“Hard to come by in your business.”
“Cotton is in deep trouble.”
“Henrik thinks the same thing. He was hoping you were going to provide help.”
“At the moment, I’m a target,” she said.
“Which brings us to our other problem.”
She did not like the sound of those words.
“Ms. Dixon didn’t come alone.” Cassiopeia pointed off toward the Washington Monument. “Two men in a car over that knoll. And they don’t look Israeli.”
“Saudis.”
“Now, that’s a feat. How did you manage to piss everybody off?”
Two men crested the knoll, headed their way.
“No time to explain,” Stephanie said. “Shall we?”
They hustled in the opposite direction, a fifty-yard head start on their pursuers, which meant nothing if the men decided to shoot.
“I assume you planned for this contingency?” she asked Cassiopeia.
“Not entirely. But I can improvise.”
MALONE FORGOT ABOUT ADAM AND SCRAMBLED FROM HIS SAFE position behind the parked car to where Pam lay bleeding. Street dust clung to his clothes. He turned for an instant and caught a glimpse of the Israeli racing away.
“You all right?” he asked her.
Pam’s face grimaced in pain, her right hand clamped to her injured left shoulder.
“Hurts,” she said in a strangled whisper.
“Let me see.”
She shook her head. “Holding it…helps.”
He reached out and started to peel her hand away. Her eyes went wide with pain and anger. “Don’t.”
“I have to see.”
He didn’t have to say what they were both thinking. Why didn’t she stay upstairs?
She relented, removed her bloody fingers, and he saw what he suspected. The bullet had merely grazed her. A flesh wound. Anything worse would have already been obvious. People shot went into shock. Their bodies shut down.
“Just skimmed you,” he said.
Her hand re-vised the wound. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”
“I do have some experience at getting shot.”
Her eyes softened at that realization.
“We have to go,” he said.
Her face scrunched in pain. “I’m bleeding.”
“No choice.” He helped her to her feet.
“Damn, Cotton.”
“I realize it hurts. But if you’d stayed upstairs like I said—”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
“We have to go. But first there’s one other thing.”
She seemed to recover her composure, determined to keep calm and stay lucid, so he led her into the building.
“Keep a clamp,” he told her as they climbed the stairs to Haddad’s apartment. “The bleeding should stop. It’s not that deep.”
Sirens were coming closer.
“What are we doing?” she asked, as they found the third-floor landing.
He recalled what Haddad had said right before the shooting started. You taught me a great deal. I recall every lesson, and up until a few days ago I adhered to them strictly. Even those about safeguarding what really matters. When he’d first hid Haddad away, he’d taught the Palestinian to keep his most important things ready to go at a moment’s notice. Time to find out if Haddad meant what he’d said.
They entered the apartment.
“Go into the kitchen and find a towel,” he said, “while I tend to this.”
They had maybe two or three minutes.
He bolted for the bedroom. The tight space wasn’t much larger than his own apartment in Copenhagen. Piles of long-neglected books and papers lay stacked on the floor, the bed unmade, the nightstands and dresser loaded like flea-market tables. He noticed more maps on the walls. Israel, past and present. No time to consider them.
He knelt beside the bed and hoped his instincts were right.
Haddad had called the Middle East knowing a confrontation would ensue. When that inevitable conflict arrived, he hadn’t shied from the fight but had instead gone on the offensive, knowing he’d lose. But what had his friend said? I knew you’d come. Damn foolish. There’d been no need for Haddad to sacrifice himself. Guilt about the man he’d murdered decades ago had apparently swirled through the old man’s head for a long time.
I owe this to the Guardian I shot. My debt repaid.
That, Malone could understand.
He probed beneath the bed and felt something. He grabbed hold and freed a leather satchel, quickly unbuckling its straps. Inside lay a book, three spiral notebooks, and four folded maps. Of all the information scattered about the apartment this, he hoped, was the most important.
They had to go.
