by Steve Berry
Not sound-suppressed. High-caliber.
Then, silence.
“Hello,” a male voice called out.
He peered around the column. Standing below was a tall man with grizzled sandy blond hair. He had a broad brow, a short nose, and a round chin. He was squarely built and dressed in jeans and a canvas shirt beneath a leather jacket.
“It looked like you needed help,” the man said, gun at his right side.
The two attackers lay on the floor, blood oozing onto the marble. This man was apparently a good shot, too.
Malone retreated back behind the column. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”
“Wouldn’t blame you. So stay there and wait for the police. You can explain about these three dead bodies.” He heard footsteps, receding. “And by the way, you’re welcome.”
Something occurred to him. “What about the cleaning crew? Why aren’t they rushing in here?”
The footsteps stopped. “They’re unconscious, upstairs.”
“Your doing?”
“Not mine.”
“What’s your interest?”
“The same as many who’ve come here in the middle of the night. I’m looking for the Library of Alexandria.”
Malone said nothing.
“Tell you what. I’m staying at the Savoy, room 453. I have some information that I doubt you possess, and you might have some I don’t know about. If you’d like to talk, come find me. If not, we’ll probably see each other again along the way. Your choice. But together we might be able to speed up the process. It’s up to you.”
Heels clacked the floor with a solid tread, fading away into the house.
“What the hell was that?” Pam asked.
“His way of introducing himself.”
“He killed two men.”
“For which I’m grateful.”
“Cotton, we’ve got to get out of here.”
“Tell me about it. But first we need to know who those men are.”
He fled from the column and rushed down the marble stairs. Pam followed. He searched all three corpses but found no identification.
“Grab the guns,” he said, pocketing six spare magazines lifted from the bodies. “These guys came ready for a fight.”
“I’m actually getting used to seeing blood,” she said.
“I told you it’d get easier.”
He thought more about the man. The Savoy. Room 453. His way of saying, You can trust me. Pam still clutched the book about St. Jerome, and he carried the leather satchel from Haddad’s apartment.
Pam turned to leave.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“I’m hungry. I hope the Savoy has an excellent breakfast.”
He grinned.
She caught on quick.
THIRTY-SIX
WASHINGTON, DC
Stephanie wasn’t sure she could take much more. Her gaze locked onto Brent Green. “Explain yourself.”
“We allowed the files to be compromised. There’s a traitor among us and we want him. Or her.”
“Who’s we?”
“The Justice Department. It’s a top-secret investigation. Only myself and two others know. My two closest deputies, and I’d place my life in their hands.”
“Liars couldn’t care less about your faith.”
“Agreed. But the leak isn’t in Justice. It’s higher. Outside the department. We dangled bait and it was taken.”
She could not believe what she was hearing. “And you risked Gary Malone’s life in the process.”
“No one could have predicted that. We had no idea anyone, other than the Israelis and the Saudis, gave a damn about George Haddad. The leak we’re trying to plug runs straight to them, not anywhere else.”
“That you know of.” Her thoughts flooded with the Order of the Golden Fleece.
“If I had possessed any clue that Malone’s family was in danger, I would never have allowed the tactic to be used.”
She wanted to believe that.
“We actually thought Haddad’s whereabouts was a relatively harmless piece of information. Allowing the Israelis to know Haddad was alive didn’t seem that risky, especially since there was nothing in the file to indicate where he was hidden.”
“Except a trail straight to Cotton.”
“And we assumed that, if challenged, Malone would know what to do.”
“He’s out, Brent,” she almost shouted. “He doesn’t work for us anymore. We don’t place ex-operatives in danger, especially without their knowledge.”
“We weighed those risks and decided that to find our leak, they were worth taking. Having the boy kidnapped changed everything. I’m glad Cotton was able to retrieve him.”
“That’s so wonderful of you. You’ll be lucky he doesn’t break your nose.”
“This White House is an abomination,” Green muttered. “Bunch of righteous, corrupt pricks.”
She’d never heard Green speak that way before.
“They expound how Christian they are, how American, but their allegiance is only to themselves—and the dollar. Decision after decision has been made, each one clothed in an American flag, that does nothing but fatten the pockets of major corporations—entities that have contributed heavily to their party cause. It sickens me. I sit in meetings where policy is couched in terms of what’s good television, rather than what’s good for the nation. I keep silent. Say nothing. Be a team player. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to allow this country to be compromised. I took an oath, and unlike many in this administration, mine means something to me.”
“So why not expose them for what they are?”
“So far I’m not aware that anyone has broken the law. Disgusting, immoral, greedy? I’ve seen those, but they’re not illegal. I assure you, if anyone, the president included, had crossed the line, I would have acted. But no one has gone that far.”
“Except the leak.”
“Which is precisely why I’m so interested—a dam has to be cracked before it’ll break.”
She wasn’t fooled. “Let’s face it, Brent, you like being the chief law enforcement officer, and you wouldn’t last long if you went after one of them and failed.”
