Alexandria Link (6 page)

“Sometimes, Stephanie, enemies can be your friend.” Daley’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “And vice versa.”

A knot formed in her throat. Her suspicions were now fact. “You’re going to sacrifice Malone’s boy for your president’s legacy?”

“I didn’t start this,” Daley replied. “But I intend to use it.”

“Not if I can help it,” she said.

“Interfere and you’ll be fired. Not by you, Brent, but by the president himself.”

“That could become a problem,” Green said.

She caught the threat in his tone.

“You’re saying you’d stand with her?” Daley asked.

“Without question.”

She knew that this was a threat Daley could not ignore. The administration possessed a measure of control over Green’s actions as attorney general. But if he quit, or was fired, then it would be open season on the White House.

The speakerphone sat silent. She imagined Daley sitting in his office, puzzling over his quandary.

“I’ll be at your house in thirty minutes.”

“Why do we need to meet?” Green asked.

“I assure you, it’ll be worth your while.”

The line clicked dead.

MALONE STOOD IN THE ARMOIRE AND LISTENED AS FOOTSTEPS rushed into the Queen’s Chamber. Pam was nestled beside him, the closest they’d been to each other in years. A familiar smell rose from her, like sweet vanilla, one he recalled with a mixture of joy and agony. Funny the way smells triggered memory.

He still held the Beretta and hoped he didn’t have to use it. But he had no intention of being taken into custody, not when Gary needed him. Surely one reason for killing Durant was to isolate them. Another had been to prevent them from learning any useful information. But he wondered how anyone had known of the meeting. They hadn’t been followed from Christiangade, of that he was sure. Which meant Thorvaldsen’s phones must have been monitored. Which meant that his going straight to Christiangade had been anticipated.

He couldn’t see Pam, but he sensed her discomfort. Considering all the intimacy they’d once shared, now they were simply strangers.

Perhaps even enemies.

Voices outside grabbed his thoughts. Footsteps grew fainter, then became lost in silence. He waited, finger on the trigger, sweat breaking in his palms.

More silence.

No way to see anything without cracking the armoire’s doors. Which could prove disastrous if someone remained in the room.

But he couldn’t stand here forever.

He eased open the door, gun ready.

The Queen’s Chamber was empty.

Down the stairs, he mouthed, and they rushed through the open portal and descended a circular staircase that hugged the castle’s outer wall. At ground level they came to a metal door that he hoped wasn’t locked.

The latch released.

They stepped out into a bright morning. A sea of shiny grass littered with swans stretched from the castle walls to the sea. Sweden loomed on the horizon, three miles across the gray-brown water.

He stuffed the Beretta beneath his jacket.

“We need to get out of here,” he said. “But slowly. Don’t draw attention.” He could tell she was still rattled from the killing, so he offered, “You’ll see it over and over in your brain, but it’ll pass.”

“Your concern is touching.” Her voice was again filled with menace.

“Then chew on this. That’s probably not the last person who’s going to die before this is over.”

He led the way across the ramparts that overlooked the sound. Few visitors milled about. They came to a spot he knew was Flag Battery, where ancient cannons once stood and where Shakespeare had allowed Hamlet to meet his father’s ghost. A wall rose from the sea. He lobbed the Glock out into the choppy water.

Sirens wailed from beyond the grounds.

They slowly made their way to the main entrance. Seeing flashing lights and more police rushing onto the grounds, he decided to wait before heading out. Unlikely that anyone would have a description of them, and he doubted that the shooter had stayed around to provide one. The idea was surely not to have them arrested.

So he blended with the crowd.

Then he spotted the shooter.

Fifty yards away, heading straight for the main gate, strolling, not trying to attract attention, either.

Pam saw him, too. “That’s the guy.”

“I know.”

He started forward.

“You’re not,” she asked.

“Couldn’t stop me.”

