THIRTY-NINE

WASHINGTON, DC

3:30 AM

STEPHANIE SAT IN THE CHAIR, EXHAUSTED. BRENT GREEN faced her from the sofa. He was actually slouching, which she'd never seen him do before. Cassiopeia had fallen asleep upstairs. At least one of them would be rested. She certainly wouldn't. It seemed like forty-eight days instead of forty-eight hours since she'd last been here, not trusting Green, leery of what he had to say, angry at herself for placing Malone's son in jeopardy. And though Gary Malone was now safe, the same doubts about Brent Green swirled through her mind, especially considering what he'd told her a few hours ago.

The Israelis' main conduit is Pam Malone.

She cradled a Diet Dr Pepper that she'd found in Green's refrigerator. She motioned with the can. "You actually drink these?"

He nodded. "Taste just like the original, but no sugar. Seemed like a good concept to me."

She smiled. "You're a strange fellow, Brent."

"I'm just a private man who keeps what he likes to himself."

She was heart-sore and mind-weary, wrestling a deep anxiety that wanted to jar her attention away from Green. They'd intentionally left all the lights off to convey to any watchful eyes that the house's occupant was down for the night.

"You thinking about Malone?" he asked through the dark.

"He's in trouble."

"Nothing you can do until he calls in."

She shook her head. "Not good enough."

"You have an agent in London. What are the chances of finding Cotton?"

Not likely. London was a big city, and who knew if Malone was there? He could have left for anywhere in Britain. But she didn't want to think about impossibilities, so she asked, "How long have you known about Pam?"

"Not long."

She resented being kept out of the loop and decided that to get something she was going to have to give. "There's another player in your game."

"I'm listening." Green's tone indicated that his interest was piqued. Finally she knew something he didn't.

She told him what Thorvaldsen had said about the Order of the Golden Fleece.

"Henrik never said a word about that to me."

"Gee, that's a shocker." She downed another swallow of her soft drink. "He tells only what he wants you to know."

"Did they kidnap Malone's son?"

"They're at the top of my list."

"That explains things," Green said. "The Israelis have been unusually cautious throughout this entire operation. We dangled the link, hoping their contact here would take the bait. For several years, privately, their diplomats have made inquiries concerning George Haddad. We didn't fool them entirely when Malone hid him away. They sifted through the remains of that ruined cafe, but the bomb did a thorough job. Yet even after we tossed the link out there for them to notice, the Israelis played everything close."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Malone's son being taken baffled us. That's why I delayed our meeting when you first called with the news."

"And I thought it was simply because you didn't like me."

"You do take patience to endure, but I've learned to adapt."

She grinned.

Green reached for a crystal dish on the coffee table that contained salted nuts. She was hungry, too, so she grabbed a handful.

"We knew Israel wasn't the culprit in Gary Malone's abduction," Green said. "And we were curious why they stayed so quiet when it happened." He paused. "Then, after you called me, I was told about Pam Malone."

She was listening.

"She became involved with a man about three months ago. A successful lawyer with an Atlanta firm, a senior partner, but also a Jewish patriot. Huge supporter of Israel. Homeland Security believes that he's helped finance one of the more militant factions in the Israeli government."

She knew American money had long fueled Israeli politics. "I had no idea you were that involved with things on a daily basis."

"Again, Stephanie, I'm many things you don't realize. I have a public image, which is demanded. But when I took this job I didn't intend to be a talking head. I'm the chief law enforcement officer of this country, and I do my job."

She noticed that he hadn't eaten any of his nuts. Instead, with his right palm open flat, the dark form of his left hand was picking through them.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Finding halves."

"Why?"

"More salt on those."

"Excuse me?"

"If you have a whole peanut, the middle isn't salted. But if the nut is split and salted, then there's twice the salt."

"You're not serious."

He plucked a nut and tossed it into his mouth.

"Why does half a nut have more salt than a whole?"

"Aren't you paying attention?" he asked in an amused tone. "Two salted halves, joined, have more salt than a single whole." He tossed another into his mouth.

She couldn't decide if he was serious or just aggravating her, but he continued to search for halves. "What do you do with the whole ones?"

