'You really don't know?'

'Know what, for God's sake?'

'Oh Christ.'

'Know what?'

'I'm sorry, Richard.'

'Sorry? What the hell-'

'Marty's dead.'

TWENTY-NINE.

'You'll miss me when I'm gone.' Looking back, Eusden was surprised Marty had not said this at some point during their few days together in Hamburg and rhus. Perhaps he had not needed to. Perhaps he had thought it self-evidently true. And so it was, though there had been several occasions when Eusden would vehemently have denied it. But all the grudges and resentments and irritations, even the numerous breaches of faith, fell away in the face of death. And it was the face of death that Eusden looked into when he gazed down at Marty on the mortuary slab at Roskilde Amtssygehuset later that morning: a cold, pale, vacant face no longer really Marty's at all.

A hovering administrator was anxious to establish whether Eusden would be arranging Marty's removal to a local undertaker or back home to Amsterdam or England. Eusden prevaricated. He could not afford to commit himself to remaining in Copenhagen for the week or more he suspected such arrangements would take. He was going to have to offload the responsibility on to Gemma. And he was goingto have to find a way to explain that to her.

But he could not summon the effort to concentrate on such stark practicalities as he left the hospital and wandered towards the centre of Roskilde, past the railway station where he had arrived from Copenhagen a couple of hours earlier. The death of his childhood friend was like the amputation of a limb he had not realized until then he possessed. He kept remembering Marty's most characteristic expression, by which all his mischief and humour and daring his ineluctable spirit were magically conveyed. Eusden could see it now, clear and golden in his mind's eye. Richard would jump off the bus from Newport at the Fountain Arcade in Cowes on a Saturday morning and Marty would be waiting for him, chewing gum and smiling and assuring him, just by the look on his face, that life for the next few hours was going to be fun. Some trace of that had still been there when Eusden pulled the tape off Marty's mouth at Frau Straub's flat in Hamburg. 'Good to see you, Coningsby.' And the feeling, despite everything the forfeited surety, the rivalry for Gemma, the disputes and deceptions had been mutual. It always had been. But it never would be again.

There was an old cemetery next to the station that had been turned into a park. Eusden had the benches to himself, thanks to the dank chill of the day. He sat and gazed towards the red-brick gables and copper-tiled spires of Roskilde Cathedral, its shape blurred by the tears that were in his eyes. According to the information Gemma had been supplied with, Marty had collapsed in the cathedral at about 3.30 the previous afternoon and been pronounced dead on arrival at the local hospital. Cause of death was a massive stroke. He had not been carrying a passport and had been identified from a prescription in his pocket issued by the pharmacy at rhus Kommunehospital. He had recorded Gemma as his next of kin on admission there. The oncologist had evidently strongly advised him not to discharge himself specifically because of the likelihood of a second stroke, but Marty had insisted. And Eusden knew just how insistent he could be.

The 11.54 train Marty had said he was catching from rhus would have got him to Roskilde just before three o'clock, the time of his supposed telephone call to Straub. Half an hour later, he walked into the cathedral but did not walk out. The unanswerable question was why he had got off at Roskilde at all. He must have changed his mind about travelling through to Copenhagen for some reason. Regina Celeste would say it was to fix a rendezvous for his covert meeting with Straub. But that rendezvous was clearly not Roskilde. Straub's note had implied somewhere farther flung. Eusden preferred to believe Marty had sent Straub off on a wild-goose chase so he would not be in Copenhagen when Marty arrived there after a strategic stop-over in Roskilde only for sudden death to prevent him carrying through his plan. If Eusden was right, Marty had died while trying to protect both of them.

Eusden had been to Roskilde once before with Gemma and Holly, to visit the Viking Ship Museum. The cathedral had played only a bit-part in the day's entertainment, though Holly had enjoyed hunting for the tomb of Harold Bluetooth. Dagmar's tomb must have been somewhere in the crypt then, but Eusden had not gone looking for it. It was no longer there, of course, so exactly what had drawn Marty to the cathedral was hard to say. He was an avowed atheist and no fan of ecclesiastical architecture. A mausoleum catering for umpteen centuries of Danish royalty would ordinarily have elicited little more from him than a shrug of indifference.

