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 acquired 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 Hojbro 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
“Gee, Pam, I wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t pointed it out.”