"Save them to the end. I only eat them as a last resort. But I'll trade you a whole for a half."

She liked this Brent Green. A touch of playfulness. A dry sense of humor. Suddenly she felt protective of him. "You want those arrogant fools in the White House just as bad as I do. You've heard the talk about you. They call you the Right Reverend Green. They withhold things. They use you only to further their image."

"I'd like to think I'm not that petty."

"What's petty about sticking it up their ass? If anybody needs it, they do. The president included."

"I agree." He brushed peanut debris from his hands and kept chewing. She was indeed starting to appreciate the man sitting across from her.

"Tell me more about Pam," she said.

"She and the lawyer have dated for about three months. We know he's connected to Heather Dixon. They've met several times."

She was perplexed. "I'm missing something. How would the Israelis assume Pam would be involved with any of this? She and Malone have been estranged for a long time. They hardly speak. And you said yourself you don't think they kidnapped Gary."

"The Israelis had to know something we didn't. They anticipated all this, knew it would happen, and knew that Pam Malone would connect with Cotton. It's the only thing that makes sense. She was intentionally cultivated. Now tell me about this Order of the Golden Fleece. I think the Israelis knew they were involved, too, and that the boy, at some point, would be taken. Maybe they were planning to do it themselves?"

"Pam's a spy?"

"The extent of her involvement is a mystery. And unfortunately the lawyer in Atlanta she was dating died the day before yesterday." Green paused. "Shot in a parking garage."

Nothing new. The Middle East routinely ate its own.

"What do you know about him?" she asked.

"We were looking at his participation in a money-for-arms deal. Tel Aviv publicly says it's trying to stop those, but privately they encourage the practice. I'm told the lawyer made all the moves on Pam. Spent a lot of time with her. Gave her gifts. That sort of thing. For someone who wants people to think she's tough, Pam Malone is simply lonely and vulnerable."

She caught something in his tone. "That describe you, too?"

Green did not immediately answer, and she wondered if she'd crossed his emotional line. Finally he said in low whisper, "More than you know."

She wanted to explore that path and was about to make an attempt when footsteps pounded down the stairway. Cassiopeia's outline appeared in the doorway.

"We have company. A car just pulled up to the curb."

Green stood. "I saw no headlights."

"It came dark."

Stephanie was concerned. "Thought you were asleep."

"Somebody has to watch out for you two."

The phone rang.

No one moved.

Another ring.

Green stepped through the darkness, found the cordless receiver, and answered. Stephanie noticed that his tone feigned sleep.

A few moments of silence.

"Then by all means, come in. I'll be down in a moment."

Green clicked off the unit.

"Larry Daley. He's outside and wants to see me."

"That's not good," Stephanie said.

"Maybe not. But get out of sight and let's see what the devil wants."

FORTY

LONDON

8:15 AM

MALONE LOVED THE SAVOY. HE'D STAYED THERE A FEW TIMES on the U.S. and British governments' dimes. One thing about the Magellan Billet-the perks had been as plentiful as the risks. He hadn't visited in several years, but he was glad to see that the late-Victorian hotel still projected its grand mixture of opulence and naughtiness. A night in a room facing the Thames, he knew, cost more than most people in the world earned in a year. Which meant their savior apparently liked to travel in style.

They'd quickly departed Bainbridge Hall, stealing the cleaning crew's van, which he'd parked a few miles from the train station. There they'd caught the 6:30 train back to London. All had been quiet at Paddington Station, and he'd avoided taxis, taking the Tube to the Savoy.

Pam's shoulder seemed okay. The bleeding from Bainbridge Hall had stopped. Inside the hotel he found a house phone and asked to be connected to room 453.

"You move fast," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"What do you want?"

"At the moment, I'm hungry. So breakfast is my main priority."

Malone caught the message. "Come on down."

"How about the cafe in ten minutes? They have a lovely buffet."

"We'll be waiting."

The man who appeared at their table was the same one from two hours ago, only now sporting olive chinos and a tan twill shirt. His clean-shaven, handsome face brimmed with goodwill and civility.

"Name's McCollum. James McCollum. People call me Jimmy."

