More familiar feelings returned. Ones that, as he’d come to learn a few months ago, were simply part of his psyche. In France he’d actually made peace with those demons when he realized that he was a player and always would be, regardless of retirement. Yesterday at Kronborg Slot, Pam had chided him that he’d needed the rush-that she and Gary had never been enough. He’d resented the insult because it wasn’t true. He didn’t need the rush, but he certainly could handle it.

He stepped into October sunlight, which seemed strong after the building’s gloom, and calmly descended the front stoop. Adam was fifty feet away, walking on the sidewalk.

Malone followed.

Parked cars lined both sides of the narrow street. From busy avenues at either end of the block came the steady roar of traffic. A few people meandered along the opposite sidewalk.

Talking would be a waste of time.

So he raised his weapon.

But Adam spun.

Malone dove to the pavement.

A bullet whizzed by, pinging off one of the cars. He rolled and clicked off a shot in Adam’s direction. The Israeli had wisely abandoned the sidewalk, now using the parked cars as cover.

Malone rolled into the street, between two cars.

He balanced on his knees and peered through the windshield, searching for his target. Adam was holed up ten vehicles ahead. Pedestrians on the far sidewalk scattered.

Then he heard a moan.

He turned and saw Pam lying on the stairs leading into George Haddad’s building.

Her left arm a mass of blood.

WASHINGTON, DC

STEPHANIE WAS GLAD TO SEE CASSIOPEIA VITT. THE LAST TIME she’d worked with the mysterious Moorish woman, they’d been in the French Pyrénées, embroiled in a different dilemma.

“Lay her down and let’s get out of here,” Vitt said.

Stephanie stood from the bench and allowed Heather Dixon’s head to smack the wooden slats.

“That’ll leave a nasty bruise,” Vitt said.

“Like I care. She was about to have me killed. You want to tell me why you’re here?”

“Henrik thought you might need help. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting from his Washington contacts. I was in the neighborhood-New York-so he asked if I could keep an eye on you.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Wasn’t hard.”

For the first time Stephanie was appreciative of Thorvaldsen’s secretive ways.

“Remind me to include him on my Christmas card list.”

Cassiopeia smiled. “He might like that.”

Stephanie motioned at Dixon. “Damn disappointing. I thought she was my friend.”

“Hard to come by in your business.”

“Cotton is in deep trouble.”

“Henrik thinks the same thing. He was hoping you were going to provide help.”

“At the moment, I’m a target,” she said.

“Which brings us to our other problem.”

She did not like the sound of those words.

“Ms. Dixon didn’t come alone.” Cassiopeia pointed off toward the Washington Monument. “Two men in a car over that knoll. And they don’t look Israeli.”

“Saudis.”

“Now, that’s a feat. How did you manage to piss everybody off?”

Two men crested the knoll, headed their way.

“No time to explain,” Stephanie said. “Shall we?”

They hustled in the opposite direction, a fifty-yard head start on their pursuers, which meant nothing if the men decided to shoot.

“I assume you planned for this contingency?” she asked Cassiopeia.

“Not entirely. But I can improvise.”

MALONE FORGOT ABOUT ADAM AND SCRAMBLED FROM HIS SAFE position behind the parked car to where Pam lay bleeding. Street dust clung to his clothes. He turned for an instant and caught a glimpse of the Israeli racing away.

“You all right?” he asked her.

Pam’s face grimaced in pain, her right hand clamped to her injured left shoulder.

“Hurts,” she said in a strangled whisper.

“Let me see.”

She shook her head. “Holding it…helps.”

He reached out and started to peel her hand away. Her eyes went wide with pain and anger. “Don’t.”

“I have to see.”

He didn’t have to say what they were both thinking. Why didn’t she stay upstairs?

She relented, removed her bloody fingers, and he saw what he suspected. The bullet had merely grazed her. A flesh wound. Anything worse would have already been obvious. People shot went into shock. Their bodies shut down.

“Just skimmed you,” he said.

Her hand re-vised the wound. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”

“I do have some experience at getting shot.”

Her eyes softened at that realization.

“We have to go,” he said.

Her face scrunched in pain. “I’m bleeding.”

“No choice.” He helped her to her feet.

“Damn, Cotton.”

“I realize it hurts. But if you’d stayed upstairs like I said-”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“We have to go. But first there’s one other thing.”

She seemed to recover her composure, determined to keep calm and stay lucid, so he led her into the building.

“Keep a clamp,” he told her as they climbed the stairs to Haddad’s apartment. “The bleeding should stop. It’s not that deep.”

Sirens were coming closer.

“What are we doing?” she asked, as they found the third-floor landing.

He recalled what Haddad had said right before the shooting started. You taught me a great deal. I recall every lesson, and up until a few days ago I adhered to them strictly. Even those about safeguarding what really matters. When he’d first hid Haddad away, he’d taught the Palestinian to keep his most important things ready to go at a moment’s notice. Time to find out if Haddad meant what he’d said.

They entered the apartment.

“Go into the kitchen and find a towel,” he said, “while I tend to this.”

They had maybe two or three minutes.

He bolted for the bedroom. The tight space wasn’t much larger than his own apartment in Copenhagen. Piles of long-neglected books and papers lay stacked on the floor, the bed unmade, the nightstands and dresser loaded like flea-market tables. He noticed more maps on the walls. Israel, past and present. No time to consider them.

He knelt beside the bed and hoped his instincts were right.

Haddad had called the Middle East knowing a confrontation would ensue. When that inevitable conflict arrived, he hadn’t shied from the fight but had instead gone on the offensive, knowing he’d lose. But what had his friend said? I knew you’d come. Damn foolish. There’d been no need for Haddad to sacrifice himself. Guilt about the man he’d murdered decades ago had apparently swirled through the old man’s head for a long time.

I owe this to the Guardian I shot. My debt repaid.

That, Malone could understand.

He probed beneath the bed and felt something. He grabbed hold and freed a leather satchel, quickly unbuckling its straps. Inside lay a book, three spiral notebooks, and four folded maps. Of all the information scattered about the apartment this, he hoped, was the most important.

They had to go.

He raced back to the den. Pam emerged from the kitchen with a towel clamped to her arm.

“Cotton?” she said.

He heard the question in her voice. “Not now.”

With the satchel in hand he shoved her out the door, but not before he grabbed a shawl from the back of one of the chairs.

They quickly descended.

“How’s the bleeding?” he asked as they found the sidewalk.

“I’ll live. Cotton?”

The sirens were no more than a block away. He draped the shawl around her shoulders to shield the injury.

They walked casually.

“Keep the towel on the arm,” he said.

A hundred feet and they found a boulevard, plunging into a sea of unknown faces, resisting the temptation to hasten their pace.

He glanced back.