The line clicked dead.
MALONE STOOD IN THE ARMOIRE AND LISTENED AS FOOTSTEPS rushed into the Queen’s Chamber. Pam was nestled beside him, the closest they’d been to each other in years. A familiar smell rose from her, like sweet vanilla, one he recalled with a mixture of joy and agony. Funny the way smells triggered memory.
He still held the Beretta and hoped he didn’t have to use it. But he had no intention of being taken into custody, not when Gary needed him. Surely one reason for killing Durant was to isolate them. Another had been to prevent them from learning any useful information. But he wondered how anyone had known of the meeting. They hadn’t been followed from Christiangade, of that he was sure. Which meant Thorvaldsen’s phones must have been monitored. Which meant that his going straight to Christiangade had been anticipated.
He couldn’t see Pam, but he sensed her discomfort. Considering all the intimacy they’d once shared, now they were simply strangers.
Perhaps even enemies.
Voices outside grabbed his thoughts. Footsteps grew fainter, then became lost in silence. He waited, finger on the trigger, sweat breaking in his palms.
More silence.
No way to see anything without cracking the armoire’s doors. Which could prove disastrous if someone remained in the room.
But he couldn’t stand here forever.
He eased open the door, gun ready.
The Queen’s Chamber was empty.
The latch released.
They stepped out into a bright morning. A sea of shiny grass littered with swans stretched from the castle walls to the sea. Sweden loomed on the horizon, three miles across the gray-brown water.
He stuffed the Beretta beneath his jacket.
“We need to get out of here,” he said. “But slowly. Don’t draw attention.” He could tell she was still rattled from the killing, so he offered, “You’ll see it over and over in your brain, but it’ll pass.”
“Your concern is touching.” Her voice was again filled with menace.
“Then chew on this. That’s probably not the last person who’s going to die before this is over.”
He led the way across the ramparts that overlooked the sound. Few visitors milled about. They came to a spot he knew was Flag Battery, where ancient cannons once stood and where Shakespeare had allowed Hamlet to meet his father’s ghost. A wall rose from the sea. He lobbed the Glock out into the choppy water.
Sirens wailed from beyond the grounds.
They slowly made their way to the main entrance. Seeing flashing lights and more police rushing onto the grounds, he decided to wait before heading out. Unlikely that anyone would have a description of them, and he doubted that the shooter had stayed around to provide one. The idea was surely not to have them arrested.
So he blended with the crowd.
Then he spotted the shooter.
Fifty yards away, heading straight for the main gate, strolling, not trying to attract attention, either.
Pam saw him, too. “That’s the guy.”
“I know.”
He started forward.
“You’re not,” she asked.
“Couldn’t stop me.”
ELEVEN
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
11:20 AM
THE BLUE CHAIR WONDERED IF THE CIRCLE HAD COMMITTED itself to the proper course. For eight years
Sabre was an American, born and bred, which was a first for the Circle. Always they’d employed Europeans, though once a South African had served them well. Each of those men, including Sabre, had been chosen not only for his individual ability but also for his physical mediocrity. All had been of average height, weight, and features. The only noticeable trait about Sabre was the pockmarks on his face, left over from a bout with chicken pox. Sabre’s black hair was cut straight and always held together with a dash of oil that added gleam. Stubble often dusted his cheeks partly, the Blue Chair knew, to conceal the scars, but also to disarm those around him.
Sabre maintained a relaxed look, wearing clothes, usually a size too big, that concealed a lean-limbed muscular frame-surely more of his effort to be constantly underestimated.
From a psychological profile Sabre had to endure prior to being hired, the Blue Chair learned that there was something about defiance of authority that appealed to the American. But that same profile also revealed that, if he was given a task, told the intended result, and left alone, Sabre would always perform.
And that was what mattered.
Both he and the Chairs could not care less how a given task was completed, only that the desired result be obtained. So their association with Sabre had been fruitful. Yet a man with no morals and little respect for authority bore watching.
Especially when the stakes were high.
As now.
So the Blue Chair reached for the phone and dialed.
SABRE ANSWERED HIS CELL PHONE, HOPING THE CALL WAS FROM his man at Kronborg Slot. Instead the strained voice on the other end belonged to his employer.
“How did Mr. Malone enjoy your initial greeting?” the Blue Chair asked.
“Handled himself well. He and the ex-wife crawled out through the window.”
“As you predicted. But I wonder, are we drawing unnecessary attention?”
“More than I’d like, but it was necessary. He tried to call our bluff, so he had to see he’s not in charge. But I’ll be more discreet from here on out.”
“Do that. We don’t need law enforcement overly involved.” He paused. “At least not any more than they are as of now.”
Sabre was ensconced in a rental house on Copenhagen’s north side, a few blocks inland from Amalienborg, the seaside royal palace. He’d brought Gary Malone here from Georgia on the pretense that his father was in danger, which the boy had believed thanks to falsified Magellan Billet identification Sabre had showed him.
“How is the lad?” the Blue Chair asked.
“He was anxious, but he thinks this is a U.S. government operation. So he’s calm, for now.”
They’d terrorized Pam Malone with a photo of her son. The young man had cooperated with that, too, thinking they were producing security credentials.
“Isn’t the boy located too close to Malone?”
“He wouldn’t have gone voluntarily anywhere else. He knows his father is nearby.”
“I realize you have this under control. But do be careful. Malone may surprise you.”
“That’s why we have his son. He won’t jeopardize him.”
“We need the Alexandria Link.”
“Malone will lead us straight there.”
But the call from his man at Kronborg still had not come. For everything to work, it was critical that his
