Cassiopeia drifted toward the Lunar Module exhibit and the flurry of teenagers crowded around its base.
“Stephanie,” Daley said, “you blamed me for the Alexandria Link being leaked. But you don’t know your friends from your enemies. You hate this administration. You think the president is an idiot. But there are others who are far worse. Dangerous people.”
“No,” she said. “They’re all fanatics. Party loyalists who’ve shot off their mouths for years. Now they’re in a position to do something.”
“And for the moment, Israel is at the top of their agenda.”
“Skip the riddles, Larry. Tell me what you want me to know.”
“The vice president is behind this.”
Had she heard right? “Get real.”
“He’s connected to the Saudis. They’ve financed him for a long time. He’s been around. A few terms in Congress, three years as treasury secretary, now the second seat. He wants the top job, makes no secret, and the party faithful have promised him the nomination. He has friends who need good relations with the Saudis, and those friends will be the ones supplying him with money. He and the president disagree on the Middle East. He’s tight with the Saudi royal family, but keeps that quiet. Publicly he’s climbed their asses a few times. But he made sure the Saudis knew about the Alexandria Link. His token for their goodwill.”
What she was hearing rang contrary to what Brent Green had said, since the attorney general himself had taken the blame for the leak.
Cassiopeia returned.
“What is it?” Stephanie asked her.
“Finish this.”
“Problem?”
“Bad feeling.”
“Too much intrigue in your life,” Dixon said to Cassiopeia.
“Too much lying in yours.”
Stephanie faced Daley, her thoughts arguing. “I thought you said a few minutes ago that some in the administration want to prove Haddad’s theory. Now you say the vice president fed it to the Saudis. They’d want it to go away. Which is it?”
“Stephanie, what you took from my house would finish me. I work in the shadows. Always have. But somebody has to do it. Do you want to get me, or do you want who’s really behind all this?”
Not an answer to her question. “I want all of you.”
“That’s not possible. For once, would you listen? You can smack on a log all day long with a hatchet and you might cut through. But slam a wedge down its center and the thing splits every time.”
“You’re just trying to save your hide.”
“Tell her,” Daley said to Dixon.
“There’s a division in your government. You’re still our friend, but there are some who want to change that.”
Stephanie wasn’t impressed. “That’s always the case. Two sides to everything.”
“This is different,” Dixon said. “More is happening. And Malone is in Portugal.”
That grabbed her attention.
“The Mossad plans to deal with him there.”
Daley ran a hand through his hair. “Stephanie, two factions are at work. One Arab, one Jew. They both want the same thing and, for once, they want it for the same reason. The vice president is linked to the Arabs—”
An alarm echoed through the cavernous museum, then a flat voice announced through a public address system that the building must be immediately cleared.
Stephanie grabbed Daley.
“It’s not me,” he quickly said.
SABRE STOOD ROCK-STILL. HE NEEDED THE MAN WITH THE GUN to enter the gift shop.
He would.
He’d have to.
Sabre wondered where the other two had gone. His answer came with movement beyond the set of locked glass doors.
Interesting.
These three obviously knew the geography, and they also knew that the gift shop was their destination.
Had they seen the lights?
The two gunmen to his left tested the doors and found they were locked. The forms then backed away and fired at the glass.
No retorts. Just thumps. Like a hammer to a nail. Metal smacked into the glass, thudded, but did not shatter it.
Bulletproof.
The third gunman in the upper gallery rushed inside the open doorway, his gun leading the way. Sabre waited for the instant of indecision, when his target had to assess his situation, then lunged forward, slamming the man’s gun with his foot as he brought the knife around and slashed the man’s throat. He gave the man no time to realize his fate, plunging the blade into the nape of his neck.
A few gargled gasps and the man collapsed to the floor.
More thuds dotted the locked glass doors. A couple of kicks loosened nothing. Then he heard footsteps as the two attackers retreated down the stairway.
He grabbed the dead man’s gun.
THE ALARM CONTINUED TO BLARE. HUNDREDS OF PATRONS rushed toward the museum entrances. Daley was still in Stephanie’s grasp.
“The vice president has allies,” he said. “He can’t do this alone.”
She was listening.
“Stephanie. Brent Green is working with him. He’s not your friend.” Her eyes locked on Heather Dixon, who said, “He’s telling the truth. Who else knew you were coming here? If we wanted you dead, this would not have been the meeting place.”
She’d thought herself in control, but now she wasn’t so sure. Green was indeed the only other person who knew they were there—if Dixon and Daley were telling the truth.
She released Daley, who said, “Green’s in league with the VP. Has been for a while. He’s been promised the second seat on the ticket. Brent could never hope to win an election. This is his one shot at moving up.”
An announcement again ordered that the building must be cleared. A security guard exited the cafeteria and told them they’d have to leave.
“What’s happening?” Daley asked him.
“Just a precaution. We need to clear the building.”
Through the far glass walls, Stephanie saw people streaming away from the road and trees that separated the museum from the grassy mall.
Some precaution.
