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.

"Dad." Then Gary saw the gun and said, "What's going on?"

"I can't explain, but we have to go."

"They said you were in trouble. Are those men who are trying to hurt me and Mom here?"

He nodded as panic swept over him. "They're here. We have to go."

Gary stood from the chair, and Malone couldn't help himself. He hugged his son hard. This child was his-in every way. Screw Pam.

He said, "Stay behind me. Do exactly as I say. Understand?"

"There going to be trouble?"

"I hope not."

He retraced his route to the rear door and peered outside. The yard was empty. He would need only a minute for them to make their escape.

He exited with Gary close at his heels.

The opening in the hedge loomed fifty feet away.

He maneuvered Gary in front of him, since the last he'd seen of the two men they were heading toward the street. Gun ready, he bolted straight for the yard next door. He kept his attention to their flank, allowing Gary to lead the way.

They passed through the opening.

"How predictable."

He whirled and froze.

Standing twenty feet away was No Neck, Pam in his grasp, a sound-suppressed Glock jammed into her neck. The Kronborg Shooter stood off to the side, gun aimed directly at Malone.

"I found your ex wandering this way," No Neck said with a Dutch twang. "I assume you told her to stay in the car?"

His gaze locked on Pam's. Her eyes pleaded with him to forgive her.

"Gary," she said, unable to move.

"Mom."

Malone caught the desperation in both their voices. He repositioned Gary behind him.

"Let's see how you did, Malone. You tracked my man over there from the castle into town, waited for him to leave, then followed, thinking your boy would be here."

Definitely the voice from the cell phone last night. "Which all turned out to be right."

The other man was unmoved. A sickening feeling invaded Malone's stomach.

He'd been led.

"Pop the magazine out of that Beretta and toss it away."

Malone hesitated, then decided he had no choice. He did as told.

"Now let's trade. I'll give you your ex and you give me the boy."

"What if I say keep the ex?"

The man chuckled. "I'm sure you don't want your son to watch while I blow his mother's brains out, which is exactly what I'll do, because I don't really want her."

Pam's eyes widened at the prospects that her foolishness had spawned.

"Dad, what's going on?" Gary asked.

"Son, you're going to have to go with him-"

"No," Pam yelled. "Don't."

"He'll kill you," Malone made clear.

No Neck's finger lay firmly on the Glock's trigger, and Malone hoped Pam stood still. He stared at Gary. "You have to do this for Mom. But I'll be back for you, I swear. You can count on it." He hugged the boy again. "I love you. Be tough for me. Okay?"

Gary nodded, hesitated an instant, then stepped toward No Neck, who released his grip on Pam. She instantly hugged Gary and started crying.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine."

"Let me stay with him," she said. "I won't give you any trouble. Cotton can find whatever it is you want and we'll be good. I promise."

"Shut up," No Neck said.

"I swear to you. I won't be a problem."

He leveled the gun at her forehead. "Take your tight ass over there and shut up."

"Don't push him," Malone said to her.

She gave Gary one more hug, then slowly retreated his way.

No Neck chuckled. "Good choice."

Malone stared his adversary down.

The man's gun suddenly swung right and three sound-suppressed bullets left the barrel and plowed into the Kronborg Shooter. The body teetered, then dropped, spine-first, to the ground.

Pam's hand covered her mouth. "Oh, Jesus."

Malone saw the shocked look on Gary's face. No fifteen-year-old should be forced to watch that.

"He did exactly what I told him to do. But I knew you were following. He didn't. Actually told me he hadn't been followed. I don't have time for idiots. This little exercise was to get all the bravado out of your system. Now go get what I want." No Neck pointed the Glock at Gary's head. "We need to leave without you interfering."

"All the bullets in my gun were tossed away."

He watched Gary. Interestingly, the young face conveyed not a hint of anxiety. No panic. No fear. Just resolve.

No Neck and Gary started to leave.

Malone held the gun at his side, his mind reeling with possibilities. His son was only a few inches from a loaded Glock. He knew that once Gary was gone, he'd have no choice but to deliver the link. He'd avoided that unpleasant choice all day, since doing it would generate a whole host of dilemmas. No Neck had clearly anticipated what he would do from the beginning, knowing they'd all end up right here.