But gone there he had. And Eusden followed. He stepped into the entrance porch and was greeted by a volunteer guide. When he explained he was a friend of the man who had died there the day before, he was directed to the woman behind the sales desk. She, he was told in hushed tones, 'knew all about it'.

This, it transpired, was because it was in the porch, rather than the main body of the cathedral, that Marty had collapsed. The sales lady, a kindly middle-aged woman with a ready smile, identified by her badge as Jette, had seen it happen.

'He had just come in and bought a ticket and a guidebook. He asked me about Princess Dagmar, mother of the last Tsar of Russia. She was Danish, you know, and was buried here. Until last September, that is, when she was moved to St Petersburg. He wanted to know where her coffin had been. I showed him on the map inside the guidebook. We have postcards of it.' She plucked a card from the rack and showed it to Eusden. Dagmar's large, handsomely carved wooden coffin was pictured in its appointed corner of the crypt, flanked by icons and glowing candles. 'He bought one of these also.'

'How did he seem?'

'A little... shaky. I noticed he was... sweating, although it was really quite cold. And he kept rubbing his head, as if it ached. But he had a lovely smile. You knew him a long time?'

'From childhood.'

'Oh dear. You must be very upset.'

'Yes. I am.'

'Is your name Coningsby?'

'Sorry?'

'He wanted to send a message to someone called Coningsby. It was the last thing he said, while he was lying there.' She pointed towards the door into the nave. 'He had only gone a few steps from here when he stopped and bent his head. He reached out as if he was trying to find something to hold on to. But the wall was too far away. I realized he was not well and went to help him, but he fell on to the floor before I could get to him. Some other visitors came over to help also. We held up his head. I'm not sure he could see us. His eyes were... strange. And it was difficult for him to speak.'

'But he did speak.'

'Yes. He asked us to give a message to Coningsby. Then he... died.'

'I'm Coningsby. It's not my name. But... it's what he sometimes called me.'

'Then the message is for you.'

'Yes.' Eusden nodded. 'What is it?'

'"Tell Coningsby the babushka was right." '

The babushka. Of course. Eusden had forgotten all about her. Until now.

'Does it mean something?'

'Oh, yes. It certainly does.'

THIRTY.

September, 1976. The burnt-out end of a blazing summer. Gemma suggested a trip to Paris as an enjoyable way to fill the gap between their holiday jobs and the start of the Michaelmas term at Cambridge. She roped in a schoolfriend of hers called Pamela and made all the arrangements. They were to meet at Portsmouth and catch the ferry to Le Havre.

The day before setting off, Richard accompanied his mother, for want of anything better to do, on one of her monthly shopping trips to Southampton. Browsing in Gilbert's Bookshop, a multi-floored repository of literary riches to which he always gravitated, he made, as usual, an impulse buy. The File on the Tsar by Anthony Summers and Tom Mangold, hot off the press.

Marty picked up the book whenever Richard put it down during the Channel crossing and rail journey to Paris. Soon they were both talking of little else, much to Gemma's annoyance. Foot-slogging round the Louvre at Pamela's insistence, they were taken to task for neglecting the artworks in favour of arguing about whether the women of the imperial family could have been secretly evacuated from Ekaterinburg to Perm, as the authors suggested, before the night of the alleged massacre.

Marty rapidly developed a conspiracy theory fingering Lord Mountbatten as orchestrator of a plot to deny Anastasia her inheritance: millions of pounds supposedly salted away in the Bank of England by the Tsar. He was excited to discover that Mathilde Kschessinska, the elderly ballerina who had been the Tsar's mistress prior to his marriage and had subsequently married one of his cousins, lived in Paris. She had given an interview on French television in 1967, when she was ninety-five, supporting Anna Anderson's claim. Gemma, forced to read the relevant passage in the book, pointed out that if Mathilde was still alive she would have to be well over a hundred, but Marty was undaunted in his enthusiasm for tracking down the old lady.

