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 Helsingor. 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 cafe.
“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.
TWELVE
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.
Haddad knew the text well, having studied every page in detail. He could relate to Bainbridge’s troubles. He, too, had challenged conventional wisdom with disastrous consequences.
He enjoyed visiting the house but, sadly, most of the original furnishings had been long ago lost to creditors, including Bainbridge’s impressive library. Only in the past fifty years had some of the furniture been found. The vast majority of the books remained missing, drifting from collectors, to vendors, to the trash, which seemed the fate of much of humanity’s recorded knowledge. Yet Haddad had been able to locate a few volumes, spending time rummaging through the myriad of rare-book shops that dotted London.
And on the Internet.
What an amazing treasure. What they could have done in Palestine sixty years ago with that instant information network.
Lately he’d thought a lot about 1948.
