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tried to pry information from him on the drive, but he’d offered little, which only seemed to fuel her rage. Before he dealt with her, he needed to communicate with someone else.
    The dark house was a genuine specimen of Danish baroque—three stories, built of sandstone-encased brick, and topped with a gracefully curving copper roof. One wing turned inland, the other faced the sea. Three hundred years ago a Thorvaldsen had erected it, after profitably converting tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce glass. More Thorvaldsens lovingly maintained it over the centuries and eventually transformed Adelgade Glasvaerker, with its distinctive symbol of two circles with a line beneath, into Denmark’s premier glassmaker. The modern conglomerate was headed by the current family patriarch, Henrik Thorvaldsen, the man responsible for Malone now living in Denmark.
    He strode to the stout front door. A medley of bells reminiscent of a Copenhagen church at high noon announced his presence. He pressed the button again, then pounded. A light flashed on in one of the upper windows. Then another. A few moments later he heard locks release, and the door opened. Though the man staring out at him had certainly been asleep, his copper-colored hair was combed, his face a mask of polished control, his cotton robe wrinkle-free.
    Jesper. Thorvaldsen’s head of household.
    “Wake him up,” Malone said in Danish.
    “And the purpose of such a radical act at four in the morning?”
    “Look at me.” He was covered in sweat, grime, and soot. “Important enough?”
    “I’m inclined to think so.”
    “We’ll wait in the study. I need his computer.”
    Malone first found his Danish e-mail account to see if any more messages had been sent, but there was nothing. He’d then accessed the Magellan Billet secured server, using the password that his former boss, Stephanie Nelle, had given him. Though he was retired and no longer on the Justice Department payroll, in return for what he’d done for Stephanie recently in France she’d provided him a direct line of communication. With the time difference—it was still only ten o’clock Monday evening in Atlanta—he knew his message would be routed directly to her.
    He glanced up from the computer as Thorvaldsen shuffled into the room. The older Dane had apparently taken the time to dress. His short, stooped frame, the product of a spine that long ago refused to straighten, was concealed by the folds of an oversized sweater the color of a pumpkin. His bushy silver hair lay matted to one side, his eyebrows thick and untamed. Deep lines bracketed the mouth and forehead, and his sallow skin suggested an avoidance of the sun—which Malone knew was the case, as the Dane rarely ventured out. On a continent where old money meant billions, Thorvaldsen was at the top of every wealthiest-people list.
    “What’s happening?” Thorvaldsen asked.
    “Henrik, this is Pam, my ex-wife.”
    Thorvaldsen flashed her a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”
    “We don’t have time for this,” she said, ignoring their host. “We need to be seeing about Gary.”
    Thorvaldsen faced him. “You look awful, Cotton, and she looks anxious.”
    “Anxious?” Pam said. “I just climbed out of a burning building. My son is missing. I’m jet-lagged, and I haven’t eaten in two days.”
    “I’ll have some food prepared.” Thorvaldsen’s voice stayed flat, as if this kind of thing happened every night.
    “I don’t want food. I want to see about my son.”
    Malone told Thorvaldsen what happened in Copenhagen, then said, “I’m afraid the building’s gone.”
    “Which is the least of our worries.”
    He caught the choice of words and nearly smiled. He liked that about Thorvaldsen. On your side, no matter what.
    Pam was pacing like a caged lioness. Malone noticed that she’d lost a few pounds since they’d last spoken. She’d always been slender, with long reddish hair, and time had not darkened the pale tone of