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 But since he was no longer active, his request was surely being forwarded directly to Stephanie for approval.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
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.
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
