“You must get down,” his wife demanded. “Immediately, Cai.”
The boy scampered across the long expanse, his open palms threading the tops of high-backed chairs on either side. Thorvaldsen watched as his son avoided a gilded centerpiece and raced ahead, leaping into his outstretched arms.
“You’re both impossible,” his wife said. “Totally impossible.”
“Lisette, it’s Christmas. Let the boy play.” He held him close in his lap. “He’s only seven. And the table has been here a long time.”
“Papa, will Nisse come this year?”
Cai loved the mischievous elf who, legend said, wore gray woolen clothes, a bonnet, red stockings, and white clogs. He dwelled in the lofts of old farmhouses and enjoyed playing jokes.
“To be safe,” the boy said, “we’ll need some porridge.”
Thorvaldsen smiled. His own mother had told him the same tale of how a bowl of porridge, left out on Christmas Eve, kept Nisse’s jokes within limits. Of course, that was before the Nazis slaughtered nearly every Thorvaldsen, including his father.
“We shall have porridge,” Lisette said. “Along with roasted goose, red cabbage, browned potatoes, and cinnamon rice pudding.”
“With the magic almond?” Cai asked, wonder in his voice.
His wife stroked the boy’s thin brown hair. “Yes, my precious. With the magic almond. And if you find it, there will be a prize.”
Both he and Lisette always made sure Cai found the magic almond. Though he was a Jew, Thorvaldsen’s father and wife had been Christian, so the holiday had found a place in his life. Every year he and Lisette had decorated an aromatic fir with homemade wood and straw baubles and, per tradition, never allowed Cai to see their creation until after Christmas Eve dinner, when they all gathered and sang carols.
My, how he’d enjoyed Christmas.
Until Lisette died.
Then, two years ago, when Cai was murdered, the holiday lost all meaning. The past three, including this one, had been torture. He found himself every year sitting here, at the end of the table, wondering why life had been so cruel.
This year, though, was different.
He reached out and caressed the gun’s black metal. Assault rifles were illegal in Denmark, but laws did not interest him.
Justice.
That’s what he wanted.
He sat in silence. Not a light burned anywhere in Christiangade’s forty-one rooms. He actually relished the thought of a world devoid of illumination. There his deformed spine would go unnoticed. His leathery face would never be seen. His bushy silver hair and bristly eyebrows would never require trimming. In the dark, only a person’s senses mattered.
And his were finely tuned.
His eyes searched the dark hall as his mind kept remembering.
He could see Cai everywhere. Lisette, too. He was a man of immeasurable wealth, power, and influence. Few heads of state, or imperial crowns, refused his requests. His porcelain, and reputation, remained among the finest in the world. He’d never seriously practiced Judaism, but he was a devoted friend of Israel. Last year he’d risked everything to stop a fanatic from destroying that blessed state. Privately, he supported charitable causes around the world with millions of the family’s euros.
But he was the last Thorvaldsen.
Only the most distant of relatives remained, and damn few of them. This family, which had endured for centuries, was about to end.
But not before justice was administered.
He heard a door open, then footsteps echoed across the black hall.
A clock somewhere announced two AM.
The footsteps stopped a few meters away and a voice said, “The sensors just tripped.”
Jesper had been with him a long time, witnessing all of the joy and pain—which, Thorvaldsen knew, his friend had felt as well.
“Where?” he asked.
“Southeast quadrant, near the shore. Two trespassers, headed this way.”
“You don’t need to do this,” he said to Jesper.
“We need to prepare.”
He smiled, glad his old friend could not see him. For the past two years he’d battled near-constant waves of conflicting emotion, involving himself with quests and causes that, only temporarily, allowed him to forget that pain, anguish, and sorrow had become his companions.
“What of Sam?” he asked.
“No further word since his earlier call. But Malone called twice. I allowed the phone to ring, as you instructed.”
Which meant Malone had done what he’d needed him to do.
He’d baited this trap with great care. Now he intended to spring it with equal precision.
He reached for the rifle.
“Time to welcome our guests.”
EIGHT
ELIZA SAT FORWARD IN HER SEAT. SHE NEEDED TO COMMAND Robert Mastroianni’s complete attention.
“Between 1689 and 1815, England was at war for sixty-three years. That’s one out of every two in combat—the off years spent preparing for more combat. Can you imagine what that cost? And that was not atypical. It was actually common during that time for European nations to stay at war.”
“Which, you say, many people actually profited from?” Mastroianni asked.
“Absolutely. And winning those wars didn’t matter, since every time a war was fought governments incurred more debt and financiers amassed more privileges. It’s like what drug companies do today. Treating the symptoms of a disease, never curing it, always being paid.”
Mastroianni finished the last of his chocolate tart. “I own stock in three of those pharmaceutical concerns.”
“Then you know what I just said is true.”
She stared him down with hard eyes. He returned the glare but seemed to decide not to engage her.
“That tart was marvelous,” he finally said. “I confess to a sweet tooth.”
“I brought you another.”
“Now you’re bribing me.”
“I want you to be a part of what is about to happen.”
“Why?”
“Men like you are rare commodities. You have great wealth, power, influence. You’re intelligent. Innovative. As with the rest of us, you are certainly tired of sharing great portions of your results with greedy, incompetent governments.”
“So what is about to happen, Eliza? Explain the mystery.”
She could not go that far. Not yet. “Let me answer by explaining more ab
out Napoleon. Do you know much about him?”
“Short fellow. Wore a funny hat. Always had a hand stuck inside his coat.”
“Did you know more books have been written about him than any other historical figure, save perhaps Jesus Christ.”
“I never realized you were such the historian.”
“I never realized you were so obstinate.”
She’d known Mastroianni a number of years, not as a friend, more as a casual business associate. He owned, outright, the world’s largest aluminum plant. He was also heavy into auto manufacturing, aircraft repair, and, as he’d noted, health care.
“I’m tired of being stalked,” he said. “Especially by a woman who wants something, yet can’t tell me what or why.”
She decided to do some ignoring of her own. “I like what Flaubert once wrote. History is prophecy, looking backwards.”
He chuckled. “Which perfectly illustrates your peculiar French view. I’ve always found it irritating how the French resolve all their conflicts on the battlefields of yesterday. It’s as if some glorious past will provide the precise solution.”
“That irritates the Corsican half of me sometimes as well. But occasionally, one of those former battlefields can be instructive.”
“Then, Eliza, do tell me of Napoleon.”
Only for the fact that this brash Italian was the perfect addition to her club did she continue. She could not, and would not, allow pride to interfere with careful planning.
“He created an empire not seen since the days of Rome. Seventy million people were under his personal rule. He was a man at ease with both the reek of gunpowder and the smell of parchment. He actually proclaimed himself emperor. Can you imagine? A mere thirty-five years old, he snubs the pope and places the imperial crown upon his own head.” She allowed her words to take root, then said, “Yet for all that ego, Napoleon built, specifically for himself, only two memorials, both small theaters that no longer exist.”
“What of all the buildings and monuments he erected?”
“Not one was created in his honor, or bears his name. Most were not even completed till long after his death. He even specifically vetoed the renaming of the Place de la Concorde to Place Napoleon.”