“You could at least thank me for saving your life. I didn’t have to do that.”
“Just happen to be in the neighborhood?”
The man’s thin lips curled into a grin. “You always like this? No foreplay, just right to it?”
“You’re dodging my question.”
McCollum slid out a chair and sat. “I’m starving. How about we get some food and I’ll tell you all about it?”
Malone did not move. “How about you answer my question.”
“Okay, in the interest of goodwill. I’m a treasure hunter on the trail of the Library of Alexandria. I’ve been searching for whatever remains of it for more than a decade. I was at Bainbridge Hall because of those three men. They killed a woman four days ago, a damn good source, so I stayed on their trail hoping to learn who they’re working for. Instead they led me to you.”
“You said back at the estate you have information I don’t. What makes you think that?”
McCollum shoved back his chair and stood. “I said I might have some information you don’t. Look, I don’t have the time or patience for this. I’ve been at that estate before. You’re not the first to go there. Each one of you amateurs knows a kernel of truth mixed with a lot of fantasy. I’m willing to bargain with some of what I know to learn the tiny shred that you may know. That’s all, Malone. Nothing more sinister.”
“So you shot two men in the head to prove your point?” Pam asked, and Malone spotted the look of a skeptical lawyer.
McCollum locked his gaze on Pam. “I shot those men to save your life.” Then he glanced around at their surroundings. “I love this place. Did you know that the first martini was actually poured in the American Bar at the Savoy? Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Gershwin-they all drank there. Lots of history.”
“You like history?” Pam asked.
“An occupational necessity.”
“You going somewhere?” Malone asked.
McCollum stood rigid, his manner calm and unruffled, though Malone had deliberately tried to shake him. “You’re way too suspicious for me. Go ahead. Take the hero’s quest. Hope you succeed.”
This man was knowledgeable. “How do you know about that?”
“Like I said, I’ve been on this trail awhile. How long have you been at it? My guess? You’re a rookie. Worse, you’re a rookie with an attitude. I’ve met a ton of people just like you. They think they know it all. Truth is, they don’t know spit. That library has stayed hidden for fifteen hundred years for a reason.” McCollum paused. “You know, Malone, you’re like the jackass standing in some wonderful knee-high grass with his head cocked over the fence eating weeds. Nice to meet you. I’m going to go sit at that table over there and have breakfast.”
McCollum negotiated his way across the half-empty café.
“What do you think?” he asked Pam.
“Arrogant. But you can’t hold that against him.”
He smiled. “He knows something, and we’re not going to find out a thing sitting here.”
She stood. “I agree. So let’s go eat with our new friend.”
SABRE SAT AT THE TABLE AND WAITED. IF HE’D CALCULATED correctly, they would be coming over shortly. There’s no way Malone could resist. His knowledge had to be limited to what George Haddad had managed to tell him-which, from the tape he’d heard, wasn’t much. What Malone retrieved from Haddad’s apartment before fleeing may have filled in gaps, but he was betting that the most vital questions remained unanswered.
Which was also a problem for him.
He was forcing himself to interact. Something different. He was accustomed to the silence of his own thoughts-intimate company came rarely, confined to the occasional woman who provided sex. He hired most. Professionals, like him, doing their job, saying at night what he wanted to hear, then leaving in the morning. The harsh realities of physical danger and intellectual tension, at least for him, neutered rather than stimulated sex. Grave consequences sapped the brain. Occasionally he slept with the hired help. But as with the Brit he’d shot earlier, that sometimes came with annoying side effects. Instead of romance, he craved solitude.
He’d played this particular role before, with others, when he’d needed to secure their confidence. The words and actions, the way he walked and carried himself, the swaggering voice all came from one of his mother’s many boyfriends. This one had been a beat cop in Chicago, where they’d lived when he was twelve. He remembered how the man had tried to impress her with unabashed confidence. He recalled a White Sox game and a trip to the lakefront. He later learned that, like most of his mother’s lovers, the cop had shown only enough interest to impress his mother. Once they got what they really wanted, which usually was measured in nights in his mother’s bed, the attention stopped. He came to hate all her suitors. Not one of them was there when he buried her. She died alone and broke.
And he wasn’t going to repeat her fate.
He stood and headed for the buffet line.
He loved the Savoy, rooms furnished with expensive antiques and serviced by Old World valets. The kind of luxury Alfred Hermann and the rest of the Order of the Golden Fleece routinely enjoyed. He wanted that privilege, too. On his terms. Not theirs. But to alter reality he needed Cotton Malone, and he wondered if some of what he sought lay inside the leather satchel Malone toted. So far he’d managed to stay one step ahead of his adversary, and out of the corner of his eye he was pleased to see that he still retained that advantage.
Malone and his ex-wife were making their way through the rapidly filling tables.
“All right, McCollum,” Malone said as he approached. “We’re here.”
“You buying?”
“Sure. The least I can do.”
He forced a chuckle. “I just hope that’s not the most you can do.”
FORTY-ONE
WASHINGTON, DC
STEPHANIE AND CASSIOPEIA RETREATED INTO THE KITCHEN AS Brent Green answered his front door. They resumed their positions near the swinging door and listened as Green ushered Daley into the dining room and the two men sat at the table.
“Brent,” Daley said, “we have some issues to discuss.”
“We’ve always had those, Larry.”
“We have a serious problem. And I use the plural we because I came to help you solve it.”
“I was hoping that it was important, considering the time. So why don’t you tell me what our problem is?”
“Three bodies were found a short while ago at an estate west of London. Two with bullets to the head, the other to the chest. Another body, a woman, was found a few miles away. Bullet to the head. Same caliber gun delivered the head shots. A cleaning van was stolen from the estate. The crew had been knocked unconscious. It was driven into a nearby town and left. A man and a woman were seen leaving the van, then taking a train to London. Surveillance video from Paddington Station confirmed that Cotton Malone and his ex-wife came off that train.”
Stephanie knew where this was leading.
“I assume,” Green said, “you’re implying Malone killed those four people.”
“Sure looks that way.”
“Apparently, Larry, you’ve never prosecuted a murder.”
“And you have?”
“Six, actually. When I was an assistant state’s attorney. You have no idea if Malone shot those people.”
“Maybe not, Brent. But I have enough to excite the hell out of the British. I’ll leave the details for them to work out.”
Stephanie realized that this could pose a problem for Cotton, and she saw in Cassiopeia’s eyes that her friend agreed.
“The Brits have identified Malone. The only reason they haven’t gone after him is that they’ve asked us what he’s doing there. They want to know if it’s official. You don’t by any chance know the answer?”
Silence hung in the air, and she imagined the look of granite on Green’s face. Stonewalling was what he did best.