Alexandria Link (18 page)

Sabre kept reading, wondering how George Haddad had managed to obtain such detailed information. This Palestinian seemed full of surprises.

Movement at the corner of his eye brought his senses alert. Shadows came alive. A dark form crept closer.

His hands left the keyboard. Unfortunately he carried no weapon. He whirled, ready for a fight.

A woman materialized into the glow of the computer screen.

His operative.

“That sort of foolishness can get you hurt,” he said.

“I’m not in the mood.”

He regularly employed her to help all over Britain. She was slender-boned and fine-featured. Today her black hair was brushed tight and caught into a heavy plait.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“Following Malone. They’re in a hotel near Hyde Park.”

“What about Haddad?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know. I stayed with Malone. He took a chance coming back up here—the police were on the way—and he left with that satchel.”

He admired her instincts. “We still need to find the Palestinian.”

“He’ll come back, if he’s not dead already. You look different.”

Gone were his gleaming dark locks and shaggy clothes. Instead his hair was short, windblown, and sandy brown. He was neatly dressed in jeans and a canvas shirt beneath a cloth jacket. Before leaving Germany he’d first reported what he’d learned to the Blue Chair, then made the physical change—all part of his carefully conceived plan, most of which Alfred Hermann knew little about.

“You approve?” he asked.

“I liked the other look.”

He shrugged. “Maybe next time. What’s happening?”

“I have somebody watching the hotel. They’ll call if Malone moves.”

“Nothing more from the Israelis?”

“Their man tore off from here.”

He looked around. Maybe he’d just wait for Haddad to return. That seemed the easiest course. He definitely needed everything off Haddad’s computer, but he didn’t want to take the machine. Too cumbersome. A copy would be better, and he noticed a flash drive lying among the clutter. He grabbed the gadget and snapped it into an empty USB port.

He checked the drive. Empty.

A few clicks of the mouse and he’d copied all the files from the hard drive.

Then he noticed something else, beyond the monitor.

A tiny red light.

He stared closer through the mess of paper and spotted a pocket tape recorder lying on the table. He lifted the unit and noticed no difference in the coating of dust that frosted the desktop. Which meant the unit had been laid there recently. The tape was spent, but the power remained on.

He flicked REWIND.

His operative stood silent.

He engaged PLAY.

The entire encounter between Malone, Haddad, and eventually the Israelis had been recorded. He listened in amazement to Haddad’s murder. The last thing he heard was Cotton Malone’s declaration that he intended to kill the son of a bitch.

He switched off the machine.

“Haddad’s dead?” the woman said. “Killed here? Why isn’t this a crime scene?”

“I assume the Israelis cleaned up before the police arrived.”

“Now what?”

“We have Malone. Let’s see where he leads.”

MALONE LEFT THE ROOM AND WALKED DOWN THE HALL. HE’D earlier noticed an ice machine, which was surprising. More and more American conveniences seemed to be invading European hotels.

He was angry at himself for placing Pam in danger. But at the time, what choice had there been? He couldn’t have left her at Heathrow with a man following. And who was he? Perhaps involved with those who’d taken Gary? That seemed logical. But he still knew precious little.

The Israelis had reacted promptly to Haddad’s signal that he was alive. Yet Pam was right. With Haddad dead, their interests were protected, their problem solved. Still, Pam had been the one followed. Not him.

Why?

He found the ice machine and discovered that it wasn’t working. Though the compressor churned, no ice filled the bin. Much like America, too, he thought.

He pushed through the stairway door and descended one floor.

There the machine was brimming with ice. He stood in a cubicle off the hall and filled his bucket.

He heard a door to one of the rooms slam shut, then voices. He was still scooping ice when two men passed the alcove, talking excitedly. He turned to leave and caught the facial profile of one of the men, along with his lanky frame and sunburned skin.

String Bean. From Heathrow.

Here, one floor down from where they were staying.

He retreated into the alcove and peered around the doorway, watching as the men entered the elevator.

Heading up.

