He’d placed a call yesterday to the Israeli prime minister’s office. Since he donated millions to Jewish causes and financed a multitude of Israeli politicians, including the current prime minister, his call had not been ignored. He’d asked one simple question-what’s Israel’s interest in George Haddad? He’d purposely not talked directly with the prime minister, directing his inquiry through his chief of staff, who was now, he noticed, uneasy. So he asked, “Did you find an answer to my question?”

“The Mossad told us to mind our own business.”

“Is that how they speak to those in charge?”

“It is when they want us to mind our own business.”

“So you have no answer?”

“I didn’t say that. They want George Haddad dead and they want Cotton Malone stopped. Seems Malone and his ex-wife are presently on their way to Lisbon, and that’s after four people were killed last night west of London at a museum. Interestingly, the Brits know Malone was involved in those killings, but didn’t move on him. They let him walk right out of the country. Our side thinks that’s because the Americans green-lighted what he did. They think America is back in our business-where it concerns George Haddad.”

“How do your employees know any of that?”

“They have a direct line to Malone. They know exactly where and what he’s doing. In addition, they’ve been anticipating this for some time.”

“Seems like everyone is busy there.”

“To say the least. The prime minister and I value your friendship. You’re a patron of this nation. That’s why you’re getting this call. The Mossad is going to take Malone out. Agents are on the way to Lisbon. If you can warn him, do it.”

“I wish that were so, but I have no way.”

“Then may God look after him. He’s going to need it.”

The line clicked dead.

He pushed END.

“Problem?” Gary said.

He grabbed his composure. “Just a minor matter with one of my companies. I still have a business to run, you know.”

The boy seemed to accept the explanation. “You said we were here for some kind of club, but you never told me what that has to do with me.”

“Actually, that’s an excellent question. Let me answer it as we walk. Come, I’ll show you the estate.”

ALFRED HERMANN HEARD THE DOOR TO HENRIK THORVALDSEN’S room close. The listening device installed in the bedchamber had worked perfectly. Margarete sat across from him as he switched off the speaker.

“That Dane is a problem,” she said.

Took her long enough to realize it. Clearly Thorvaldsen was here to probe, but he wondered about the phone call. His old friend had said little to indicate its nature, and he doubted that it had anything to do with business.

“Is he right?” Margarete said. “Did you take that boy?”

He’d allowed her to listen for a reason, so he nodded. “Part of our plan. But we also allowed him to be saved. At the moment Dominick is cultivating the seeds we planted.”

“The library?”

He nodded. “We think we have the trail.”

“And you plan to entrust Sabre with that information?”

“He’s our emissary.”

She shook her head in disgust. “Father, he’s a greedy opportunist. I’ve told you that for years.”

His patience ran out. “I didn’t allow you to learn what’s happening so that we could argue. I need your help.”

He saw that she’d caught the tension in his voice.

“Of course. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“Margarete, the world is a complicated place. You have to use the resources available. Focus. Help me deal with what is before us, and let Dominick worry about his part.”

She sucked a deep breath and slowly exhaled through clenched teeth, a habit she routinely employed when nervous. “What do you want me to do?”

“Wander the grounds. Casually run into Henrik. He thinks himself safe here. Make him feel that way.”

FORTY-FIVE

WASHINGTON, DC

10:30 AM

STEPHANIE DID NOT LIKE HER NEW APPEARANCE. HER SILVERBLOND hair was now a light auburn, the result of a quick coloring by Cassiopeia. Different makeup, new clothes, and a pair of clear eyeglasses completed the alteration. Not perfect, but enough to help her hide in public.

“I haven’t worn Geraldine wool trousers in a long time,” she said to Cassiopeia.

“I paid a lot for them, so take care.”

She grinned. “As if you can’t afford it.”

A crew-neck blouse and navy jacket rounded out the outfit. They were sitting in the rear of a cab, trudging through late-morning traffic.

“I hardly recognize you,” Cassiopeia said.

“You saying I dress like an old woman?”

“Your wardrobe could use a little updating.”

“Maybe if I survive all this, you can take me shopping.”

An amused light gathered in Cassiopeia’s eyes. Stephanie liked this woman. Her confidence could be infectious.

They were headed to Larry Daley’s house. He lived in Cleveland Park, a beautiful residential neighborhood not far from the National Cathedral. Once the summer refuge for Washingtonians seeking escape from the city heat, now it harbored quirky shops, trendy cafés, and a popular art deco theater.

She told the driver to stop three blocks away from the address and paid the fare. They walked the remainder of the way.

“Daley’s an arrogant ass,” Stephanie said. “Thinks no one’s watching him. But he keeps records. Stupid as hell, if you ask me, but he does it.”

“How did you get close to him?”

“He’s a womanizer. I simply provided him an opportunity.”

“Pillow talk?”

“The worst kind.”

The house was another of the former Victorian retreats. She’d at first wondered how Daley could afford the surely astronomical mortgage, but learned that it was a rental. A sticker in a ground-floor window announced that the property was alarmed. It was the middle of the day, and Daley would be at the White House, where he stayed for at least eighteen hours. The conservative press loved to extol his work ethic, but Stephanie wasn’t fooled. He just didn’t want to be out of the loop, not for a moment.

“Make you a deal,” she said.

Cassiopeia’s face melted into a cunning grin. “You want me to break in?”

“Then I’ll handle the alarm.”

SABRE WAS ADJUSTING TO THE PERSONALITY OF JIMMY McCollum. The name itself was another matter. He hadn’t used it in a long time but thought it prudent, given that Malone might well check him out. If so, he would appear in army records. There was a birth certificate, Social Security card, and little more, because he’d changed his name once he moved to Europe. Dominick Sabre added a note of confidence and mystique. The men who’d hired him knew little but his name, so it was important that the label convey the right allure. He’d come across it in a German cemetery, an aristocrat who died in the 1800s.

Now he was Jimmy McCollum again.

His mother named him James, after her father, whom he’d called Big Daddy-one of the few males in his life who’d shown him respect. He never knew his own father, nor did he believe that his mother actually knew which one of her lovers could be blamed. Though she’d been a good mother and treated him with kindness, she’d been a dismal woman, drifting from man to man, marrying three times, and squandering her money. He left home when he was eighteen to join the army. She’d wanted him to go to college, but academics didn’t interest him. Instead, like his mother, opportunity was what drew him.

Unlike her, though, he’d managed to seize every one that had come his way.

The army. Special forces. Europe. The Chairs.

For sixteen years he’d labored for others, doing their bidding, accepting their tokens, satisfied with their meager praise.

Now it was time to labor for himself.

Risky? Certainly.

But the Circle respected power, admired cleverness, and negotiated only with strength. He wanted a membership. Perhaps even a Chair. Even more, if the lost Library of Alexandria contained what Alfred Hermann believed, he might well be able to affect the world.