by Steve Berry
He opened the bedroom door and crafted a smile on his face. “Wanted to let you know that we heard from your dad.”
The boy was perched by the window reading a book. Yesterday he’d asked for several volumes, which Sabre had obtained. The young face brightened at the news about his father. “He okay?”
“Doing fine. And he was grateful we had you with us. Your mom is with him, too.”
“Mom is here?”
“Another team brought her over.”
“That’s a first. She’s never been here.” The boy paused. “Her and my dad don’t get along.”
Knowing about Malone’s marital history, he sensed something. “Why’s that?”
“Divorce. They haven’t lived together in a long time.”
“That hard on you?”
Gary seemed to consider the inquiry. He was tall for his age, lanky, with a head of auburn hair. Cotton Malone was a study in contrast. Fair-skinned, thick-limbed, light-haired. Try as he might, Sabre could find nothing of the father in the boy’s face or countenance.
“It’d be better if they were together. But I understand why they’re not.”
“Good you understand. You have a level head.”
Gary smiled. “That’s what my dad always says. You know him?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve worked together for years.”
“What’s happening here? Why am I in danger?”
“I can’t talk about it. But some really bad guys have targeted your dad and they were going to come after you and your mom, so we stepped in to protect you.” He could see that the explanation didn’t seem to totally satisfy.
“But my dad doesn’t work for the government anymore.”
“Unfortunately his enemies don’t care about that. They just want to cause him pain.”
“This is all really weird.”
He forced a smile. “Part of the business, I’m afraid.”
“You have any kids?”
He wondered about the boy’s interest. “No. Never been married.”
“You seem like a nice man.”
“Thanks. Just doing my job.” He motioned and said, “You work out?”
“I play baseball. Season’s been over awhile, though. But I wouldn’t mind throwing a few.”
“Hard to do in Denmark. Baseball is not the national pastime here.”
“I’ve visited the past two summers. I really like it.”
“That the time you spend with your dad?”
Gary nodded. “About the only chance we get together. But that’s okay. I’m glad he lives here. It makes him happy.”
He thought he again sensed something. “Does it make you happy?”
“Sometimes. Other times I wish he was closer.”
“You ever thought about living with him?”
The boy’s face scrunched with concern. “That would kill my mom. She wouldn’t want me to do that.”
“Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
He grinned. “Don’t think too hard. And try not to be bored.”
“I miss my mom and dad. I hope they’re all right.”
He’d heard enough. The boy was pacified. He wouldn’t be a problem, at least not for the next hour, which was all Sabre would need.
After that, it wouldn’t matter what Gary Malone did.
So he stepped toward the door and said, “Not to worry. I’m sure this is all going to be over soon.”
Malone stood on the streets of HelsingØr and watched the café. A steady stream of patrons had flowed in and out. His target was sitting at a window table, sipping from a mug. Pam, he assumed, was with the car, parked at the train station, waiting. She’d better be. When this guy made his move, they’d only have one chance. If his adversaries were somewhere nearby, and he firmly believed that to be the case, this might be his only route to them.
Pam’s appearance in Denmark had rattled him. But then she’d always had that effect. Once, love and respect bound them, or at least he’d thought that the case; now only Gary drew them together.
His mind replayed what she’d said to him in August. About Gary.
“After years of lying to me, you want to be fair?”
“You were no saint yourself years ago, Cotton.”
“And you made my life a living hell because of it.”
She shrugged. “I had an indiscretion of my own. I didn’t think you’d mind, considering.”
“I told you everything.”
“No, Cotton. I caught you.”
“But you let me think Gary was mine.”
“He is. In every way except blood.”
“That the way you rationalize it?”
“I don’t have to. I just thought you should know the truth. I should have told you last year when we divorced.”
“How do you know he’s not my son?”
“Cotton, run tests. I don’t care. Just know you’re not Gary’s father. Do with the information what you please.”
“Does he know?”
“Of course not. That’s between him and you. He’ll never hear it from me.”
He could still feel the anger that had flooded him as Pam remained calm. They were so different, which might also explain why they were no longer together. He’d lost his father young but had been raised by a mother who adored him. Pam’s childhood had been nothing but turmoil. Her mother had been a flighty woman with conflicting emotions who’d operated a day care center. She’d squandered the family savings not once but twice. Astrologers were her weakness. She never could resist them, eagerly listening as they told her exactly what she wanted to hear. Pam’s father was equally troubling, a distant drifting soul who cared far more about radio-controlled airplanes than his wife and three children. He’d labored for forty years at an ice cream cone factory, a salaried employee who never rose above midlevel manager. Loyalty mixed with a false sense of contentment—that had been his father-in-law up to the day that a three-pack-a-day cigarette habit finally stopped his heart.
