He adjusted the angle of the light and revealed the inside of the freshly excavated grave.

Empty.

“No crates. No Ménéval. Nothing. Can you explain that?”

The Corsican did not offer a reply.

Ashby had not expected one. With his light, he revealed the faces of the other two men, then said, “These gentlemen have worked for me a long time. As has their father. Once, so did their uncles. They are absolutely loyal. Sumner,” he called out.

From the darkness more forms appeared, and a new torch beam revealed two more men.

“Gustave,” the Corsican said, recognizing one of the faces as his co-conspirator. “What are you doing here?”

“This man, Sumner, brought me.”

“You sold me out, Gustave.”

The other man shrugged. “You would have done the same.”

The Corsican laughed. “That I would. But we have both been made rich.”

Ashby noticed they spoke Corsican, so he added, in their language, “I apologize for this inconvenience. But we needed privacy to conclude our business. And I needed to know if there was, indeed, anything to find.”

The Corsican motioned to the empty hole. “As you can see, Lord Ashby, there are no crates. No treasure. As you feared.”

“Which is entirely understandable, given you both recently found the crates and carted them away.”

“That’s preposterous,” the Corsican said. “Completely, utterly false.”

Time for all pretense to end. “I have spent three years searching for Rommel’s gold. It has cost me much time and money. Six months ago I finally located that fifth German’s family. He lived a long life and died in Bavaria a decade ago. His widow, for a fee of course, allowed me inside her home. Among his belongings, I found the Roman numerals.”

“Lord Ashby,” the Corsican said. “We have not betrayed you.”

“Sumner, if you please, inform these gentlemen what you found.”

The shadowy form motioned at Gustave with his light. “Buried in this bugger’s backyard. Six crates.” The voice paused. “Full of gold bars bearing the swastika.”

Ashby savored the revelation. He hadn’t known, to this moment, what they’d discovered. While he’d hosted the Corsican, Sumner Murray and his sons had located Gustave, outside Bastia, and determined whether his suspicions proved correct. And while they’d sailed north, the Murrays had driven up the coast highway. Then Mr. Guildhall had come ashore and excavated the grave.

“I dealt with you in good faith,” Ashby told the two liars. “I offered you a percentage of the find, and I would have honored that agreement. You chose to deceive me, so I owe you nothing. I withdraw the one million euros I extended you both.”

He’d read of the famed Corsican vendettas-blood feuds that erupted between families and generated body counts normally associated with national civil wars. Usually begun over trivial matters of honor, the murderous fights could smolder for decades. The da Gentiles and da Mares had, for centuries, fought each other, some of the victims of those feuds decaying in the ground around him. Officially, vendettas no longer existed, but Corsican politics continued to be riddled with remnants. Assassination and violence were common. The political tactic even had a name. Règlement de comte. Settling of scores.

Time to settle this score.

“Normally I would have my solicitor deal with you.”

“A lawyer? You plan to sue us?” the Corsican asked.

“Heavens, no.”

The Corsican laughed. “I was beginning to wonder. Can’t we make some sort of arrangement? We did, after all, supply part of the answer. Can we keep the money you have already given us in return?”

“To do that, I would have to forgive your deceit.”

“It’s my nature,” the Corsican said. “I can’t help it. How about half the money for our trouble?”

He watched as Guildhall slowly backed away from the two men. Sumner and the two younger Murrays had already retreated, sensing what was about to happen.

“Half seems a bit much to me,” he said. “How about-”

Two pops disturbed the night.

Both Corsicans lurched as bullets from Guildhall’s gun pierced their skulls. Their bodies went limp, then flesh and bones collapsed forward, tumbling into the open grave.

Problem solved.

“Cover this up and make sure it’s unnoticed.” He knew the Murrays would handle things.

Mr. Guildhall came close, and Ashby asked, “How long will it take to retrieve the gold?”

“We have it already. It’s in the truck.”

“Excellent. Load it on Archimedes. We need to leave. Tomorrow, I have business elsewhere.”

DENMARK

MALONE AND THORVALDSEN LEFT THE BEDROOM AND WALKED toward Christiangade’s main foyer. There Thorvaldsen climbed a staircase to the next floor, where he followed a wide corridor adorned with Danish art and antiques to a closed door. Malone knew where they were headed.

Cai’s room.

Inside was an intimate chamber, with high ceilings, soft-colored plaster walls, and a four-poster English bed.

“He always called this his thinking space,” Thorvaldsen said, switching on three lamps. “This room was redecorated many times. It went from a nursery, to a little boy’s room, to a young man’s haven, to a grown man’s retreat. Lisette loved changing it.”

He knew the subject of Thorvaldsen’s late wife was taboo. In the two years they’d been together they’d discussed her but once, and then only fleetingly. Her portrait remained downstairs, more photographs of her scattered throughout the house. It seemed only visual reminders were permitted of this sacred memory.

He’d never before been allowed in Cai’s room, and he noticed more visual reminders here, too-shelves littered with knickknacks.

“I come here often,” Thorvaldsen said.

He had to ask, “Is that healthy?”

“Probably not. But I have to hold on to something, and this room is all I have left.”

He wanted to know what was happening so he kept his mouth shut and his ears open and indulged his friend. Thorvaldsen stooped against a dresser adorned with family photographs. An abyss of unfathomable grief seemed to engulf him.

“He was murdered, Cotton. Gunned down in the prime of his life for nothing more than the proving of a point.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“Cabral hired four shooters. Three went to that plaza-”

“And I killed them.” His vehemence at that reality alarmed him.

Thorvaldsen faced him. “Rightly so. I found the fourth. He told me what happened. He saw what you did. How you shot the two. He was to cover the third man, the one who shot you, but fled the plaza when you started firing. He was terrified of Cabral, so he disappeared.”

“So why not have Cabral prosecuted?”

“Not necessary. He’s dead.”

Then he knew. “He’s in one of those body bags?”

Thorvaldsen nodded. “He came to finish me himself.”

He caught what was not said. “Tell me the rest.”

“I didn’t want to speak in front of Sam. He’s so eager. Perhaps too eager. He believes himself right and wants vindication or, more correctly, validation. I hate that he was almost harmed.”

Thorvaldsen’s gaze returned to the dresser. Malone watched as emotions writhed within the older Dane.

“What did you discover?” Malone quietly asked.

“Something I never expected.”

SAM CLIMBED ABOARD THE BOAT AS JESPER TIED THE OTHER craft to the stern. Cold Scandinavian winter air burned his face. They’d laid both bodies, outside the bags, in the other boat and were now towing the craft into the open sound. Jesper had already told him how strong currents would sweep the boat toward Sweden, where it would be found after the sun rose.

What an exhausting night.

So much was happening.

Three days ago Thorvaldsen had predicted that the situation would escalate, and it certainly had.