a chemical fog into the bookshop, using a rack of shelves for cover, propelling retardant toward the gunmen.
Not a bad move except—
Four pops came in reply.
Bullets sprang from the fog, sinking into wood, pinging off stone walls.
Malone sent another round their way.
He heard glass crash in a tingling crescendo, then running footsteps.
Moving away.
Cold air rushed over him. He realized they’d escaped through the front window.
Collins lowered the extinguisher. “They’re gone.”
He needed to be sure, so he kept low, eased away from the counter and, using more shelves for cover, rushed through the dissipating fog. He found the end row and risked a quick look. Smoky air retreated out into the frigid night through a shattered plate-glass window.