WASHINGTON, DC

MONDAY, OCTOBER 3

10:30 PM

STEPHANIE NELLE WAS GLAD TO BE ALONE. WORRY CLOUDED her face, and she did not like anyone, particularly superiors, seeing her concerned. Rarely did she allow herself to be affected by what happened in the field, but the kidnapping of Gary Malone had hit her hard. She was in the capital on business and had just finished a late dinner meeting with the national security adviser. Changes were being proposed by an increasingly moderate Congress to several post-9/11 laws. Support was growing to allow sunset provisions to lapse, so the administration was gearing up for a fight. Yesterday several high-ranking officials had made the Sunday talk-show rounds to denounce the critics, and the morning papers had likewise carried stories fed to them by the administration’s publicity machine. She’d been summoned from Atlanta to help tomorrow with lobbying key senators. Tonight’s gathering had been preparation-a way, she knew, for everyone to learn exactly what she intended to say.

She hated politics.

She’d served three presidents during her tenure with Justice. But the current administration had been, without question, the most difficult to placate. Decidedly right of center and drifting farther to that extreme every day, the president had already won his second term, three years left in office, so he was thinking legacy, and what better epitaph than the man who crushed terrorism?

All of that meant nothing to her.

Presidents came and went.

And since the particular anti-terrorism provisions in jeopardy had actually proven useful, she’d assured the national security adviser that she’d be a good girl in the morning and say all the right things on Capitol Hill.

But that was before Cotton Malone’s son had been taken.

THE PHONE IN THORVALDSEN’S STUDY RANG WITH A SHRILLNESS that rattled Malone’s nerves.

Henrik answered the call. “Good to hear from you, Stephanie. And I send my love, too.” The Dane smiled at his own facetiousness. “Yes. Cotton’s here.”

Malone gripped the phone. “Talk to me.”

“Around Labor Day we noticed a breach in the system that had occurred much earlier. Someone managed a look-see through the secured files-one in particular.”

He knew its identity. “Do you understand that by withholding that information you’ve put my son at risk?”

The other end of the phone was silent.

“Answer me, dammit.”

“I can’t, Cotton. And you know why. Just tell me what you’re going to do.”

He knew what the inquiry really meant. Was he going to give the voice on the cell phone the Alexandria Link? “Why shouldn’t I?”

“You’re the only one who can answer that question.”

“What’s worth risking my son’s life? I need to understand the whole story. What I wasn’t told five years ago.”

“I need to know that, too,” Stephanie said. “I wasn’t briefed, either.”

He’d heard that line before. “Don’t screw with me. I’m not in the mood.”

“On this one I’m shooting straight. They told me nothing. You asked to go in, and I was given the okay to do it. I’ve contacted the attorney general, so I’ll get answers.”

“How did anyone even know about the link? That whole thing was classified at levels way above you. That was the deal.”

“An excellent question.”

“And you still haven’t said why you didn’t tell me about the breach.”

“No, Cotton. I haven’t.”

“The thought that I was the only person on earth who knows about that link didn’t occur to you? You couldn’t connect the dots?”

“How could I have anticipated all this?”

“Because you have twenty years of experience. Because you’re not a dumb-ass. Because we’re friends. Because-” His worry was spilling out in a stream. “Your stupidity may cost my son his life.”

He saw how his words had jarred Pam, and he hoped she didn’t explode.

“I realize that, Cotton.”

He wasn’t going to cut her any slack. “Gee, I feel better now.”

“I’m going to deal with this here. But I can offer you something. I have an agent in Sweden who can be in Denmark by midmorning. He’ll tell you everything.”

“Where and when.”

“He suggested Kronborg Slot. Eleven AM.”

He knew the place. Not far away, perched on a spit of bare land overlooking the Øresund. Shakespeare had immortalized the monstrous fortress when he set Hamlet there. Now it was the most popular tourist attraction in Scandinavia.

“He suggested the ballroom. I assume you know where all that is?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Cotton. I’m going to do all I can to help.”

“Which is the least you can do, considering.”

And he hung up.

WASHINGTON, DC

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4

4:00 AM

STEPHANIE ENTERED THE HOME OF O. BRENT GREEN, THE ATTORNEY general of the United States. A car had just delivered her to Georgetown. She’d telephoned Green before midnight and asked for the face-to-face, briefly telling him what had happened. He’d wanted a little time to investigate, which she’d had no choice but to accept.

Green waited in his study.

He’d served the president for the entire first term and had been one of only a handful of cabinet members who’d agreed to stay for the second. He was a popular advocate of Christian and conservative causes-a New England bachelor with not a hint of scandal attached to his name, who even at this early hour projected a serious vigor. His hair and goatee were precisely groomed and smoothly combed, his spare frame sheathed in a trademark pin-striped suit. He’d served six terms in Congress and was the governor of Vermont when tapped by the president for the Justice Department. His frank words and direct approach made him popular with both sides of the political aisle, but his distant personality seemed to prevent him from rising any higher nationally than attorney general.

She’d never been inside Green’s house and had expected a sullen, unimaginative look, something akin to the man himself. But instead the rooms were warm and homey-lots of sienna, taupe, pale greens, and shades of maroon and orange-a Hemingway effect, as one furniture chain in Atlanta advertised similar ensembles.

“This matter is unusual, even for you, Stephanie,” Green said as he greeted her. “Anything further from Malone?”

“He was resting before heading to Kronborg. With the time difference, he should be on his way there now.”

He offered her a seat. “This problem seems to be escalating.”

“Brent, we’ve had this talk before. Somebody high on the food chain accessed the secured database. We know files on the Alexandria Link were copied.”

“The FBI is investigating.”

“That’s a joke. The director is so far up the president’s ass, there’s no danger of anyone at the White House being implicated.”

“Colorful, as always, but accurate. Unfortunately it’s the only procedure available to us.”

“We could look into it.”

“That would bring nothing but trouble.”

“Which I’m accustomed to.”

Green smiled. “That you are.” He paused. “I’m wondering, how much do you actually know about that link?”

“When I sent Cotton into the fray five years ago it was with the understanding that I didn’t need to know. Not unusual. I deal with a lot of that sort of thing, so I didn’t worry about it. But now I need to know.”

Green’s face cast a measure of concern. “I’m probably about to violate myriad federal laws, but, I agree, it’s time you know.”

MALONE STARED ACROSS THE ROCKY ELEVATION AT KRONBORG Slot. Once its cannons were aimed at foreign ships that traversed the narrow straits to and from the Baltic, the collected tolls swelling the Danish treasury. Now the creamy beige walls stood somber against a clear azure sky. Not a fortress any longer, merely a Nordic renaissance building alive with octagonal towers, pointed spires, and green copper roofs more reminiscent of Holland than Denmark. Which was understandable, Malone knew, since a sixteenth-century Dutchman had been instrumental in the castle’s design. He liked the location. Public locales could be the best spots in which to be invisible. He’d used many during his years with the Billet.