The Alexandria Link

“Right now, Heather, I’m only interested in Cotton Malone’s son and George Haddad.”

“So is the White House. Our people were told you were interfering in the Haddad matter. Larry Daley says you’re a pain in the ass.”

“He should know.”

“Tel Aviv doesn’t want any interference.”

Stephanie suddenly regretted her decision to meet with Dixon. But she still needed to ask, “What’s so important? Tell me, and I might stay out of it.”

Dixon chuckled. “That’s a good one. Does anybody ever actually fall for it?”

“I thought it might work here.” She’d hoped their friendship meant something. “With us.”

Dixon glanced around at the concrete walkways. People strolled the mall, enjoying the day. “This one’s serious, Stephanie.”

“How bad?”

Dixon’s hand slipped around her back and reappeared with a gun.

“This serious.”

TWENTY-FIVE

LONDON

MALONE SAW THE GUN IN HADDAD’S HAND AND KNEW THAT his friend had decided this was to be his last stand. No more hiding. Time to face his demons.

Haddad fired first, the bullet thudding into Eve’s chest and propelling the younger woman off her feet, a wound gushing blood.

Adam fired and Haddad cried out in agony as the bullet pierced his shirt and blew out his spine, dotting the wall and maps behind him in crimson smears.

Haddad’s legs buckled, his mouth gaped open, but not a sound escaped as the old man collapsed to the floor.

Pam screamed, a piercing falsetto.

The air seemed to have escaped from the room. Malone felt himself at the mercy of a bitter heart.

He faced Adam, who lowered his weapon.

“I came to kill him, that’s all,” Adam said, the geniality in his voice faded. “My government has no trouble with you, Malone, though you did deceive us. But that was your job. So we’ll let it slide.”

“So kind of you.”

“I’m not a murderer, just an assassin.”

“What about her?” he asked, pointing at Eve’s body.

“Nothing I can do. Just like there’s nothing you can do for him. There’s a price to be paid for mistakes.”

Malone said nothing, though he was half mad with terror and anguish. Surely the shots had been heard and the police called.

The Israeli turned and disappeared.

Footsteps receded down the stairway.

Pam seemed frozen in place, staring in disbelief at Haddad’s corpse, the old man’s mouth still open in a final protest. They exchanged glances but no words. He could almost understand the Israeli’s thinking. He was indeed a paid assassin, employed by a sovereign state, empowered to kill. But the son of a bitch was still a murderer.

George Haddad was dead.

And there was a price to be paid for that, too.

Dark thoughts held him in their thrall. He bent down and retrieved Haddad’s gun, then stood and turned for the door.

“Stay here,” he told Pam.

“What are you going to do?”

“Kill the son of a bitch.”

STEPHANIE WAS MORE PUZZLED THAN FRIGHTENED AT THE sight of a gun. “Apparently, Heather, the rules have changed. I thought we were allies.”

“That’s the fu

“And you apparently feel a certain freedom since the White House called.”

“Always nice when the Americans are in conflict.”

“Larry Daley wants Haddad for himself. You realize that, don’t you? This is a diversion to occupy your time while our agents find him.”

“Good luck. Only we and Malone know where.”

Stephanie didn’t like the sound of that. This needed to end. Since she’d first sat down, the fingers of her right hand had rested on her leg, the tips atop the radio controller nestled inside her loose-fitting slacks. “That depends on whether or not U.S. intelligence has a source within your organization.”

“This operation is being held fairly close, so I doubt there’ll be any leaks. Besides, Haddad is most likely dead by now. Our agents were sent hours ago.”

Stephanie’s left hand motioned to the gun while her right stayed steady on her leg. “What’s the point of this show?”

“Unfortunately, you’ve become a problem to your government.”

“Gee, I thought my resignation would be enough.”

“Not any longer. I believe you were warned to stay out of this, yet you’ve mobilized the entire Billet. Contrary, of course, to what you were told.”

“Larry Daley doesn’t give me orders.”

“But his boss does.”

She quickly realized that if she was now a target, Brent Green might be, too. Killing the attorney general, though, posed more logistical problems than her own death would entail. The White House had apparently concluded that corpses never appeared on the Sunday-morning news shows. Her fingers prepared to depress the panic button. “You here to do Daley’s dirty work?”

“Let’s just say that our interests are similar. Besides, we like it when the White House owes us.”

“Plan to shoot me here?”

“No need. I have some associates willing to do it.”

“Your people?”

She shook her head. “Amazingly, Stephanie, you’ve managed to do what politicians have tried to do for centuries. Get Jews and Arabs to cooperate. The Saudis are working with us on this one. We apparently have a common goal, so all differences have been put aside.” Dixon shrugged. “Just this once.”

“And that also eliminates the problem of Israel killing an American.”

Dixon scrunched her face in mock contemplation. “See the benefits? We find the problem, they eliminate it. Everybody wins.”

“Except me.”

“You know the rules. Your friend today can be your enemy tomorrow, and vice versa. Israel has few friends in this world, but threats come from all over. We do what we have to.”

Stephanie had first faced a gun while searching with Malone for the Knights Templar. She’d witnessed death there, too. Thank goodness she’d thought ahead. “Do what you have to.”

Her right index finger activated the signal that would alert her agents, less than a minute away, to come.

All she had to do was stall.

Heather Dixon’s eyes suddenly rolled skyward, then closed as her head pitched forward and her body went limp.

The gun thudded to the grass.

Stephanie caught Dixon as she slumped toward her. Then she saw it. A feathered dart protruding from Dixon’s neck. She’d seen one before.

Calmly, she turned.

Standing a few feet behind the bench was a woman. Tall, skin the color of a muddy stream, long dark hair. She wore an expensive cashmere jacket atop hip-slung jeans, the tight-fitting ensemble highlighting a lean, shapely form. She held a magnum air pistol in her left hand.

“Appreciate the assist,” Stephanie said, trying to mask her surprise.

“That’s what I came for.”

And Cassiopeia Vitt smiled.

MALONE BOUNDED DOWN THE STAIRS TOWARD THE GROUND floor. Adam would not be easy to kill. Pros never were.

He kept descending two steps at a time and checked the gun’s magazine. Seven shots remained. He told himself to be careful. Surely the Israeli would know he’d come after him. Actually, he’d invited the challenge since, before leaving, Adam had not confiscated Haddad’s weapon. Pros never left that kind of opportunity. And the line about professional courtesy made no sense. Assassins could not care less about protocol. They were the janitors of the intelligence business. Sent in solely to clean up the mess. Witnesses were part of that mess. So why not clean up everything? Maybe Adam wanted a confrontation? Killing an American agent, retired or otherwise, came with consequences. But if the agent attacked first-that was another matter.

He flushed confusion from his mind as he found the ground floor. His index finger nestled against the trigger, and he readied himself for a fight.