Malone was too tired and suspicious to be friendly, but he stood. The handshake was firm and confident. The other man's eyes, the color of jade, stared back, eager. Pam stayed seated. Malone introduced himself and her, then came straight to the point. "What were you doing at Bainbridge Hall?"

"You could at least thank me for saving your life. I didn't have to do that."

"Just happen to be in the neighborhood?"

The man's thin lips curled into a grin. "You always like this? No foreplay, just right to it?"

"You're dodging my question."

McCollum slid out a chair and sat. "I'm starving. How about we get some food and I'll tell you all about it?"

Malone did not move. "How about you answer my question."

"Okay, in the interest of goodwill. I'm a treasure hunter on the trail of the Library of Alexandria. I've been searching for whatever remains of it for more than a decade. I was at Bainbridge Hall because of those three men. They killed a woman four days ago, a damn good source, so I stayed on their trail hoping to learn who they're working for. Instead they led me to you."

"You said back at the estate you have information I don't. What makes you think that?"

McCollum shoved back his chair and stood. "I said I might have some information you don't. Look, I don't have the time or patience for this. I've been at that estate before. You're not the first to go there. Each one of you amateurs knows a kernel of truth mixed with a lot of fantasy. I'm willing to bargain with some of what I know to learn the tiny shred that you may know. That's all, Malone. Nothing more sinister."

"So you shot two men in the head to prove your point?" Pam asked, and Malone spotted the look of a skeptical lawyer.

McCollum locked his gaze on Pam. "I shot those men to save your life." Then he glanced around at their surroundings. "I love this place. Did you know that the first martini was actually poured in the American Bar at the Savoy? Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Gershwin-they all drank there. Lots of history."

"You like history?" Pam asked.

"An occupational necessity."

"You going somewhere?" Malone asked.

McCollum stood rigid, his manner calm and unruffled, though Malone had deliberately tried to shake him. "You're way too suspicious for me. Go ahead. Take the hero's quest. Hope you succeed."

This man was knowledgeable. "How do you know about that?"

"Like I said, I've been on this trail awhile. How long have you been at it? My guess? You're a rookie. Worse, you're a rookie with an attitude. I've met a ton of people just like you. They think they know it all. Truth is, they don't know spit. That library has stayed hidden for fifteen hundred years for a reason." McCollum paused. "You know, Malone, you're like the jackass standing in some wonderful knee-high grass with his head cocked over the fence eating weeds. Nice to meet you. I'm going to go sit at that table over there and have breakfast."

McCollum negotiated his way across the half-empty cafe.

"What do you think?" he asked Pam.

"Arrogant. But you can't hold that against him."

He smiled. "He knows something, and we're not going to find out a thing sitting here."

She stood. "I agree. So let's go eat with our new friend."

SABRE SAT AT THE TABLE AND WAITED. IF HE'D CALCULATED correctly, they would be coming over shortly. There's no way Malone could resist. His knowledge had to be limited to what George Haddad had managed to tell him-which, from the tape he'd heard, wasn't much. What Malone retrieved from Haddad's apartment before fleeing may have filled in gaps, but he was betting that the most vital questions remained unanswered.

Which was also a problem for him.

He was forcing himself to interact. Something different. He was accustomed to the silence of his own thoughts-intimate company came rarely, confined to the occasional woman who provided sex. He hired most. Professionals, like him, doing their job, saying at night what he wanted to hear, then leaving in the morning. The harsh realities of physical danger and intellectual tension, at least for him, neutered rather than stimulated sex. Grave consequences sapped the brain. Occasionally he slept with the hired help. But as with the Brit he'd shot earlier, that sometimes came with annoying side effects. Instead of romance, he craved solitude.

He'd played this particular role before, with others, when he'd needed to secure their confidence. The words and actions, the way he walked and carried himself, the swaggering voice all came from one of his mother's many boyfriends. This one had been a beat cop in Chicago, where they'd lived when he was twelve. He remembered how the man had tried to impress her with unabashed confidence. He recalled a White Sox game and a trip to the lakefront. He later learned that, like most of his mother's lovers, the cop had shown only enough interest to impress his mother. Once they got what they really wanted, which usually was measured in nights in his mother's bed, the attention stopped. He came to hate all her suitors. Not one of them was there when he buried her. She died alone and broke.

