Thriller: Stories to Keep You Up All Night

Steve Berry

History, action, long-lost secrets, intricate conspiracies and international settings-these are the main ingredients in a Steve Berry thriller. His debut, The Amber Room, dealt with a legendary Russian treasure, a room paneled entirely in amber, stolen by the Nazis in 1941. The Romanov Prophecy answered the question-What happened to the two children of Nicholas II, the last tsar of Russia, whose remains have never been found? The Third Secret revolved around the Catholic Church, Marian visions and shocking divine messages.

In his fourth thriller, The Templar Legacy, Berry introduced Cotton Malone, a lawyer/agent who worked with the Justice Department for many years in a special unit known as the Magellan Billet. Deciding the risks were too great, Malone retires out early, moves to Copenhagen and opens an old-books shop. Unfortunately, trouble seems to follow Malone, and The Templar Legacy is just the first of several adventures Berry plans for Malone and the cast of supporting characters. The Devils' Due is a tale from before Malone retired, when he was still active with the Magellan Billet.

Another unique situation with far-reaching consequences.

Typical for Cotton Malone.

THE DEVILS' DUE

cotton Malone stood on the balcony and calmly watched the books burn.

He was standing next to Yossef Sharma, president of a tiny central Asian nation nestled firmly between Afghanistan, China and a host of other American enemies. Which was why Washington had, for years, conveniently ignored Sharma's excesses, including his audacious plan to burn nearly every book in his country.

"We've been collecting for the past month. The people have brought them from every town and village." Sharma spoke a mixture of Russian and Arabic unique to the region. "Tonight, there are fires in every quarter of the nation. All to rid us of Western influence."

"I almost think you believe that crap," Malone said, not taking his eyes off the spectacle.

"After tomorrow, possession of a single book, excepting the Koran, will be punishable by imprisonment. And if my people are anything, they're obedient."

Malone continued to watch as people, bundled in coats and jackets, picked their way over slippery cobbles to heap more books onto the blaze. Clatter from flutes and tambourines added to the surreal spectacle.

"That crazy obedience," Malone said, "more than anything else, explains your current predicament. The world believes this place is another Afghanistan, and you know what that led to."

"Lucky for me, and this country, you know that to be false."

He smiled. "More lucky for you."

Malone was a navy commander turned lawyer turned Justice Department operative, assigned to a covert division within Justice known as the Magellan Billet. Twelve specially trained agents, all lawyers, working under a no-nonsense lady named Stephanie Nelle. On the outside, Nelle reminded most observers of their grandmothers, but inside she possessed the resolve of a Roman centurion. When he was first assigned Malone had thought the tour would be both limited and boring. But that was ten years ago, and the past decade had been anything but dull. Tonight was a good example. Here he was, standing on the balcony of a presidential palace beside a uniformed despot, while an immense bonfire fueled by books roared below, each breath from the cool, arid air laced with the scent of smoke and sorrow.

"You tell your government," Sharma said, "that I'm doing what I have to in order to survive. This nation is Muslim and these people demand a strong leader." The president motioned below. "You think they're burning those books because I ordered it? Never. It's because they want to."

Malone was no stranger. Twice he'd worked here, both times directly with Sharma. Malone had actually become interested in the country-a mountainous region of over a hundred thousand square miles, home to four million people, 8.5 percent of whom were Su

In disgust, he allowed his gaze to drift away from the fire to the picturesque remains of mosques and other architecture lining the plaza. He knew that many of the buildings had stood since the nineteenth century, surviving the Soviet takeover in 1922, a Muslim rebellion in 1935, the fall of communism in 1991 and an Islamic revolution a year later. Finally, he faced Sharma and said, "Why am I here?"

"To see this happening."

He doubted that. And that, as far as he was concerned, was the trouble with central Asia. Truth was an underrated commodity. "And to give you this."

Sharma reached over to a small table and lifted up a book. The binding was tooled with brass fittings in excellent condition. Malone accepted it and studied the cover. In English was written, Canterbury Tales.

"I thought you might like that."

Sharma knew him well. One of his favorites. "After tomorrow, I'll go to prison if I have this."

Sharma smiled. "For you, an exception. I know how much you love them. It's a seventeenth-century edition. For some reason we had it shelved in our archive."

He carefully balanced the book in his palm and was about to open it when Sharma stopped him. "Not here. Later."

He thought the comment strange.

"There's another gift. Inside. Especially for you. So later, back at your hotel."

He knew better than to question. So he nodded in understanding, slipped the tiny volume into his jacket pocket and turned his attention back to the bonfire.

Malone returned to his hotel room. The fire was still burning strong after two hours, when he and Sharma vacated the balcony. He locked the door and removed his jacket. Its brown leather smelled of ash.

He sat on the bed and studied the copy of Canterbury Tales. A second Speght edition, dated 1602. A text read and owned by the likes of Milton, Pepys, Dryden and Pope. Worth in the neighborhood of ten thousand American dollars, provided a copy could even be found.

Yet he was now holding one.

Given to him by Yossef Sharma.

He opened the book and, toward the center of the dingy yellowed pages, found a scrap of paper. He freed it and read the feminine English script.

In the mountains, to the north, visit the ruins of Rampur. Arrive at noon tomorrow. Someone wishes to speak with you, alone.

Sharma had gone to a lot of trouble to pass him this message. He apparently wanted Malone to go-which was the real reason why he'd been invited to the country-but did not want any fingerprints of his on the effort.

Typical Sharma. The man was a friend of the United States, but no one, other than a few with the highest security clearance, knew that. To the world Yossef Sharma was an oppressive ruler of an unimportant nation, but for years he'd quietly provided the West with some of the best intelligence out of central Asia. He possessed a superb spy network and the price for his services was the privilege to run his country as he saw fit. Of course, his efforts at generating utter chaos among his much larger neighbors was protected by one lucky truth-none of them had time to bother with him.