Apparently Thomas Bainbridge had chosen his pen name with great care.
“Anything?” Pam asked.
“Everything.” But his excitement faded, replaced by the chill of an unpleasant realization. “We need to get out of here.”
He rushed to the doors, switched off the lights, and eased them open. The marble hall loomed, quiet. The radio continued to play in some far-off room, now a sporting event of some sort, the crowd and commentator loud. The floor polisher was silent.
He led Pam to the top of the stairs.
Three men burst into the hall below, weapons in hand.
One raised and fired.
He shoved Pam to the floor.
The bullet pinged off the stone. He quickly rolled them both behind one of the columns and saw Pam grimace in pain.
“My shoulder,” she said.
Three more bullets tried to find them through marble. He palmed Haddad’s automatic and readied himself. None of the shots so far had been accompanied by a loud retort-only pops, like pillows fluffing. Sound suppressors. At least he possessed the high ground. From his vantage point he spotted two shooters advancing toward the right side of the lower floor while the other remained to the left. He could not allow the two to take up that position-they’d be able to shoot around the column-so he fired.
The bullet missed but its proximity caused the attackers to hesitate, enough for Malone to adjust his aim and fire a slug into the lead man, who cried out, then thudded to the floor. The other man leaped for cover, but Malone managed one more shot that sent the pursuer scurrying back toward the hall entrance. Blood streamed from the downed man, pooling into a bright red lake on the white marble.
More shots came their way. The air reeked of gunfire.
Five bullets remained in Haddad’s gun, but Malone still carried the one he’d taken from String Bean, too. Maybe five more shots. He registered fear in Pam’s eyes, but she was remaining calm, considering.
He thought about retreating into the drawing room. The double doors, if barricaded with furniture, might buy them a few minutes to escape through one of the windows. But they were on the second floor, which would surely pose additional obstacles. Regardless, that might be their only play unless the men below wanted to expose themselves and give him a clear shot.
Which wasn’t likely.
One of the men scampered to the base of the stairs. The other covered his advance with four shots that snapped off the wall behind them. Malone had to conserve ammunition and could not fire until it really counted.
Then he realized what they were doing.
For him to fire at one, he’d have to expose himself at the column’s edge to the other. So he did the unexpected, ignoring the left side and curling himself around the right, sending a bullet into the red carpet runner ahead of the advancing attacker.
The man leaped from the stairway and sought cover.
Pam reached for her shoulder and he spotted blood. Her wound had reopened. Too much jostling. Her blue eyes stared back, full of fear.
Two shots banged through the hall.
Not sound-suppressed. High-caliber.
Then, silence.
“Hello,” a male voice called out.
He peered around the column. Standing below was a tall man with grizzled sandy blond hair. He had a broad brow, a short nose, and a round chin. He was squarely built and dressed in jeans and a canvas shirt beneath a leather jacket.
“It looked like you needed help,” the man said, gun at his right side.
The two attackers lay on the floor, blood oozing onto the marble. This man was apparently a good shot, too.
Malone retreated back behind the column. “Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”
“Wouldn’t blame you. So stay there and wait for the police. You can explain about these three dead bodies.” He heard footsteps, receding. “And by the way, you’re welcome.”
Something occurred to him. “What about the cleaning crew? Why aren’t they rushing in here?”
The footsteps stopped. “They’re unconscious, upstairs.”
“Your doing?”
“Not mine.”
“What’s your interest?”
“The same as many who’ve come here in the middle of the night. I’m looking for the Library of Alexandria.”
Malone said nothing.
“Tell you what. I’m staying at the Savoy, room 453. I have some information that I doubt you possess, and you might have some I don’t know about. If you’d like to talk, come find me. If not, we’ll probably see each other again along the way. Your choice. But together we might be able to speed up the process. It’s up to you.”
Heels clacked the floor with a solid tread, fading away into the house.
“What the hell was that?” Pam asked.
“His way of introducing himself.”
“He killed two men.”
“For which I’m grateful.”
“Cotton, we’ve got to get out of here.”
“Tell me about it. But first we need to know who those men are.”
He fled from the column and rushed down the marble stairs. Pam followed. He searched all three corpses but found no identification.
“Grab the guns,” he said, pocketing six spare magazines lifted from the bodies. “These guys came ready for a fight.”
“I’m actually getting used to seeing blood,” she said.
“I told you it’d get easier.”
He thought more about the man. The Savoy. Room 453. His way of saying, You can trust me. Pam still clutched the book about St. Jerome, and he carried the leather satchel from Haddad’s apartment.
Pam turned to leave.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“I’m hungry. I hope the Savoy has an excellent breakfast.”
He grinned.
She caught on quick.
THIRTY-SIX
WASHINGTON, DC
STEPHANIE WASN’T SURE SHE COULD TAKE MUCH MORE. HER gaze locked onto Brent Green. “Explain yourself.”
“We allowed the files to be compromised. There’s a traitor among us and we want him. Or her.”
“Who’s we?”
“The Justice Department. It’s a top-secret investigation. Only myself and two others know. My two closest deputies, and I’d place my life in their hands.”
“Liars couldn’t care less about your faith.”
“Agreed. But the leak isn’t in Justice. It’s higher. Outside the department. We dangled bait and it was taken.”
She could not believe what she was hearing. “And you risked Gary Malone’s life in the process.”
“No one could have predicted that. We had no idea anyone, other than the Israelis and the Saudis, gave a damn about George Haddad. The leak we’re trying to plug runs straight to them, not anywhere else.”
“That you know of.” Her thoughts flooded with the Order of the Golden Fleece.
“If I had possessed any clue that Malone’s family was in danger, I would never have allowed the tactic to be used.”
She wanted to believe that.
“We actually thought Haddad’s whereabouts was a relatively harmless piece of information. Allowing the Israelis to know Haddad was alive didn’t seem that risky, especially since there was nothing in the file to indicate where he was hidden.”
“Except a trail straight to Cotton.”
“And we assumed that, if challenged, Malone would know what to do.”
“He’s out, Brent,” she almost shouted. “He doesn’t work for us anymore. We don’t place ex-operatives in danger, especially without their knowledge.”
“We weighed those risks and decided that to find our leak, they were worth taking. Having the boy kidnapped changed everything. I’m glad Cotton was able to retrieve him.”
“That’s so wonderful of you. You’ll be lucky he doesn’t break your nose.”
“This White House is an abomination,” Green muttered. “Bunch of righteous, corrupt pricks.”
She’d never heard Green speak that way before.
“They expound how Christian they are, how American, but their allegiance is only to themselves-and the dollar. Decision after decision has been made, each one clothed in an American flag, that does nothing but fatten the pockets of major corporations-entities that have contributed heavily to their party cause. It sickens me. I sit in meetings where policy is couched in terms of what’s good television, rather than what’s good for the nation. I keep silent. Say nothing. Be a team player. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to allow this country to be compromised. I took an oath, and unlike many in this administration, mine means something to me.”