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“I came to kill him, that’s all,” Adam said, the geniality in his voice faded. “My government has no trouble with you, Malone, though you did deceive us. But that was your job. So we’ll let it slide.”

“So kind of you.”

“I’m not a murderer, just an assassin.”

“What about her?” he asked, pointing at Eve’s body.

“Nothing I can do. Just like there’s nothing you can do for him. There’s a price to be paid for mistakes.”

Malone said nothing, though he was half mad with terror and anguish. Surely the shots had been heard and the police called.

The Israeli turned and disappeared.

Footsteps receded down the stairway.

Pam seemed frozen in place, staring in disbelief at Haddad’s corpse, the old man’s mouth still open in a final protest. They exchanged glances but no words. He could almost understand the Israeli’s thinking. He was indeed a paid assassin, employed by a sovereign state, empowered to kill. But the son of a bitch was still a murderer.

George Haddad was dead.

And there was a price to be paid for that, too.

Dark thoughts held him in their thrall. He bent down and retrieved Haddad’s gun, then stood and turned for the door.

“Stay here,” he told Pam.

“What are you going to do?”

“Kill the son of a bitch.”

STEPHANIE WAS MORE PUZZLED THAN FRIGHTENED AT THE sight of a gun. “Apparently, Heather, the rules have changed. I thought we were allies.”

“That’s the funny thing about U.S.–Israeli relations. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which side we’re actually on.”

“And you apparently feel a certain freedom since the White House called.”

“Always nice when the Americans are in conflict.”

“Larry Daley wants Haddad for himself. You realize that, don’t you? This is a diversion to occupy your time while our agents find him.”

“Good luck. Only we and Malone know where.”

Stephanie didn’t like the sound of that. This needed to end. Since she’d first sat down, the fingers of her right hand had rested on her leg, the tips atop the radio controller nestled inside her loose-fitting slacks. “That depends on whether or not U.S. intelligence has a source within your organization.”

“This operation is being held fairly close, so I doubt there’ll be any leaks. Besides, Haddad is most likely dead by now. Our agents were sent hours ago.”

Stephanie’s left hand motioned to the gun while her right stayed steady on her leg. “What’s the point of this show?”

“Unfortunately, you’ve become a problem to your government.”

“Gee, I thought my resignation would be enough.”

“Not any longer. I believe you were warned to stay out of this, yet you’ve mobilized the entire Billet. Contrary, of course, to what you were told.”

“Larry Daley doesn’t give me orders.”

“But his boss does.”

She quickly realized that if she was now a target, Brent Green might be, too. Killing the attorney general, though, posed more logistical problems than her own death would entail. The White House had apparently concluded that corpses never appeared on the Sunday-morning news shows. Her fingers prepared to depress the panic button. “You here to do Daley’s dirty work?”

“Let’s just say that our interests are similar. Besides, we like it when the White House owes us.”

“Plan to shoot me here?”

“No need. I have some associates willing to do it.”

“Your people?”

She shook her head. “Amazingly, Stephanie, you’ve managed to do what politicians have tried to do for centuries. Get Jews and Arabs to cooperate. The Saudis are working with us on this one. We apparently have a common goal, so all differences have been put aside.” Dixon shrugged. “Just this once.”

“And that also eliminates the problem of Israel killing an American.”

Dixon scrunched her face in mock contemplation. “See the benefits? We find the problem, they eliminate it. Everybody wins.”

“Except me.”

“You know the rules. Your friend today can be your enemy tomorrow, and vice versa. Israel has few friends in this world, but threats come from all over. We do what we have to.”

Stephanie had first faced a gun while searching with Malone for the Knights Templar. She’d witnessed death there, too. Thank goodness she’d thought ahead. “Do what you have to.”

Her right index finger activated the signal that would alert her agents, less than a minute away, to come.

All she had to do was stall.

Heather Dixon’s eyes suddenly rolled skyward, then closed as her head pitched forward and her body went limp.

The gun thudded to the grass.

Stephanie caught Dixon as she slumped toward her. Then she saw it. A feathered dart protruding from Dixon’s neck. She’d seen one before.