Until they met, Pam had known little love or security. Miserly with emotion but exacting in devotion, she’d always given far less than she demanded. And pointing out that reality brought only anger. His own mistake with other women, early in their marriage, merely proved her point—that nothing and no one could ever be counted on.
Not mothers, fathers, siblings, or husbands.
All of them failed.
And so had she.
Having a baby out of wedlock and never telling her husband he was not the father. She seemed to still be paying the price of that failure.
He ought to cut her some slack. But it took two to make a bargain, and she wasn’t willing—at least not yet—to deal.
The shooter disappeared from the window.
Malone’s attention snapped back to the café.
He watched as the man exited the building and headed toward his parked car, climbed in, and left. He abandoned his position, raced through the alley, and spotted Pam.
He crossed the street and jumped into the passenger seat. “Crank it up and get ready.”
“Me? Why don’t you drive?”
“No time. Here he comes.”
He saw the Volvo round the bend in the highway that paralleled the shore and speed past.
“Go,” he urged.
And she followed.
George Haddad entered his London flat. The trip to Bainbridge Hall had generated its usual frustration so he ignored his computer, which signaled that there were unread e-mails, and sat at the kitchen table.
For five years he’d stayed dead. To know, but not to know. To understand, but at the same time to be confused.
He shook his head.
What a dilemma.
He glanced around. The soothing, cleansing magic of the apartment was no more. Clearly it was time. Others must know. He owed that revelation to every soul destroyed in the nakba, whose land was stolen, whose property was seized. And he owed it to the Jews.
Everyone had a right to the truth.
The first time months ago had not seemed to work. That was why yesterday, he’d again reached for the phone.
Now, for the third time, he dialed an international call.
Malone watched the road ahead as Pam sped down the coastal highway, south, toward Copenhagen. The Volvo was half a mile ahead. He’d allowed several cars to pass, which provided a buffer, but cautioned her more than once not to fall too far back.
“I’m not an agent,” Pam said, her eyes glued out the windshield. “Never done this before.”
“They didn’t teach you this in law school?”
“No, Cotton. They taught you this in spy school.”
“I wish they’d had a spy school. Unfortunately I had to learn on the job.”
The Volvo quickened its pace and he wondered if they’d been spotted. But then he saw that the car was simply passing another. He noticed Pam starting to keep pace. “Don’t. If he’s watching, that’s a trick to find out if he has company. I can see him, so stay where you are.”
“I knew that Justice Department education would pay off.”
Levity. Rare for her. But he appreciated the effort. He hoped this lead paid off. Gary had to be nearby, and all he’d need was one chance to get the boy out.
They found the outskirts of the capital. Traffic slowed to a crawl. They were four cars back as the Volvo maneuvered through Charlottenlund Slotspark, entered north Copenhagen, and motored south into the city. Just before the royal palace, the Volvo turned west and wound a path deep into a residential neighborhood.
“Careful,” he said. “Easy to be spotted here. Stay back.”
Pam allowed more room. Malone was familiar with this part of town. The Rosenborg Slot, where the Danish crown jewels were displayed, stood a few blocks away, the botanical gardens nearby.
“He’s headed somewhere specific,” he said. “These houses all look alike, so you have to know where you’re going.”
Two more turns and the Volvo cruised down a tree-lined lane. He told her to stop at the corner and watched as their quarry wheeled into a driveway.
“Pull over to the curb,” he said, motioning.
As she parked the car, he found his Beretta and opened the door. “Stay here. And I mean it. This could get rough, and I can’t find Gary and look after you, too.”
“You think he’s there?”
“Good chance.”
He hoped she wasn’t going to be difficult.
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
He started to climb out. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was firm but not hostile. A jolt of emotion surged through him.
He faced her, the fear plain in her eyes.
“If he’s there, bring him back.”
FIFTEEN
WASHINGTON, DC
7:20 AM
Stephanie was glad Larry Daley had left. She liked the man less each time they were around each other.
“What do you think?” Green asked.
“One thing is clear. Daley has no idea what the Alexandria Link is. He just knows about George Haddad, and he’s hoping that the man knows something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“If he knew, he wouldn’t be wasting time with us.”
“He needs Malone to find Haddad.”
“But who says he needs Haddad to connect anything? If the classified files were complete, he wouldn’t waste time with Haddad. He’d just hire a few brains, figure out whatever it is, and go from there.” She shook her head. “Daley is a bullshit artist, and we were just bullshitted. He needs Cotton to find Haddad because he doesn’t know squat. He’s hoping Haddad has all the answers.”
Green sat back in his chair with an undisguised anxiety. She was beginning to think that she’d misjudged this New Englander. He’d stood with her against Daley, even making clear that he’d quit if the White House fired her.
“Politics is a nasty business,” Green muttered. “The president is a lame duck. His agenda stalled. Time’s running out. He’s definitely looking for a legacy, his spot in the history books, and men like Daley see it as their duty to provide one. I agree with you. He’s fishing. But how any of this could be useful is beyond me.”