Green appraised her, worry in his eyes. “I like you remaining alive more.”
She brushed away his concern. “Did you find the leak?”
“I believe we—”
Cassiopeia rushed back into the kitchen. “We’ve got company. Two men just wheeled to the curb. Suits and earpieces. Secret Service.”
“My detail,” Green said. “Coming to check for the night.”
“We need to go,” Cassiopeia made clear.
“No,” Green said. “Cut me loose and I’ll handle them.”
Cassiopeia headed for the back door.
Stephanie made a decision, the kind she’d made a hundred thousand times. And even though she’d clearly chosen horribly throughout the day, like her daddy used to say, Right, wrong, doesn’t matter. Just do something.
“Wait.”
Stephanie stepped to the counter and searched a couple of drawers, finding a knife. “We’re cutting him loose.” She approached Green and said, “I hope I know what I’m doing.”
Sabre hustled through the Oxfordshire woods to where he’d left his car. Dawn was coming to the English countryside. Mist shrouded the fields around him, the cool air damp. He was pleased with his first encounter with Cotton Malone. Just enough to whet the American’s curiosity, while satisfying any paranoia. Killing the men he’d hired to attack Malone had seemed a perfect introduction. He would have shot all three if Malone hadn’t taken down the one.
Surely Malone had searched the bodies after he left, but Sabre had made certain that not one of the men carried identification. His instructions had been for them to confront Malone and pin him down. But once Malone eliminated the first of their number, the game had changed. He wasn’t surprised. Malone had proven in Copen
hagen that he knew how to handle himself.
Thank heaven for the tape recorder in Haddad’s apartment. That, combined with the information from the computer, had schooled him enough so he could entice Malone into his confidence. All he had to do now was return to the Savoy and wait.
Malone would come.
He emerged from the forest and spotted his car. Another vehicle was parked behind it and he saw his operative pacing.
“You son of a bitch,” she screamed. “You killed those men.”
“And the problem?”
“I hired them. How many others you think I can employ if it’s known we bloody well kill our own?”
“Who would know that? Besides you and me.”
“You asshole. I watched from outside. You shot them from behind. They never saw it coming. That’s what you intended all along.”
He reached his car. “You always were bright.”
“Screw you, Dominick. Those men were friends of mine.”
Now he was curious. “You sleep with any of them?”
“None of your damn business.”
He shrugged. “You’re right.”
“I’m through with you. No more. Get yourself another helper.” She stormed toward her car.
“Don’t think so,” he called out.
She whirled to face him, expecting a rebuke. They’d argued before. But this time he shot her in the face.
Nothing and no one was going to interfere. Too much effort had gone into what he’d planned. He was about to double-cross one of the most powerful economic cartels on the planet. Failure would come with dire consequences. So he wasn’t going to fail. There would be no trails left to him.
He opened the car door and slid inside.
Only Cotton Malone remained to be handled.
Stephanie stood in the kitchen, Cassiopeia beside her, and listened as Brent Green answered the front door and spoke with the two Secret Service agents. Either she’d guessed right or they’d shortly be arrested.
“This is foolishness,” Cassiopeia whispered.
“It’s my foolishness, and I didn’t ask you or Henrik to get involved.”
“You’re a stubborn bitch.”
“Look who’s talking. You could have left. I’d say you’re a bit stubborn yourself.”
She listened as Green small-talked about the night weather and how he’d spilled a tumbler of water on his robe. She’d freed Green from the chair and watched in amusement as he’d peeled tape from his wrists and ankles. What the late-night comedians would have given to see him wince as the hair on his arms and legs came away with each tug. But the New Englander had promptly smoothed his wet hair and emerged from the kitchen.
She heard again what Green had said with genuine conviction.
This friend particularly cares what happens to you.
“He sells us out and we’re through,” Cassiopeia whispered.
“He won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Twenty years of mistakes.”
Green finally told the agents good night. She eased open the swinging door and watched as Green gathered a parting glimpse through the louvers. He turned toward her and said, “Satisfied?”
She walked through the dining room. Cassiopeia followed.
“Okay, Brent. What now?”
“Together we’re going to save your hide and at the same time plug the leak.”
“And by the way, you never mentioned who it is.”
“No. I didn’t. Because I don’t know.”
“I thought you said you’d identified the person?”
“What I started to say was that I believe we might have the problem identified.”
“I’m waiting.”
“You’re not going to like this.”
“Try me.”
“At the moment, the Israelis’ main conduit is Pam Malone.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
7:40 AM
Henrik Thorvaldsen hated to fly, which was why none of his companies owned planes. To relieve some of his discomfort, he always sat in first class and flew early in the morning. The larger seats, amenities, and time of day eased his phobia. Gary Malone, on the other hand, seemed to love the experience. The boy had eaten all of the breakfast the flight attendant served, plus most of Henrik’s.
“We’ll be landing soon,” he said to Gary.
“This is great. Any other time I’d be home in school. Now I’m in Austria.”