Calmly, she turned.

Standing a few feet behind the bench was a woman. Tall, skin the color of a muddy stream, long dark hair. She wore an expensive cashmere jacket atop hip-slung jeans, the tight-fitting ensemble highlighting a lean, shapely form. She held a magnum air pistol in her left hand.

“Appreciate the assist,” Stephanie said, trying to mask her surprise.

“That’s what I came for.”

And Cassiopeia Vitt smiled.

MALONE BOUNDED DOWN THE STAIRS TOWARD THE GROUND floor. Adam would not be easy to kill. Pros never were.

He kept descending two steps at a time and checked the gun’s magazine. Seven shots remained. He told himself to be careful. Surely the Israeli would know he’d come after him. Actually, he’d invited the challenge since, before leaving, Adam had not confiscated Haddad’s weapon. Pros never left that kind of opportunity. And the line about professional courtesy made no sense. Assassins could not care less about protocol. They were the janitors of the intelligence business. Sent in solely to clean up the mess. Witnesses were part of that mess. So why not clean up everything? Maybe Adam wanted a confrontation? Killing an American agent, retired or otherwise, came with consequences. But if the agent attacked first—that was another matter.

He flushed confusion from his mind as he found the ground floor. His index finger nestled against the trigger, and he readied himself for a fight.

More familiar feelings returned. Ones that, as he’d come to learn a few months ago, were simply part of his psyche. In France he’d actually made peace with those demons when he realized that he was a player and always would be, regardless of retirement. Yesterday at Kronborg Slot, Pam had chided him that he’d needed the rush—that she and Gary had never been enough. He’d resented the insult because it wasn’t true. He didn’t need the rush, but he certainly could handle it.

He stepped into October sunlight, which seemed strong after the building’s gloom, and calmly descended the front stoop. Adam was fifty feet away, walking on the sidewalk.

Malone followed.

Parked cars lined both sides of the narrow street. From busy avenues at either end of the block came the steady roar of traffic. A few people meandered along the opposite sidewalk.

Talking would be a waste of time.

So he raised his weapon.

But Adam spun.

Malone dove to the pavement.

A bullet whizzed by, pinging off one of the cars. He rolled and clicked off a shot in Adam’s direction. The Israeli had wisely abandoned the sidewalk, now using the parked cars as cover.

Malone rolled into the street, between two cars.

He balanced on his knees and peered through the windshield, searching for his target. Adam was holed up ten vehicles ahead. Pedestrians on the far sidewalk scattered.

Then he heard a moan.

He turned and saw Pam lying on the stairs leading into George Haddad’s building.

Her left arm a mass of blood.

WASHINGTON, DC

STEPHANIE WAS GLAD TO SEE CASSIOPEIA VITT. THE LAST TIME she’d worked with the mysterious Moorish woman, they’d been in the French Pyrénées, embroiled in a different dilemma.

“Lay her down and let’s get out of here,” Vitt said.

Stephanie stood from the bench and allowed Heather Dixon’s head to smack the wooden slats.

“That’ll leave a nasty bruise,” Vitt said.

“Like I care. She was about to have me killed. You want to tell me why you’re here?”

“Henrik thought you might need help. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting from his Washington contacts. I was in the neighborhood—New York—so he asked if I could keep an eye on you.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Wasn’t hard.”

For the first time Stephanie was appreciative of Thorvaldsen’s secretive ways.

“Remind me to include him on my Christmas card list.”

Cassiopeia smiled. “He might like that.”

Stephanie motioned at Dixon. “Damn disappointing. I thought she was my friend.”

“Hard to come by in your business.”

“Cotton is in deep trouble.”

“Henrik thinks the same thing. He was hoping you were going to provide help.”

“At the moment, I’m a target,” she said.

“Which brings us to our other problem.”

She did not like the sound of those words.

“Ms. Dixon didn’t come alone.” Cassiopeia pointed off toward the Washington Monument. “Two men in a car over that knoll. And they don’t look Israeli.”

“Saudis.”

“Now, that’s a feat. How did you manage to piss everybody off?”

Two men crested the knoll, headed their way.

