by Steve Berry
“Dammit, Cotton—”
“Pam, shut up. I have to think. You’re not helping.”
“I’m not helping? What the—”
The cell phone rang. Pam lunged for it, but he cut her off and said, “Leave it.”
“What do you mean? It could be Gary.”
“Get real.”
He scooped up the phone after the third ring and pushed TALK.
“Took long enough,” the male voice said in his ear. He caught a Dutch accent. “And please, no if-you-hurt-that-boy-I’m-going-to-kill-you bravado. Neither one of us has the time. Your seventy-two hours have already started.”
Malone stayed silent, but he recalled something he learned long ago. Never let the other side set the bargain. “Stick it up your ass. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You take a lot of risks with your son’s life.”
“I see Gary. I talk to him. Then, I go.”
“Take a look outside.”
He rushed to the window. Four stories down Højbro Plads was still quiet, except for two figures standing on the far side of the cobbled expanse.
Both silhouettes shouldered weapons.
Grenade launchers.
“Don’t think so,” the voice said in his ear.
Two projectiles shot through the night and obliterated the windows below him.
Both exploded.
TWO
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
2:12 AM
THE OCCUPANT OF THE BLUE CHAIR WATCHED AS ONE CAR DEPOSITED two occupants under a lighted porte cochere. Not a limousine or anything overtly pretentious, just a European sedan of muted color, a common sight on busy Austrian roads. The perfect means of transportation to avoid attention from terrorists, criminals, police, and inquisitive reporters. One more car arrived and deposited its passengers, then headed off to wait among the dark trees in a paved lot. Two more appeared a few minutes later. The Blue Chair, satisfied, left his second-floor bedchamber and descended to ground level.
The meeting convened in the usual place.
Five gilded, straight-backed armchairs rested atop a Hungarian carpet in a wide circle. The chairs were identical except for one, which sported a royal blue scarf across its cushioned back. Next to each chair stood a gilded table that supported a bronze lamp, a writing pad, and a crystal bell. To the left of the circle a fire bristled inside a stone hearth, its light dancing nervously across the ceiling murals.
A man occupied each chair.
They were designated in descending order of seniority. Two of the men still possessed their hair and health. Three were balding and frail. All were at least seventy years old and dressed in sedate suits, their dark chesterfields and gray homburgs hanging on brass racks off to one side. Behind each stood another man, younger—the Chair’s successor, present to listen and learn but not to be heard. The rules were long standing. Five Chairs, four Shadows. The Blue Chair was in charge.
“I apologize for the late hour, but some disturbing information arrived a few hours ago.” The Blue Chair’s voice was strained and wispy. “Our latest venture may be in jeopardy.”
“Exposure?” Chair Two asked.
“Perhaps.”
Chair Three sighed. “Can the problem be solved?”
“I think so. But prompt action is needed.”
“I cautioned we should not interfere in this,” Chair Two sternly reminded, shaking his head. “Things should have been allowed to run their natural course.”
Chair Three agreed, as he had at the previous meeting. “Perhaps this is a signal that we should leave well enough alone. A lot can be said about the natural order of things.”
The Blue Chair shook his head. “Our last vote was contrary to such a course. The decision has been made, so we must adhere to it.” He paused. “The situation requires attention.”
“Completion would involve tact and skill,” Chair Three said. “Undue attention would defeat the purpose. If we intend to press forward, then I recommend we grant die Klauen der Adler full authority to act.”
The Talons of the Eagle.
Two others nodded.
“I’ve already done that,” the Blue Chair said. “I called this gathering because my earlier, unilateral action required ratification.”
A motion was made, hands raised.
Four to one, the matter was approved.
The Blue Chair was pleased.
THREE
COPENHAGEN
MALONE’S BUILDING SHOOK LIKE AN EARTHQUAKE AND swelled with a rush of heat that soared up through the stairwell. He dove for Pam and together they slammed into a threadbare rug that covered the plank floor. He shielded her as another explosion rocked the foundation and more flames surged their way.
He gazed out the doorway.
Fires raged below.
Smoke billowed upward in an ever-darkening cloud.
He came to his feet and darted to the window. The two men were gone. Flames licked the night. He realized what had happened. They’d torched the lower floors. The idea wasn’t to kill them.
“What’s happening?” Pam screamed.
He ignored her and raised the window. Smoke was rapidly conquering the air inside.
“Come on,” he said, and he hustled into the bedroom.
He reached beneath the bed and yanked out the rucksack he always kept ready, even in retirement, just as he’d done for twelve years as a Magellan Billet agent. Inside was his passport, a thousand euros, spare identification, a change of clothes, and his Beretta with ammunition. His influential friend Henrik Thorvaldsen had only recently reobtained the gun from the Danish police—confiscated when Malone had become involved with the Knights Templar a few months back.
He shouldered the bag and slipped his feet into a pair of running shoes. No time to tie the laces. Smoke consumed the bedroom. He opened both windows, which helped.
“Stay here,” he said.