And he wasn't going to repeat her fate.

He stood and headed for the buffet line.

He loved the Savoy, rooms furnished with expensive antiques and serviced by Old World valets. The kind of luxury Alfred Hermann and the rest of the Order of the Golden Fleece routinely enjoyed. He wanted that privilege, too. On his terms. Not theirs. But to alter reality he needed Cotton Malone, and he wondered if some of what he sought lay inside the leather satchel Malone toted. So far he'd managed to stay one step ahead of his adversary, and out of the corner of his eye he was pleased to see that he still retained that advantage.

Malone and his ex-wife were making their way through the rapidly filling tables.

"All right, McCollum," Malone said as he approached. "We're here."

"You buying?"

"Sure. The least I can do."

He forced a chuckle. "I just hope that's not the most you can do."

FORTY-ONE

WASHINGTON, DC

STEPHANIE AND CASSIOPEIA RETREATED INTO THE KITCHEN AS Brent Green answered his front door. They resumed their positions near the swinging door and listened as Green ushered Daley into the dining room and the two men sat at the table.

"Brent," Daley said, "we have some issues to discuss."

"We've always had those, Larry."

"We have a serious problem. And I use the plural we because I came to help you solve it."

"I was hoping that it was important, considering the time. So why don't you tell me what our problem is?"

"Three bodies were found a short while ago at an estate west of London. Two with bullets to the head, the other to the chest. Another body, a woman, was found a few miles away. Bullet to the head. Same caliber gun delivered the head shots. A cleaning van was stolen from the estate. The crew had been knocked unconscious. It was driven into a nearby town and left. A man and a woman were seen leaving the van, then taking a train to London. Surveillance video from Paddington Station confirmed that Cotton Malone and his ex-wife came off that train."

Stephanie knew where this was leading.

"I assume," Green said, "you're implying Malone killed those four people."

"Sure looks that way."

"Apparently, Larry, you've never prosecuted a murder."

"And you have?"

"Six, actually. When I was an assistant state's attorney. You have no idea if Malone shot those people."

"Maybe not, Brent. But I have enough to excite the hell out of the British. I'll leave the details for them to work out."

Stephanie realized that this could pose a problem for Cotton, and she saw in Cassiopeia's eyes that her friend agreed.

"The Brits have identified Malone. The only reason they haven't gone after him is that they've asked us what he's doing there. They want to know if it's official. You don't by any chance know the answer?"

Silence hung in the air, and she imagined the look of granite on Green's face. Stonewalling was what he did best.

"That's beyond my jurisdiction. And who's to say Malone is doing anything there that concerns us?"

"I guess I just look stupid."

"Not always."

"Cute, Brent. Humor. Something new for you. But as I was saying, Malone is there for a reason and four people are dead because of him, regardless of whether he pulled the trigger. And my guess is that it involves the Alexandria Link."

"More leaps in logic. That how the White House sets policy?"

"I wouldn't involve the White House. You're not high on their favorite-people list at the moment."

"If the president doesn't want me to serve any longer, he can certainly do something about that."

"I'm not sure your resignation is enough."

Stephanie realized Daley was finally coming to the purpose of this visit.

"What do you have in mind?" Green asked.

"Here's the thing. The president's poll numbers aren't that good. True, we have three years left and then our two terms are gone, but we'd like to go out on top. Who wouldn't? And nothing spikes polling numbers like a good rally around the flag, and nothing makes for a better rally than a terrorist act."

"For once, you're correct."

"Where's Stephanie?"

"How would I know?"

"You tell me. A day or two ago you were willing to resign in support of her. I tell her not to involve the Billet in this affair, and she promptly mobilizes the whole damn agency. She do that with your approval?"

"I'm not her keeper."

"The president fired her. She's been relieved."

"Without consulting me?"

"He consulted himself, and that's enough. She's out."

"And who will be in charge of the Magellan Billet?"

