“He did exactly what I told him to do. But I knew you were following. He didn’t. Actually told me he hadn’t been followed. I don’t have time for idiots. This little exercise was to get all the bravado out of your system. Now go get what I want.” No Neck pointed the Glock at Gary’s head. “We need to leave without you interfering.”

“All the bullets in my gun were tossed away.”

He watched Gary. Interestingly, the young face conveyed not a hint of anxiety. No panic. No fear. Just resolve.

No Neck and Gary started to leave.

Malone held the gun at his side, his mind reeling with possibilities. His son was only a few inches from a loaded Glock. He knew that once Gary was gone, he’d have no choice but to deliver the link. He’d avoided that unpleasant choice all day, since doing it would generate a whole host of dilemmas. No Neck had clearly anticipated what he would do from the beginning, knowing they’d all end up right here.

His blood seemed to turn to ice and a disturbing feeling swept through him.

Uncomfortable.

But familiar.

He kept his movements natural. That was the rule. His former profession had been all about chances. Weighing odds. Success had always been a factor of dividing odds into risk. His own hide had many times been on the line, and in three instances risk had overridden odds and he’d ended up in the hospital.

This was different. His son was at stake.

Thank heaven the odds were all in his favor.

No Neck and Gary approached the hedge opening.

“Excuse me,” Malone said.

No Neck turned.

Malone fired the Beretta and the bullet found the man’s chest. He seemed not to know what had happened-his face a mix of puzzlement and pain. Finally blood seeped from the corners of his mouth and his eyes surrendered.

He fell like a tree under an ax, twitched a moment, then stopped.

Pam rushed to Gary and swept him into her arms.

Malone lowered the gun.

SABRE WATCHED AS COTTON MALONE SHOT HIS LAST OPERATIVE. He was standing in the kitchen of a house that faced the rear of the dwelling where Gary Malone had been held the past three days. When he’d rented that locale, he’d rented this one, too.

He smiled.

Malone was a clever one, and his operative incompetent. Tossing the magazine had emptied the gun of bullets, except for the one already in the chamber. Any good agent, like Malone, always kept a bullet in the chamber. He recalled from his army special forces training the time a recruit had shot himself in the leg after supposedly unloading his weapon-forgetting about the loaded round.

He’d hoped that somehow Malone would get the best of his hired help. That was the idea. And the opportunity came once he’d spotted Pam Malone heading for the house. He’d radioed his minion and told him how to use her carelessness to make the point even clearer to Malone, bribing the man to shoot the other with a pledge of a bonus.

Thankfully, Malone had ensured that the payment would never be made.

Which also meant there was no one left alive to connect Sabre to anything.

Even better, Malone had his son back, which should calm his enemy’s most dangerous instincts.

But that didn’t mean this endeavor was over.

Not at all.

In fact, only now could it finally begin.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 5

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

1:30 PM

SABRE BRAKED AT THE GATE AND WOUND DOWN THE DRIVER’S-SIDE window. He displayed no identification, but the guard immediately waved him through. The sprawling château stood thirty miles southwest of downtown among forests known as the Vienna Woods. Three centuries old and built by aristocracy, its mustard-colored walls of baroque splendor encased seventy-five spacious rooms, all topped by steep gables of Alpine slate.

A bright sun poured past the Audi’s hazy windshield, and Sabre noted that the asphalt drive and side parking lots were all empty. Only the guards at the front gate and a few groundskeepers tending the walkways disturbed the otherwise tranquil scene.

Apparently this was to be a private discussion.

He parked beneath a porte cochere and climbed out into a balmy afternoon. Immediately he buttoned his Burberry jacket and followed a pebbled path to the schmetterlinghaus, an iron-and-glass enclave a hundred yards south of the main château. Painted an unadorned green, its walls lined with hundreds of panels of Hungarian glass, the imposing nineteenth-century structure easily blended into the forested surroundings. Inside, its fortified indigenous soil supported a variety of exotic plants, but the building took its name-schmetterling-from the thousands of butterflies roaming free.

He jerked open a rickety wooden door and stepped into a dirt foyer. A leather curtain kept hot, humid air inside.

He pushed through.

Butterflies danced through the air to the accompaniment of soft instrumental music. Bach, if he wasn’t mistaken. Many of the plants were in bloom, the tranquil scene a stunning contrast with the stark images of autumn outlined through the moisture-dotted glass.

The building’s owner, the Blue Chair, sat among the foliage. He possessed the face of a man who’d worked too much, slept too little, and cared nothing about nutrition. The old man wore a tweed suit atop a cardigan sweater. Which had to be uncomfortable, Sabre thought. Yet, he silently noted, cold-blooded creatures needed lots of warmth.

He slipped off his jacket and approached an empty wooden chair.

“Guten morgen, Herr Sabre.”

He sat and acknowledged the greeting. Apparently German would be their language of the day.

“Plants, Dominick. I’ve never asked, but how much do you know about them?”

“Only that they produce oxygen from carbon dioxide.”

The old man smiled. “Wouldn’t you say they do so much more? What about color, warmth, beauty?”

He glanced at the transplanted rain forest, watched the butterflies, and listened to the peaceful music. He cared nothing about soothing aesthetics but knew better than to express that opinion, so he simply said, “They have their place.”

“You know much about butterflies?”

A china plate smeared with blackened banana rested in the old man’s lap. Insects sporting wings of sapphire, crimson, and ivory were eagerly devouring the offering.

“The odor attracts them.” The old man gently stroked the wings of one. “Truly beautiful creatures. Flying gems, exploding into the world in a burst of color. Sadly, they live only a few weeks before rejoining the food chain.”

Four greenish gold butterflies arrived at the banquet.

“This species is quite rare. Papilio dardanus. The mocker swallowtail. I import their chrysalides specially from Africa.”

Sabre hated bugs, but he tried to appear interested and waited.

Finally the old man asked, “All went well in Copenhagen?”

“Malone is on his way to find the link.”

“Just as you predicted. How did you know?”

“He has no choice. To protect his son, he needs to expose the link so he’s no longer vulnerable. A man like that is easy to read.”

“He may realize that he was manipulated.”

“I’m sure he does, but he genuinely thinks, in the end, he managed to get the upper hand. I doubt he assumes I wanted those men to die.”

A crease of amusement invaded the old man’s face. “You enjoy this game, don’t you?”

“It has some satisfying aspects.” He paused before adding, “When played right.”

A few more butterflies joined those already on the plate.

“It’s actually a lot like these precious creatures,” the Blue Chair said. “They gorge themselves, drawn by the lure of easy food.” Gnarly fingers plucked one by the wings, the dark spiracle and tiny legs wrenched as the insect tried to break free. “I could easily kill this specimen. How hard would it be?”