He raced back to the den. Pam emerged from the kitchen with a towel clamped to her arm.
“Cotton?” she said.
He heard the question in her voice. “Not now.”
With the satchel in hand he shoved her out the door, but not before he grabbed a shawl from the back of one of the chairs.
They quickly descended.
“How’s the bleeding?” he asked as they found the sidewalk.
“I’ll live. Cotton?”
The sirens were no more than a block away. He draped the shawl around her shoulders to shield the injury.
They walked casually.
“Keep the towel on the arm,” he said.
A hundred feet and they found a boulevard, plunging into a sea of unknown faces, resisting the temptation to hasten their pace.
He glanced back.
Flashing lights appeared at the far end of the block and stopped before Haddad’s house.
“Cotton?”
“I know. Let’s just get out of here.”
He knew what she wanted. When they’d returned to the apartment he’d noticed, too. No blood on the wall. None on the floor. No suffocating stench of death.
And the bodies of Eve and George Haddad were gone.
TWENTY-SEVEN
RHINE VALLEY, GERMANY
5:15 PM
SABRE STARED AT THE TOWERING MOUNDS THAT ENGULFED THE river’s edge. Steeply scarped banks lined both sides of the narrow gap. Deciduous forests abounded, the hillsides relieved only by sparse green scrub and gangly grapevines. For nearly seven hundred years the highest elevations had supported fortresses with names like Rheinstein, Sooneck, and Pfalz. Rounding the treacherous turn of the Loreley, where ships once foundered on rocks and rapids, high atop the river’s east bank he spied the rounded keep of Burg Katz. Farther on stood Stolzenfels, the tawny tint of its two-century-old limestone barely discernible. The final marker on his journey appeared a few minutes later.
The unmistakable outline of Marksburg.
He’d left Rothenburg two hours ago and followed the autobahn north, maintaining a constant ninety miles an hour, slowed only on the outskirts of Frankfurt, where he’d caught the beginnings of the afternoon commute. From there, two routes wound north to Cologne: A60 or follow the Rhine on the two-lane N9. He’d decided that the first half of the journey would be here, along the river, but the remainder had to be by autobahn. So he slowly threaded his way out of the ancient valley and followed the blue markers for A60.
An entrance ramp appeared and he sped onto the superhighway. He revved the rented BMW’s engine and settled into the far-left lane. A patchwork quilt of hills, woods, and pasture rolled out on either side.
He glanced in the rearview mirror.
His tail, a silver Mercedes, was still there.
Back a respectable distance and shielded by three cars, the Mercedes could easily have gone unnoticed. But he’d been expecting them and they hadn’t disappointed, following him ever since he’d left Rothenburg. He wondered if the body in the Baumeisterhaus had been found. Killing Jonah had probably saved the Israelis the trouble—betrayal came at an extreme cost in the Middle East—but the Jews had also lost the opportunity to interrogate a traitor, which may have soured their mood.
He loved the wa
y Germans built superhighways—three wide lanes, few curves, sparse exits. Perfect for speed and privacy. A sign informed him that Cologne lay eighty-two kilometers ahead. He knew his position. Just south of Koblenz, fifteen kilometers east of the Rhine, the Mosel River fast approaching.
He switched lanes.
Farther back, beyond the Mercedes, he noticed four more vehicles.
Right on time.
Nine years he’d been searching for the Library of Alexandria, and all on behalf of the Blue Chair. The old man was obsessed with finding whatever was out there, and initially he’d thought the search ridiculous. But as he’d learned more, he’d come to realize that the goal wasn’t as far-fetched as he’d first thought. Lately he’d begun to think there might even be something to find. The Israelis were certainly engrossed. Alfred Hermann seemed focused. He’d learned many things. Now it was time to use that knowledge.
For himself.
