by Steve Berry
“How do you know he’s not my son?”
“Cotton, run tests. I don’t care. Just know you’re not Gary’s father. Do with the information what you please.”
“Does he know?”
“Of course not. That’s between him and you. He’ll never hear it from me.”
He could still feel the anger that had flooded him as Pam remained calm. They were so different, which might also explain why they were no longer together. He’d lost his father young but had been raised by a mother who adored him. Pam’s childhood had been nothing but turmoil. Her mother had been a flighty woman with conflicting emotions who’d operated a day care center. She’d squandered the family savings not once but twice. Astrologers were her weakness. She never could resist them, eagerly listening as they told her exactly what she wanted to hear. Pam’s father was equally troubling, a distant drifting soul who cared far more about radio-controlled airplanes than his wife and three children. He’d labored for forty years at an ice cream cone factory, a salaried employee who never rose above midlevel manager. Loyalty mixed with a false sense of contentment—that had been his father-in-law up to the day that a three-pack-a-day cigarette habit finally stopped his heart.
Until they met, Pam had known little love or security. Miserly with emotion but exacting in devotion, she’d always given far less than she demanded. And pointing out that reality brought only anger. His own mistake with other women, early in their marriage, merely proved her point—that nothing and no one could ever be counted on.
Not mothers, fathers, siblings, or husbands.
All of them failed.
And so had she.
Having a baby out of wedlock and never telling her husband he was not the father. She seemed to still be paying the price of that failure.
He ought to cut her some slack. But it took two to make a bargain, and she wasn’t willing—at least not yet—to deal.
The shooter disappeared from the window.
Malone’s attention snapped back to the café.
He watched as the man exited the building and headed toward his parked car, climbed in, and left. He abandoned his position, raced through the alley, and spotted Pam.
He crossed the street and jumped into the passenger seat. “Crank it up and get ready.”
“Me? Why don’t you drive?”
“No time. Here he comes.”
He saw the Volvo round the bend in the highway that paralleled the shore and speed past.
“Go,” he urged.
And she followed.
GEORGE HADDAD ENTERED HIS LONDON FLAT. THE TRIP TO Bainbridge Hall had generated its usual frustration so he ignored his computer, which signaled that there were unread e-mails, and sat at the kitchen table.
For five years he’d stayed dead. To know, but not to know. To understand, but at the same time to be confused.
He shook his head.
What a dilemma.
He glanced around. The soothing, cleansing magic of the apartment was no more. Clearly it was time. Others must know. He owed that revelation to every soul destroyed in the nakba, whose land was stolen, whose property was seized. And he owed it to the Jews.
Everyone had a right to the truth.
The first time months ago had not seemed to work. That was why yesterday, he’d again reached for the phone.
Now, for the third time, he dialed an international call.
MALONE WATCHED THE ROAD AHEAD AS PAM SPED DOWN THE coastal highway, south, toward Copenhagen. The Volvo was half a mile ahead. He’d allowed several cars to pass, which provided a buffer, but cautioned her more than once not to fall too far back.
“I’m not an agent,” Pam said, her eyes glued out the windshield. “Never done this before.”
“They didn’t teach you this in law school?”
“No, Cotton. They taught you this in spy school.”
“I wish they’d had a spy school. Unfortunately I had to learn on the job.”
The Volvo quickened its pace and he wondered if they’d been spotted. But then he saw that the car was simply passing another. He noticed Pam starting to keep pace. “Don’t. If he’s watching, that’s a trick to find out if he has company. I can see him, so stay where you are.”
“I knew that Justice Department education would pay off.”
Levity. Rare for her. But he appreciated the effort. He hoped this lead paid off. Gary had to be nearby, and all he’d need was one chance to get the boy out.
They found the outskirts of the capital. Traffic slowed to a crawl. They were four cars back as the Volvo maneuvered through Charlottenlund Slotspark, entered north Copenhagen, and motored south into the city. Just before the royal palace, the Volvo turned west and wound a path deep into a residential neighborhood.
“Careful,” he said. “Easy to be spotted here. Stay back.”
Pam allowed more room. Malone was familiar with this part of town. The Rosenborg Slot, where the Danish crown jewels were displayed, stood a few blocks away, the botanical gardens nearby.
“He’s headed somewhere specific,” he said. “These houses all look alike, so you have to know where you’re going.”
Two more turns and the Volvo cruised down a tree-lined lane. He told her to stop at the corner and watched as their quarry wheeled into a driveway.
“Pull over to the curb,” he said, motioning.
As she parked the car, he found his Beretta and opened the door. “Stay here. And I mean it. This could get rough, and I can’t find Gary and look after you, too.”
“You think he’s there?”
“Good chance.”
He hoped she wasn’t going to be difficult.
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
He started to climb out. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was firm but not hostile. A jolt of emotion surged through him.
He faced her, the fear plain in her eyes.
“If he’s there, bring him back.”
FIFTEEN
WASHINGTON, DC
7:20 AM
STEPHANIE WAS GLAD LARRY DALEY HAD LEFT. SHE LIKED THE man less each time they were around each other.
“What do you think?” Green asked.
