didn’t bother to ask how Thorvaldsen had located him, or how the older man knew that he understood Danish.
“My son was precious to me,” Thorvaldsen said. “When he joined our diplomatic corps I was thrilled. He asked for the assignment to Mexico City. He was a student of the Aztecs. He would have made a worthy member of our Parliament one day. A statesman.”
A swirl of first impressions raced through Malone’s mind. Thorvaldsen was certainly high bred with an air of distinction, at once elegant and rakish. But the sophistication was in stark contrast to a deformed body, his spine humped in a grotesque exaggeration and stiff, shaped like an egret. A leathery face suggested a lifetime of impossible choices, the wrinkles more like deep clefts, the crow’s-feet sprouting legs, liver spots and forked veins discoloring the arms and hands. Pewter-colored hair was piled thick and bushy and matched the eyebrows—dull silver wisps that made the older man look anxious. Only in the eyes was there passion. Gray-blue, strangely clairvoyant, one flawed from a star-shaped cataract.
“I came to meet the man who shot my son’s killer.”
“Why?” he asked.
“To thank you.”
“You could have called.”
“I prefer to face my listener.”
“At the moment, I prefer to be left alone.”
“I understand you were nearly killed.”
He shrugged.
“And you are quitting your job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.”
“You know an awful lot.”
“Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.”
He was not impressed. “Thanks for the pat on the back. I have a hole in my shoulder that’s throbbing. So since you’ve said your peace, could you leave?”
Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa. He simply stared around at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an open archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves.
“I love them, too,” his guest said. “My home is likewise full of books. I’ve collected them all my life.”
He could sense that this man, sixty-plus years old, was given to grandiose tactics. He’d noticed when answering the door that he’d arrived via a limousine. So he wanted to know, “How did you know I speak Danish?”
“You speak several languages. I was proud to learn that my native tongue was one.”
Not an answer, but had he really expected one?
“Your eidetic memory must be a blessing. Mine has gone the way of age. I can hardly remember much anymore.”
He doubted that. “What do you want?”
“Have you considered your future?”
He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”
“Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like it.”
He decided to play along. What the hell. But there was something about the tight points of light in the old man’s eyes that told him his visitor was not joking.
Hard flinty hands searched a suit coat pocket and Thorvaldsen laid a business card on the sofa.
“My private number. If you’re interested, call me.”
The old man stood.
He stayed seated. “What makes you think I’m interested?”
“You are, Mr. Malone.”
He resented the assumption, particularly when the old man was right. Thorvaldsen shuffled toward the front door.
“Where is this bookstore?” he asked, cursing himself for even sounding interested.
“Copenhagen. Where else?”
He remembered waiting three days before calling. The prospect of living in Europe had always appealed to him. Had Thorvaldsen known that, too? He’d never thought living overseas possible. He was a career government man. American, born and bred. But that was before Mexico City. Before seven dead and nine injured.
He could still see his estranged wife’s face the day after he made the call to Copenhagen.
“I agree. We’ve had enough separation, Cotton, it’s time for a divorce.” The declaration came with the matter-of-factness of the trial lawyer that she
“My son was precious to me,” Thorvaldsen said. “When he joined our diplomatic corps I was thrilled. He asked for the assignment to Mexico City. He was a student of the Aztecs. He would have made a worthy member of our Parliament one day. A statesman.”
A swirl of first impressions raced through Malone’s mind. Thorvaldsen was certainly high bred with an air of distinction, at once elegant and rakish. But the sophistication was in stark contrast to a deformed body, his spine humped in a grotesque exaggeration and stiff, shaped like an egret. A leathery face suggested a lifetime of impossible choices, the wrinkles more like deep clefts, the crow’s-feet sprouting legs, liver spots and forked veins discoloring the arms and hands. Pewter-colored hair was piled thick and bushy and matched the eyebrows—dull silver wisps that made the older man look anxious. Only in the eyes was there passion. Gray-blue, strangely clairvoyant, one flawed from a star-shaped cataract.
“I came to meet the man who shot my son’s killer.”
“Why?” he asked.
“To thank you.”
“You could have called.”
“I prefer to face my listener.”
“At the moment, I prefer to be left alone.”
“I understand you were nearly killed.”
He shrugged.
“And you are quitting your job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.”
“You know an awful lot.”
“Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.”
He was not impressed. “Thanks for the pat on the back. I have a hole in my shoulder that’s throbbing. So since you’ve said your peace, could you leave?”
Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa. He simply stared around at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an open archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves.
“I love them, too,” his guest said. “My home is likewise full of books. I’ve collected them all my life.”
He could sense that this man, sixty-plus years old, was given to grandiose tactics. He’d noticed when answering the door that he’d arrived via a limousine. So he wanted to know, “How did you know I speak Danish?”
“You speak several languages. I was proud to learn that my native tongue was one.”
Not an answer, but had he really expected one?
“Your eidetic memory must be a blessing. Mine has gone the way of age. I can hardly remember much anymore.”
He doubted that. “What do you want?”
“Have you considered your future?”
He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”
“Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like it.”
He decided to play along. What the hell. But there was something about the tight points of light in the old man’s eyes that told him his visitor was not joking.
Hard flinty hands searched a suit coat pocket and Thorvaldsen laid a business card on the sofa.
“My private number. If you’re interested, call me.”
The old man stood.
He stayed seated. “What makes you think I’m interested?”
“You are, Mr. Malone.”
He resented the assumption, particularly when the old man was right. Thorvaldsen shuffled toward the front door.
“Where is this bookstore?” he asked, cursing himself for even sounding interested.
“Copenhagen. Where else?”
He remembered waiting three days before calling. The prospect of living in Europe had always appealed to him. Had Thorvaldsen known that, too? He’d never thought living overseas possible. He was a career government man. American, born and bred. But that was before Mexico City. Before seven dead and nine injured.
He could still see his estranged wife’s face the day after he made the call to Copenhagen.
“I agree. We’ve had enough separation, Cotton, it’s time for a divorce.” The declaration came with the matter-of-factness of the trial lawyer that she
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