The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  And he headed for the stairs.

  At ground level he approached the velvet ropes that still blocked access into the chancel. He noticed the interplay of black, white, and red marble, which lent an atmosphere of nobility—only fitting, because the chancel served as a royal family mausoleum.

  The sacrarium stood thirty feet away.

  Close inspection of it was not a part of the visitors’ experience. The priest at the people’s altar announced over the public address system that the church and monastery would close in five minutes. Many of the tours were already departing, and more people started for the exit.

  He’d noticed earlier that there was some sort of image etched on the sacrarium’s door, behind which would have once been stored the blessed sacrament. Perhaps it still held the Host. Though a World Heritage Site, more tourist attraction than church, the nave was surely used for special observances. Similar to St. Paul’s and Westminster. Which would explain why people were kept at a distance from what was clearly the building’s centerpiece.

  McCollum came close. “I have tickets.”

  He pointed to the sacrarium. “I need a closer look at that, without all these witnesses.”

  “Could be tough. I assume everyone is going to be hustled out of here in the next few minutes.”

  “You don’t strike me as a man who bows to authority.”

  “Neither do you.”

  He thought about Avignon and what he and Stephanie had done there on a rainy June night.

  “Then let’s find a place to hide till everyone leaves.”

  Stephanie tiptoed back into the alcove. She needed to find Daley’s hiding place before things climaxed upstairs. She hoped neither Dixon nor Daley was in a rush, though Daley had sounded hurried.

  Cassiopeia was already quietly searching.

  “The report said he never left this desk with the flash drives. He used them on his laptop, but didn’t leave with them. He’d always tell her to head on to the bedroom and he’d be right along.” Her words were more breath than voice.

  “We’re really pushing it staying here.”

  She stopped and listened. “Sounds like they’re still busy.”

  Cassiopeia eased opened the desk drawers, testing for hiding places. But Stephanie doubted that she’d find anything. Too obvious. Her gaze again scanned the bookshelves and her eyes stopped at one of the political treatises, a thin, taupe-colored volume with blue lettering.

  Hardball by Chris Matthews.

  She recalled the story Daley had shared with Green when he’d boasted about his newfound authority with the Magellan Billet.

  What was it he’d said?

  Power is what you hold.

  She reached for the book, opened it, and discovered that the last third of the pages had been glued together; a cavity about a quarter inch deep had been hollowed out. Nestled inside were five flash drives, each labeled with a Roman numeral.

  “How did you know?” Cassiopeia whispered.

  “I’m actually frightened that I did. I’m beginning to think like the idiot.”

  Cassiopeia started for the rear of the house, toward the back door, but Stephanie grabbed her arm and motioned for the front. Confusion stared back at her—an expression that questioned, Why ask for trouble?

  They stepped into the den, then the foyer.

  An alarm keypad adjacent to the front door indicated that the system was still idle. She held Dixon’s gun.

  “Larry,” she called out.

  Silence.

  “Larry. Could I have a moment?”

  Footsteps thumped across the upper floor and Daley appeared in the bedroom doorway, pants on, bare-chested.

  “Love the hair, Stephanie. New look? And the clothes. Catchy.”

  “Just for you.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She flashed the book. “Came for your stash.”

  Alarm flooded Daley’s boyish face.

  “That’s right. Time for you to sweat. And Heather?” Her voice rose. “I’m disappointed in your choice of lovers.”

  Dixon paraded naked from the bedroom, sporting not even a hint of shame. “You’re dead.”

  Stephanie shrugged. “That remains to be seen. At the moment I have your gun.” She displayed the weapon.

  “What are you going to do?” Daley asked.

  “Haven’t decided yet.” But she wanted to know, “You two been at this long?”

  “It’s not your concern,” Dixon said.

  “Just curious. I interrupted only to let you know that now there’s more to this game than just my hide.”

  “You apparently know quite a bit,” Daley said. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Cassiopeia Vitt,” Dixon answered.

  “I’m flattered you know me.”

  “I owe you for the dart in the neck.”

  “No need to thank me.”

  “Back to bed for you two,” Stephanie said.

  “I don’t think so.” Dixon started down the stairs, but Stephanie aimed the automatic. “Don’t push me, Heather. I’m recently unemployed and have a warrant out for my arrest.”

  The Israeli stopped, perhaps sensing that this was not the time to challenge.

  “The bedroom,” Stephanie said.

  Dixon hesitated.

  “Now.”

  Dixon retreated to the top of the stairs. Stephanie gathered up the Israeli’s clothes, including her shoes. “You wouldn’t dare risk public exposure,” she said to Daley, “coming after us. But she might. This will at least slow her down.”

  And they left.

  FORTY-NINE

  VIENNA

  6:40 PM

  Thorvaldsen donned the crimson vestment. All members were required to wear their robe during Assembly. The first session would begin at seven, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Too much talk, usually, and little action. He’d never needed a cooperative to accomplish his goals. But he enjoyed the fellowship that came after the gatherings.

  Gary was sitting in one of the upholstered chairs.

