“Your father was a man due great respect. He was learned, entitled to share in our knowledge. That’s why I came, to invite him to share.”
The man’s calm voice hit Haddad like a pail of water dousing a flame. “Share what?”
The Guardian shook his head. “That’s only for him.”
“He’s dead.”
“Which means another invitee will be chosen.”
What was this man rambling about? Haddad had captured many Jewish prisoners-torturing them to learn what he could, then shooting what of them remained. Before the
He nestled the barrel of the gun between the man’s eyes. “I just made myself the invitee. Speak your knowledge.”
The man’s eyes seemed to penetrate him and, for a moment, a strange uneasiness overtook him. This emissary had clearly faced dilemmas before. Haddad admired courage.
“You fight a war that is not necessary, against an enemy that is misinformed,” the man said.
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“That’s for the next invitee to know.”
Midmorning was approaching. Haddad needed sleep. From this prisoner he’d hoped to learn the identity of some of the Jewish underground, perhaps even the monsters who’d slaughtered those people yesterday. The cursed British were supplying the Zionists with rifles and tanks. For years the British had made it illegal for Arabs to own weapons, which had placed them at a severe disadvantage. True, Arabs came with more numbers, but the Jews were better prepared, and Haddad feared the outcome of this war would be the legitimacy of the state of Israel.
He stared back at a hard, unbending expression, into eyes that never drifted from his, and he knew that his prisoner was prepared to die. Killing had become much easier for him over the past few months. Jewish atrocities helped ease what little of his conscience remained. Only nineteen, and his heart had turned to stone.
But war was war.
So he pulled the trigger.
ONE
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4, THE PRESENT
1:45 AM
COTTON MALONE STARED STRAIGHT INTO THE FACE OF TROUBLE. Outside his bookshop’s open front door stood his ex-wife, the last person on earth he’d expected to see. He quickly registered panic in her tired eyes, remembered the pounding that had awoken him a few minutes before, and instantly thought of his son.
“Where’s Gary?” he asked.
“You son of a bitch. They took him. Because of you. They took him.” She lunged forward, her closed fists crashing down onto his shoulders. “You sorry son of a bitch.” He grabbed her wrists and stopped the attack as she started crying. “I left you because of this. I thought this kind of thing was over.”
“Who took Gary?” More sobs were his answer. He kept hold of her arms. “Pam. Listen to me. Who took Gary?”
She stared at him. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Because they said not to. They said if I went anywhere near the police, Gary was dead. They said they would know, and I believed them.”
“Who’s
She wrenched her arms free, her face flooded with anger. “I don’t know. All they said was for me to wait two days, then come here and give you this.” She rummaged through her shoulder bag and produced a phone. Tears continued to rain down her cheeks. “They said for you to go online and open your e-mail.”
Had he heard right?
He flipped open the phone and checked the frequency. Enough megahertz to make it world-capable. Which made him wonder. Suddenly he felt vulnerable. Hojbro Plads was quiet. At this late hour no one roamed the city square.
His senses came alive.
“Get inside.” And he yanked her into the shop and closed the door. He hadn’t switched on any lights.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice shredded by fear.
He faced her. “I don’t know, Pam. You tell me. Our son has apparently been taken by God-knows-who, and you wait two days before telling a soul about it? That didn’t strike you as insane?”
“I wasn’t going to jeopardize his life.”
“And I would? How have I ever done that?”
“By being you,” she said in a frigid tone, and he instantly recalled why he no longer lived with her.
A thought occurred to him. She’d never been to Denmark. “How did you find me?”
“They told me.”
“Who the hell is
“I don’t know, Cotton. Two men. Only one did the talking. Tall, dark-haired, flat face.”
“American?”
“How would I know?”
“How did he speak?”
She seemed to catch hold of herself. “No. Not American. They had accents. European.”
He motioned with the phone. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“He said to open your e-mail and it would be explained.”
She glanced nervously around at the shelves cast in shadows. “Upstairs, right?”
Gary would have told her he lived over the store. He certainly hadn’t. They’d spoken only once since he’d retired from the Justice Department and left Georgia last year, and that had been two months back, in August, when he’d brought Gary home after their summer visit. She’d coldly told him that Gary was not his natural son. Instead the boy was the product of an affair from sixteen years ago, her response to his own infidelity. He’d wrestled with that demon ever since and had not, as yet, come to terms with its implications. One thing he’d decided at the time-he had no intention of ever speaking to Pam Malone again. Whatever needed to be said would be said between him and Gary.
But things seemed to have changed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Upstairs.”
They entered his apartment, and he sat at the desk. He switched on his laptop and waited for the programs to boot. Pam had finally grabbed hold of her emotions. She was like that. Her moods ran in waves. Soaring highs and cavernous lows. She was a lawyer, like him, but where he’d worked for the government, she handled high-stakes trials for
That was Pam.
The laptop was ready. He accessed his mailbox.
Empty.
“Nothing here.”
Pam rushed toward him. “What do you mean? He said to open your e-mail.”