“No time to explain,” Stephanie said. “Shall we?”

They hustled in the opposite direction, a fifty-yard head start on their pursuers, which meant nothing if the men decided to shoot.

“I assume you planned for this contingency?” she asked Cassiopeia.

“Not entirely. But I can improvise.”

MALONE FORGOT ABOUT ADAM AND SCRAMBLED FROM HIS SAFE position behind the parked car to where Pam lay bleeding. Street dust clung to his clothes. He turned for an instant and caught a glimpse of the Israeli racing away.

“You all right?” he asked her.

Pam’s face grimaced in pain, her right hand clamped to her injured left shoulder.

“Hurts,” she said in a strangled whisper.

“Let me see.”

She shook her head. “Holding it…helps.”

He reached out and started to peel her hand away. Her eyes went wide with pain and anger. “Don’t.”

“I have to see.”

He didn’t have to say what they were both thinking. Why didn’t she stay upstairs?

She relented, removed her bloody fingers, and he saw what he suspected. The bullet had merely grazed her. A flesh wound. Anything worse would have already been obvious. People shot went into shock. Their bodies shut down.

“Just skimmed you,” he said.

Her hand re-vised the wound. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”

“I do have some experience at getting shot.”

Her eyes softened at that realization.

“We have to go,” he said.

Her face scrunched in pain. “I’m bleeding.”

“No choice.” He helped her to her feet.

“Damn, Cotton.”

“I realize it hurts. But if you’d stayed upstairs like I said—”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“We have to go. But first there’s one other thing.”

She seemed to recover her composure, determined to keep calm and stay lucid, so he led her into the building.

“Keep a clamp,” he told her as they climbed the stairs to Haddad’s apartment. “The bleeding should stop. It’s not that deep.”

Sirens were coming closer.

“What are we doing?” she asked, as they found the third-floor landing.

He recalled what Haddad had said right before the shooting started. You taught me a great deal. I recall every lesson, and up until a few days ago I adhered to them strictly. Even those about safeguarding what really matters. When he’d first hid Haddad away, he’d taught the Palestinian to keep his most important things ready to go at a moment’s notice. Time to find out if Haddad meant what he’d said.

They entered the apartment.

“Go into the kitchen and find a towel,” he said, “while I tend to this.”

They had maybe two or three minutes.

He bolted for the bedroom. The tight space wasn’t much larger than his own apartment in Copenhagen. Piles of long-neglected books and papers lay stacked on the floor, the bed unmade, the nightstands and dresser loaded like flea-market tables. He noticed more maps on the walls. Israel, past and present. No time to consider them.

He knelt beside the bed and hoped his instincts were right.

Haddad had called the Middle East knowing a confrontation would ensue. When that inevitable conflict arrived, he hadn’t shied from the fight but had instead gone on the offensive, knowing he’d lose. But what had his friend said? I knew you’d come. Damn foolish. There’d been no need for Haddad to sacrifice himself. Guilt about the man he’d murdered decades ago had apparently swirled through the old man’s head for a long time.

I owe this to the Guardian I shot. My debt repaid.

That, Malone could understand.

He probed beneath the bed and felt something. He grabbed hold and freed a leather satchel, quickly unbuckling its straps. Inside lay a book, three spiral notebooks, and four folded maps. Of all the information scattered about the apartment this, he hoped, was the most important.

They had to go.

He raced back to the den. Pam emerged from the kitchen with a towel clamped to her arm.

“Cotton?” she said.

He heard the question in her voice. “Not now.”

With the satchel in hand he shoved her out the door, but not before he grabbed a shawl from the back of one of the chairs.

They quickly descended.

“How’s the bleeding?” he asked as they found the sidewalk.

“I’ll live. Cotton?”

The sirens were no more than a block away. He draped the shawl around her shoulders to shield the injury.

They walked casually.

“Keep the towel on the arm,” he said.

A hundred feet and they found a boulevard, plunging into a sea of unknown faces, resisting the temptation to hasten their pace.

He glanced back.

Flashing lights appeared at the far end of the block and stopped before Haddad’s house.

“Cotton?”

“I know. Let’s just get out of here.”