Steve Berry - The Alexandria Link

STEPHANIE STOOD IN THE KITCHEN, CASSIOPEIA BESIDE HER, and listened as Brent Green answered the front door and spoke with the two Secret Service agents. Either she’d guessed right or they’d shortly be arrested.

“This is foolishness,” Cassiopeia whispered.

“It’s my foolishness, and I didn’t ask you or Henrik to get involved.”

“You’re a stubborn bitch.”

“Look who’s talking. You could have left. I’d say you’re a bit stubborn yourself.”

She listened as Green small-talked about the night weather and how he’d spilled a tumbler of water on his robe. She’d freed Green from the chair and watched in amusement as he’d peeled tape from his wrists and ankles. What the late-night comedians would have given to see him wince as the hair on his arms and legs came away with each tug. But the New Englander had promptly smoothed his wet hair and emerged from the kitchen.

She heard again what Green had said with genuine conviction.

This friend particularly cares what happens to you .

“He sells us out and we’re through,” Cassiopeia whispered.

“He won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Twenty years of mistakes.”

Green finally told the agents good night. She eased open the swinging door and watched as Green gathered a parting glimpse through the louvers. He turned toward her and said, “Satisfied?”

She walked through the dining room. Cassiopeia followed.

“Okay, Brent. What now?”

“Together we’re going to save your hide and at the same time plug the leak.”

“And by the way, you never mentioned who it is.”

“No. I didn’t. Because I don’t know.”

“I thought you said you’d identified the person?”

“What I started to say was that I believe we might have the problem identified.”

“I’m waiting.”

“You’re not going to like this.”

“Try me.”

“At the moment, the Israelis’ main conduit is Pam Malone.”

7:40 AM

HENRIK THORVALDSEN HATED TO FLY, WHICH WAS WHY NONE of his companies owned planes. To relieve some of his discomfort, he always sat in first class and flew early in the morning. The larger seats, amenities, and time of day eased his phobia. Gary Malone, on the other hand, seemed to love the experience. The boy had eaten all of the breakfast the flight attendant served, plus most of Henrik’s.

“We’ll be landing soon,” he said to Gary.

“This is great. Any other time I’d be home in school. Now I’m in Austria.”

He and Gary had grown close over the past two years. When he’d visited Malone for summer vacation, Gary had stayed many a night at Christiangade. Father and son liked to sail the forty-foot ketch tied to the estate’s dock, bought long ago for trips across the Øresund to Norway and Sweden, but now hardly used. Thorvaldsen’s own son, Cai, had loved the water. He missed the boy terribly. Dead now almost two years. Gunned down in Mexico City for no reason he’d ever been able to learn. Malone had been there on assignment and had done what he could, which eventually led them to know each other. But he’d not forgotten what happened there. He’d eventually discover the truth about his son’s death. Debts like that never went unpaid. Spending time with Gary, though, brought him a measure of the joy life had cruelly denied him.

“I’m glad you could come,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave you at the estate.”

“I’ve never been to Austria.”

“A lovely place. Dense forests. Snowy mountains. Alpine lakes. Spectacular scenery.”

He’d watched closely all yesterday and it seemed Gary was dealing well with his ordeal, especially considering he’d watched as two men were shot to death. When Malone and Pam left for England, Gary had understood why they needed to go. His mother had to return to her job and his father needed to discover why Gary was at risk. Christiangade was a familiar place and Gary had eagerly stayed. But yesterday, after talking to Stephanie, Thorvaldsen knew what had to be done.

“This meeting you have to attend,” Gary said. “Is it important?”

“It could be. I’ll have to appear at several sessions, but we’ll find things for you to do while I’m there.”

“What about Dad? He know we’re doing this? I didn’t tell Mom.”

Pam Malone had telephoned a few hours before and spoken briefly with Gary. But she’d hung up before Thorvaldsen had been able to talk with her. “I’m sure one of them will call back and Jesper will let them know where we are.”

He was taking a chance bringing Gary with him, but he’d decided it was the smart play. If Alfred Hermann was behind the original kidnapping, which Thorvaldsen firmly believed was the case, then having Gary at the Assembly, surrounded by influential men and women from around the world, each with their supporting cast of staff and security, seemed the safest course. He wondered about the kidnapping. From the little he’d been told about Dominick Sabre, the American was a professional, not prone to employing such sloppy help as the three Dutchmen who’d botched Gary’s abduction. Something wasn’t right. Malone was good, he’d give him that, but things had unfolded with uncanny precision. Had the entire thing been staged simply for Malone’s benefit? A way to spur him forward? If so, that meant Gary was truly no longer in any danger.

“Remember what we talked about,” he said to Gary. “Careful with your words. Lots of listening.”

“I got it.”

He smiled. “Excellent.”

Now he could only hope he’d read Alfred Hermann correctly.

VIENNA

8:00 AM

HERMANN SHOVED HIS BREAKFAST ASIDE. HE DETESTED EATING, particularly amid a crowd, but he loved the château’s dining hall. He’d personally chosen its design and neo-Gothic décor, the window casements and ceiling coffers bearing the coats of arms of illustrious Crusaders, the walls sheathed in canvases that depicted the Christian capture of Jerusalem.

Breakfast was spectacular, as usual, and a cadre of white-jacketed stewards attended to his guests. His daughter sat at the opposite end of the long table, the remainder of the twelve seats filled by a select group of Order members-the Political Committee-who’d arrived yesterday to attend the weekend Assembly.

“I hope everyone is enjoying themselves,” Margarete said to the assemblage. Crowds were what she handled best.

Hermann noticed her frowning at his untouched plate, but she said nothing about it. Hers would be a private rebuke-as if an appetite, in and of itself, brought a long life and good health. If only it were that easy.

Several of the committee members rattled on about the château and its exquisite furnishings, noting some of the changes he’d made since the previous spring. Even though these were men and women of wealth, together they were not worth even a quarter of the Hermann fortune. Each, though, was useful in some way. So he thanked them for noticing and waited. Finally he said, “I’m interested in what the Political Committee plans to tell the Assembly on Concept 1223.”

That initiative, adopted three years ago at the spring Assembly, involved a complex plan for the destabilization of Israel and Saudi Arabia. He’d embraced the concept, which was why he’d cultivated sources within the Israeli and American governments-sources that had unexpectedly led him to George Haddad.

“Before we do that,” the chairman of the committee said, “can you tell us whether your labors are bearing fruit? Our plans will have to be altered if you’re not successful.”

He nodded. “Events are unfolding. And quickly. But if I succeed, has a market for the information been secured?”