Gemma had earmarked their last morning in Paris for a visit to Les Invalides, but Marty had other ideas. In the end, the girls went to see Napoleon's tomb on their own, while he and Richard headed for Little Russia, the area around Alexander Nevsky Orthodox Cathedral where Russian exiles had settled after the Revolution. There was nowhere better, according to him, to ask after surviving Romanovs and gauge opinion.

The results were disappointing. The haughty proprietor of a Russian bookshop informed them that the 'Grand Duchess Mathilde' was dead. He cast a scornful eye over their by now dog-eared copy of The File on the Tsar and said there were 'many, many lies' told about the imperial family. Marty had also failed to check the opening times of the cathedral. They had come on a day when visitors were not admitted.

Recrimination threatened to break out as they stood in front of the cathedral, gazing at its golden domes and firmly closed door. Then Marty noticed an old woman dressed in threadbare clothes pinning up an advertisement on the noticeboard attached to the wall of the diocesan office. She was clad entirely in black. Her face, peering out from a tightly fastened headscarf, was lined like a dried riverbed. Her advert was in Russian and French. It offered her services to the local community as a clairvoyant. Marty tackled her in English to no avail, but he and Richard managed to communicate with her eventually in rudimentary French. Had she known the Grand Duchess Mathilde? Yes. Also Mathilde's son, her husband and assorted cousins. Did she know anything about the woman who claimed to be Anastasia? Yes again. She knew much, which she was willing to share with them if they were willing to stand her a meal. She was poor, hungry, neglected and a fount of information.

Information the babushka, as Marty later dubbed her, undeniably possessed. And she purveyed a great deal of it while slurping soup and sipping vodka in a nearby bar, where she was clearly viewed with well-entrenched suspicion by the staff. Unfortunately for Marty and Richard, the portion they could actually understand of what she said added little to the sum of their knowledge. Mathilde's husband, the Grand Duke Andrei, had also expressed his belief in Anna Anderson and that was good enough for the babushka, who had once shaken his hand and held it long enough to sense, as she had informed him, that his son would betray him. Sure enough, the son, Vladimir 'la vipere Vova', as she called him had gone over to the other side and denounced Anna as an impostor. Why? 'Pour l'argent. Toujours pour l'argent.' It was, she flatly declared, the real ruin of the Romanovs. 'La cupidite.' Greed. 'Thanks for the startling insight,' murmured Marty as she downed another vodka.

Sensing perhaps that she had inadequately repaid their generosity, the babushka concluded by offering to read their palms. Richard declined, but Marty submitted gleefully. He was rewarded with vague predictions of good fortune and wealth which so dissatisfied him that he demanded to be told how long he was going to live. Longer than her, the babushka cutely replied, adding, almost as an afterthought: 'Vous mourrez dans un endroit sacre.'

Marty laughed at the idea that he would die in a holy place. Gemma, when told the story later, remarked that he would be lucky to be buried in a holy place, let alone die in one. They were at the top of the Eiffel Tower at the time, admiring a smudge on the horizon that Pamela insisted was Chartres Cathedral. 'I hate cathedrals,' Marty whispered to Richard, 'and now I've got the perfect excuse to avoid them.'

Eusden walked out of Roskilde Cathedral into the cold grey Danish afternoon. But his mind lingered in the dazzling sunshine of Paris thirty years ago. He saw Marty smiling at him across a cafe table in Montmartre. He felt the heat flung back at him from the stone wall above the quay on the le St-Louis. He heard the past calling to him. And he could not answer.

'Mr Eusden?'

A chubby, shaven-headed man in a grey suit, white shirt and navy-blue tie was standing in his path. Behind him, a gleaming black Mercedes was parked at the roadside. Eusden's thoughts were suddenly wrenched back to the present. 'Yes,' he said weakly.

'I have instructions to drive you to Mjollnir HQ.'

'What?'

'Mjollnir. Birgitte Grn wants to see you.'

'Who?'

The chauffeur smiled wanly. 'My boss.'