He’d sensed months ago that this may be his opportunity. He could only hope Cotton Malone was resourceful enough to avoid whatever the Israelis threw at him in London. They’d moved fast. Always did. But from everything he knew, and had witnessed, Malone was an expert, albeit out of practice. He should be able to handle the situation.
The viaduct appeared ahead.
He watched the first of the four sedans pass the silver Mercedes, change lanes, and abruptly position itself in front.
Two more cars quickly paralleled the Mercedes in the left lane.
Another hugged its bumper.
They all raced onto the bridge.
The span stretched more than half a mile, the Mosel River meandering eastward four hundred feet below. Halfway, exactly as Sabre had instructed, the lead car braked and the silver Mercedes reacted, pounding its brakes.
Just as that happened, the two adjacent cars slammed the driver’s side and the car following rammed the bumper.
The combination of blows, along with speed, forced the Mercedes rightward, onto the guardrail.
In an instant the car became airborne.
Sabre imagined what was happening.
The torque from its upward acceleration would force the occupants back into their seats. They’d probably fumble for the seat-belt releases, but would never have the chance to release them. And if they did, where would they go? The four-hundred-foot fall would take a few seconds, and the jolt of the car’s undercarriage slamming into the river would be like hitting concrete. Nothing would survive. Icy water seeping into the cabin would quickly send the hulk to the muddy bottom, where eventually the current would drag it east toward the even swifter Rhine.
Gone.
The four cars passed and the driver in the rear vehicle tossed him a wave. He returned the gesture. These men had been expensive, short notice and all, but worth every euro.
He kept speeding north toward Cologne.
It would take the Israelis a few days to determine what had happened. A problem was dead in Rothenburg and their field team was missing. He wondered if he’d been identified. Probably not. If they knew his identity, then why waste time taking pictures? No. He was still an unknown commodity.
Confusion reigned. In Israel and, soon, in Austria.
He liked that.
Time to convert that chaos into order.
TWENTY-EIGHT
WASHINGTON, DC
STEPHANIE WONDERED WHAT HER NEW COMPANION HAD planned. Cassiopeia Vitt was smart, wealthy, and daring, a woman who could handle herself in difficult situations. Not a bad combination. Provided she’d thought ahead.
“How do we get out of here?” she asked, as they trotted down the mall.
“You have any ideas?”
Actually she did, but she said nothing. “You’re the one who appeared out of nowhere.”
Cassiopeia smiled. “No need to be a smart-ass.”
“We’re being herded. I assumed you knew that.”
The Lincoln Memorial loomed ahead at the west end of the mall. The Reflecting Pool blocked any retreat southward. To the north, tall trees lined a busy boulevard.
“Contrary to what you and Henrik believe,” she said, “I’m not helpless. I have two agents on Constitution Avenue. I had just hit the panic button when you showed up.”
“Bad news. Those two men left.”
“What do you mean?”
“Right after you sat down with Dixon. They drove off.”
The mall ended at the base of the Lincoln Memorial. She looked back. The two pursuers had stopped their advance.
“Apparently we’re where they want us.”
A taxi roared toward them from the direction of Independence Avenue.
“About time,” Cassiopeia said, waving a black handkerchief.
The cab stopped and they leaped inside.
“I called a few minutes ago.” Cassiopeia slammed the rear door and said to the driver, “Just drive around. We’ll tell you when to let us out.”
The cab sped away.
Stephanie plunged a hand into her pocket and found her cell phone. She dialed the number for the agents she’d positioned as backup. Two men were about to be fired.
“You want to tell me why you left me there?” she calmly said into the phone when it was answered.
“We were ordered away,” the man said.
“I’m your boss. Who contradicts me?”
“Your boss.”
Amazing. “Which one?”
“The attorney general. Brent Green himself came and told us to leave.”
MALONE TOSSED THE SATCHEL FROM GEORGE HADDAD’S apartment onto the bed. He and Pam were inside a hotel not far from Hyde Park, a familiar place he’d chosen for its congestion because, as he was taught, Nowhere better to hide in than a crowd. He also liked the pharmacy next door. There he’d purchased gauze, antiseptic, and bandages.