  “How do I look?” he asked in a jovial tone.

  “Like a king.”

  The regal robes were ankle-length, made of velvet and richly embroidered in gold thread with the Order’s motto, je l’AY EMPRINS. I have dared. The ensemble dated from the fifteenth century and the original Order of the Golden Fleece.

  He reached for the neck chain. Solid gold with a black enameled flint forming fire steels. An ornate golden fleece hung from its center.

  “This is presented to each member when inducted. Our symbol.”

  “Looks expensive.”

  “It is.”

  “This really important to you?”

  He shrugged. “It’s something I enjoy. But it’s not like a religion.”

  “Dad told me you’re Jewish.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t know much about Jews. Only that millions were killed in World War II. It’s not something I really understand.”

  “You’re not alone. Gentiles have wrestled with our existence for centuries.”

  “Why do people hate Jews?”

  He’d many times pondered that question—along with the philosophers, theologians, and politicians who’d debated it for centuries. “It started for us with Abraham. Ninety-nine years old when God visited him and made a covenant, creating a Chosen People, the ones to inherit the land of Canaan. But unfortunately, that honor came with responsibility.”

  He could see the boy was interested.

  “Have you ever read the Bible?”

  Gary shook his head.

  “You should. A great book. On the one hand, God granted to the Israelites a blessing. To become the Chosen People. But it was their response to that blessing that ultimately determined their fate.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Old Testament says they rebelled, burned incense, credited idols for their good fortune, walked according to the dictates of their own hearts. So God scattered them among t
he Gentiles as punishment.”

  “That why people hate them?”

  He finished fastening his mantle. “Hard to say. But Jews have faced persecution ever since that time.”

  “God sounds like He has a temper.”

  “The God of the Old Testament is far different from the one in the New.”

  “I’m not sure I like that one.”

  “You’re not alone.” He paused. “Jews were the first to insist that man is responsible for his own acts. Not the gods’ fault life went bad. Your fault. And that made us different. Christians took it farther. Man brought his exile from Eden on himself, but because God loved man He redeemed us with the blood of His son. The Jewish God is angry. Justice is His aim. The Christian God is one of mercy. Huge difference.”

  “God should be kind, shouldn’t He?”

  He smiled, then looked around the elegant room. Time to bring things to a head. “Tell me what you think about what happened in the pavilion?”

  “I’m not sure Mr. Hermann will appreciate you taking his daughter.”

  “Just as your parents didn’t appreciate what happened to you. The difference is, she’s a grown woman and you’re a teenager.”

  “Why is all this happening?”

  “I imagine we’ll know that soon.”

  The bedchamber door suddenly swung open and Alfred Hermann stormed inside. He, too, sported a regal robe with a gold medallion, his mantle adorned with a blue silk.

  “You have my daughter?” Hermann said, face full of fury.

  Thorvaldsen stood rigid. “I do.”

  “And you obviously know this room is wired for sound.”

  “That didn’t require much intelligence.”

  He could see the tension building. Hermann was in uncharted territory.

  “Henrik, I will not tolerate this.”

  “What do you plan to do? Recall the Talons of the Eagle to deal with me?”

  Hermann hesitated. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Thorvaldsen stepped close. “You crossed the line when you kidnapped this young man.” He pointed at Gary.

  “Where is Margarete?”

  “Safe.”

  “You don’t have the stomach to hurt her.”

  “I have the stomach to do whatever is needed. You should know that about me.”

  Hermann’s intense gaze gripped him like a hook. He’d always thought the Austrian’s bony face more fitting for a farmer than an aristocrat. “I thought we were friends.”

  “I did, too. But apparently that meant nothing when you took this young man from his mother and destroyed his father’s bookshop.”

  The Assembly’s first session was about to begin, which was why he’d timed his revelation with care. Hermann, as Blue Chair, must at all times exhibit discipline and confidence. Never could he allow the members to know of his personal predicaments.

  Nor could he be late.

  “We must go,” Hermann finally said. “This is not over, Henrik.”

  “I agree. For you, it’s only beginning.”

  FIFTY

  WASHINGTON, DC

  1:30 PM

  “Wouldn’t you say you pushed Daley to the max?” Green asked Stephanie.

  She and Cassiopeia were riding in Green’s limousine, the rear compartment soundproofed from the front seat by a sheet of Plexiglas. Green had picked them up downtown after they’d left Daley’s house.

  “He wouldn’t have come after us. Heather might have been able to wear his clothes, but not his shoes. I doubt she’d be chasing us barefoot and unarmed.”

  Green did not seemed convinced. “I assume there’s a purpose for letting Daley know you were there?”

  “I’d be interested to hear that one, too,” Cassiopeia added. “We could have been out without him ever knowing.”

  “And I’d still be in the crosshairs. This way he has to be careful. I have something he wants. And if nothing else, Daley’s a dealer.”

  Green pointed at the copy of Hardball. “What’s so vital?”

  Stephanie reached for the laptop she’d told Green to bring. She slid one of the flash drives into an empty port and typed aunt b’s into the space for a password.