His blood seemed to turn to ice and a disturbing feeling swept through him.

Uncomfortable.

But familiar.

He kept his movements natural. That was the rule. His former profession had been all about chances. Weighing odds. Success had always been a factor of dividing odds into risk. His own hide had many times been on the line, and in three instances risk had overridden odds and he'd ended up in the hospital.

This was different. His son was at stake.

Thank heaven the odds were all in his favor.

No Neck and Gary approached the hedge opening.

"Excuse me," Malone said.

No Neck turned.

Malone fired the Beretta and the bullet found the man's chest. He seemed not to know what had happened-his face a mix of puzzlement and pain. Finally blood seeped from the corners of his mouth and his eyes surrendered.

He fell like a tree under an ax, twitched a moment, then stopped.

Pam rushed to Gary and swept him into her arms.

Malone lowered the gun.

SABRE WATCHED AS COTTON MALONE SHOT HIS LAST OPERATIVE. He was standing in the kitchen of a house that faced the rear of the dwelling where Gary Malone had been held the past three days. When he'd rented that locale, he'd rented this one, too.

He smiled.

Malone was a clever one, and his operative incompetent. Tossing the magazine had emptied the gun of bullets, except for the one already in the chamber. Any good agent, like Malone, always kept a bullet in the chamber. He recalled from his army special forces training the time a recruit had shot himself in the leg after supposedly unloading his weapon-forgetting about the loaded round.

He'd hoped that somehow Malone would get the best of his hired help. That was the idea. And the opportunity came once he'd spotted Pam Malone heading for the house. He'd radioed his minion and told him how to use her carelessness to make the point even clearer to Malone, bribing the man to shoot the other with a pledge of a bonus.

Thankfully, Malone had ensured that the payment would never be made.

Which also meant there was no one left alive to connect Sabre to anything.

Even better, Malone had his son back, which should calm his enemy's most dangerous instincts.

But that didn't mean this endeavor was over.

Not at all.

In fact, only now could it finally begin.

SEVENTEEN

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 5

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

1:30 PM

SABRE BRAKED AT THE GATE AND WOUND DOWN THE DRIVER'S-SIDE window. He displayed no identification, but the guard immediately waved him through. The sprawling chateau stood thirty miles southwest of downtown among forests known as the Vienna Woods. Three centuries old and built by aristocracy, its mustard-colored walls of baroque splendor encased seventy-five spacious rooms, all topped by steep gables of Alpine slate.

A bright sun poured past the Audi's hazy windshield, and Sabre noted that the asphalt drive and side parking lots were all empty. Only the guards at the front gate and a few groundskeepers tending the walkways disturbed the otherwise tranquil scene.

Apparently this was to be a private discussion.

He parked beneath a porte cochere and climbed out into a balmy afternoon. Immediately he buttoned his Burberry jacket and followed a pebbled path to the schmetterlinghaus, an iron-and-glass enclave a hundred yards south of the main chateau. Painted an unadorned green, its walls lined with hundreds of panels of Hungarian glass, the imposing nineteenth-century structure easily blended into the forested surroundings. Inside, its fortified indigenous soil supported a variety of exotic plants, but the building took its name-schmetterling-from the thousands of butterflies roaming free.

He jerked open a rickety wooden door and stepped into a dirt foyer. A leather curtain kept hot, humid air inside.

He pushed through.

Butterflies danced through the air to the accompaniment of soft instrumental music. Bach, if he wasn't mistaken. Many of the plants were in bloom, the tranquil scene a stunning contrast with the stark images of autumn outlined through the moisture-dotted glass.

The building's owner, the Blue Chair, sat among the foliage. He possessed the face of a man who'd worked too much, slept too little, and cared nothing about nutrition. The old man wore a tweed suit atop a cardigan sweater. Which had to be uncomfortable, Sabre thought. Yet, he silently noted, cold-blooded creatures needed lots of warmth.

He slipped off his jacket and approached an empty wooden chair.

"Guten morgen, Herr Sabre."

He sat and acknowledged the greeting. Apparently German would be their language of the day.

"Plants, Dominick. I've never asked, but how much do you know about them?"

"Only that they produce oxygen from carbon dioxide."

