Alexandria Link (28 page)

“Your mother and father are on their way to Lisbon.”

“That’s what the call in the room was about?”

He nodded and smiled at the decisive manner in which the boy handled news.

“Why is Mom still with him? She didn’t say a word about staying when she called last night. They don’t get along.”

“I have no idea. We’ll have to wait until one of them calls again.” But he desperately wanted to know the answer to that question, too.

Ahead, he spotted their destination. A circular pavilion of colored marble topped by gilded iron. Its open balustrade overlooked a crystalline lake, the silvery surface quiet in the shade.

They entered and he approached a railing.

Massive vases packed with aromatic flowers dotted the interior. As always, Hermann had made sure the estate was a showpiece.

“Somebody’s coming,” Gary said.

He did not look back. He didn’t have to. He saw her in his mind. Short, dumpy, exhaling loudly as she walked. He kept his gaze toward the lake and enjoyed the sweet smell of grass, flowers, and experience.

“Is she coming fast?”

“How did you know it’s a woman?”

“You’ll learn, Gary, that you cannot win a fight if your enemy is not, in some ways, predictable.”

“It’s Mr. Hermann’s daughter.”

He continued to admire the lake, watching a family of ducks paddle toward shore. “Say nothing to her about anything. Listen, but speak little. That’s how you discover what you need to know.”

He heard soles slapping the pavilion’s stone flooring and turned as Margarete marched close.

“They told me in the house that you’d come here,” she said. “And I remembered this was one of your favorite places.”

He smiled at her evident satisfaction. “It has privacy. So far from the château. The trees provide tranquility. I do like this spot. A favorite of your mother’s, if I recall.”

“Father built it specially for her. She spent her last day alive here.”

“You miss her?”

“She died when I was young. So we were never close. But Father misses her.”

“You don’t miss your mother?” Gary asked.

Though the boy had violated what he’d been cautioned, Thorvaldsen didn’t mind the inquiry. He was actually curious, too.

“Of course I miss her. It’s simply that we were not close—as mother and daughter.”

“You seem to have acquired an interest in the family businesses and the Order.”

He watched as thoughts dialed into her mind. She’d inherited more of her father’s rugged Austrian looks than her mother’s Prussian beauty. Not a particularly attractive woman—dark-haired, brown eyes, with a thin, high nose. But who was he to judge, considering his crooked spine, bushy hair, and weathered skin? He wondered about suitors, but decided this woman would never give herself to anyone. She was a taker.

“I’m the only Hermann left.” And she added a smile that was surely intended to be comforting, but instead flashed with annoyance.

“Does that mean you will inherit all this?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea what your father thinks. I have found, though, that there are no guarantees in this world.”

He saw that she did not like his implications. He gave her no time to react and asked, “Why did your father try to harm this boy?”

His sudden inquiry inspired a baffled look. She clearly wasn’t a master of the stoic, either—not like her father.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He wondered. Maybe Hermann had kept his plans from her.

“Then you have no idea what die Klauen der Adler is doing?”

“He’s not my responsib—” She caught herself.

“Not to worry, my dear. I know of him. I only wondered if you did.”

“That man is a problem.”

Now he knew she was not a part of anything. Too much information flowed far too freely. “I wholeheartedly agree. But as you say, neither of us has any responsibility for him. Only the Circle.”

“I was unaware the members knew of him.”

“There are many things I’m aware of. In particular, what your father is doing. That, too, is a problem.”

She seemed to catch the conviction in his tone. Her chubby face flashed a nervous smile. “Remember where you are, Henrik. This is Hermann land. We command what happens here. So you shouldn’t concern yourself.”

“That’s an interesting observation. One I’ll try not to forget.”

“I think, perhaps, you and Father need to finish this conversation.”

She turned to leave, and as she did he raised an arm in a quick gesture.

From thick cypresses, heavy with age, three men materialized, dressed in camouflage fatigues. They trotted forward and arrived just as Margarete stepped from the pavilion.

Two of the men grabbed her.

One clamped a hand over her mouth.