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

11:20 AM

THE BLUE CHAIR WONDERED IF THE CIRCLE HAD COMMITTED itself to the proper course. For eight years die Klauen der Adler, the Talons of the Eagle, had dutifully carried out his assigned tasks. True, they’d collectively hired him, but on an everyday basis he worked directly under the Blue Chair’s control, which meant that he’d come to know Dominick Sabre far better than the rest.

Sabre was an American, born and bred, which was a first for the Circle. Always they’d employed Europeans, though once a South African had served them well. Each of those men, including Sabre, had been chosen not only for his individual ability but also for his physical mediocrity. All had been of average height, weight, and features. The only noticeable trait about Sabre was the pockmarks on his face, left over from a bout with chicken pox. Sabre’s black hair was cut straight and always held together with a dash of oil that added gleam. Stubble often dusted his cheeks partly, the Blue Chair knew, to conceal the scars, but also to disarm those around him.

Sabre maintained a relaxed look, wearing clothes, usually a size too big, that concealed a lean-limbed muscular frame—surely more of his effort to be constantly underestimated.

From a psychological profile Sabre had to endure prior to being hired, the Blue Chair learned that there was something about defiance of authority that appealed to the American. But that same profile also revealed that, if he was given a task, told the intended result, and left alone, Sabre would always perform.

And that was what mattered.

Both he and the Chairs could not care less how a given task was completed, only that the desired result be obtained. So their association with Sabre had been fruitful. Yet a man with no morals and little respect for authority bore watching.

Especially when the stakes were high.

As now.

So the Blue Chair reached for the phone and dialed.

SABRE ANSWERED HIS CELL PHONE, HOPING THE CALL WAS FROM his man at Kronborg Slot. Instead the strained voice on the other end belonged to his employer.

“How did Mr. Malone enjoy your initial greeting?” the Blue Chair asked.

“Handled himself well. He and the ex-wife crawled out through the window.”

“As you predicted. But I wonder, are we drawing unnecessary attention?”

“More than I’d like, but it was necessary. He tried to call our bluff, so he had to see he’s not in charge. But I’ll be more discreet from here on out.”

“Do that. We don’t need law enforcement overly involved.” He paused. “At least not any more than they are as of now.”

Sabre was ensconced in a rental house on Copenhagen’s north side, a few blocks inland from Amalienborg, the seaside royal palace. He’d brought Gary Malone here from Georgia on the pretense that his father was in danger, which the boy had believed thanks to falsified Magellan Billet identification Sabre had showed him.

“How is the lad?” the Blue Chair asked.

“He was anxious, but he thinks this is a U.S. government operation. So he’s calm, for now.”

They’d terrorized Pam Malone with a photo of her son. The young man had cooperated with that, too, thinking they were producing security credentials.

“Isn’t the boy located too close to Malone?”

“He wouldn’t have gone voluntarily anywhere else. He knows his father is nearby.”

“I realize you have this under control. But do be careful. Malone may surprise you.”

“That’s why we have his son. He won’t jeopardize him.”

“We need the Alexandria Link.”

“Malone will lead us straight there.”

But the call from his man at Kronborg still had not come. For everything to work, it was critical that his operative perform exactly as he’d instructed.

“We also need this resolved in the next few days.”

“It will be.”

“From what you’ve told me,” the Blue Chair said, “this Malone is a free spirit. You sure he’ll stay properly motivated?”

“Not to worry. Right now more than sufficient motivation is being provided.”

MALONE EXITED THE GROUNDS OF KRONBORG SLOT AND spotted his quarry strolling calmly into Helsingør. He loved the town’s market square, quaint alleys, and timber-and-brick buildings. But none of that Renaissance flavor mattered today.

More sirens wailed in the distance.

He knew murders were rare in Denmark. Given that this one occurred inside a National Historic Site, it would surely make for big news. He needed to notify Stephanie that one of her agents was dead, but there was no time. He assumed Durant had been traveling under his own name—that was standard Billet practice—so once the local authorities determined that their victim worked for the American government, the right people would be contacted. He thought about Durant. Damn shame. But he learned long ago not to waste emotion on things he could not change.