  “Your girl learn that, too?” Cassiopeia asked.

  She nodded. “An eatery out in Maryland. Daley goes there a lot on weekends. Country-style food. One of his favorites. Struck me as odd—I considered Daley a five-star-restaurant connoisseur.”

  The screen displayed a list of files, each labeled with one-word identifiers.

  “Congress,” she said.

  She clicked on one.

  “I learned that Daley is a master of dates and times. When he squeezes a member for a vote, he has precise information about every cash contribution ever sent that member’s way. It’s odd, because he never funnels money directly. Instead lobbyists who like the idea that they’re currying favor with the White House do the dirty work. That led me to think he keeps records. Nobody’s memory is that good.” She pointed at the screen. “Here’s an example.” She counted. “Fourteen payments to this guy totaling a hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars over a six-year period. Here’s the date, place, and time of each payment.” She shook her head. “Nothing frightens a politician more than details.”

  “We’re talking bribes?” Green asked.

  She nodded. “Cash payments. Pocket money. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to keep the lines of communication open. Simple and sweet, but it’s the kind of political capital Daley accumulates. The kind this White House uses. They’ve managed to pass some pretty sweet legislation.”

  Green stared at the screen. “Must be a hundred or more House members.”

  “He’s effective. I’ll give him that. The money is spread around. Both sides of the aisle.”

  She clicked another file, which displayed a list of senators. Thirty or so. “He also has a cadre of federal judges. They get into financial trouble, just like everybody else, and he has people right there to help out. I found one in Michigan who talked. He was on the verge of bankruptcy until one of his friends appeared with money. His conscience finally got to him, especially after Daley wanted him to rule a particular way. Seems a lawyer in a case before him was a big party contributor and needed a little guarantee on victory.”

  “Federal courts are a hotbed of corruption,” Green muttered. “I’ve said that for years. Give somebody a lifetime appointment and you’re asking for trouble. Too much power, too little oversight.”

  She grabbed another of the flash drives. “One of these is enough to indict several of those turkey buzzards.”

  “Such an eloquent description.”

  “It’s the black robes. They look just like buzzards, perched on a limb, waiting to pick a carcass clean.”

  “Such little respect for our judiciary,” he said with a grin.

  “Respect is earned.”

  “Might I interject something,” Cassiopeia said. “Why don’t we just go public? Draw attention. Not the way I usually handle things, but it seems like it would work here.”

  Green shook his head. “As you noted earlier, I don’t know much about the Israelis. And you don’t understand the PR machine of this administration. It’s a master of spin. They’d cloud the issue to the point of obscurity, and we’d lose Daley and the traitor.”

  “He’s right,” Stephanie said. “That won’t work. We have to do this ourselves.”

  Traffic stopped the car and Green’s cell phone rang a soft chime. He reached into his suit pocket and removed the unit, studying the LCD. “This should prove interesting.” He pressed two buttons and talked into the speakerphone. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  “Bet you have,” Daley said.

  “Seems I might not make it to that box in Vermont after all.”

  “That’s the thing about chess, Brent. Every move is an adventure. Okay, I’ll give you credit, yours was a good one.”

  “You have to give Stephanie credit for that.”

&n
bsp; “I’m sure she’s there, so well done, Stephanie.”

  “Anytime, Larry.”

  “This changes little,” Daley made clear. “Those elements I mentioned are still agitated.”

  “You need to calm them down,” Stephanie said.

  “Do you want to talk?” Daley asked.

  Stephanie started to speak, but Green held up his hand. “And the benefit of that?”

  “Could be great. There’s a lot at stake.”

  She couldn’t resist. “More than your ass?”

  “Much more.”

  “You lied when you said you knew nothing about the Alexandria Link, didn’t you?” Green asked.

  “Lie is such a harsh word. More that I concealed facts in the interest of national security. That the price I’m going to have to pay?”

  “I think it’s reasonable, considering.”

  Stephanie knew Daley would realize they could disseminate his secrets at will. Both she and Green possessed contacts in the media, ones that would love to dirty this administration.

  “All right.” Resignation filled Daley’s tone. “How do you want to do this?”

  Stephanie knew the answer. “Public. Lots of people.”

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  “It’s the only way we’re going to do it.”

  The speaker was quiet for a moment before Daley said, “Tell me where and when.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  LISBON

  7:40 PM

  Malone awoke, sitting propped against a rough stone wall.

  “It’s after seven thirty,” Pam whispered in his ear.

  “How long was I out?”

  “An hour.”

  He could not see her face. Total darkness engulfed them. He recalled their situation. “Everything okay up there?” he said quietly to McCollum.

  “Nice and quiet.”

  They’d left the church just before five and hustled to the upper choir, where another doorway led out into the cloister. Visitors had been slow in leaving, taking advantage of the late-afternoon sun for a few last photos of the opulent Moorish-style decorations. The upper gallery had offered no safe refuges, but running along the church’s north wall at ground level they’d found eleven wooden doors. A placard explained that the compact spaces had once served as confessionals.