She pushed through the rain, stuffing bare hands into coat pockets. She crossed an arched pedestrian bridge, entered the Rembrandtplein, and noticed that the torrid evening had not dampened the crowds at the peep shows, pickup clubs, gay bars, and striptease outlets.
Farther into the bowels of the red-light district, she passed brothels, their plate-glass windows littered with girls promising fulfillment with leather and lace. In one, an Asian woman, dressed in tight bondage gear, sat on a padded seat and flipped through the pages of a magazine.
Stephanie had been told that night was not the most threatening time for a visit to the renowned district. The morning desperation of passing junkies and the early-afternoon edginess of pimps waiting for the evening’s business were usually more intense. But she’d been warned that the northern end, near the Nieuwmarkt, in an area just beyond the crowds, constantly exuded a quiet sense of menace. So she was on guard as she breached the invisible line and entered. Her eyes shot back and forth, like a prowling cat’s, her course set straight for the café at the far end of the street.
The Jan Heuval occupied the ground floor of a three-story warehouse. A brown café, one of hundreds that dotted the Rembrandtplein. She shoved open the front door and immediately noticed the aroma of burning cannabis along with the absence of any “No Drugs Please” sign.
The café was jammed, its warm air saturated with a hallucinogenic fog scented like singed rope. The aroma of fried fish and roasted chestnuts mixed with the intoxicating waft and her eyes burned. She pushed back the hood and shook rain onto the foyer’s already damp tiles.
Then she spotted Klaus Dyhr. Mid-thirties, blond-haired, pale, weathered face-exactly as he’d been described.
Not for the first time, she reminded herself why she was here. Returning a favor. Cassiopeia Vitt had asked her to contact Dyhr. And since she owed her friend at least one favor, she could hardly refuse the request. Before making contact she’d run a check and learned that Dyhr was Dutch born, German educated, and practiced chemistry for a local plastics manufacturer. His obsession was coin collecting-he supposedly possessed an impressive array-and one in particular had drawn the interest of her Muslim friend.
The Dutchman stood alone near a chest-high table, nursing a brown beer and munching fried fish. A rolled cigarette burned in an ashtray and the thick green fog curling upward was not from tobacco.
“I’m Stephanie Nelle,” she said in English. “The woman who called.”
“You said you were interested in buying.”
She caught the curt tone that said, “Tell me what you want, pay me, and I’ll be on my way.” She also noticed his glassy eyes, which almost couldn’t be helped. Even she was starting to feel a buzz. “Like I said on the phone, I want the elephant medallion.”
He gulped a swallow of beer. “Why? It’s of no consequence. I have many other coins worth much more. Good prices.”
“I’m sure you do. But I want the medallion. You said it was for sale.”
“I said it depends on what you want to pay.”
“Can I see it?”
Klaus reached into his pocket. She accepted the offering and studied the oblong medallion through a plastic sleeve. A warrior on one side, a mounted war elephant challenging a horseman on the other. About the size of a fifty-cent piece, the images nearly eroded away.
“You know nothing of what that is, do you?” Klaus asked.
She decided to be honest. “I’m doing this for someone else.”
“I want six thousand euros.”
Cassiopeia had told her to pay whatever. Price was irrelevant. But staring at the sheaved piece, she wondered why something so nondescript would be so important.
“There are only eight known,” he said. “Six thousand euros is a bargain.”
“Only eight? Why sell it?”
He fingered the burning butt, sucked a deep drag, held it, then slowly whistled out thick smoke. “I need the money.” His oily eyes returned their gaze downward, staring toward his beer.
“Things that bad?” she asked.
“You sound like you care.”
Two men flanked Klaus. One was fair, the other tanned. Their faces and features were a conflicting mixture of Arab and Asian. Rain continued to pour outside, but the men’s coats were dry. Fair grabbed Klaus’s arm and a knife blade was pressed flat to the man’s stomach. Tan wrapped an arm around her in a seemingly friendly embrace and brought the tip of another knife close to her ribs, pressing the blade into her coat.
“The medallion,” Fair said, motioning with his head. “On the table.”
She decided not to argue and calmly did as he asked.
“We’ll be leaving now,” Tan said, pocketing the coin. His breath stank of beer. “Stay here.”
She had no intention of challenging them. She knew to respect weapons pointed at her.
The men wove their way to the front door and left the café.
“They took my coin,” Klaus said, his voice rising. “I’m going after them.”
She couldn’t decide if it was foolishness or the drugs talking. “How about you let me handle it.”
He appraised her with a suspicious gaze.
“I assure you,” she said. “I came prepared.”
TWENTY-TWO
COPENHAGEN
7:45 P.M.
MALONE FINISHED HIS DINNER. HE WAS SITTING INSIDE THE CAFÉ Norden, a two-story restaurant that faced into the heart of Højbro Plads. The evening had turned nasty with a brisk April shower dousing the nearly empty city square. He sat high and dry by an open window, on the upper floor, and enjoyed the rain.
“I appreciate you helping out today,” Thorvaldsen said from across the table.
“Almost getting blown up? Twice? What are friends for?”
He finished the last of his tomato bisque soup. The café offered some of the best he’d ever eaten. He was full of questions, but realized answers, as always with Thorvaldsen, would be apportioned sparingly. “Back at that house, you and Cassiopeia talked about Alexander the Great’s body. That you know where it is. How’s that possible?”
“We’ve managed to learn a lot on the subject.”
“Cassiopeia’s friend at the museum in Samarkand?”
“More than a friend, Cotton.”
He’d surmised as much. “Who was he?”
“Ely Lund. He grew up here, in Copenhagen. He and my son, Cai, were friends.”
Malone caught the sadness when Thorvaldsen mentioned his dead son. His stomach also flip-flopped at the thought of that day two years ago, in Mexico City, when the young man was murdered. Malone had been there, on a Magellan Billet assignment, and brought down the shooters, but a bullet had found him, too. Losing a son. He couldn’t imagine Gary, his own fifteen-year-old, dying.
“Whereas Cai wanted to serve in government, Ely loved history. He earned a doctorate and became an expert on Greek antiquity, working in several European museums before ending up in Samarkand. The cultural museum there has a superb collection, and the Central Asian Federation offered encouragements to science and art.”
“How did Cassiopeia meet him?”
“I introduced them. Three years ago. Thought it would be good for them both.”
He sipped his drink. “What happened?”
“He died. A little less than two months ago. She took it hard.”
“She love him?”
Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Hard to say with her. Rarely do her emotions surface.”
But they had earlier. Her sadness watching the museum burn. The distant stare out over the canal. Her refusal to meet his gaze. Nothing voiced. Only felt.