“I have to work on that shoulder,” he said.
“What do you mean? Let’s find a hospital.”
“I wish it were that simple.”
He sat on the bed beside her.
“It’s going to be that simple. I want a doctor.”
“If you’d stayed upstairs like I told you, nothing would have happened.”
“I thought you needed help. You were going to kill that man.”
“Don’t you get it, Pam? Wasn’t watching George die enough? These SOBs are serious. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you.”
“I came to help,” she quietly said.
And he saw something in her eyes he hadn’t seen for years. Sincerity. Which raised a whole lot of questions he didn’t want to ask. Nor, he was sure, would she want to answer. “Doctors would involve police, which is a problem.” He sucked a few deep breaths. He was worn by fatigue and worry. “Pam, there are a lot of players here. The Israelis didn’t take Gary—”
“How do you know that?”
“Call it instinct. My gut tells me they didn’t do it.”
“They sure killed that old man.”
“Which was why I hid him away in the first place.”
“He called them, Cotton. You heard him. He called knowing they’d come.”
“He was doing his penance. Killing comes with consequences. George faced his today.” And the thought of his dead friend brought with it a renewed pang of regret. “I need to work on that wound.”
He slipped the shawl from around her shoulders and noticed that the towel was sticky with blood. “Did it open back up?”
She nodded. “On the way here.”
He peeled the compress away. “Whatever’s happening is complicated. George died for a reason—”
“His body was gone, Cotton. Along with the woman’s.”
“The Israelis apparently cleaned up their mess fast.” He carefully examined her arm and saw that the cut was indeed shallow. “Which only goes to prove what I’m saying. There are multiple players. At least two, maybe three, possibly four. Israel is not in the habit of killing American agents. But the people who murdered Lee Durant don’t seem to care. It’s almo
st like they’re inviting trouble. And that, the Israelis never do.”
He stood and entered the bathroom. When he returned he popped open a bottle of antiseptic and handed her a fresh towel. “Bite on this.”
A puzzled look came to her face. “Why?”
“I need to disinfect that wound and I don’t want anyone to hear you scream.”
Her eyes went wide. “That stuff hurts?”
“More than you can imagine.”
STEPHANIE SWITCHED OFF THE CELL PHONE. BRENT GREEN HIMSELF came and told us to leave. Shock stiffened her spine, but decades in the intelligence business allowed nothing in her countenance to betray her surprise.
She faced Cassiopeia across the cab’s rear seat. “I’m afraid, at the moment, you’re the only person I can trust.”
“You seem disappointed.”
“I don’t know you.”
“That’s not true. In France you checked me out.”
Cassiopeia was right—she’d been thoroughly vetted, and Stephanie learned that the dark-skinned beauty had been born in Barcelona thirty-seven years ago. Half Muslim, though not noted as devout, Cassiopeia possessed master’s degrees in engineering and medieval history. She was the sole shareholder and owner of a multicontinent conglomerate based in Paris and involved in a broad spectrum of international business ventures with assets in the multibillion-dollar range. Her Moorish father had started the company and she’d inherited control, though she was little involved with its everyday operation. She also served as the chairwoman for a Dutch foundation that worked closely with the United Nations on international AIDS relief and world famine, particularly in Africa. Stephanie knew from personal experience that Vitt shied away from little, and she could wield a rifle with the accuracy of a sniper. At times a bit too brassy for her own good, Cassiopeia had been associated with Stephanie’s late husband and understood more about Stephanie’s personal life than she cared for anyone to know. But she trusted the woman. No question. Thorvaldsen had chosen wisely when he sent her.
“I have a serious problem.”
“That much we already know.”
“And Cotton is in trouble. It’s imperative I contact him.”
“Henrik hasn’t heard from him. Malone said he’d call when he’s ready, and you know him better than anyone.”