The Alexandria Link

FOUR

DOMINICK SABRE STOOD AT THE EAST END OF HØJBRO PLADS and watched Cotton Malone’s bookshop burn. Fluorescent yellow fire trucks were already positioned, and water was being spewed into the flame-filled windows.

So far, so good. Malone was on the move. Order from chaos. His motto. His life.

“They’ve come down from the building next door,” the voice said through his radio earpiece.

“Where did they go?” he whispered into the lapel mike.

“To Malone’s car.”

Right on target.

Firefighters scampered across the square, dragging more hoses, seemingly intent on making sure the flames did not spread. The fire seemed to be enjoying itself. Rare books apparently burned with enthusiasm. Malone’s building would soon be ash.

“Is everything else in place?” he asked the man standing beside him, one of the two Dutchmen he’d hired.

“I checked myself. Ready to go.”

A lot of planning had gone into what was about to occur. He wasn’t sure success was even possible-the goal was intangible, elusive-but if the trail he was following led somewhere, he would be prepared.

Everything, though, hinged on Malone.

His given name was Harold Earl, and nowhere in any of the background material was there an explanation of where the nickname Cotton had originated. Malone was forty-eight, older than Sabre by eleven years. Like him, though, Malone was American, born in Georgia. His mother a native southerner, his father a career military man, a navy commander whose submarine had sunk when Malone was ten years old. Interestingly, Malone had followed in his father’s footsteps, attending the Naval Academy and flight school, then abruptly changed directions, eventually earning a government-paid law degree. He was transferred to the Judge Advocate General’s corps, where he spent nine years. Thirteen years ago he’d changed directions again and moved to the Justice Department and the newly formed Magellan Billet, which handled some of America ’s most sensitive international investigations.

There he remained until last year, retiring early as a full commander, leaving America, moving to Copenhagen, and buying a rare-book shop.

A midlife crisis? Trouble with the government?

Sabre wasn’t sure.

Then there was the divorce. That, he’d studied. Who knew? Malone seemed a puzzle. Though a confirmed bibliophile, nothing in the psychological profiles Sabre had read satisfactorily explained all the radical shifts.

Other tidbits only confirmed his opponent’s competence.

Reasonably fluent in several languages, possessed of no known addictions or phobias, and prone to self-motivation and obsessive dedication, Malone was also blessed with an eidetic memory, which Sabre envied.

Competent, experienced, intelligent. Far different from the fools he’d hired-four Dutchmen with few brains, no morals, and little discipline.

He stayed in the shadows as Højbro Plads crowded with people watching the firefighters go about their job. The night air nipped his face. Fall in Denmark seemed only a quick prelude to winter, and he slipped balled fists inside his jacket pockets.

Torching everything Cotton Malone had worked the past year to achieve had been necessary. Nothing personal. Just business. And if Malone did not deliver exactly what he wanted, he would kill the boy with no hesitation.

The Dutchman beside him-who’d placed the calls to Malone-coughed but continued to stand in silence. One of Sabre’s unbending rules had been made clear from the start. Speak only when addressed. He hadn’t the time or desire for chitchat.

He watched the spectacle for another few minutes. Finally he whispered into the lapel mike, “Everyone stay sharp. We know where they’re headed, and you know what to do.”