“You were no saint yourself years ago, Cotton.”

“And you made my life a living hell because of it.”

She shrugged. “I had an indiscretion of my own. I didn’t think you’d mind, considering.”

“I told you everything.”

“No, Cotton. I caught you.”

“But you let me think Gary was mine.”

“He is. In every way except blood.”

“That the way you rationalize it?”

“I don’t have to. I just thought you should know the truth. I should have told you last year when we divorced.”

“How do you know he’s not my son?”

“Cotton, run tests. I don’t care. Just know you’re not Gary’s father. Do with the information what you please.”

“Does he know?”

“Of course not. That’s between him and you. He’ll never hear it from me.”

He could still feel the anger that had flooded him as Pam remained calm. They were so different, which might also explain why they were no longer together. He’d lost his father young but had been raised by a mother who adored him. Pam’s childhood had been nothing but turmoil. Her mother had been a flighty woman with conflicting emotions who’d operated a day care center. She’d squandered the family savings not once but twice. Astrologers were her weakness. She never could resist them, eagerly listening as they told her exactly what she wanted to hear. Pam’s father was equally troubling, a distant drifting soul who cared far more about radio-controlled airplanes than his wife and three children. He’d labored for forty years at an ice cream cone factory, a salaried employee who never rose above midlevel manager. Loyalty mixed with a false sense of contentment-that had been his father-in-law up to the day that a three-pack-a-day cigarette habit finally stopped his heart.

Until they met, Pam had known little love or security. Miserly with emotion but exacting in devotion, she’d always given far less than she demanded. And pointing out that reality brought only anger. His own mistake with other women, early in their marriage, merely proved her point-that nothing and no one could ever be counted on.

Not mothers, fathers, siblings, or husbands.

All of them failed.

And so had she.

Having a baby out of wedlock and never telling her husband he was not the father. She seemed to still be paying the price of that failure.

He ought to cut her some slack. But it took two to make a bargain, and she wasn’t willing-at least not yet-to deal.

The shooter disappeared from the window.

Malone’s attention snapped back to the café.

He watched as the man exited the building and headed toward his parked car, climbed in, and left. He abandoned his position, raced through the alley, and spotted Pam.

He crossed the street and jumped into the passenger seat. “Crank it up and get ready.”

“Me? Why don’t you drive?”

“No time. Here he comes.”

He saw the Volvo round the bend in the highway that paralleled the shore and speed past.

“Go,” he urged.

And she followed.

GEORGE HADDAD ENTERED HIS LONDON FLAT. THE TRIP TO Bainbridge Hall had generated its usual frustration so he ignored his computer, which signaled that there were unread e-mails, and sat at the kitchen table.

For five years he’d stayed dead. To know, but not to know. To understand, but at the same time to be confused.

He shook his head.

What a dilemma.

He glanced around. The soothing, cleansing magic of the apartment was no more. Clearly it was time. Others must know. He owed that revelation to every soul destroyed in the nakba, whose land was stolen, whose property was seized. And he owed it to the Jews.

Everyone had a right to the truth.

The first time months ago had not seemed to work. That was why yesterday, he’d again reached for the phone.

Now, for the third time, he dialed an international call.

MALONE WATCHED THE ROAD AHEAD AS PAM SPED DOWN THE coastal highway, south, toward Copenhagen. The Volvo was half a mile ahead. He’d allowed several cars to pass, which provided a buffer, but cautioned her more than once not to fall too far back.

“I’m not an agent,” Pam said, her eyes glued out the windshield. “Never done this before.”

“They didn’t teach you this in law school?”

“No, Cotton. They taught you this in spy school.”

“I wish they’d had a spy school. Unfortunately I had to learn on the job.”

The Volvo quickened its pace and he wondered if they’d been spotted. But then he saw that the car was simply passing another. He noticed Pam starting to keep pace. “Don’t. If he’s watching, that’s a trick to find out if he has company. I can see him, so stay where you are.”

“I knew that Justice Department education would pay off.”

Levity. Rare for her. But he appreciated the effort. He hoped this lead paid off. Gary had to be nearby, and all he’d need was one chance to get the boy out.

They found the outskirts of the capital. Traffic slowed to a crawl. They were four cars back as the Volvo maneuvered through Charlottenlund Slotspark, entered north Copenhagen, and motored south into the city. Just before the royal palace, the Volvo turned west and wound a path deep into a residential neighborhood.

“Careful,” he said. “Easy to be spotted here. Stay back.”

Pam allowed more room. Malone was familiar with this part of town. The Rosenborg Slot, where the Danish crown jewels were displayed, stood a few blocks away, the botanical gardens nearby.

“He’s headed somewhere specific,” he said. “These houses all look alike, so you have to know where you’re going.”

Two more turns and the Volvo cruised down a tree-lined lane. He told her to stop at the corner and watched as their quarry wheeled into a driveway.

“Pull over to the curb,” he said, motioning.

As she parked the car, he found his Beretta and opened the door. “Stay here. And I mean it. This could get rough, and I can’t find Gary and look after you, too.”

“You think he’s there?”

“Good chance.”

He hoped she wasn’t going to be difficult.

“Okay. I’ll wait here.”

He started to climb out. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was firm but not hostile. A jolt of emotion surged through him.

He faced her, the fear plain in her eyes.

“If he’s there, bring him back.”

WASHINGTON, DC

7:20 AM

STEPHANIE WAS GLAD LARRY DALEY HAD LEFT. SHE LIKED THE man less each time they were around each other.

“What do you think?” Green asked.

“One thing is clear. Daley has no idea what the Alexandria Link is. He just knows about George Haddad, and he’s hoping that the man knows something.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If he knew, he wouldn’t be wasting time with us.”

“He needs Malone to find Haddad.”

“But who says he needs Haddad to connect anything? If the classified files were complete, he wouldn’t waste time with Haddad. He’d just hire a few brains, figure out whatever it is, and go from there.” She shook her head. “Daley is a bullshit artist, and we were just bullshitted. He needs Cotton to find Haddad because he doesn’t know squat. He’s hoping Haddad has all the answers.”

Green sat back in his chair with an undisguised anxiety. She was beginning to think that she’d misjudged this New Englander. He’d stood with her against Daley, even making clear that he’d quit if the White House fired her.

“Politics is a nasty business,” Green muttered. “The president is a lame duck. His agenda stalled. Time’s running out. He’s definitely looking for a legacy, his spot in the history books, and men like Daley see it as their duty to provide one. I agree with you. He’s fishing. But how any of this could be useful is beyond me.”