“Care to tell us?” Green asked.

“Wish I could. Classified.”

“To the attorney general and the head of one of our most elite intelligence agencies?”

“For a select set of eyes only. Sorry, neither of you qualifies.”

“Then how did someone else manage a peek?” Stephanie asked.

“You haven’t figured that out yet?”

“Maybe I have.”

Silence stung the room. Daley apparently received her message.

“Wasn’t me.”

“What else would you say?” she asked.

“Watch your mouth.”

She ignored the jab. “Malone is going to give them the link. He won’t risk his son.”

“Then he’ll have to be stopped,” Daley said. “We’re not handing that over to anyone.”

She caught his meaning. “You want it for yourself, don’t you?”

“Damn right.”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “A boy’s life may be at stake.”

“Not my problem,” Daley declared.

Calling Daley had been a mistake, and she could see that Green now realized that fact, too.

“Larry,” Green said. “Let’s help Malone out. Not make his task more difficult.”

“Brent, this is a matter of national security, not a charity case.”

“Interesting,” she said, “how you’re not the least bit concerned that someone accessed our secured files and learned all about this highly classified Alexandria Link-a matter of supposed national security.”

“You reported that breach more than a month ago. The FBI is handling the situation. What are you doing about it, Stephanie?”

“I was told to do nothing. What did you do, Larry?”

A sigh came through the speaker. “You truly are a pain in the ass.”

“But she works for me,” Green made clear.

“Here’s what I think,” Stephanie said. “Whatever this link is, it somehow fits with whatever it is you geniuses at the White House have conceived as foreign policy. You actually like the fact the files were compromised and that somebody has this information. Which means you’re going to allow them to do your dirty work.”

“Sometimes, Stephanie, enemies can be your friend.” Daley’s voice had fallen to a whisper. “And vice versa.”

A knot formed in her throat. Her suspicions were now fact. “You’re going to sacrifice Malone’s boy for your president’s legacy?”

“I didn’t start this,” Daley replied. “But I intend to use it.”

“Not if I can help it,” she said.

“Interfere and you’ll be fired. Not by you, Brent, but by the president himself.”

“That could become a problem,” Green said.

She caught the threat in his tone.

“You’re saying you’d stand with her?” Daley asked.

“Without question.”

She knew that this was a threat Daley could not ignore. The administration possessed a measure of control over Green’s actions as attorney general. But if he quit, or was fired, then it would be open season on the White House.

The speakerphone sat silent. She imagined Daley sitting in his office, puzzling over his quandary.

“I’ll be at your house in thirty minutes.”

“Why do we need to meet?” Green asked.

“I assure you, it’ll be worth your while.”

The line clicked dead.

MALONE STOOD IN THE ARMOIRE AND LISTENED AS FOOTSTEPS rushed into the Queen’s Chamber. Pam was nestled beside him, the closest they’d been to each other in years. A familiar smell rose from her, like sweet vanilla, one he recalled with a mixture of joy and agony. Funny the way smells triggered memory.

He still held the Beretta and hoped he didn’t have to use it. But he had no intention of being taken into custody, not when Gary needed him. Surely one reason for killing Durant was to isolate them. Another had been to prevent them from learning any useful information. But he wondered how anyone had known of the meeting. They hadn’t been followed from Christiangade, of that he was sure. Which meant Thorvaldsen’s phones must have been monitored. Which meant that his going straight to Christiangade had been anticipated.

He couldn’t see Pam, but he sensed her discomfort. Considering all the intimacy they’d once shared, now they were simply strangers.

Perhaps even enemies.

Voices outside grabbed his thoughts. Footsteps grew fainter, then became lost in silence. He waited, finger on the trigger, sweat breaking in his palms.

More silence.

No way to see anything without cracking the armoire’s doors. Which could prove disastrous if someone remained in the room.

But he couldn’t stand here forever.

He eased open the door, gun ready.

The Queen’s Chamber was empty.

Down the stairs, he mouthed, and they rushed through the open portal and descended a circular staircase that hugged the castle’s outer wall. At ground level they came to a metal door that he hoped wasn’t locked.

The latch released.

They stepped out into a bright morning. A sea of shiny grass littered with swans stretched from the castle walls to the sea. Sweden loomed on the horizon, three miles across the gray-brown water.

He stuffed the Beretta beneath his jacket.

“We need to get out of here,” he said. “But slowly. Don’t draw attention.” He could tell she was still rattled from the killing, so he offered, “You’ll see it over and over in your brain, but it’ll pass.”

“Your concern is touching.” Her voice was again filled with menace.

“Then chew on this. That’s probably not the last person who’s going to die before this is over.”

He led the way across the ramparts that overlooked the sound. Few visitors milled about. They came to a spot he knew was Flag Battery, where ancient cannons once stood and where Shakespeare had allowed Hamlet to meet his father’s ghost. A wall rose from the sea. He lobbed the Glock out into the choppy water.

Sirens wailed from beyond the grounds.

They slowly made their way to the main entrance. Seeing flashing lights and more police rushing onto the grounds, he decided to wait before heading out. Unlikely that anyone would have a description of them, and he doubted that the shooter had stayed around to provide one. The idea was surely not to have them arrested.

So he blended with the crowd.

Then he spotted the shooter.

Fifty yards away, heading straight for the main gate, strolling, not trying to attract attention, either.

Pam saw him, too. “That’s the guy.”

“I know.”

He started forward.

“You’re not,” she asked.

“Couldn’t stop me.”

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

11:20 AM

THE BLUE CHAIR WONDERED IF THE CIRCLE HAD COMMITTED itself to the proper course. For eight years die Klauen der Adler, the Talons of the Eagle, had dutifully carried out his assigned tasks. True, they’d collectively hired him, but on an everyday basis he worked directly under the Blue Chair’s control, which meant that he’d come to know Dominick Sabre far better than the rest.

Sabre was an American, born and bred, which was a first for the Circle. Always they’d employed Europeans, though once a South African had served them well. Each of those men, including Sabre, had been chosen not only for his individual ability but also for his physical mediocrity. All had been of average height, weight, and features. The only noticeable trait about Sabre was the pockmarks on his face, left over from a bout with chicken pox. Sabre’s black hair was cut straight and always held together with a dash of oil that added gleam. Stubble often dusted his cheeks partly, the Blue Chair knew, to conceal the scars, but also to disarm those around him.

Sabre maintained a relaxed look, wearing clothes, usually a size too big, that concealed a lean-limbed muscular frame-surely more of his effort to be constantly underestimated.

From a psychological profile Sabre had to endure prior to being hired, the Blue Chair learned that there was something about defiance of authority that appealed to the American. But that same profile also revealed that, if he was given a task, told the intended result, and left alone, Sabre would always perform.