Alexandria Link (24 page)

McCollum negotiated his way across the half-empty café.

“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.”

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.”

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

10:50 AM

ALFRED HERMANN BID HIS GOODBYES TO THE POLITICAL Committee and excused himself from the dining room. He’d been told that his special guest had finally arrived.

He navigated the ground-floor corridors and entered the château’s spacious foyer just as Henrik Thorvaldsen shuffled in from outside. He slipped a smile onto his face and said in English, “Henrik. So wonderful to see you.”

Thorvaldsen also smiled as he spotted his host. “Alfred. I wasn’t going to come, but I decided I simply had to visit with everyone.”

Hermann approached and shook hands. Forty years he’d known Thorvaldsen and the Dane had changed little. The stiff, crooked spine had always been there, bent at a grotesque angle like a piece of hammered tin. He’d always admired Thorvaldsen’s disciplined emotions, which stayed studied, mannered, as if he were running through a memorized program. And that required talent. But Thorvaldsen was a Jew. Not devout or overt, but still Hebrew. Even worse, he was Cotton Malone’s close friend, and Hermann was convinced that Thorvaldsen had not come to the Assembly to socialize.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Hermann said. “I have much to talk to you about.”

They often spent time together at the Assembly. Thorvaldsen was one of the few members whose fortune could compete with the Hermanns‘. He was deeply connected to most European governments, and his billions of euros spoke for themselves.

A twinkle appeared in the Dane’s eyes. “I’m anxious to hear it all.”

“And who is this?” Hermann asked, motioning to the young lad standing beside Thorvaldsen.

“Gary Malone. He’s with me for a few weeks while his father is away and I decided to bring him.”

Fascinating. Thorvaldsen was testing him. “Wonderful. There are a few other young people who have come with members. I’ll see to it that they are all properly entertained.”