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 stories, 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.
He glanced up from the computer as Thorvaldsen shuffled into the room. The older Dane had apparently taken the time to dress. His short, stooped frame, the product of a spine that long ago refused to straighten, was concealed by the folds of an oversized sweater the color of a pumpkin. His bushy silver hair lay matted to one side, his eyebrows thick and untamed. Deep lines bracketed the mouth and forehead, and his sallow skin suggested an avoidance of the sun-which Malone knew was the case, as the Dane rarely ventured out. On a continent where old money meant billions, Thorvaldsen was at the top of every wealthiest-people list.
"What's happening?" Thorvaldsen asked.
"Henrik, this is Pam, my ex-wife."
Thorvaldsen flashed her a smile. "Pleased to meet you."
"We don't have time for this," she said, ignoring their host. "We need to be seeing about Gary."
Thorvaldsen faced him. "You look awful, Cotton, and she looks anxious."
"Anxious?" Pam said. "I just climbed out of a burning building. My son is missing. I'm jet-lagged, and I haven't eaten in two days."
"I'll have some food prepared." Thorvaldsen's voice stayed flat, as if this kind of thing happened every night.
"I don't want food. I want to see about my son."
Malone told Thorvaldsen what happened in Copenhagen, then said, "I'm afraid the building's gone."
"Which is the least of our worries."
He caught the choice of words and nearly smiled. He liked that about Thorvaldsen. On your side, no matter what.
Pam was pacing like a caged lioness. Malone noticed that she'd lost a few pounds since they'd last spoken. She'd always been slender, with long reddish hair, and time had not darkened the pale tone of her freckled skin. Her clothes were as frayed as her nerves, though overall she carried the same good looks from years ago, when he'd married her soon after joining the navy JAG. That was the thing about Pam-great on the outside-the inside was the problem. Even now her blue eyes, burned red from crying, managed to convey an icy fury. She was an intelligent, sophisticated woman, but at the moment she was confused, dazed, angry, and afraid. None of which, by his estimation, was good.
"What are you waiting for?" she spat out.
He glanced at the computer screen. Access into the Billet server had yet to be granted. But since he was no longer active, his request was surely being forwarded directly to Stephanie for approval. He knew that once she saw who was calling she'd immediately log on.
"Is this what you used to do?" she asked. "People trying to set you on fire. Shooting guns. This is what you did? See what it got us? See where we are?"
"Mrs. Malone," Henrik said.
"Don't call me that," she snapped. "I should have changed that last name. Good sense told me to do it in the divorce. But no, I didn't want my name different from Gary 's. Can't say a damn thing about his precious father. Not a word. No, Cotton, you're the man. A king in that boy's eyes. Damndest thing I've ever seen."
She wanted a fight, and he half wished he had the time to give her one.
The computer dinged. The screen converted to the Billet's access page.
He typed in the password, and a moment later two-way communication was established. The words KNIGHTS TEMPLAR appeared. Stephanie's coded introduction. He typed ABBEY DES FONTAINES, the place where he and Stephanie had, a few months ago, found the modern-day remnants of that medieval order. A few seconds later What is it, Cotton? appeared.
He typed in a summary of what had happened. She answered:
We've had a breach here. Two months ago. The secured files were accessed.
Care to explain that one?
Not at the moment. We wanted it kept secret. I need to check some things. Sit tight and I'll be back to you shortly. Where are you?
At your favorite Dane's house.
Give him my love.
He heard Henrik snicker and knew that, like two divorced parents, Stephanie and Henrik tolerated each other simply for his sake.
"We're just going to sit here and wait?" Pam said. They'd both been reading over Malone's shoulder.
"That's exactly what we're going to do."
She stormed for the door. "You can. I'm going to do something."
"Like what?" he asked.
"I'm going to the police."
She yanked open the door. Jesper stood in the hallway, blocking the way. Pam stared at the chamberlain. "Get out of my way."
Jesper stood firm.
She turned and glared at Henrik. "Tell your manservant to move or I'll move him."
"You're welcome to try," Thorvaldsen said.
Malone was glad Henrik had anticipated her foolishness. "Pam. My guts are ripped up, just like yours. But there's zero the police can do. We're dealing with a pro who's at least two days ahead of us. To do the best thing for Gary, I need information."
"You haven't shed a tear. Not a hint of surprise, nothing from you at all. Like always."
He resented that, particularly coming from a woman who just two months ago calmly informed him that he was not their son's father. He'd come to the conclusion that the revelation meant nothing when it came to how he felt about Gary-the boy was his son and would always be his son-but the lie made a huge difference in what he thought about his ex-wife. Anger surged up his neck. "You've already messed this up. You should have called me the second it happened. You're so damn smart, you should have found a way to get in touch with me or with Stephanie. She's right there in Atlanta. Instead you gave these guys two days. I don't have the time or the energy to fight you and them. Sit your ass down and shut up."