“Apparently it’s potent enough that the Saudis, and the Israelis, both acted on it five years ago.”
“And that’s significant. The Israelis aren’t prone to capriciousness. Something made them want Haddad dead.”
“Cotton’s in a mess,” she said. “His boy is at risk and he’s not going to get a bit of help from us. In fact, officially we’re going to sit back and watch, then take advantage of him.”
“I think Daley is underestimating his opposition. There’s been a lot of planning here.”
She agreed. “That’s the problem with bureaucrats. They think everything is negotiable.”
The cell phone in Stephanie’s pocket startled her with its vibration. She’d left word not to be disturbed unless it was vital. She answered the call, listened for a moment, then clicked off.
“I just lost an agent. The man I sent to meet Malone. He was killed at Kronborg Castle.”
Green was silent.
Pain built behind her eyes. “Lee Durant had a wife and children.”
“Any word from Malone?”
She shook her head. “They haven’t heard from him.”
“Perhaps you were right earlier. Maybe we should involve other agencies?”
Her throat tightened. “It wouldn’t work. This has to be handled another way.”
Green sat still, lips pursed, eyes unwavering, as if he knew what had to be done.
“I intend to help Cotton,” she said.
“And what could you do? You’re not a field agent.”
She recalled how Malone had told her the same thing not long ago in France, but she’d handled herself well enough. “I’ll get my own help. People I can trust. I have a lot of friends who owe me favors.”
“I can help, too.”
“I don’t want you involved.”
“But I am.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” she said.
“You might be surprised.”
“And what would Daley do then? We have no idea who his allies are. It’s better I do this quietly. You stay out of it.”
Green’s face registered nothing. “What about the briefing this morning on Capitol Hill?”
“I’ll do it. That way Daley should be placated.”
“I’ll give you whatever cover I can.”
A smile bent the edges of her mouth. “You know, this may have been the best few hours we ever spent together.”
“I’m sorry that we didn’t spend more time like this.”
“Me, too,” she said. “But I have a friend who needs me.”
SIXTEEN
Malone left the car and worked his way closer to the house where the Volvo sat parked. He could not approach from the front—too many windows, too little cover—so he detoured into a grassy alley adjacent to the house next door and approached from the rear. The dwellings in this part of Copenhagen were like his neighborhood in Atlanta—shady lanes of compact brick residences surrounded by equally compact front and rear yards.
He shielded the Beretta at his side and used the foliage to mask his continued advance. So far he’d seen no one. A shoulder-high hedge divided one yard from the next. He maneuvered to where he could see over the hedge and spotted a rear door into the house where the shooter had gone. Before he could decide on what course to take, the rear door was flung open and two men emerged.
The shooter from Kronborg and another man, short and stumpy with no neck.
The two were talking, and they walked around to the front of the house. He obeyed his instincts and rushed from his hiding place, entering the backyard through an opening in the hedge. He darted straight for the rear door and, with gun ready, slipped inside.
The one-story house was quiet. Two bedrooms, a den, kitchen, and bath. One bedroom door was c
losed. He quickly surveyed the rooms. Empty. He approached the closed door. His left hand gripped the knob, his right held the gun, finger on the trigger. He slowly twisted, then shoved open the door.
And saw Gary.
The boy was sitting in a chair, beside the window, reading. His son, startled, glanced up from the pages, then his face beamed when he realized who was there.
Malone, too, felt a surge of elation.
“Dad.” Then Gary saw the gun and said, “What’s going on?”
“I can’t explain, but we have to go.”
“They said you were in trouble. Are those men who are trying to hurt me and Mom here?”
He nodded as panic swept over him. “They’re here. We have to go.”
Gary stood from the chair, and Malone couldn’t help himself. He hugged his son hard. This child was his—in every way. Screw Pam.
He said, “Stay behind me. Do exactly as I say. Understand?”
“There going to be trouble?”
“I hope not.”
He retraced his route to the rear door and peered outside. The yard was empty. He would need only a minute for them to make their escape.
He exited with Gary close at his heels.
The opening in the hedge loomed fifty feet away.
He maneuvered Gary in front of him, since the last he’d seen of the two men they were heading toward the street. Gun ready, he bolted straight for the yard next door. He kept his attention to their flank, allowing Gary to lead the way.
They passed through the opening.
“How predictable.”
He whirled and froze.
Standing twenty feet away was No Neck, Pam in his grasp, a sound-suppressed Glock jammed into her neck. The Kronborg Shooter stood off to the side, gun aimed directly at Malone.
“I found your ex wandering this way,” No Neck said with a Dutch twang. “I assume you told her to stay in the car?”
His gaze locked on Pam’s. Her eyes pleaded with him to forgive her.