Bulletproof.

The third gunman in the upper gallery rushed inside the open doorway, his gun leading the way. Sabre waited for the instant of indecision, when his target had to assess his situation, then lunged forward, slamming the man’s gun with his foot as he brought the knife around and slashed the man’s throat. He gave the man no time to realize his fate, plunging the blade into the nape of his neck.

A few gargled gasps and the man collapsed to the floor.

More thuds dotted the locked glass doors. A couple of kicks loosened nothing. Then he heard footsteps as the two attackers retreated down the stairway.

He grabbed the dead man’s gun.

THE ALARM CONTINUED TO BLARE. HUNDREDS OF PATRONS rushed toward the museum entrances. Daley was still in Stephanie’s grasp.

“The vice president has allies,” he said. “He can’t do this alone.”

She was listening.

“Stephanie. Brent Green is working with him. He’s not your friend.” Her eyes locked on Heather Dixon, who said, “He’s telling the truth. Who else knew you were coming here? If we wanted you dead, this would not have been the meeting place.”

She’d thought herself in control, but now she wasn’t so sure. Green was indeed the only other person who knew they were there-if Dixon and Daley were telling the truth.

She released Daley, who said, “Green’s in league with the VP. Has been for a while. He’s been promised the second seat on the ticket. Brent could never hope to win an election. This is his one shot at moving up.”

An announcement again ordered that the building must be cleared. A security guard exited the cafeteria and told them they’d have to leave.

“What’s happening?” Daley asked him.

“Just a precaution. We need to clear the building.”

Through the far glass walls, Stephanie saw people streaming away from the road and trees that separated the museum from the grassy mall.

Some precaution.

They hustled back toward the main entrances. People continued to flood out the doors. Lots of chatter and concerned faces. Most of them were teenagers and families, the talk about what could possibly be happening.

“Let’s find another way,” Cassiopeia said. “At least be a little unpredictable.”

She agreed. They walked off. Daley and Dixon stood rigid, as if trying to make them believe.

“Stephanie,” Daley called out.

She turned.

“I’m the only friend you’ve got. Find me when you realize that.”

She did not seize on his words, though she hated the feeling of uncertainty that coursed through her.

“We have to go,” Cassiopeia said.

They rushed through more galleries brimming with shiny aircraft, past a gift shop rapidly losing patrons. Cassiopeia seemed intent on using one of the emergency exits-a good play, since the alarms were already activated.

Ahead, from behind a display case loaded with miniature planes, a man appeared. Tall, dressed in a dark business suit. He raised his right palm. Stephanie spotted a thin wire corkscrewing from his left ear.

She and Cassiopeia stopped and turned. Two more men, similarly dressed and equipped, stood behind them. She registered their look and manner.

Secret Service.

The first man spoke into a lapel mike, and the building’s alarm went silent.

“Can we do this easy, Ms. Nelle?”

“Why should I?”

The man stepped closer. “Because the president of the United States wants to talk to you.”

FIFTY-FOUR

LISBON

9:30 PM

MALONE ROUNDED THE COUNTER AND CROUCHED WHERE McCollum was searching the dead man’s pockets. He’d watched the so-called treasure hunter kill their attacker with expert precision.

“Those two are rounding back through the church and headed here,” he said.

“I understand,” McCollum said. “Here’s a couple of spare magazines. And another gun. Any clue who they are?”

“Israeli. Have to be.”

“Thought you said they were out of the picture.”

“And I thought you said you were an amateur. Lot of skill you just showed.”

“You do what you have to when your ass is on the line.”

Malone noticed something else clipped to the dead man’s waist. He unsnapped the metal unit.

A transceiver locator. He’d used one many times to follow an electronically tagged target. He activated the video screen and saw that it was tracking something in silent mode. A flashing indicator showed the target was nearby.

“We need to go,” Pam said.

“That’s going to be a problem,” Malone said. “The only way out is through that gallery. But the other two gunmen must be near the stairs by now. We need another way down.”

He pocketed the locator unit. Weapons in hand, they slipped out of the gift shop.

The two gunmen burst from an archway ninety feet away and started firing.

Sounds like popping balloons snapped through the cloister.

Malone dove to the gallery floor, taking Pam with him. The corners were not ninety degrees, but flared, making the cloister octagonal. He used the angle for cover.

“Head that way,” McCollum said. “I’ll keep them busy.”

A continuous stone bench lined the outer perimeter, connecting the arches and forming an elaborate balustrade. Crouching down, he and Pam scampered away from the gift shop, where McCollum was firing at the two gunmen.

Bullets pinged off the stone wall ten feet to his left, some behind, others leading. He realized what was happening. Their shadows, cast from the incandescent fixtures that dimly illuminated the gallery, were betraying their presence. He grabbed Pam, stopped their advance, and hugged the floor. He aimed and, with three bullets, obliterated the lights ahead.

Darkness now sheathed them.

McCollum had stopped firing.

So had the gunmen.

He motioned and they hustled ahead, still crouched, using the arches, tracery, and stone bench for protection.

They came to the end of the gallery.

To their right, the inside wall of the next gallery stretched. No doors. At the far end was another unbroken wall. To his immediate left rose a set of glass doors, one swung open, inviting guests inside. A placard identified the room as the refectory. Perhaps there might be a way down inside?

He motioned and they entered.

Three thuds pounded the glass as bullets slammed against its exterior. None penetrated. More bulletproof material. Thank heaven for whoever selected the doors.

“Cotton, we’ve got a problem,” Pam said.

He stared into the refectory.

Through the darkness, broken only by the scattered rays seeping in from the windows, he saw a spacious rectangle topped by a ribbed ceiling, similar to that of the church. A low stone cornice encircled the room, below which ran a colorful tile mosaic. No doors led out. The windows were ten feet overhead with no way to get to them.

He spied only two openings.

One was at the far end, and he trotted the fifty-foot length and saw that it may have once been a fireplace but was now only a decorative niche.

Sealed.

The other opening was smaller, maybe four by five feet, recessed three feet into the outer wall. The refectory was once the abbey’s dining hall, so this may have been where food was prepared before serving.

Pam was right. They had a problem.

“Climb in there,” he told her.

She didn’t argue and wiggled her body up onto a stone shelf above an empty basin. “I must be out of my mind to be here.”

“A little late to be noticing that.”

He kept his eyes on the doors leading out to the upper gallery. A shadow grew in the dim light. He saw that Pam was safely inside and climbed in after her, atop the basin, pressing his spine against the shelf as far into the niche as possible.

“What are you going to do?” she asked in his ear.

“What I have to.”