She resisted.

“Henrik,” Gary said. “What’s Jesper doing here?”

The third man was his chamberlain, who’d flown in earlier and infiltrated the estate. From other visits, Thorvaldsen knew—contrary to Margarete’s boast—that the heaviest security was confined to the house. The remaining hundreds of acres were neither fenced nor patrolled.

“Stand still,” he said to her.

She stopped struggling.

“You’re going with these gentlemen.”

Her head shook violently.

He’d expected her to be difficult. So he nodded and the hand over her mouth was replaced with a cloth, one he knew contained enough anesthetic to induce a deep sleep. Only a few seconds were required for the vapors to work. Her body went limp.

“What are you doing?” Gary asked. “Why are you hurting her?”

“I’m not. But I assure you, they would have hurt you if your father had not acted.” He faced Jesper. “Keep her safe, as we discussed.”

His employee nodded. One of the men draped Margarete’s stout body over his shoulder, and all three retreated into the trees.

“You knew she’d come out here?” Gary asked.

“As I said, it’s good to know your enemy.”

“Why are you taking her?”

He liked lessons and missed teaching Cai. “You don’t drive a car without insurance. What we’re about to do has risks, as well. She’s our insurance.”

WASHINGTON, DC

STEPHANIE FROZE. HEATHER DIXON WAS ARMED AND ON guard. Cassiopeia’s eyes raked the bedroom, and she knew that her cohort was looking for anything that could be used as a weapon.

“What is it?” she heard Daley ask Dixon.

“Your alarm is off. That means somebody’s here.”

“Big leap in logic, wouldn’t you say?”

“Did you arm the panel before you left?”

A moment of silence passed. Stephanie knew they were trapped.

“I don’t know,” Daley said. “I may have forgotten. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Why don’t I take a look just to be sure?”

“Because I don’t have time for you to play soldier, and that gun in your hand is getting me hot. You’re some kind of sexy.”

“A flatterer today. That’ll get you everything.”

More silence, then a protest with a half-smothered moan.

“Easy on my head. That knot hurts.”

“You okay?” Daley asked.

A zipper released.

“Toss that gun down,” Daley said.

Footsteps thumped up the stairway.

She stared at Cassiopeia and whispered, “I don’t believe this.”

“At least we know where both of them are.”

Good point, but little comfort. “I’ve got to check this out.”

Cassiopeia clamped a hand onto her arm. “Leave them be.”

Contrary to the past twelve hours where she’d made, at best, questionable decisions, she was thinking clearly now. She knew what needed to be done.

She crept from the bedroom and entered the den. A stairway just beyond led up, the front door to her right. She heard murmured voices, laughter, and the sound of the floorboards being challenged.

“What the hell’s going on?” Stephanie wondered out loud.

“Didn’t your investigation find this?”

She shook her head. “Not a word. Must be recent.”

Cassiopeia disappeared back down the hall. She lingered a moment and spotted the same revolver Heather Dixon had drawn on her yesterday, lying in one of the chairs.

She grabbed the gun and left the den.

MALONE STARED AT THE ROSE WINDOW AND CHECKED HIS watch: 4:40 PM. This late in the year, the sun would start to set sometime in the next ninety minutes.

“This building is oriented on an east–west axis,” he said to Pam. “That window is there to catch the evening sun. We need to go up there.”

He spotted a doorway where an arrow indicated the upper choir. He walked over and found, nestled against the church’s north wall, a wide stone stairway with a barrel-vaulted ceiling that made it look more like a tunnel.

He followed a crowd up.

At the top they entered the choir.

Two rows of high-backed wooden benches faced each other, ornamented with festoons and arabesques. Above them hung baroque paintings of various apostles. The aisle between the benches led to the church’s west wall and the rose window thirty feet above.

He stared up.

Dust motes floated in the sheets of bright sunlight. He turned and studied the cross rising at the far end of the upper choir. He and Pam approached the balustrade and he admired the dramatic realism of the carved image of Christ. A placard at its base informed in two languages

CRISTO NA CRUZ

CHRIST ON THE CROSS

C. 1550

ESCULTURA EM MADEIRA POLICROMA

POLYCHROMED WOODEN SCULPTURE

“Where a retreating star finds a rose, pierces a wooden cross,” Pam said. “This is it.”

