Amazing. “Which one?”

“The attorney general. Brent Green himself came and told us to leave.”

MALONE TOSSED THE SATCHEL FROM GEORGE HADDAD’S apartment onto the bed. He and Pam were inside a hotel not far from Hyde Park, a familiar place he’d chosen for its congestion because, as he was taught, Nowhere better to hide in than a crowd. He also liked the pharmacy next door. There he’d purchased gauze, antiseptic, and bandages.

“I have to work on that shoulder,” he said.

“What do you mean? Let’s find a hospital.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

He sat on the bed beside her.

“It’s going to be that simple. I want a doctor.”

“If you’d stayed upstairs like I told you, nothing would have happened.”

“I thought you needed help. You were going to kill that man.”

“Don’t you get it, Pam? Wasn’t watching George die enough? These SOBs are serious. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you.”

“I came to help,” she quietly said.

And he saw something in her eyes he hadn’t seen for years. Sincerity. Which raised a whole lot of questions he didn’t want to ask. Nor, he was sure, would she want to answer. “Doctors would involve police, which is a problem.” He sucked a few deep breaths. He was worn by fatigue and worry. “Pam, there are a lot of players here. The Israelis didn’t take Gary-”

“How do you know that?”

“Call it instinct. My gut tells me they didn’t do it.”

“They sure killed that old man.”

“Which was why I hid him away in the first place.”

“He called them, Cotton. You heard him. He called knowing they’d come.”

“He was doing his penance. Killing comes with consequences. George faced his today.” And the thought of his dead friend brought with it a renewed pang of regret. “I need to work on that wound.”

He slipped the shawl from around her shoulders and noticed that the towel was sticky with blood. “Did it open back up?”

She nodded. “On the way here.”

He peeled the compress away. “Whatever’s happening is complicated. George died for a reason-”

“His body was gone, Cotton. Along with the woman’s.”

“The Israelis apparently cleaned up their mess fast.” He carefully examined her arm and saw that the cut was indeed shallow. “Which only goes to prove what I’m saying. There are multiple players. At least two, maybe three, possibly four. Israel is not in the habit of killing American agents. But the people who murdered Lee Durant don’t seem to care. It’s almost like they’re inviting trouble. And that, the Israelis never do.”

He stood and entered the bathroom. When he returned he popped open a bottle of antiseptic and handed her a fresh towel. “Bite on this.”

A puzzled look came to her face. “Why?”

“I need to disinfect that wound and I don’t want anyone to hear you scream.”

Her eyes went wide. “That stuff hurts?”

“More than you can imagine.”

STEPHANIE SWITCHED OFF THE CELL PHONE. BRENT GREEN HIMSELF came and told us to leave. Shock stiffened her spine, but decades in the intelligence business allowed nothing in her countenance to betray her surprise.

She faced Cassiopeia across the cab’s rear seat. “I’m afraid, at the moment, you’re the only person I can trust.”

“You seem disappointed.”

“I don’t know you.”

“That’s not true. In France you checked me out.”

Cassiopeia was right-she’d been thoroughly vetted, and Stephanie learned that the dark-skinned beauty had been born in Barcelona thirty-seven years ago. Half Muslim, though not noted as devout, Cassiopeia possessed master’s degrees in engineering and medieval history. She was the sole shareholder and owner of a multicontinent conglomerate based in Paris and involved in a broad spectrum of international business ventures with assets in the multibillion-dollar range. Her Moorish father had started the company and she’d inherited control, though she was little involved with its everyday operation. She also served as the chairwoman for a Dutch foundation that worked closely with the United Nations on international AIDS relief and world famine, particularly in Africa. Stephanie knew from personal experience that Vitt shied away from little, and she could wield a rifle with the accuracy of a sniper. At times a bit too brassy for her own good, Cassiopeia had been associated with Stephanie’s late husband and understood more about Stephanie’s personal life than she cared for anyone to know. But she trusted the woman. No question. Thorvaldsen had chosen wisely when he sent her.

“I have a serious problem.”

“That much we already know.”

“And Cotton is in trouble. It’s imperative I contact him.”

“Henrik hasn’t heard from him. Malone said he’d call when he’s ready, and you know him better than anyone.”

“How’s Gary?”

“Just like his father. Tough. He’s safe with Henrik.”

“Where’s Pam?”

“On her way back to Georgia. She flew with Malone to London and was leaving from there.”

“The Israelis are in London, too. Assassination squad.”

“Cotton’s a big boy. He can handle it. We have to decide what to do about your problem.”

Stephanie, too, had been thinking about that conundrum. Brent Green himself came and told us to leave. Which might explain why the Capitol Police had been scarce. Usually they were everywhere. She glanced out the taxi and saw that they were near Dupont Circle and her hotel. “We need to make sure we’re not being followed.”

“The Metro might be a better way to go.”

She agreed.

“Where are we headed?” Cassiopeia asked.

She spied the air pistol stuffed beneath Cassiopeia’s jacket. “You have any more darts that rock people to sleep?”

“Plenty.”

“Then I know exactly where we need to go.”

LONDON

7:30 PM

MALONE WATCHED PAM SLEEP. HE WAS SLOUCHED IN A CHAIR beside the hotel room’s window, George Haddad’s satchel lying in his lap. He’d been right about the disinfectant: Pam had bitten hard on the towel as he’d doused the wound. Tears had welled in her eyes, but she’d been tough. Not a sound betrayed her agony. Feeling bad for her, he’d bought her a new shirt from the lobby boutique.

He was tired, too, but his “Billet nerves,” as he called them, supplied his muscles with boundless energy. He could recall times when days had passed without eating, his body charged with adrenaline, his focus on staying alive and getting the job done. He’d thought that rush a thing of the past. Something he’d never experience again.

And here he was.

Right in the middle.

The past few hours could have been a gruesome nightmare except that, in undreamlike fashion, the events played clear in his mind. His friend George Haddad had been shot right before his eyes. People with agendas were after something. All none of his business any other time. But some of those same people had kidnapped his son and blown up his bookshop. No. This was personal.

He owed them.

And like Haddad, he intended to pay his debts.

But he needed to know more.

Haddad had been cryptic in his comments both before and after the Israelis appeared. Even worse, he’d never finished explaining what he’d noticed years ago-what exactly motivated Israel to kill him. Hoping that the leather satchel lying in his lap contained answers, he unbuckled the clasps and removed a book, three notebooks, and four maps.

The book was an eighteenth-century volume, the cover tooled leather and brittle like sun-dried skin. None of its lettering was legible, so he carefully parted the binding and read the title sheet.

A Hero’s Journey by Eusebius Hieronymus Sophronius.

He scanned the pages.

A novel written more than two hundred years ago in an unimaginative and pedantic style. He wondered about its significance and hoped the notebooks would explain.