They hustled back toward the main entrances. People continued to flood out the doors. Lots of chatter and concerned faces. Most of them were teenagers and families, the talk about what could possibly be happening.
“Let’s find another way,” Cassiopeia said. “At least be a little unpredictable.”
She agreed. They walked off. Daley and Dixon stood rigid, as if trying to make them believe.
“Stephanie,” Daley called out.
She turned.
“I’m the only friend you’ve got. Find me when you realize that.”
She did not seize on his words, though she hated the feeling of uncertainty that coursed through her.
“We have to go,” Cassiopeia said.
They rushed through more galleries brimming with shiny aircraft, past a gift shop rapidly losing patrons. Cassiopeia seemed intent on using one of the emergency exits—a good play, since the alarms were already activated.
Ahead, from behind a display case loaded with miniature planes, a man appeared. Tall, dressed in a dark business suit. He raised his right palm. Stephanie spotted a thin wire corkscrewing from his left ear.
She and Cassiopeia stopped and turned. Two more men, similarly dressed and equipped, stood behind them. She registered their look and manner.
Secret Service.
The first man spoke into a lapel mike, and the building’s alarm went silent.
“Can we do this easy, Ms. Nelle?”
“Why should I?”
The man stepped closer. “Because the president of the United States wants to talk to you.”
FIFTY-FOUR
LISBON
9:30 PM
MALONE ROUNDED THE COUNTER AND CROUCHED WHERE McCollum was searching the dead man’s pockets. He’d watched the so-called treasure hunter kill their attacker with expert precision.
“Those two are rounding back
through the church and headed here,” he said.
“I understand,” McCollum said. “Here’s a couple of spare magazines. And another gun. Any clue who they are?”
“Israeli. Have to be.”
“Thought you said they were out of the picture.”
“And I thought you said you were an amateur. Lot of skill you just showed.”
“You do what you have to when your ass is on the line.”
Malone noticed something else clipped to the dead man’s waist. He unsnapped the metal unit.
A transceiver locator. He’d used one many times to follow an electronically tagged target. He activated the video screen and saw that it was tracking something in silent mode. A flashing indicator showed the target was nearby.
“We need to go,” Pam said.
“That’s going to be a problem,” Malone said. “The only way out is through that gallery. But the other two gunmen must be near the stairs by now. We need another way down.”
He pocketed the locator unit. Weapons in hand, they slipped out of the gift shop.
The two gunmen burst from an archway ninety feet away and started firing.
Sounds like popping balloons snapped through the cloister.
Malone dove to the gallery floor, taking Pam with him. The corners were not ninety degrees, but flared, making the cloister octagonal. He used the angle for cover.
“Head that way,” McCollum said. “I’ll keep them busy.”
A continuous stone bench lined the outer perimeter, connecting the arches and forming an elaborate balustrade. Crouching down, he and Pam scampered away from the gift shop, where McCollum was firing at the two gunmen.
Bullets pinged off the stone wall ten feet to his left, some behind, others leading. He realized what was happening. Their shadows, cast from the incandescent fixtures that dimly illuminated the gallery, were betraying their presence. He grabbed Pam, stopped their advance, and hugged the floor. He aimed and, with three bullets, obliterated the lights ahead.
Darkness now sheathed them.
McCollum had stopped firing.
So had the gunmen.
He motioned and they hustled ahead, still crouched, using the arches, tracery, and stone bench for protection.
They came to the end of the gallery.
To their right, the inside wall of the next gallery stretched. No doors. At the far end was another unbroken wall. To his immediate left rose a set of glass doors, one swung open, inviting guests inside. A placard identified the room as the refectory. Perhaps there might be a way down inside?
He motioned and they entered.
Three thuds pounded the glass as bullets slammed against its exterior. None penetrated. More bulletproof material. Thank heaven for whoever selected the doors.
“Cotton, we’ve got a problem,” Pam said.
He stared into the refectory.
Through the darkness, broken only by the scattered rays seeping in from the windows, he saw a spacious rectangle topped by a ribbed ceiling, similar to that of the church. A low stone cornice encircled the room, below which ran a colorful tile mosaic. No doors led out. The windows were ten feet overhead with no way to get to them.
He spied only two openings.
One was at the far end, and he trotted the fifty-foot length and saw that it may have once been a fireplace but was now only a decorative niche.
Sealed.
The other opening was smaller, maybe four by five feet, recessed three feet into the outer wall. The refectory was once the abbey’s dining hall, so this may have been where food was prepared before serving.
Pam was right. They had a problem.
“Climb in there,” he told her.
She didn’t argue and wiggled her body up onto a stone shelf above an empty basin. “I must be out of my mind to be here.”
“A little late to be noticing that.”
He kept his eyes on the doors leading out to the upper gallery. A shadow grew in the dim light. He saw that Pam was safely inside and climbed in after her, atop the basin, pressing his spine against the shelf as far into the niche as possible.
“What are you going to do?” she asked in his ear.
“What I have to.”