He held his breath and trotted through the den to the stairwell. Four stories opened up below. The ground floor housed his bookshop, the second and third floors were for storage, the fourth held his apartment. The first and third floors were ablaze. Heat scorched his face and forced him to retreat. Incendiary grenades. Had to be.
He rushed back to the bedroom.
“No way out from the stairs. They made sure of that.”
Pam was huddled next to the window gulping air and coughing. He brushed past her and poked his head out. His bedroom sat in a corner. The building next door, which housed a jeweler and a clothing store, was a story lower, the roof flat and lined with brick parapets that, he’d been told, dated from the seventeenth century. He glanced up. Above the window ran an oversized cornice that jutted outward and wrapped the front and side of his building.
Someone would surely have called the fire and rescue squads, but he wasn’t going to wait around for a ladder.
Pam started coughing harder, and he was having trouble breathing himself. He turned her head. “Look up there,” he said, pointing at the cornice. “Grab hold and move yourself to the side of the building. You can drop from there onto the roof next door.”
Her eyes went wide. “Are you nuts? We’re four floors up.”
“Pam, this building could blow. There are natural gas lines. Those grenades were designed to start a fire. They didn’t shoot one into this floor because they want us to get out.”
She didn’t seem to register what he was saying.
“We have to leave before the police and fire rescue get here.”
“They can help.”
“You want to spend the next eight hours answering questions? We only have seventy-two.”
She seemed to instantly comprehend his logic and stared up at the cornice. “I can’t, Cotton.” For the first time her voice carried no edge.
“Gary needs us. We have to go. Watch me, then do exactly as I do.”
He shouldered the rucksack and wiggled himself out the window. He gripped the cornice, the coarse stone warm but thin enough that his fingers ac
quired a solid hold. He dangled by his arms and worked his way, hand over hand, toward the corner. A few more feet, around the corner, and he dropped to the flat roof next door.
He hustled back to the front of the building and peered upward. Pam was still in the window. “Come on, do it. Just like I did.”
She hesitated.
An explosion ripped through the third floor. Glass from the windows showered Højbro Plads. Flames raked the darkness. Pam recoiled back inside. A mistake. A second later her head emerged and she hacked out violent coughs.
“You have to come now,” he yelled.
She finally seemed to accept that there was no choice. As he’d done, she curled herself out the window and grabbed the cornice. Then she leveraged her body out and hung from her arms.
He saw that her eyes were closed. “You don’t have to look. Just move your hands, one at a time.”
She did.
Eight feet of cornice stretched between where he stood and where she was struggling. But she was doing okay. One hand over the other. Then he saw figures below. In the square. The two men were back, this time with rifles.
He whipped the rucksack around and plunged a hand inside, finding his Beretta.
He fired twice at the figures fifty feet below. The retorts banged off the buildings lining the square in sharp echoes.
“Why are you shooting?” Pam asked.
“Keep coming.”
Another shot and the men below scattered.
Pam found the corner. He gave her a quick glance. “Move around and pull yourself my way.”
He searched the darkness but did not see the gunmen. Pam was maneuvering, one hand clamped onto the cornice, the other groping for a hold.
Then she lost her grip.
And fell.
He reached out, gun still in his hand, and managed to catch her. But they both crumpled to the roof. She was breathing hard. So was he.
The cell phone rang.
He crawled for the rucksack, found the phone, and flipped it open.
“Enjoy yourself?” the same voice from before asked.
“Any reason you had to blow up my shop?”
“You’re the one who said he wasn’t leaving.”
“I want to talk to Gary.”
“I make the rules. You’ve already used up thirty-six minutes of your seventy-two hours. I’d get moving. Your son’s life depends on it.”
The line went silent.
Sirens were approaching. He grabbed the rucksack and sprang to his feet. “We have to go.”
“Who was that?”
“Our problem.”
“Who was that?”
A sudden fury enveloped him. “I have no idea.”
“What is it he wants?”
“Something I can’t give him.”
“What do you mean you can’t? Gary’s life depends on it. Look around. He blew up your store.”
“Gee, Pam, I wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t pointed it out.”
He turned to leave.
She grabbed him. “Where are we going?”
“To get answers.”
FOUR
DOMINICK SABRE STOOD AT THE EAST END OF HØJBRO PLADS and watched Cotton Malone’s bookshop burn. Fluorescent yellow fire trucks were already positioned, and water was being spewed into the flame-filled windows.
So far, so good. Malone was on the move. Order from chaos. His motto. His life.
“They’ve come down from the building next door,” the voice said through his radio earpiece.
“Where did they go?” he whispered into the lapel mike.
“To Malone’s car.”
Right on target.
Firefighters scampered across the square, dragging more hoses, seemingly intent on making sure the flames did not spread. The fire seemed to be enjoying itself. Rare books apparently burned with enthusiasm. Malone’s building would soon be ash.
“Is everything else in place?” he asked the man standing beside him, one of the two Dutchmen he’d hired.
“I checked myself. Ready to go.”
