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.

When they’d docked the motorboat at Christiangade, Malone had wanted answers, but Thorvaldsen had promised that over dinner all would be explained. So he’d been driven back to Copenhagen, slept a little, then worked in the bookstore the remainder of the day. A couple of times he drifted into the history section and found a few volumes on Alexander and Greece. But mainly he wondered what Thorvaldsen had meant by Cassiopeia needs your help.

Now he was beginning to understand.

Out the open window, across the square, he spotted Cassiopeia leaving his bookshop, dashing through the rain, something wrapped in a plastic bag tucked beneath one arm. Thirty minutes ago he’d given her the key to the store so she could use his computer and phone.

“Finding Alexander’s body,” Thorvaldsen said, “centers on Ely and the manuscript pages he uncovered. Ely initially asked Cassiopeia to locate the elephant medallions. But when we started to track them down, we discovered someone else was already looking.”

“How did Ely connect the medallions to the manuscript?”

“He examined the one in Samarkand and found the microletters. ZH. They have a connection to the manuscript. After Ely died, Cassiopeia wanted to know what was happening.”

“So she came to you for help?”

Thorvaldsen nodded. “I couldn’t refuse.”

He smiled. How many friends would buy an entire museum and duplicate everything inside just so it could burn to the ground?

Cassiopeia disappeared below the windowsill. He heard the café’s main door below open and close, then footsteps climbing the metal stairway to the second floor.

“You’ve stayed wet a lot today,” Malone said, as she reached the top.

Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, her jeans and pullover shirt splotched with rain. “Hard for a girl to look good.”

“Not really.”

She threw him a look. “A charmer tonight.”

“I have my moments.”

She removed his laptop from the plastic bag and said to Thorvaldsen, “I downloaded everything.”