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Authors: Steve Berry
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assigned.”
“And one was, who declined to pursue the case. All charges were dropped.”
Thorvaldsen studied Malone. He saw that his friend fully understood.
“Who were the two men she was prosecuting?” Malone asked.
“The Spaniard is Amando Cabral. The Brit is Lord Graham Ashby.”
TWELVE
CORSICA
A SHBY SAT ON THE SOFA, SIPPING HIS RUM, WATCHING THE C ORSICAN as Archimedes continued its cruise up the coast, following Cap Corse’s rocky east shore.
“Those four Germans left something with the fifth,” Ashby finally said. “That has long been rumor. But I discovered it to be fact.”
“Thanks to information I provided, months ago.”
He nodded. “That’s right. You controlled the missing pieces. That’s why I came and generously offered what I knew, along with a percentage of the find. And you agreed to share.”
“That I did. But we’ve found nothing. So why have this conversation? Why am I a captive?”
“Captive? Hardly. We’re simply taking a short cruise aboard my boat. Two friends. Visiting.”
“Friends don’t assault each other.”
“And neither do they lie to each other.”
He’d approached this man over a year ago, after learning of his connection with that fifth German who’d been there in September 1943. Legend held that one of the four soldiers Hitler executed encoded the treasure’s location and tried to use the information as a bargaining chip. Unfortunately for him Nazis didn’t bargain, or at least never in good faith. The Corsican sitting across from him, surely trying to determine just how far this charade could be taken, had stumbled upon what that ill-fated German had left behind—a book, an innocuous volume on Napoleon—which the soldier had read while imprisoned in Italy.
“That man,” Ashby said, “learned of the Moor’s Knot.” He pointed to the table. “So he created those letters. They were eventually discovered by that fifth participant, after the war, in confiscated German archives. Unfortunately, he never learned the book’s title. Amazingly, you managed to accomplish that feat. I rediscovered these letters and, the last time we met, provided them to you, which showed my good faith. But you didn’t mention anything about knowing the actual book title.”
“Who says I know it?”
“Gustave.”
He saw the shock on the man’s face.
“Have you harmed him?” the Corsican asked again.
“I paid him for the information. Gustave is a talkative individual, with an infectious optimism. He’s also now quite rich.”
He watched as his guest digested the betrayal.
Mr. Guildhall entered the salon and nodded. He knew what that meant. They were near. Engines dulled as the boat slowed. He motioned and his acolyte left.
“And if I decipher the Moor’s Knot?” the Corsican asked, after apparently connecting the dots.
“Then you, too, shall be rich.”
“How rich?”
“One million euros.”
The Corsican laughed. “The treasure is worth a hundred times that.”
Ashby stood from the sofa. “Provided there’s one to find. Even you admit that it may all be a tale.”
He stepped across the salon and retrieved a black satchel. He returned and poured out its contents on the sofa.
Bundles of euros.
The bureaucrat’s eyes widened.
“One million. Yours. No more hunting for you.”
The Corsican immediately leaned forward and slid the book close. “You are most persuasive, Lord Ashby.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“These Roman numerals are clear. The top row are page numbers. The middle set, line numbers. The last show the position of the word. Angling ties the three rows together.”
He watched as the Corsican thumbed though the old book, locating the first page, 95, line 4, word 7. “Santa. Which makes no sense. But if you add the two words after, it does. Santa Maria Tower.”
The steps were repeated four more times.
Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval .
Ashby watched, then said, “A well-chosen book. Its text
“And one was, who declined to pursue the case. All charges were dropped.”
Thorvaldsen studied Malone. He saw that his friend fully understood.
“Who were the two men she was prosecuting?” Malone asked.
“The Spaniard is Amando Cabral. The Brit is Lord Graham Ashby.”
TWELVE
CORSICA
A SHBY SAT ON THE SOFA, SIPPING HIS RUM, WATCHING THE C ORSICAN as Archimedes continued its cruise up the coast, following Cap Corse’s rocky east shore.
“Those four Germans left something with the fifth,” Ashby finally said. “That has long been rumor. But I discovered it to be fact.”
“Thanks to information I provided, months ago.”
He nodded. “That’s right. You controlled the missing pieces. That’s why I came and generously offered what I knew, along with a percentage of the find. And you agreed to share.”
“That I did. But we’ve found nothing. So why have this conversation? Why am I a captive?”
“Captive? Hardly. We’re simply taking a short cruise aboard my boat. Two friends. Visiting.”
“Friends don’t assault each other.”
“And neither do they lie to each other.”
He’d approached this man over a year ago, after learning of his connection with that fifth German who’d been there in September 1943. Legend held that one of the four soldiers Hitler executed encoded the treasure’s location and tried to use the information as a bargaining chip. Unfortunately for him Nazis didn’t bargain, or at least never in good faith. The Corsican sitting across from him, surely trying to determine just how far this charade could be taken, had stumbled upon what that ill-fated German had left behind—a book, an innocuous volume on Napoleon—which the soldier had read while imprisoned in Italy.
“That man,” Ashby said, “learned of the Moor’s Knot.” He pointed to the table. “So he created those letters. They were eventually discovered by that fifth participant, after the war, in confiscated German archives. Unfortunately, he never learned the book’s title. Amazingly, you managed to accomplish that feat. I rediscovered these letters and, the last time we met, provided them to you, which showed my good faith. But you didn’t mention anything about knowing the actual book title.”
“Who says I know it?”
“Gustave.”
He saw the shock on the man’s face.
“Have you harmed him?” the Corsican asked again.
“I paid him for the information. Gustave is a talkative individual, with an infectious optimism. He’s also now quite rich.”
He watched as his guest digested the betrayal.
Mr. Guildhall entered the salon and nodded. He knew what that meant. They were near. Engines dulled as the boat slowed. He motioned and his acolyte left.
“And if I decipher the Moor’s Knot?” the Corsican asked, after apparently connecting the dots.
“Then you, too, shall be rich.”
“How rich?”
“One million euros.”
The Corsican laughed. “The treasure is worth a hundred times that.”
Ashby stood from the sofa. “Provided there’s one to find. Even you admit that it may all be a tale.”
He stepped across the salon and retrieved a black satchel. He returned and poured out its contents on the sofa.
Bundles of euros.
The bureaucrat’s eyes widened.
“One million. Yours. No more hunting for you.”
The Corsican immediately leaned forward and slid the book close. “You are most persuasive, Lord Ashby.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“These Roman numerals are clear. The top row are page numbers. The middle set, line numbers. The last show the position of the word. Angling ties the three rows together.”
He watched as the Corsican thumbed though the old book, locating the first page, 95, line 4, word 7. “Santa. Which makes no sense. But if you add the two words after, it does. Santa Maria Tower.”
The steps were repeated four more times.
Santa Maria Tower, convent, cemetery, marker, Ménéval .
Ashby watched, then said, “A well-chosen book. Its text
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