'I don't know her. And I don't think I want to meet her.'

'Hold on, please.' The chauffeur took out his phone and made a call. He spoke a few words in Danish, then passed the phone to Eusden. 'It's her.'

'Hello?' said Eusden cautiously.

'Richard Eusden?' The voice was clipped and brittle enough to hint at impatience.

'Yes.'

'I am Birgitte Grn, CFO of Mjollnir. We need to talk.'

'What about?'

'Things that cannot be discussed on the phone. Jrgen will bring you to my office.'

'Maybe I don't want to be brought.'

'And maybe I don't want to be here on a Saturday afternoon, Mr Eusden. But I am. And you'll come and talk to me. Because, if you don't, the police will get a name to put to the description they have of a man they wish to question about the murders last night of a lawyer called Anders Kjeldsen and a journalist called Henning Norvig. My office is much more comfortable than an interview room at police headquarters. And nobody will be recording what you say. So, I suggest you get in the car. I'll expect you shortly.'

THIRTY-ONE.

An entire second city appeared to be under construction south of Copenhagen. Eusden gazed out through the tinted window of the Mercedes at the office complexes and apartment blocks rearing up between clusters of cranes and mountains of earth where their neighbours were soon to be. This was the future. And at its heart, raised like a finger pointed to the sky, was what Jrgen informed him was called Det Bla Tryllestav the Blue Wand: an ultramarine-louvred tower of glass housing Mjollnir AS.

Jrgen drove straight into the underground car park and escorted Eusden to the lift. An ear-poppingly high-speed ascent took him to the top of the tower. The lift doors opened to a scene of deserted open-plan workstations through which strode a snappily trouser-suited woman who greeted him as she approached. 'Mr Eusden. I'm Birgitte Grn.'

She was small and slightly built, about forty-five, with shortish blonde hair, a sharp-featured face and slender letterbox-framed glasses. Beneath her pink shirt she wore an austerely wrought platinum necklace. She looked brisk and business like and spoke in a tone that suggested their meeting was no different from half a dozen others she might expect to manage in an average day.

'Come through to my office,' she said after a perfunctory handshake. 'We have the place to ourselves this afternoon. Mjollnir doesn't encourage weekend working. But this is an emergency.'

'Is it?'

'Yes. For us as well as you.' She marched back the way she had come and Eusden followed. 'I wouldn't be here otherwise.'

They entered a large glass-walled office carpeted and furnished in restful pastels and pale wood. A man was waiting there for them, dressed in a black suit and open-necked white shirt. He looked about fifty, balding and neatly bearded, with a melancholic blue-eyed gaze.

'Erik Lund, CSO,' said Birgitte.

Eusden shook the man's hand. Lund's grip was strong, his expression unsmiling.

'What does the S stand for?'

'Security,' said Lund.

'Ah.'

'Would you like tea or coffee, Mr Eusden?' asked Birgitte.

'Coffee would be nice. Black. No sugar.'

'A man of your own tastes, Erik,' said Birgitte. 'Pour him a cup, would you? Nothing for me. Let's sit.'

They sat at a broad maple conference table angled towards a corner of the building and commanding a chevroned view of the vast construction site that stretched away towards the centre of Copenhagen.

'Please accept my condolences for the death of your friend.'

'Am I supposed to take that seriously?'

'I said it seriously.'

'You'll be telling me next Karsten Burgaard's death really was an accident.'

'As far as I know, it was.' Birgitte gave him a faintly sympathetic smile that hinted at a vivacious persona she left at home every morning. 'You've had twenty-four rough hours, I think. That looks nasty.' She acknowledged with a nod the combined effect of the plastered gash on his forehead and the black eye below it. 'You look tired. And a little desperate. If you don't mind me saying.' Lund delivered the coffee and sat down next to her. 'Maybe that'll help.'

'Maybe.' Eusden took a sip. And it did help a little.

'If you have any questions...'

'I'm sure you're going to tell me why I'm here soon enough.'

'I am.'

'Then this'll do to be going on with: where's Tolmar Aksden?'

'Helsinki.'