“One thing is clear. Daley has no idea what the Alexandria Link is. He just knows about George Haddad, and he’s hoping that the man knows something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“If he knew, he wouldn’t be wasting time with us.”
“He needs Malone to find Haddad.”
“But who says he needs Haddad to connect anything? If the classified files were complete, he wouldn’t waste time with Haddad. He’d just hire a few brains, figure out whatever it is, and go from there.” She shook her head. “Daley is a bullshit artist, and we were just bullshitted. He needs Cotton to find Haddad because he doesn’t know squat. He’s hoping Haddad has all the answers.”
Green sat back in his chair with an undisguised anxiety. She was beginning to think that she’d misjudged this New Englander. He’d stood with her against Daley, even making clear that he’d quit if the White House fired her.
“Politics is a nasty business,” Green muttered. “The president is a lame duck. His agenda stalled. Time’s running out. He’s definitely looking for a legacy, his spot in the history books, and men like Daley see it as their duty to provide one. I agree with you. He’s fishing. But how any of this could be useful is beyond me.”
“Apparently it’s potent enough that the Saudis, and the Israelis, both acted on it five years ago.”
“And that’s significant. The Israelis aren’t prone to capriciousness. Something made them want Haddad dead.”
“Cotton’s in a mess,” she said. “His boy is at risk and he’s not going to get a bit of help from us. In fact, officially we’re going to sit back and watch, then take advantage of him.”
“I think Daley is underestimating his opposition. There’s been a lot of planning here.”
She agreed. “That’s the problem with bureaucrats. They think eve
rything is negotiable.”
The cell phone in Stephanie’s pocket startled her with its vibration. She’d left word not to be disturbed unless it was vital. She answered the call, listened for a moment, then clicked off.
“I just lost an agent. The man I sent to meet Malone. He was killed at Kronborg Castle.”
Green was silent.
Pain built behind her eyes. “Lee Durant had a wife and children.”
“Any word from Malone?”
She shook her head. “They haven’t heard from him.”
“Perhaps you were right earlier. Maybe we should involve other agencies?”
Her throat tightened. “It wouldn’t work. This has to be handled another way.”
Green sat still, lips pursed, eyes unwavering, as if he knew what had to be done.
“I intend to help Cotton,” she said.
“And what could you do? You’re not a field agent.”
She recalled how Malone had told her the same thing not long ago in France, but she’d handled herself well enough. “I’ll get my own help. People I can trust. I have a lot of friends who owe me favors.”
“I can help, too.”
“I don’t want you involved.”
“But I am.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” she said.
“You might be surprised.”
“And what would Daley do then? We have no idea who his allies are. It’s better I do this quietly. You stay out of it.”
Green’s face registered nothing. “What about the briefing this morning on Capitol Hill?”
“I’ll do it. That way Daley should be placated.”
“I’ll give you whatever cover I can.”
A smile bent the edges of her mouth. “You know, this may have been the best few hours we ever spent together.”
“I’m sorry that we didn’t spend more time like this.”
“Me, too,” she said. “But I have a friend who needs me.”
SIXTEEN
MALONE LEFT THE CAR AND WORKED HIS WAY CLOSER TO THE house where the Volvo sat parked. He could not approach from the front—too many windows, too little cover—so he detoured into a grassy alley adjacent to the house next door and approached from the rear. The dwellings in this part of Copenhagen were like his neighborhood in Atlanta—shady lanes of compact brick residences surrounded by equally compact front and rear yards.
He shielded the Beretta at his side and used the foliage to mask his continued advance. So far he’d seen no one. A shoulder-high hedge divided one yard from the next. He maneuvered to where he could see over the hedge and spotted a rear door into the house where the shooter had gone. Before he could decide on what course to take, the rear door was flung open and two men emerged.
The shooter from Kronborg and another man, short and stumpy with no neck.
The two were talking, and they walked around to the front of the house. He obeyed his instincts and rushed from his hiding place, entering the backyard through an opening in the hedge. He darted straight for the rear door and, with gun ready, slipped inside.
The one-story house was quiet. Two bedrooms, a den, kitchen, and bath. One bedroom door was closed. He quickly surveyed the rooms. Empty. He approached the closed door. His left hand gripped the knob, his right held the gun, finger on the trigger. He slowly twisted, then shoved open the door.
And saw Gary.
The boy was sitting in a chair, beside the window, reading. His son, startled, glanced up from the pages, then his face beamed when he realized who was there.
Malone, too, felt a surge of elation.
“Dad.” Then Gary saw the gun and said, “What’s going on?”
“I can’t explain, but we have to go.”
“They said you were in trouble. Are those men who are trying to hurt me and Mom here?”
He nodded as panic swept over him. “They’re here. We have to go.”
Gary stood from the chair, and Malone couldn’t help himself. He hugged his son hard. This child was his—in every way. Screw Pam.
He said, “Stay behind me. Do exactly as I say. Understand?”
“There going to be trouble?”
“I hope not.”
He retraced his route to the rear door and peered outside. The yard was empty. He would need only a minute for them to make their escape.
He exited with Gary close at his heels.
