interviewing what few secondary witnesses remained alive-all of the main participants were long dead-and he'd learned that no one really knew if Rommel's gold existed. None of the stories about its origin, and journey from Africa to Germany, rang consistent. The most reliable account stated that the hoard originated from Gabès, in Tunisia, about 160 kilometers from the Libyan border. After the German Afrika Korps commandeered the town for its headquarters, its three thousand Jews were told that for "sixty hundredweight of gold" their lives would be spared. They were given forty-eight hours to produce the ransom, after which it was packed into six wooden crates, taken to the coast, and shipped north to Italy. There the Gestapo assumed control, eventually entrusting four soldiers with transporting the crates west to Corsica. What the containers contained remained unknown, but the Jews of Gabès were wealthy, as were the surrounding Jewish communities, the local synagogue a famous place of pilgrimage-the recipient, through the centuries, of many jeweled artifacts.
But was the treasure gold?
Hard to say.
Yet it had acquired the name Rommel's gold-thought to be one of the last great caches from World War II.
The Corsican held out his empty glass and Ashby rose to refill it. He might as well indulge the man, so he returned with a tumbler three-quarters full of rum.
The Corsican enjoyed a long swallow.
"I know about the cipher," Ashby said. "It's actually quite ingenious. A clever way to hide a message. The Moor's Knot, I believe it's called."
Pasquale Paoli, a Corsican freedom fighter from the 18th century, now a national hero, had coined the name. Paoli needed a way to effectively communicate with his allies, one that assured total privacy, so he adapted a method learned from the Moors who, for centuries, had raided the coastline as freebooting pirates.
"You acquire two identical books," Ashby explained. "Keep one. Give the other to the person to whom you want to send the message. Inside the book you find the right words for the message, then communicate the page, line, and word number to the recipient through a series of numbers. The numbers, by themselves, are useless, unless you have the right book."
He tabled his rum, found a folded sheet of paper in his pocket, and smoothed the page out on the glass-topped table. "These are what I provided you the last time we spoke."
His captive examined the sheet.
"They mean nothing to me," the Corsican said.
He shook his head in disbelief. "You're going to have to stop this. You know it's the location of Rommel's gold."
"Lord Ashby. Tonight, you've treated me with total disrespect. Hanging me from that tower. Calling me a liar. Saying that Gustave lied to you. Yes, I had this book. But these numbers mean nothing with reference to it. Now we are sailing to someplace that you have not even had the courtesy to identify. Your rum is delicious, the boat magnificent, but I must insist that you explain yourself."
All his adult life Ashby had searched for treasure. Though his family were financiers of long standing, he cherished the quest for things lost over the challenge of simply making money. Sometimes the answers he sought were discovered from hard work. Sometimes informants brought, for a price, what he needed to know. And sometimes, like here, he simply stumbled upon the solution.
"I would be more than happy to explain."
SEVEN
DENMARK, 1:50 AM
HENRIK THORVALDSEN CHECKED THE CLIP AND MADE SURE THE weapon was ready. Satisfied, he gently laid the assault rifle on the banquet table. He sat in the manor's great hall, beneath an oak beam ceiling, surrounded by armor and paintings that conveyed the look and feel of a noble seat. His ancestors had each sat at the same table, dating back nearly four hundred years.
Christmas was in less than three days.
What was it, nearly thirty years ago that Cai had climbed atop the table?
"You must get down," his wife demanded. "Immediately, Cai."
The boy scampered across the long expanse, his open palms threading the tops of high-backed chairs on either side. Thorvaldsen watched as his son avoided a gilded centerpiece and raced ahead, leaping into his outstretched arms.
"You're both impossible," his wife said. "Totally impossible."
"Lisette, it's Christmas. Let the boy play." He held him close in his lap. "He's only seven. And the table has been here a long time."
"Papa, will Nisse come this year?"
Cai loved the mischievous elf who, legend said, wore gray woolen clothes, a bonnet, red stockings, and white clogs. He dwelled in the lofts of old