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“ Caspar Fincke bin ich genannt, dieser Arbeit binn ich bekannt.Caspar Fincke is my name, to this work I owe my fame.”
    She faced him. “Your point?”
    “Atop the Round
    Tower in Copenhagen
    , around its edge, is another iron grating. Fincke designed that, too. He fashioned it low so the eye could see the city rooftops, but it also makes for an easy leap.”
    She got the message. “That man who jumped today worked for you?”
    He nodded.
    “Why did he die?”
    “Soldiers of Christ securely fight the battles of the Lord, fearing no sin from the slaughter of the enemy, nor danger from their own death.”
    “He killed himself.”
    “When death is to be given, or received, it has naught of a crime in it but much glory.”
    “You don’t know how to answer a question.”
    He smiled. “I was merely quoting a great theologian, who wrote those words eight hundred years ago. St. Bernard of Clairvaux.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Why not call me Bernard.”
    “What do you want?”
    “Two things. First, the book we both lost in the bidding. But I recognize you cannot provide that. The second, you do have. It was sent to you a month ago.”
    She kept her face stoic. This was indeed the man who knew her business. “And what is that?”
    “Ah, a test. A way for you to judge my credibility. All right. The package sent to you contained a journal that once belonged to your husband—a personal notebook he kept until his untimely death. Did I pass?”
    She said nothing.
    “I want that journal.”
    “Why is it so important?”
    “Many called your husband odd. Different. New age. The academic community scoffed at him, and the press made fun of him. But I called him brilliant. He could see things others never noticed. Look what he accomplished. He originated the entire modern-day attraction with Rennes-le-Château. His book was the first to realert the world to the locale’s wonders. Sold five million copies worldwide. Quite an accomplishment.”
    “My husband sold many books.”
    “Fourteen, if I’m not mistaken, but none was of the magnitude of his first, The Treasure at Rennes-le-Château. Thanks to him, there are now hundreds of volumes published on that subject.”
    “What makes you think I have my husband’s journal?”
    “We both know that I would have it now but for the interference of a man named Cotton Malone. I believe he once worked for you.”
    “Doing what?”
    He seemed to understand her continued challenge. “You are a career official with the United States Justice Department and head a unit known as the Magellan Billet. Twelve lawyers, each chosen specially by you, who work under your sole direction and handle, shall we say, sensitive matters. Cotton Malone worked a number of years for you. But he retired early last year and now owns a bookshop in Copenhagen. If not for the unfortunate actions of my acolyte, you would have enjoyed a light lunch with Mr. Malone, bid him farewell, and headed here for the auction, which was your true purpose for coming to Denmark.”
    The time for pretense was over. “Who do you work for?”
    “Myself.”
    “I doubt that.”
    “Why would you?”
    “Years of practice.”
    He smiled again, which annoyed her. “The notebook, if you please.”
    “I don’t have it. After today, I thought it needed safekeeping.”
    “Does Peter Hansen have it?”
    She said nothing.
    “No. I assume you would not admit to anything.”
    “I think this conversation is over.” She turned for the open gate and hurried through it. To her right, back toward the main doors, she spied two more men with short hair—not the same ones from the auction house—but she instantly knew who gave them orders.
    She glanced back at the man whose name was not Bernard.
    “Like my associate today on the Round
     Tower, there is no place for you to go.”
    “Screw you.”
    And she spun left and rushed deeper into the cathedral.
     
    MALONE ASSESSED THE SITUATION. HE WAS STANDING IN A PUBLICplace,