He agreed. But he was thinking about the next words.

And converts silver to gold.

He glanced back at the blazing rose window and followed the dusty rays as they passed the cross and entered the nave. Below, the light cleaved a trench on the checkerboard floor down a center aisle that bisected the pews. People milled about and didn’t seem to notice. The light continued east to the people’s altar and threw a faint glowing line onto its red carpet.

McCollum appeared from the lower choir and walked down the center aisle toward the front of the church.

“He’s going to be wondering where we are,” Pam said.

“He’s not going anywhere. He seems to need us.”

McCollum stopped between the last of the six columns and looked around, then turned and spotted them. Malone held up his palm and motioned for him to wait there, then displayed his index finger, signaling they’d be down in a minute.

He’d told McCollum the truth. He was pretty good with puzzles. This one had, at first, proved confusing, but now, staring down into a mass of carvings, ribs, and arches, a harmony of lines and interweaving stones that time, nature, and neglect had barely altered, he knew the solution.

His gaze followed the rays of the setting sun as they crossed into the chancel, bisected the high altar, and found the silver sacrarium.

Which glinted gold.

He hadn’t noticed the phenomenon when they’d been down close. Or perhaps the retreating sun had not as yet properly angled itself. But the transformation was now clear.

Silver to gold.

He saw that Pam noticed, too.

“That’s amazing,” she said. “How the light does that.”

The rose window was clearly positioned so the setting sun would, at least for a few minutes, find the sacrarium. Apparently the silver receptacle had been placed with great deliberation, one of the six paintings surrounding it removed, the symmetry that medieval builders cherished disturbed.

He thought of the final part of the quest.

Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place.

And he headed for the stairs.

At ground level he approached the velvet ropes that still blocked access into the chancel. He noticed the interplay of black, white, and red marble, which lent an atmosphere of nobility—only fitting, because the chancel served as a royal family mausoleum.

The sacrarium stood thirty feet away.

Close inspection of it was not a part of the visitors’ experience. The priest at the people’s altar announced over the public address system that the church and monastery would close in five minutes. Many of the tours were already departing, and more people started for the exit.

He’d noticed earlier that there was some sort of image etched on the sacrarium’s door, behind which would have once been stored the blessed sacrament. Perhaps it still held the Host. Though a World Heritage Site, more tourist attraction than church, the nave was surely used for special observances. Similar to St. Paul’s and Westminster. Which would explain why people were kept at a distance from what was clearly the building’s centerpiece.

McCollum came close. “I have tickets.”

He pointed to the sacrarium. “I need a closer look at that, without all these witnesses.”

“Could be tough. I assume everyone is going to be hustled out of here in the next few minutes.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who bows to authority.”

“Neither do you.”

He thought about Avignon and what he and Stephanie had done there on a rainy June night.

“Then let’s find a place to hide till everyone leaves.”

STEPHANIE TIPTOED BACK INTO THE ALCOVE. SHE NEEDED TO find Daley’s hiding place before things climaxed upstairs. She hoped neither Dixon nor Daley was in a rush, though Daley had sounded hurried.

Cassiopeia was already quietly searching.

“The report said he never left this desk with the flash drives. He used them on his laptop, but didn’t leave with them. He’d always tell her to head on to the bedroom and he’d be right along.” Her words were more breath than voice.

“We’re really pushing it staying here.”

She stopped and listened. “Sounds like they’re still busy.”

Cassiopeia eased opened the desk drawers, testing for hiding places. But Stephanie doubted that she’d find anything. Too obvious. Her gaze again scanned the bookshelves and her eyes stopped at one of the political treatises, a thin, taupe-colored volume with blue lettering.

Hardball by Chris Matthews.

She recalled the story Daley had shared with Green when he’d boasted about his newfound authority with the Magellan Billet.