She unfolded and read.

Has an Antichrist Come?

If you analyze the current systematic conquering of the independent countries of the world you can easily find that, behind all of these aggressions, a pattern of unique power emerges that includes economy, military, media, and politicians. I will try to present that this power belongs to the world’s financiers. I think an Antichrist is at the head of these tyrants. Her name is Eliza Larocque. She wants to rule the world, totally invisibly, by the secretly possessed economic power her family has built through centuries.

There is no safer and more profitable business than lending money to countries. Like financiers joining together, refusing to compete with one another, and manipulating markets and currency to their collective advantage pose a grave threat. Larocque and her associates possess a hierarchically organized structure that buys or acquires shares in everything valuable in the global market. They may, for instance, possess Coca-Cola and PepsiCo and, from the top of their Olympus, watch these companies fight each other on the market. But thanks to the capitalist system and its secret business regulation policy, nobody except them is able to know. By controlling the governments in the Western countries, they control the whole Western world. If you follow global political policy you can easily see that democratically elected leaders of countries change, but policy follows the interests of the rich and therefore stays more or less the same. Numerous elements point out the fact that there is an invisible organization that rules the world. The facts I have collected about Eliza Larocque tells me that she leads that organization. I am talking here about a conspiracy that captures almost the whole world.

She smiled. “Antichrist?”

“Granted, the wording is unorthodox, the conclusions bold, but it is on the right track.”

“I assure you, Herre Thorvaldsen, the last thing I want is to rule the world. Far too much trouble.”

“I agree. You simply want to manipulate it to the mutual advantage of you and your colleagues. If that manipulation has some… political fallout… so what? It’s profit that matters.” Thorvaldsen paused. “That’s why I’m here. I’d like to share in those profits.”

“You couldn’t possibly need money.”

“Nor could you. But that’s not the point, is it?”

She asked, “And what would you have to offer, in return for that sharing?”

“One of your members is in financial trouble. His portfolio has been stretched to the breaking point. He’s heavily in debt. His lifestyle demands massive amounts of capital, money he simply does not have. A series of bad investments, overextensions, and carelessness have brought him to the verge of collapse.”

“Why does this man interest you?”

“He doesn’t. But in order to command your attention, I knew that I would have to provide something that you don’t already know. This seemed ideal for that purpose.”

“And why should I care about this man’s troubles?”

“Because he’s your security leak.”

Her spine shivered. Everything she’d envisioned could be in jeopardy if one of the chosen had sold out the others.

She needed to know, “Who is this man?”

“Lord Graham Ashby.”

TWENTY-TWO

ENGLAND

A LATE LUNCH WAS WAITING FOR ASHBY WHEN HE RETURNED to Salen Hall. His paternal family’s ancestral seat was a classical battlemented manor, perched amid twenty-four forested hectares to which Ashbys had held the title since 1660.

He entered the main dining room and took his customary seat at the north end of the table where a portrait of his great-grandfather, the sixth duke of Ashby, a close confidant of Queen Victoria I, watched his back. Outside, frigid December air swirled with white flakes-a prelude, he believed, to a coming snow and Christmas, just two days away.

“I heard you’d returned,” a female voice said.

He glanced up from the table at Caroline. She was wearing a full-length silk charmeuse gown, bare legs slipping in and out of a high-cut slit. A kimono-style robe covered her thin shoulders, open in front, the gown’s golden coloring matching her long, curly hair.

“I see you’ve dressed as a good mistress should.” She smiled. “Isn’t that my job? To please the master?” He liked their give-and-take. His wife’s prudish ways had long ago become tiresome. She lived in London, her apartment filled with pyramids under which she lay for hours each day, hoping their magical power would cleanse her soul. He hoped the apartment would burn, with her inside it, but no such luck had come his way. He’d been lucky, though, in that they were childless, estranged for years, which explained his many mistresses, Caroline the latest and longest lasting.

Three things, though, distinguished Caroline from all of the others.

First, she was extraordinarily beautiful-a collection of the best physical attributes he’d ever seen gathered around one spine. Second, she was brilliant. Her degrees, one from the University of Edinburgh, the other from University College of London, were in medieval literature and applied ancient history. Her master’s thesis had been devoted to the Napoleonic Age and its effects on modern political thought, especially as it impacted European unification. Finally, he genuinely liked this woman. Her sensuous ways stimulated him in ways he’d never thought possible.

“I missed you last night,” she said as she sat at the table.

“I was on the boat.”

“Business or pleasure?”

She knew her place, he’d give her that. No jealousies. No demands. Strangely, though, he’d never cheated on her. And he often wondered if she was equally as loyal. But he realized the path of privacy flowed two ways. They were each free to do as they pleased.

“Business,” he said, then added, “as always.”

A footman appeared and laid a plate on the table before him. He was delighted to see a celery heart wrapped in ham, smothered in the tart cheese sauce he loved.

He lapped his napkin and lifted a fork.

“No, thank you,” Caroline said to him. “I’m not hungry. None for me.”

He caught the sarcasm but kept eating. “You’re a big girl. I assume you’d have something brought if you wanted it.”

She had the run of the estate, the staff at her complete disposal. His wife never visited the house anymore. Thank goodness. Unlike her, Caroline treated the employees with kindness. She actually did a good job looking after things, which he appreciated.

“I ate a couple of hours ago,” she said.

He finished his celery and was pleased by the entrée the footman presented. Roasted partridge with sweet dressing. He acknowledged his pleasure with a nod and signaled for another pat of butter for his roll.

“Did you find the damn gold?” she finally asked.

He’d intentionally kept silent about his success in Corsica, waiting for her to inquire. More of their give-and-take.

Which he knew she liked, too.

He gripped another fork. “Right where you said it would be.”

She’d been the one who’d discovered the connection between Gustave’s and the Corsican’s books and the Roman numerals. She’d also discovered, from some research conducted in Barcelona a few weeks ago, the Moor’s Knot. He was glad to have her on his side, and knew what was now expected of him.

“I’ll have a few bars set aside for you.”

She nodded her appreciation. “And I’ll see to it that you have a lovely evening tonight.”

“I could use some relaxation.”

The charmeuse in her gown shimmered as she edged closer to the table. “That solves your money problems.”

“For the foreseeable future. I estimated as much as a hundred million euros in gold.”

“And my few bars?”

“A million. Maybe more, depending on how lovely my evening is tonight.”