“Is Oxfordshire on that route?”

“Straight through it.”

Apparently Malone was curious, too. “Did you arrange that extra help, like I asked?”

“They’re here.”

“Wait at Paddington Station. I’m on my way.”

He clicked off the phone.

Time to start the next phase.

STEPHANIE TOSSED A TUMBLER OF WATER IN BRENT GREEN’S face. They’d dragged his limp body into the kitchen and fastened him to a chair with packing tape Cassiopeia found in a drawer. The attorney general stirred himself out of unconsciousness, shaking the moisture from his eyes.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

Green was still coming around, so she helped him with another splash.

“That’s enough,” Green said, lids wide open, his face and bathrobe soaked. “I assume there’s a good reason why you’ve decided to violate so many federal laws.” The words came with the speed of molasses and in the tone of a funeral director, both normal for Green. Never had she heard him talk fast or loud.

“You tell me, Brent. Who you working for?”

Green glanced at the bindings that held his wrists and ankles. “And I thought we were making progress in our relationship.”

“We were until you betrayed me.”

“Stephanie, I’ve been told for years that you’re a loose cannon, but I always admired those traits in you. I’m beginning, though, to see the other side’s complaint.”

She came close. “I didn’t trust you, but you faced off against Daley and I thought maybe, just maybe, I was wrong.”

“Do you have any idea what would happen if my security detail came to check on me? Which, by the way, they do each night.”

“Nice try. You waved them off months ago. Said it wasn’t necessary unless the threat level was elevated, and it’s not at the moment.”

“And how do you know that I didn’t press my panic button before I fell to the terrace?”

She removed the transmitter she carried from her pocket. “I pressed mine, Brent, back on the mall, and you know what happened? Not a damn thing.”

“Might be different here.”

She knew that Green, like all senior administrative staff, carried a panic button. It instantly relayed trouble to either a nearby security detail or the Secret Service command center. It could also act as a tracking device.

“I watched your hands,” she said. “Both empty. You were too busy trying to figure out what stung you.”

Green’s face stiffened, and he stared at Cassiopeia. “You shot me?”

She gave him a gracious bow. “At your service.”

“What’s the chemical?”

“Fast-acting agent I found in Morocco. Quick, painless, short-term.”

“I can attest to all those.” Green turned back toward Stephanie. “This must be Cassiopeia Vitt. She knew your husband, Lars, before he killed himself.”

“How in the world do you know that?” She hadn’t mentioned what happened to anyone on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Only Cassiopeia, Henrik Thorvaldsen, and Malone knew.

“Ask me what you came to ask me,” Green said with a quiet resolve.

“Why’d you call off my security detail? You left me bare-ass for the Israelis. Tell me you did it.”

“I did.”

The admission surprised her. She was too accustomed to lies. “Knowing that the Saudis would try to kill me?”

“I knew that, too.”

Anger swelled inside her and she fought the urge to lash out, saying only, “I’m waiting.”

“Ms. Vitt,” Green said. “Are you available to keep an eye on this woman until this is over?”

“Why do you give a damn?” Stephanie blurted out. “You’re not my keeper.”

“Somebody has to be. Calling Heather Dixon wasn’t smart. You’re not thinking.”

“Like I need you to tell me that.”

“Look at yourself. Here you are, assaulting the chief law enforcement officer of the United States with little or no information. Your enemies, on the other hand, have access to an abundance of intelligence, which they are using to full advantage.”

“What in the hell are you babbling about? And you never did answer the question.”

“That’s true. I didn’t. You wanted to know why I called off your security detail. The answer is simple. I was asked to, so I did.”

“Who asked you?”

Green’s eyes surveyed her with the unruffled look of a Buddha.

“Henrik Thorvaldsen.”

THIRTY-FOUR

BAINBRIDGE HALL, ENGLAND

5:20 AM

MALONE ADMIRED THE MARBLE ARBOR IN THE GARDEN. THEY’D taken a train twelve miles north from London, then a taxi from the nearby town station to Bainbridge Hall. He’d read all of Haddad’s notes stashed in the satchel and skimmed through the novel, trying to make sense of what was happening, remembering everything he and Haddad had discussed through the years. But he’d come to the conclusion that his old friend had taken the most important things with him to his grave.

Above stretched a velvet sky. A cool draft of night air chilled him. Manicured grass stretched out from the garden in a pewter sea, the bushes and shrubs islands of shadow. Water danced in a nearby fountain. He’d decided on a predawn visit as the best way to learn anything, and had obtained a flashlight from the hotel concierge.

The grounds were unfenced and, as far as he could see, not alarmed. The house itself, he assumed, would be another matter. From what he’d read in Haddad’s notes, the estate was a minor museum, one of hundreds owned by the British Crown. Several of the mansion’s ground-floor rooms were lit, and he spotted, through uncurtained panes, what appeared to be a cleaning crew.

He turned his attention back to the arbor.

The wind rustled the trees then rose to sweep the clouds. Moonlight vanished, but his eyes were fully accustomed to the eerie pall.

“You plan to tell me what this thing is?” Pam asked. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet on the trip.

He directed the light onto the image etched into the marble. “That’s from a painting called The Shepherds of Arcadia Two. Thomas Bainbridge went to a lot of trouble to have it carved.” He told her what Haddad had written concerning the image, then used the beam to trace the letters beneath.

D O.V.O.S.V.A.V.V. M

“What did he say about those?” Pam asked.

“Not a word. Only that this was a message and that there are more inside the house.”

“Which certainly explains why we’re here at five o’clock in the morning.”

He caught her irritation. “I don’t like crowds.”

Pam brought her eyes close to the arbor. “Wonder why he separated the D and the M like that?”

He had no idea. But there was one thing he did comprehend. The pastoral scene of The Shepherds of Arcadia II depicted a woman watching as three shepherds gathered around a stone tomb, each pointing at engraved letters. ET IN ARCADIA EGO. He knew the translation.

And in Arcadia I.

An enigmatic inscription that made little sense. But he’d seen those words before. In France. Contained within a sixteenth-century codex describing what the Knights Templar had secretly accomplished in the months before their mass arrest in October 1307.

Et in arcadia ego.

An anagram for I tego arcana dei.

I conceal the secrets of God.

He told Pam about the phrase.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

He shrugged. “Just telling you what I know.”

They needed to explore the house. From a safe distance in the garden, among belts of towering cedars, he studied the ground floor. Lights flicked on and off as the cleaners went about their work. Doors to the rear terrace were propped open with chairs. He watched as a man stepped outside carrying two garbage bags, which he tossed into a pile, then disappeared back inside.

He glanced at his watch: 5:40 AM.

“They’re going to have to finish soon,” he said. “Once they’re gone, we should have a couple of hours before anyone arrives for work. This place doesn’t open till ten.” He’d learned that from a sign near the main gate.