going.”
Two more turns and the Volvo cruised down a tree-lined lane. He told her to stop at the corner and watched as their quarry wheeled into a driveway.
“Pull over to the curb,” he said, motioning.
As she parked the car, he found his Beretta and opened the door. “Stay here. And I mean it. This could get rough, and I can’t find Gary and look after you, too.”
“You think he’s there?”
“Good chance.”
He hoped she wasn’t going to be difficult.
“Okay. I’ll wait here.”
He started to climb out. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was firm but not hostile. A jolt of emotion surged through him.
He faced her, the fear plain in her eyes.
“If he’s there, bring him back.”
FIFTEEN
WASHINGTON, DC
7:20 AM
STEPHANIE WAS GLAD LARRY DALEY HAD LEFT. SHE LIKED THE man less each time they were around each other.
“What do you think?” Green asked.
“One thing is clear. Daley has no idea what the Alexandria Link is. He just knows about George Haddad, and he’s hoping that the man knows something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“If he knew, he wouldn’t be wasting time with us.”
“He needs Malone to find Haddad.”
“But who says he needs Haddad to connect anything? If the classified files were complete, he wouldn’t waste time with Haddad. He’d just hire a few brains, figure out whatever it is, and go from there.” She shook her head. “Daley is a bullshit artist, and we were just bullshitted. He needs Cotton to find Haddad because he doesn’t know squat. He’s hoping Haddad has all the answers.”
Green sat back in his chair with an undisguised anxiety. She was beginning to think that she’d misjudged this New Englander. He’d stood with her against Daley, even making clear that he’d quit if the White House fired her.
“Politics is a nasty business,” Green muttered. “The president is a lame duck. His agenda stalled. Time’s running out. He’s definitely looking for a legacy, his spot in the history books, and men like Daley see it as their duty to provide one. I agree with you. He’s fishing. But how any of this could be useful is beyond me.”
“Apparently it’s potent enough that the Saudis, and the Israelis, both acted on it five years ago.”
“And that’s significant. The Israelis aren’t prone to capriciousness. Something made them want Haddad dead.”
“Cotton’s in a mess,” she said. “His boy is at risk and he’s not going to get a bit of help from us. In fact, officially we’re going to sit back and watch, then take advantage of him.”
“I think Daley is underestimating his opposition. There’s been a lot of planning here.”
She agreed. “That’s the problem with bureaucrats. They think everything is negotiable.”
The cell phone in Stephanie’s pocket startled her with its vibration. She’d left word not to be disturbed unless it was vital. She answered the call, listened for a moment, then clicked off.
“I just lost an agent. The man I sent to meet Malone. He was killed at Kronborg Castle.”
Green was silent.
Pain built behind her eyes. “Lee Durant had a wife and children.”
“Any word from Malone?”
She shook her head. “They haven’t heard from him.”
“Perhaps you were right earlier. Maybe we should involve other agencies?”
Her throat tightened. “It wouldn’t work. This has to be handled another way.”
Green sat still, lips pursed, eyes unwavering, as if he knew what had to be done.
“I intend to help Cotton,” she said.
“And what could you do? You’re not a field agent.”
She recalled how Malone had told her the same thing not long ago in France, but she’d handled herself well enough. “I’ll get my own help. People I can trust. I have a lot of friends who owe me favors.”
“I can help, too.”
“I don’t want you involved.”
“But I am.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” she said.
“You might be surprised.”
“And what would Daley do then? We have no idea who his allies are. It’s better I do this quietly. You stay out of it.”
Green’s face registered nothing. “What about the briefing this morning on Capitol Hill?”
“I’ll do it. That way Daley should be placated.”
“I’ll give you whatever cover I can.”
A smile bent the edges of her mouth. “You know, this may have been the best few hours we ever spent together.”
“I’m sorry that we didn’t spend more time like this.”
“Me, too,” she said. “But I have a friend who needs me.”
SIXTEEN
MALONE LEFT THE CAR AND WORKED HIS WAY CLOSER TO THE house where the Volvo sat parked. He could not approach from the front-too many windows, too little cover-so he detoured into a grassy alley adjacent to the house next door and approached from the rear. The dwellings in this part of Copenhagen were like his neighborhood in Atlanta-shady lanes of compact brick residences surrounded by equally compact front and rear yards.
He shielded the Beretta at his side and used the foliage to mask his continued advance. So far he’d seen no one. A shoulder-high hedge divided one yard from the next. He maneuvered to where he could see over the hedge and spotted a rear door into the house where the shooter had gone. Before he could decide on what course to take, the rear door was flung open and two men emerged.
The shooter from Kronborg and another man, short and stumpy with no neck.
The two were talking, and they walked around to the front of the house. He obeyed his instincts and rushed from his hiding place, entering the backyard through an opening in the hedge. He darted straight for the rear door and, with gun ready, slipped inside.
The one-story house was quiet. Two bedrooms, a den, kitchen, and bath. One bedroom door was closed. He quickly surveyed the rooms. Empty. He approached the closed door. His left hand gripped the knob, his right held the gun, finger on the trigger. He slowly twisted, then shoved open the door.
And saw Gary.
The boy was sitting in a chair, beside the window, reading. His son, startled, glanced up from the pages, then his face beamed when he realized who was there.
Malone, too, felt a surge of elation.