He slackened his pace and yanked Pam alongside him. “We need to stay back. He isn’t paying attention, but he could still spot us.”

They crossed the street and clung to an attractive row of buildings that fronted a narrow walk facing the sea. The shooter was a hundred feet ahead. Malone watched as he turned a corner.

They reached the same corner and peered around. The man was plowing ahead down a pedestrian-only lane lined with shops and restaurants. A clutter of people milled about, so he decided to risk it.

They followed.

“What are we doing?” Pam asked.

“The only thing we can do.”

“Why don’t you just give them what they want?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is.”

He kept his gaze ahead. “Thanks for the advice.”

“You’re an ass.”

“I love you, too. Now that we’ve established that, let’s focus on what we’re doing.”

Their objective turned right and disappeared.

Malone hustled forward, glanced around the corner, and saw the shooter approach a dirty Volvo coupe. He hoped he wasn’t leaving. No way to follow. Their car was a long way off. He watched as the man opened the driver’s-side door and tossed something inside. Then he closed the door and started back their way.

They ducked into a clothing shop just as the shooter passed in front, heading back in the direction from which they’d come. Malone crept to the door and watched the man enter a café.

“What’s he doing?” Pam asked.

“Waiting for the commotion to die down. Don’t force the issue. Just sit tight, blend in. Leave later.”

“That’s nuts. He killed a man.”

“And only we know that.”

“Why kill him at all?”

“To rattle our nerves. Silence any information flow. Lots of reasons.”

“This is a sick business.”

“Why do you think I got out?” He decided to use the interlude to his advantage. “Go get the car and bring it around to over there.” He pointed through an alley at the seaside train station. “Park and wait for me. When he leaves, he’s going to have to go that way. It’s the only route out of town.”

He passed her the keys and, for an instant, memories of other times he’d handed her car keys rattled through his brain. He thought of years past. Knowing she and Gary were waiting at home, after an assignment, had always brought him a measure of comfort. And as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they’d once been good for each other. He remembered her smile, her touch. Unfortunately, her deceit about Gary now colored all that pleasantness with suspicion. Made him wonder. Question whether their life together had all been an illusion.

She seemed to sense his thoughts and her gaze softened, like the Pam before bad things changed them both. So he said, “I’ll find Gary. I swear to you. He’ll be all right.”

He actually wanted her to respond, but she said nothing.

And her silence stung.

So he walked away.

OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND

10:30 AM

GEORGE HADDAD ENTERED BAINBRIDGE HALL. FOR THE PAST three years he’d been a frequent visitor, ever since he’d convinced himself that the answer to his dilemma lay within these walls.

The house was a masterpiece of marble pavings, Mortlake tapestries, and richly colored decorations. The grand staircase, with elaborately carved floral panels, dated from the time of Charles II. The plaster ceilings from the 1660s. The furnishings and paintings were all eighteenth and nineteenth century. Everything a showpiece of English country style.

But it was also much more.

A puzzle.

Just like the white arbor monument in the garden where members of the press were still gathered, listening to the so-called experts. Just like Thomas Bainbridge himself, the unknown English earl who’d lived in the latter part of the eighteenth century.

Haddad knew the family history.

Bainbridge had been born to the world of privilege and high expectations. His father had served as the squire of Oxfordshire. Though his position in society had been fixed by generational affluence and family tradition, Thomas Bainbridge shunned the traditional military service and turned his attention to academics—mainly history, languages, and archaeology. When his father died, he inherited the earldom and spent decades traveling the world, being one of the first Westerners to intimately explore Egypt, the Holy Land, and Arabia, documenting his experiences in a series of published journals.

He taught himself Old Hebrew, the language in which the Old Testament had originally been written. Quite an accomplishment considering that the dialect was mainly vocal and consonantal, and had disappeared from common usage around the sixth century before Christ. He wrote a book published in 1767 that challenged the known translations of the Old Testament, calling into question much of his age’s conventional wisdom, then spent the latter part of his life defending his theories, dying bitter and broken, the family fortune gone.