He bolted for the stairwell door and leaped up the risers. He eased open the door just as the elevator dinged and the two men strolled from the car.

He slipped out the door and carefully peered down the corridor. He watched as one of the men scooped a used room-service tray from the carpet and balanced it on one hand. The other man withdrew a short-barreled revolver. They were headed straight for the room where Pam was waiting.

He cursed himself.

Haddad’s gun was on a table in the room. He hadn’t brought it with him. Real smart. He’d have to improvise.

The men stopped at the door. The one with the gun knocked, then stepped to one side. The other pretended to be a steward, the tray balanced high on one hand.

Another knock.

Maybe Pam was still on the phone with Gary? Which would give him the moment he needed.

“Room service,” he heard the man say.

Unlike American hotels, where peepholes were standard, the British did not usually provide them, and this hotel was no exception. He could only hope Pam would not be foolish enough to turn the knob.

“I have a food order for you,” the man said in a raised voice.

A pause.

“A gentleman placed the order.”

Damn. She could readily believe he might have ordered while she was sleeping. He had to act. He raised the ice bucket to shield his face and started down the hall.

“The food is for this room,” the man was explaining.

He heard locks releasing.

Peering around the raised bucket he saw the armed man notice him. The gun was immediately shielded. Malone used that moment of relaxation to his advantage and slung the ice and bucket into the armed man’s face, then planted his right fist into the jaw of the man with the tray. He felt bone crack and the man slammed to the carpet, the tray and its contents scattered.

Ice Man recovered from the initial shock and was raising his gun when Malone pounded two blows to the head and jammed a knee into the chest.

The assailant crumpled downward and lay still.

The room door opened.

Pam stared at him.

“Why would you open that door?” he asked.

“I thought you ordered food.”

He grabbed the gun and stuffed it in his belt. “And I wouldn’t have told you?” He quickly searched both men but found no identification.

“Who are they?” Pam asked.

“That’s the one following you in the airport.”

He grabbed String Bean’s arms and dragged him into their room. He then gripped the other man’s legs and pulled him inside. “You’re a stubborn woman.” He kicked the door shut.

“I was hungry.”

“How’s Gary?”

“He’s doing well. But I didn’t get to say much.”

One of the men started moaning. They’d be conscious soon. He grabbed the leather satchel and Haddad’s gun. “Let’s go.”

“We’re leaving?”

“Unless you want to be around when they wake up.”

He saw that prospect was not appealing to her.

“You have a gun,” she reminded him.

“Which I don’t want to use. This isn’t the Wild West. We’re in a hotel, with people. So let’s do the smart thing and leave. There are plenty more hotels in this town.”

She grabbed the shawl and gently wrapped her shoulders. They left the room and quickly caught the elevator. Downstairs, they exited into a chilly night. He surveyed his surroundings and concluded it was going to be tough to know if they were being followed. Simply too much to watch. The nearest Tube station was two blocks away, so he headed for it, determined to keep a lookout.

His mind churned.

How had the man from Heathrow found them? Even more troubling, how did the man pretending to be a steward know that he wasn’t in the room?

A gentleman placed the order.

He faced Pam as they walked. “Did you tell that guy through the door that you didn’t order anything?”

She nodded. “That’s when he said you did.”

Not entirely correct. He’d said a gentleman placed the order.

But still. Lucky guess?

No way.

WASHINGTON, DC

9:00 PM

STEPHANIE LED CASSIOPEIA THROUGH THE QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. For the past few hours they’d stayed hidden in the suburbs. She’d made one call to Billet headquarters from a pay phone at a Cracker Barrel restaurant and learned that there had been no contact from Malone. Not so from the White House. Larry Daley’s office had called three times. She’d told her staff to say that she’d get back to him at her first opportunity. Aggravating, she knew. But let Daley wonder if the next time he saw her jovial face, it would be live on CNN. That fear should be enough, for now, to keep the deputy national security adviser in check. Heather Dixon and the Israelis, though, were another matter.

“Where are we going?” Cassiopeia asked.

“To deal with a problem.”