"How about a little story? It's not mine. It comes from one of my favorite books, Hardball, by Chris Matthews. Not on the same side of the political aisle as me, but still a smart guy. He tells of how former senator Bill Bradley was at a dinner given in his honor. Bradley wanted another pat of butter and couldn't get the waiter carrying the tray to come his way. Finally he went over to the guy and told him that he apparently didn't know who he was. "I'm Bill Bradley. Rhodes scholar, professional basketball player, U.S. senator, and I'd like some more butter." The waiter wasn't impressed and simply said that Bradley apparently didn't know who he was. So the waiter told him. "I'm the guy in charge of the butter." You see, Brent, power is what you hold. So, for now, I'm the guy in charge of the Magellan Billet."

"Weren't you a corporate lobbyist before working at the White House? Before that, a political consultant? What qualifies you to manage the Justice Department's most sensitive intelligence division?"

"The fact that the president values my opinion."

"And that you'll kiss his ass whenever he bends over."

"I didn't come here to argue qualifications. The decision has been made. So where's Stephanie?"

"I assume she's at her hotel."

"I've issued a warrant for her arrest."

"And who at Justice assisted with that?"

"White House counsel handled the particulars. She's broken quite a few laws."

"Care to tell me which ones?"

"How about assault on a foreign national? I have a member of the Israeli mission swearing Stephanie tried to kill her. The woman has a nasty bump on her head to prove it."

"You plan to prosecute?"

"I plan to haul her sorry ass off somewhere where there aren't any reporters."

"From which she will not return."

More silence.

"Shit happens, Brent."

"That include me?"

"Actually, it does. Seems the Israelis don't like you and they won't say why. Maybe it's all that Christian conservatism junk you like to preach." Daley paused. "Or maybe it's just that you're an asshole. I don't know."

"Interesting, the respect you have for my office."

"I have respect for the people who placed me in office, as you should. Let's be clear. We could use a good terrorist strike, and no one I know of will shed many tears if you're the victim. Nothing but a win-win for us. Three birds with one stone and all that shit. You're gone. Israel is happy, for once. Our poll numbers climb. Everyone looks to the president for leadership. Life is good."

"So you came here to threaten the attorney general of the United States?"

"Now, why would you say such a thing? I came to pass along the threat. It's only right you know, so that appropriate security precautions can be taken. Stephanie, too. For some reason the Israelis are pissed at her. But of course you know nothing of her whereabouts, so we can't warn her. Too bad. You, though, are another matter. Consider yourself advised."

"I assume the Israelis themselves would not be involved in any killing?"

"Of course not. It's not a terrorist state. But they're a resourceful bunch and can farm the project out. They have ties to, shall we say, unsavory elements. That's why you're being advised."

Stephanie heard someone stand.

"All part of the job, Brent."

"And if I'm a good boy and toe the line those unsavory elements will lose interest in me."

"Can't really say. But it's possible. Why don't you try it and let's see?"

The room went silent longer than was comfortable. Stephanie imagined two lions facing each other.

"Is the president's legacy worth all this?" Green asked.

"That what you think this is about? No way. This is about my legacy. What I can deliver. And that kind of political capital is worth more than gold."

She heard soles slap hardwood, heading away from the kitchen.

"Larry," Green said, his voice rising.

The steps stopped.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

"Take your best shot. Then I'm going to take mine."

"Yeah, right. Brent, after I take mine you'll be back in Vermont six feet down in a box."

"Don't be so sure."

Daley chuckled. "The funny thing about all this is that my two biggest pains in the ass may well bring this administration out of the toilet. Talk about working with what you have."

"We might surprise you."

"You keep thinking that. Have a blessed day."

A door opened, then closed.

"He's gone," Green said.

Stephanie stepped from the kitchen and said, "Guess you can't tell me what to do anymore."

She registered fatigue in his gray eyes. She was tired, too.

"You finally managed to get yourself fired."

"Which is the least of our concerns," Cassiopeia made clear.

"There's a traitor in this government," Green said. "And I plan to find him."

"I assure you, Mr. Attorney General," Cassiopeia said, "you've never dealt with those unsavory elements. Daley's right. The Israelis won't be doing any of the dirty work themselves. They hire that out. And the people they employ are a problem."

"Then we're all going to have to be careful."

Stephanie almost smiled. Brent Green possessed more courage than she'd imagined. But there was something else. She'd detected it earlier and now she was sure. "You have a plan, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. I'm not without resources."

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