SABRE HAD SEEN THE MEN DIVIDE. ONE CHASED AFTER MALONE; the other slipped into the archway that led back down to the church. He decided the high ground would be better, so he carefully inched his way to the same doorway, hoping it led to the upper choir, where Malone and his ex-wife had stood earlier.
He liked the hunt, especially when the prey offered a challenge. He wondered about the identity of these men. Were they Israelis, as Malone thought? Made sense. He knew from Jonah that an assassination squad had been dispatched to London, but George Haddad had already been handled. He’d heard that encounter on the tape, confirmed by Malone. So what were Israelis doing here? After him? Unlikely. But who else?
He found the doorway and slipped inside.
To his left dropped the stairway to the church. Through the blackness he heard footsteps below.
He entered the choir, stopping where the balustrade met the outer stone wall and carefully looking below. Windows high in the church’s south façade glowed with ambient light. The blackened figure of a man, gun in hand, crept down the aisle formed from the end of the pews to the church’s north wall, keeping to the shadows, trying to make his way to the lower choir.
He ticked off two shots.
The suppressed bangs popped through the cavernous nave. One found the mark and the man cried out, reeled, then staggered against a pew. He readjusted his aim, made only moderately difficult by the dimness, and with two more shots sank the man to the floor.
Not bad.
He released the gun’s magazine and replaced it with a fresh one from his pocket.
He turned to leave. Time to find Malone.
A gun appeared in his face.
“Drop the weapon,” the voice said in English.
He hesitated and tried to find a face to the voice, but the blackness revealed only a shadow. Then he realized the man wore a hood. The chilly prick of another gun barrel nipped his neck.
Two problems.
“One more time,” the first man said. “Drop the weapon.”
No choice. The gun clattered to the floor.
The pistol in his face lowered. Then something whirled through the air and slammed into the side of his skull. Before any semblance of pain registered in his brain, the world around him went silent.
FIFTY-FIVE
MALONE GRIPPED THE AUTOMATIC AND WAITED. HE RISKED one glance around the niche where he and Pam were hiding.
The shadow continued to expand as the gunman drew closer.
He wondered if his attacker knew there was no exit. He assumed the man did not. Why else would he be advancing? Simply wait out in the gallery. But he’d learned long ago that many people who killed for a living were plagued with impatience. Do the job and get out. Waiting only increased the chances of failure.
Pam was breathing hard and he couldn’t blame her. He, too, was fighting a quick heart. He told himself to calm down. Think. Be ready.
The shadow now stretched across the refectory’s wall.
The man burst inside, gun pointed.
His initial view would be of a dark, empty chamber devoid of furnishings. The niche at the far end should immediately grab his attention, then the second break in the wall. But Malone did not wait for all that comprehension to register. He rolled out of his hiding place and fired.
The bullet whizzed past his target and ricocheted off the wall. The gunman seemed stunned for an instant, but quickly recovered and swung his gun toward Malone, then apparently realized that he was exposed.
This was going to be a duel.
Malone fired again and his bullet found the man’s thigh.
A cry of agony, but the attacker did not go down.
Malone planted a third bullet in the gunman’s chest. He teetered, then dropped spine-first to the floor.
&nbs
p; “You’re a tough man to kill, Malone,” a male voice said from beyond the doorway.
He registered the voice. Adam, from Haddad’s apartment. Now he knew. Israelis. But how had they found him?
He heard footsteps. Running away.
He hesitated, then rushed to the doorway, intent on finishing what he’d started in London.
He stopped and peered out.
“Over here, Malone,” Adam called out.
He stared across the open cloister, diagonally to the far side where Adam stood beneath one of the arches. The face was unmistakable.
“You’re a good shot, but not this good. It’s just you and me now.”
He saw Adam disappear into the doorway that led down to the church.
“Pam, stay put,” he said. “Defy me this time and you can deal with the gunmen yourself.”
He bolted from the refectory and raced down the gallery. Where was McCollum? Two gunmen were definitely down. He’d seen only three earlier. Had Adam killed McCollum? Just you and me. That’s what the Israeli had said.
He decided that following Adam down into the church would be foolish. Do the unexpected. So he hopped onto one of the benches that lined the outer edge of the gallery and stared below. The ornamentation and tracery decorating the cloister were both impressive and substantial. He stuffed the gun in his belt and swung his body out, gripping the top of the stone bench and allowing his feet to find a projecting gargoyle disguising a drain. Balancing, he bent down, gripped the stone, and pivoted himself to a ledge that extended from one of the arch supports. From there it was six feet to the grass of the cloister garden.
Adam suddenly appeared from the church, in the far gallery, running down its length.
Malone gripped the gun and fired, the bullet missing but definitely attracting his quarry’s attention.
Adam disappeared downward, using for cover the same waist-high benches that Malone had.
The Israeli appeared and clicked off a shot.
Malone dove between two tracery supports into the lower gallery and hit the floor tiles hard. The breath left him. His forty-eight-year-old body could only take so much, regardless of what he’d once done on a daily basis. He scampered back to the bench and carefully stared across the cloister.