The neighborhood was heavy with beaux arts architecture that had been fashionable, she realized, with the nineteenth-century industrialists who’d first populated the tree-lined avenues. Colonial row houses and cobblestoned walks only added to the wealthy mien in the night air.

“I’m not one of your agents,” Cassiopeia said. “I like to know what I’m getting into.”

“You can leave whenever you want.”

“Nice try. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“Then stop asking questions. You quiz Thorvaldsen like this?”

“Why don’t you like him? In France you stayed at his throat.”

“Look where I am, Cassiopeia. Cotton’s in a mess. My own people want me dead. The Israelis and Saudis are both after me. You think it’s wise I like anyone?”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

No, it wasn’t. But she couldn’t voice the truth. That through his association with her late husband, Thorvaldsen had come to know her strengths and weaknesses, and near him she felt vulnerable.

“Let’s just say that he and I are far too well acquainted with each other.”

“Henrik’s worried about you. That’s why he asked me to come. He sensed trouble.”

“And I appreciate that. But it doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

She spotted the house, another of the many symmetrical brick residences with carvings, a portico, and a mansard roof. Lights burned only in the downstairs windows. She scanned the street.

Still quiet.

“Follow me.”

ALFRED HERMANN RARELY SLEPT. HE’D CONDITIONED HIS mind long ago to operate on less than three hours’ rest.

He was not old enough to have personally experienced World War II, though he harbored vivid childhood memories of Nazis parading through the streets of Vienna. In the decades after, he’d actively battled the Soviets and challenged their puppet regimes that had dominated Austria. Hermann money dated from the Hapsburgs and had managed to survive two centuries of volatile politics. During the past fifty years the family fortune had grown tenfold, and much of that success could be traced to the Order of the Golden Fleece. To be intimately associated with such a select group from around the world came with advantages that his father and grandfather had never enjoyed. But to be in charge—that provided even greater benefits.

His tenure, though, was coming to an end.

At his death, his daughter would inherit everything. And the thought was not comforting. True, she was like him in some ways. Bold and determined, and she appreciated the past and coveted, with an enthusiasm similar to his own, that most precious of human commodities—knowledge. But she remained unpolished. A work in progress. One he feared might never be completed.

He stared at his daughter who, like him, slept little. He’d named her Margarete, after his mother. She was admiring the model of the Library of Alexandria.

“Can we find it?” she quietly asked.

He stepped close. “I believe Dominick is near.”

She appraised him with keen gray eyes. “Sabre is not to be trusted. No American should be.”

They’d had this discussion before. “I trust no one.”

“Not even me?”

He grinned. They’d had this discussion before, too. “Not even you.”

“Sabre has too much freedom.”

“Why begrudge him? We give him difficult tasks. You can’t do that and expect him to work as we see fit.”

“He’s a problem—American ingenuity and all that—you just don’t know it.”

“He’s a willful man. He needs purpose. We provide that to him. In return he furthers our goals.”

“I’ve sensed more from him lately. He tries hard to mask his ambition, but it’s there. You just have to pay attention.”

He thought he’d taunt her. “Perhaps you’re attracted to him?”

She scoffed at his question. “That’ll never happen. In fact, I’ll fire him once you’re gone.”

He wondered about her assumption that she would inherit all that he owned. “There’s no guarantee you’ll be Blue Chair. That selection is made among the Chairs.”

“I’ll be in the Circle. I assure you. It’s a simple step from there to where you are.”

But he wasn’t so sure. He knew of her contacts with the other four Chairs. He’d actually encouraged them as a test. His wealth far surpassed that of the others in age, volume, and scope. Financial institutions he controlled were heavily entangled with many members, including three of the Chairs. Never would any of them want others to know of that vulnerability, and the price of his silence had always been their loyalty. He’d manipulated their weaknesses for decades, but his daughter’s attempts had been feeble. So a word of caution was in order. “Once I’m gone, it’s true, Dominick will have to deal with you, as you will with him. But don’t be so quick. Men like him, with little emotion? No morals? A daring heart? You might find them valuable.”