The opening in the hedge loomed fifty feet away.
He maneuvered Gary in front of him, since the last he’d seen of the two men they were heading toward the street. Gun ready, he bolted straight for the yard next door. He kept his attention to their flank, allowing Gary to lead the way.
They passed through the opening.
“How predictable.”
He whirled and froze.
Standing twenty feet away was No Neck, Pam in his grasp, a sound-suppressed Glock jammed into her neck. The Kronborg Shooter stood off to the side, gun aimed directly at Malone.
“I found your ex wandering this way,” No Neck said with a Dutch twang. “I assume you told her to stay in the car?”
His gaze locked on Pam’s. Her eyes pleaded with him to forgive her.
“Gary,” she said, unable to move.
“Mom.”
Malone caught the desperation in both their voices. He repositioned Gary behind him.
“Let’s see how you did, Malone. You tracked my man over there from the castle into town, waited for him to leave, then followed, thinking your boy would be here.”
Definitely the voice from the cell phone last night. “Which all turned out to be right.”
The other man was unmoved. A sickening feeling invaded Malone’s stomach.
He’d been led.
“Pop the magazine out of that Beretta and toss it away.”
Malone hesitated, then decided he had no choice. He did as told.
“Now let’s trade. I’ll give you your ex and you give me the boy.”
“What if I say keep the ex?”
The man chuckled. “I’m sure you don’t want your son to watch while I blow his mother’s brains out, which is exactly what I’ll do, because I don’t really want her.”
Pam’s eyes widened at the prospects that her foolishness had spawned.
“Dad, what’s going on?” Gary asked.
“Son, you’re going to have to go with him—”
“No,” Pam yelled. “Don’t.”
“He’ll kill you,” Malone made clear.
No Neck’s finger lay firmly on the Glock’s trigger, and Malone hoped Pam stood still. He stared at Gary. “You have to do this for Mom. But I’ll be back for you, I swear. You can count on it.” He hugged the boy again. “I love you. Be tough for me. Okay?”
Gary nodded, hesitated an instant, then stepped toward No Neck, who released his grip on Pam. She instantly hugged Gary and started crying.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Let me stay with him,” she said. “I won’t give you any trouble. Cotton can find whatever it is you want and we’ll be good. I promise.”
“Shut up,” No Neck said.
“I swear to you. I won’t be a problem.”
He leveled the gun at her forehead. “Take your tight ass over there and shut up.”
“Don’t push him,” Malone said to her.
She gave Gary one more hug, then slowly retreated his way.
No Neck chuckled. “Good choice.”
Malone stared his adversary down.
The man’s gun suddenly swung right and three sound-suppressed bullets left the barrel and plowed into the Kronborg Shooter. The body teetered, then dropped, spine-first, to the ground.
Pam’s hand covered her mouth. “Oh, Jesus.”
Malone saw the shocked look on Gary’s face. No fifteen-year-old should be forced to watch that.
“He did exactly what I told him to do. But I knew you were following. He didn’t. Actually told me he hadn’t been followed. I don’t
have time for idiots. This little exercise was to get all the bravado out of your system. Now go get what I want.” No Neck pointed the Glock at Gary’s head. “We need to leave without you interfering.”
“All the bullets in my gun were tossed away.”
He watched Gary. Interestingly, the young face conveyed not a hint of anxiety. No panic. No fear. Just resolve.
No Neck and Gary started to leave.
Malone held the gun at his side, his mind reeling with possibilities. His son was only a few inches from a loaded Glock. He knew that once Gary was gone, he’d have no choice but to deliver the link. He’d avoided that unpleasant choice all day, since doing it would generate a whole host of dilemmas. No Neck had clearly anticipated what he would do from the beginning, knowing they’d all end up right here.
His blood seemed to turn to ice and a disturbing feeling swept through him.
Uncomfortable.
But familiar.
He kept his movements natural. That was the rule. His former profession had been all about chances. Weighing odds. Success had always been a factor of dividing odds into risk. His own hide had many times been on the line, and in three instances risk had overridden odds and he’d ended up in the hospital.
This was different. His son was at stake.
Thank heaven the odds were all in his favor.
No Neck and Gary approached the hedge opening.
“Excuse me,” Malone said.
No Neck turned.
Malone fired the Beretta and the bullet found the man’s chest. He seemed not to know what had happened—his face a mix of puzzlement and pain. Finally blood seeped from the corners of his mouth and his eyes surrendered.
He fell like a tree under an ax, twitched a moment, then stopped.
Pam rushed to Gary and swept him into her arms.
Malone lowered the gun.
SABRE WATCHED AS COTTON MALONE SHOT HIS LAST OPERATIVE. He was standing in the kitchen of a house that faced the rear of the dwelling where Gary Malone had been held the past three days. When he’d rented that locale, he’d rented this one, too.
He smiled.
Malone was a clever one, and his operative incompetent. Tossing the magazine had emptied the gun of bullets, except for the one already in the chamber. Any good agent, like Malone, always kept a bullet in the chamber. He recalled from his army special forces training the time a recruit had shot himself in the leg after supposedly unloading his weapon—forgetting about the loaded round.