She stood rock-still with a brooding silence. Finally she surrendered and sank limply onto a leather couch.
Jesper gently closed the door and remained outside.
"Tell me one thing," Pam said, eyes fixed on the floor, her face stiff as marble.
He knew what she wanted to know. "Why can't I give him what he wants? It's not that simple."
"A boy's life is at stake."
"Not a boy, Pam. Our son."
She did not reply. Maybe she'd finally realized he was right. Before acting, they needed information. He was stalled. Like the day after law school exams, or when he requested a transfer from the navy to the Magellan Billet, or when he strode into Stephanie Nelle's office and quit.
Waiting, wishing, wanting, all combined with not knowing.
So he, too, wondered what Stephanie was doing.
SIX
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY, OCTOBER 3
10:30 PM
STEPHANIE NELLE WAS GLAD TO BE ALONE. WORRY CLOUDED her face, and she did not like anyone, particularly superiors, seeing her concerned. Rarely did she allow herself to be affected by what happened in the field, but the kidnapping of Gary Malone had hit her hard. She was in the capital on business and had just finished a late dinner meeting with the national security adviser. Changes were being proposed by an increasingly moderate Congress to several post-9/11 laws. Support was growing to allow sunset provisions to lapse, so the administration was gearing up for a fight. Yesterday several high-ranking officials had made the Sunday talk-show rounds to denounce the critics, and the morning papers had likewise carried stories fed to them by the administration's publicity machine. She'd been summoned from Atlanta to help tomorrow with lobbying key senators. Tonight's gathering had been preparation-a way, she knew, for everyone to learn exactly what she intended to say.
She hated politics.
She'd served three presidents during her tenure with Justice. But the current administration had been, without question, the most difficult to placate. Decidedly right of center and drifting farther to that extreme every day, the president had already won his second term, three years left in office, so he was thinking legacy, and what better epitaph than the man who crushed terrorism?
All of that meant nothing to her.
Presidents came and went.
And since the particular anti-terrorism provisions in jeopardy had actually proven useful, she'd assured the national security adviser that she'd be a good girl in the morning and say all the right things on Capitol Hill.
But that was before Cotton Malone's son had been taken.
THE PHONE IN THORVALDSEN'S STUDY RANG WITH A SHRILLNESS that rattled Malone's nerves.
Henrik answered the call. "Good to hear from you, Stephanie. And I send my love, too." The Dane smiled at his own facetiousness. "Yes. Cotton's here."
Malone gripped the phone. "Talk to me."
"Around Labor Day we noticed a breach in the system that had occurred much earlier. Someone managed a look-see through the secured files-one in particular."
He knew its identity. "Do you understand that by withholding that information you've put my son at risk?"
The other end of the phone was silent.
"Answer me, dammit."
"I can't, Cotton. And you know why. Just tell me what you're going to do."
He knew what the inquiry really meant. Was he going to give the voice on the cell phone the Alexandria Link? "Why shouldn't I?"
"You're the only one who can answer that question."
"What's worth risking my son's life? I need to understand the whole story. What I wasn't told five years ago."
"I need to know that, too," Stephanie said. "I wasn't briefed, either."
He'd heard that line before. "Don't screw with me. I'm not in the mood."
"On this one I'm shooting straight. They told me nothing. You asked to go in, and I was given the okay to do it. I've contacted the attorney general, so I'll get answers."
"How did anyone even know about the link? That whole thing was classified at levels way above you. That was the deal."
"An excellent question."
"And you still haven't said why you didn't tell me about the breach."
"No, Cotton. I haven't."
"The thought that I was the only person on earth who knows about that link didn't occur to you? You couldn't connect the dots?"
"How could I have anticipated all this?"
"Because you have twenty years of experience. Because you're not a dumb-ass. Because we're friends. Because-" His worry was spilling out in a stream. "Your stupidity may cost my son his life."
He saw how his words had jarred Pam, and he hoped she didn't explode.
"I realize that, Cotton."
He wasn't going to cut her any slack. "Gee, I feel better now."
"I'm going to deal with this here. But I can offer you something. I have an agent in Sweden who can be in Denmark by midmorning. He'll tell you everything."
"Where and when."
"He suggested Kronborg Slot. Eleven AM."
He knew the place. Not far away, perched on a spit of bare land overlooking the Øresund. Shakespeare had immortalized the monstrous fortress when he set Hamlet there. Now it was the most popular tourist attraction in Scandinavia.
"He suggested the ballroom. I assume you know where all that is?"
"I'll be there."
"Cotton. I'm going to do all I can to help."
"Which is the least you can do, considering."
And he hung up.