A lot of planning had gone into what was about to occur. He wasn’t sure success was even possible—the goal was intangible, elusive—but if the trail he was following led somewhere, he would be prepared.
Everything, though, hinged on Malone.
His given name was Harold Earl, and nowhere in any of the background material was there an explanation of where the nickname Cotton had originated. Malone was forty-eight, older than Sabre by eleven years. Like him, though, Malone was American, born in Georgia. His mother a native southerner, his father a career military man, a navy commander whose submarine had sunk when Malone was ten years old. Interestingly, Malone had followed in his father’s footsteps, attending the Naval Academy and flight school, then abruptly changed directions, eventually earning a government-paid law degree. He was transferred to the Judge Advocate General’s corps, where he spent nine years. Thirteen years ago he’d changed directions again and moved to the Justice Department and the newly formed Magellan Billet, which handled some of America’s most sensitive international investigations.
There he remained until last year, retiring early as a full commander, leaving America, moving to Copenhagen, and buying a rare-book shop.
A midlife crisis? Trouble with the government?
Sabre wasn’t sure.
Then there was the divorce. That, he’d studied. Who knew? Malone seemed a puzzle. Though a confirmed bibliophile, nothing in the psychological profiles Sabre had read satisfactorily explained all the radical shifts.
Other tidbits only confirmed his opponent’s competence.
Reasonably fluent in several languages, possessed of no known addictions or phobias, and prone to self-motivation and obsessive dedication, Malone was also blessed with an eidetic memory, which Sabre envied.
Competent, experienced, intelligent. Far different from the fools he’d hired—four Dutchmen with few brains, no morals, and little discipline.
He stayed in the shadows as Højbro Plads crowded with people watching the firefighters go about their job. The night air nipped his face. Fall in Denmark seemed only a quick prelude to winter, and he slipped balled fists inside his jacket pockets.
Torching everything Cotton Malone had worked the past year to achieve had been necessary. Nothing personal. Just business. And if Malone did not deliver exactly what he wanted, he would kill the boy with no hesitation.
The Dutchman beside him—who’d placed the calls to Malone—coughed but continued to stand in silence. One of Sabre’s unbending rules had been made clear from the start. Speak only when addressed. He hadn’t the time or desire for chitchat.
He watched the spectacle for another few minutes. Finally he whispered into the lapel mike, “Everyone stay sharp. We know where they’re headed, and you know what to do.”
FIVE
4:00 AM
MALONE PARKED HIS CAR IN FRONT OF CHRISTIANGADE, HENRIK Thorvaldsen’s mansion that rose on the Danish Zealand east coast adjacent to the Øresund sea. He’d driven the twenty miles north from Copenhagen in the late-model Mazda he kept parked a few blocks from his bookshop, near the Christianburg Slot.
After finding their way down from the roof, he’d watched as firefighters tried to contain the blaze roaring through his building. He’d realized that his books were gone, and if the flames didn’t devour every last one, heat and smoke would do irreparable damage. Watching the scene, he’d fought a rising anger, trying to practice what he’d learned long ago. Never hate your enemy. That clouded judgment. No. He didn’t need to hate. He needed to think.
But Pam was making that difficult.
“Who lives here?” she asked.
“A friend.”
She’d tried to pry information from him on the drive, but he’d offered little, which only seemed to fuel her rage. Before he dealt with her, he needed to communicate with someone else.
The dark house was a genuine specimen of Danish baroque—three st
ories, built of sandstone-encased brick, and topped with a gracefully curving copper roof. One wing turned inland, the other faced the sea. Three hundred years ago a Thorvaldsen had erected it, after profitably converting tons of worthless peat into fuel to produce glass. More Thorvaldsens lovingly maintained it over the centuries and eventually transformed Adelgade Glasvaerker, with its distinctive symbol of two circles with a line beneath, into Denmark’s premier glassmaker. The modern conglomerate was headed by the current family patriarch, Henrik Thorvaldsen, the man responsible for Malone now living in Denmark.
He strode to the stout front door. A medley of bells reminiscent of a Copenhagen church at high noon announced his presence. He pressed the button again, then pounded. A light flashed on in one of the upper windows. Then another. A few moments later he heard locks release, and the door opened. Though the man staring out at him had certainly been asleep, his copper-colored hair was combed, his face a mask of polished control, his cotton robe wrinkle-free.
Jesper. Thorvaldsen’s head of household.
“Wake him up,” Malone said in Danish.
“And the purpose of such a radical act at four in the morning?”
“Look at me.” He was covered in sweat, grime, and soot. “Important enough?”
“I’m inclined to think so.”
“We’ll wait in the study. I need his computer.”
Malone first found his Danish e-mail account to see if any more messages had been sent, but there was nothing. He’d then accessed the Magellan Billet secured server, using the password that his former boss, Stephanie Nelle, had given him. Though he was retired and no longer on the Justice Department payroll, in return for what he’d done for Stephanie recently in France she’d provided him a direct line of communication. With the time difference—it was still only ten o’clock Monday evening in Atlanta—he knew his message would be routed directly to her.