The old man smiled. "Wouldn't you say they do so much more? What about color, warmth, beauty?"

He glanced at the transplanted rain forest, watched the butterflies, and listened to the peaceful music. He cared nothing about soothing aesthetics but knew better than to express that opinion, so he simply said, "They have their place."

"You know much about butterflies?"

A china plate smeared with blackened banana rested in the old man's lap. Insects sporting wings of sapphire, crimson, and ivory were eagerly devouring the offering.

"The odor attracts them." The old man gently stroked the wings of one. "Truly beautiful creatures. Flying gems, exploding into the world in a burst of color. Sadly, they live only a few weeks before rejoining the food chain."

Four greenish gold butterflies arrived at the banquet.

"This species is quite rare. Papilio dardanus. The mocker swallowtail. I import their chrysalides specially from Africa."

Sabre hated bugs, but he tried to appear interested and waited.

Finally the old man asked, "All went well in Copenhagen?"

"Malone is on his way to find the link."

"Just as you predicted. How did you know?"

"He has no choice. To protect his son, he needs to expose the link so he's no longer vulnerable. A man like that is easy to read."

"He may realize that he was manipulated."

"I'm sure he does, but he genuinely thinks, in the end, he managed to get the upper hand. I doubt he assumes I wanted those men to die."

A crease of amusement invaded the old man's face. "You enjoy this game, don't you?"

"It has some satisfying aspects." He paused before adding, "When played right."

A few more butterflies joined those already on the plate.

"It's actually a lot like these precious creatures," the Blue Chair said. "They gorge themselves, drawn by the lure of easy food." Gnarly fingers plucked one by the wings, the dark spiracle and tiny legs wrenched as the insect tried to break free. "I could easily kill this specimen. How hard would it be?"

The Blue Chair released his hold. Orange and yellow wings sputtered then caught air.

"But I could just as easily let it go." The old man focused on him with eyes full of zest. "Use Malone's instincts to our advantage."

"That's the plan."

"What will you do once the link is found?" the Blue Chair asked.

"Depends."

"Malone will need to be killed."

"I can handle that."

The old man threw him a glance. "He might prove a challenge."

"I'm ready."

"There's a problem."

He'd wondered why he'd been summoned back to Vienna.

"The Israelis are alerted. Seems George Haddad made another call to the West Bank, and Jewish spies within the Palestinian Authority reported his contact to Tel Aviv. They know he's alive, and I assume they know where he is, too."

That was a problem.

"The Chairs are aware of this exposure and have ratified the authority I granted you to handle the matter as you see fit."

Which he planned to do anyway.

"As you know, the Israelis have far different motivations than we do. We want the link. They want it gone."

Sabre nodded. "They bombed their own people in that cafe just to kill Haddad."

"Jews are a problem," the Blue Chair quietly declared. "They've always been difficult. Being different and obstinate breeds unmitigated pride."

Sabre decided to leave that comment alone.

"We intend to help end the Jewish problem."

"I wasn't aware there was a problem."

"Not for us, but for our Arab friends. So you must stay ahead of the Israelis. They cannot be allowed to interfere."

"Then I need to leave."

"Where did Malone go?"

"London."

The Blue Chair went silent, concentrating on the bugs fluttering in his lap. Finally he swiped the butterflies away. "On the way to London, there's a stop you need to make."

"Is there time?"

"No choice. Another contact within the Israeli government has some information that he will only convey, in person, to you, and he wants to be paid."

"Don't they all?"

"He's in Germany. It shouldn't take long. Use one of the company jets. I'm told this man has been sloppy. He's exposed, though he doesn't realize it. Resolve our account with him."

He understood.

"And needless to say, there will be others there, watching. Please make the show memorable. The Israelis need to understand this is a high-stakes affair." The old man shifted in the wooden chair, then angled his stiletto of a nose back down toward the plate. "You're also aware of what occurs this weekend?"

"Of course."

"I need a financial dossier on a certain individual. By Friday. Can it be done?"

He knew the correct answer, though he didn't have time for that, either. "Certainly."

The Blue Chair told him the name he was to investigate, then said, "Have the information delivered here. In the meantime, do what you do best."
    
 

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