He and Gary had grown close over the past two years. When he’d visited Malone for summer vacation, Gary had stayed many a night at Christiangade. Father and son liked to sail the forty-foot ketch tied to the estate’s dock, bought long ago for trips across the Øresund to Norway and Sweden, but now hardly used. Thorvaldsen’s own son, Cai, had loved the water. He missed the boy terribly. Dead now almost two years. Gunned down in Mexico City for no reason he’d ever been able to learn. Malone had been there on assignment and had done what he could, which eventually led them to know each other. But he’d not forgotten what happened there. He’d eventually discover the truth about his son’s death. Debts like that never went unpaid. Spending time with Gary, though, brought him a measure of the joy life had cruelly denied him.
“I’m glad you could come,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave you at the estate.”
“I’ve never been to Austria.”
“A lovely place. Dense forests. Snowy mountains. Alpine lakes. Spectacular scenery.”
He’d watched closely all yesterday and it seemed Gary was dealing well with his ordeal, especially considering he’d watched as two men were shot to death. When Malone and Pam left for England, Gary had understood why they needed to go. His mother had to return to her job and his father needed to discover why Gary was at risk. Christiangade was a familiar place and Gary had eagerly stayed. But yesterday, after talking to Stephanie, Thorvaldsen knew what had to be done.
“This meeting you have to attend,” Gary said. “Is it important?”
“It could be. I’ll have to appear at several sessions, but we’ll find things for you to do while I’m there.”
“What about Dad? He know we’re doing this? I didn’t tell Mom.”
Pam Malone had telephoned a few hours before and spoken briefly with Gary. But she’d hung up before Thorvaldsen had been able to talk with her. “I’m sure one of them will call back and Jesper will let them know where we are.”
He was taking a chance bringing Gary with him, but he’d decided it was the smart play. If Alfred Hermann was behind the original kidnapping, which Thorvaldsen firmly believed was the case, then having Gary at the Assembly, surrounded by influential men and women from around the world, each with their supporting cast of staff and security, seemed the safest course. He wondered about the kidnapping. From the little he’d been told about Dominick Sabre, the American was a professional, not prone to employing such sloppy help as the three Dutchmen who’d botched Gary’s abduction. Something wasn’t right. Malone was good, he’d give him that, but things had unfolded with uncanny precision. Had the entire thing been staged simply for Malone’s benefit? A way to spur him forward? If so, that meant Gary was truly no longer in any danger.
“Remember what we talked about,” he said to Gary. “Careful with your words. Lots of listening.”
“I got it.”
He smiled. “Excellent.”
Now he could only hope he’d read Alfred Hermann correctly.
THIRTY-EIGHT
VIENNA
8:00 AM
Hermann shoved his breakfast aside. He detested eating, particularly amid a crowd, but he loved the château’s dining hall. He’d personally chosen its design and neo-Gothic décor, the window casements and ceiling coffers bearing the coats of arms of illustrious Crusaders, the walls sheathed in canvases that depicted the Christian capture of Jerusalem.
Breakfast was spectacular, as usual, and a cadre of white-jacketed stewards attended to his guests. His daughter sat at the opposite end of the long tab
le, the remainder of the twelve seats filled by a select group of Order members—the Political Committee—who’d arrived yesterday to attend the weekend Assembly.
“I hope everyone is enjoying themselves,” Margarete said to the assemblage. Crowds were what she handled best.
Hermann noticed her frowning at his untouched plate, but she said nothing about it. Hers would be a private rebuke—as if an appetite, in and of itself, brought a long life and good health. If only it were that easy.
Several of the committee members rattled on about the château and its exquisite furnishings, noting some of the changes he’d made since the previous spring. Even though these were men and women of wealth, together they were not worth even a quarter of the Hermann fortune. Each, though, was useful in some way. So he thanked them for noticing and waited. Finally he said, “I’m interested in what the Political Committee plans to tell the Assembly on Concept 1223.”
That initiative, adopted three years ago at the spring Assembly, involved a complex plan for the destabilization of Israel and Saudi Arabia. He’d embraced the concept, which was why he’d cultivated sources within the Israeli and American governments—sources that had unexpectedly led him to George Haddad.
“Before we do that,” the chairman of the committee said, “can you tell us whether your labors are bearing fruit? Our plans will have to be altered if you’re not successful.”
He nodded. “Events are unfolding. And quickly. But if I succeed, has a market for the information been secured?”
Another committee member nodded. “We’ve made inquiries with Jordan, Syria, Egypt, and Yemen. All are interested, at least in arranging talks.”
He was pleased. He’d learned that an Arab state’s enthusiasm—whether for goods, services, or terror—increased in direct proportion to its neighbor’s interest.
“It’s risky ignoring the Saudis,” another said. “They have ties to many of our members. Retaliation could be costly.”
“Your negotiators,” he said, “will have to ensure that they stay calm until it’s to our advantage to deal with them.”
“Isn’t it time you tell us exactly what’s involved?” one of the committee members asked.