“I need you to hang with it a little longer. Things have escalated on this end, and I’ll be learning more today. Go to Salzburg with him and see what you might pick up. After that, you can leave. He’ll never know the difference.”
“But I will. I lied to Cotton, too. He would not be happy with what I’m doing.”
“You’re assisting a U.S. intelligence operation. That’s all. The Elder Rowan, Salazar mentioned, is Senator Thaddeus Rowan of Utah.”
She explained about the map in Josepe’s study. “Utah was highlighted in yellow. The other five states in pink.”
“Which ones?”
She told her.
“At the moment, Senator Rowan has me in his congressional sights. That great mission Salazar mentioned? That’s what we need to find out about. It’s important, Cassiopeia. And you’re our fastest way in.”
“I need to call Cotton.”
“Let’s not do that. He seems okay. He helped me out last night and now he’s back to work at his bookshop.”
But she wasn’t okay.
She felt alone.
And that bothered her.
She’d been thinking about Cotton all morning. Technically, what she’d done with Josepe wasn’t cheating. More a deception. Interesting the differences between the two men. Where Cotton was unassuming, reserved, and stingy with his emotions, Josepe was flamboyant, warm, and loving. His deep religious beliefs were both an asset and a curse. Both were strikingly handsome, alpha males, sure and confident. Both possessed flaws. She wasn’t sure why comparisons had become relevant, only that, ever since last night, she’d been making them.
“Play this out a little longer,” Stephanie said.
“I’m not okay with this anymore.”
“I hear that, but there’s a lot at stake. And, Cassiopeia, no matter what you want to believe, Salazar is not an innocent.”
STEPHANIE ENDED THE CALL.
She hadn’t liked lying to Cassiopeia, but it had been necessary. Cotton was not fine. That was clear from the call earlier. Luke, too, had confirmed that Cotton was upset.
And her dead agent.
She’d withheld that also.
If she’d told Cassiopeia the truth on both counts, there was no telling what the reaction might be. She could try to confront Salazar. Or she might leave. Better to keep that information close for a little while longer.
She sat up in her bed and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 3:50 A.M.
Her flight to Washington left in four hours. Edwin Davis had said he’d meet her at Reagan National. She was anxious to find out more. The little she knew so far was troubling enough. Thirty years she’d worked for the government, starting during the Reagan administration with the State Department, then moving to Justice. She’d seen a lot of crises. Through it all she’d developed a sixth sense. If that sense was right this time, Malone was on his way to Salzburg. He’d been coy on the phone, but she knew better. Especially after she told him Cassiopeia was on her own. No way was he going to allow her to fly solo. Nothing would keep him away.
Sleep had fled her. She was wide awake.
And not just from the two phone calls.
Apprehension gnawed at her brain.
What was it she did not know?
TWENTY-FOUR
KALUNDBORG
SALAZAR COMPLETED ALL OF THE ARRANGEMENTS FOR HIS TRIP to Salzburg. His latest toy, a Learjet 75, was waiting. A car was outside, ready to take him into town for Cassiopeia, then to the airfield. He’d altered the hotel reservations and the Goldener Hirsch had been accommodating, assuring him that two suites would be ready. The flight would take less than two hours, and he was looking forward to being back in the Austrian mountains. The weather should be lovely. He loved Salzburg. It was one of his favorite cities—and now the trip would be that much more enjoyable, thanks to Cassiopeia coming along.
The doors to his study opened. One of his two remaining men, a loyal Danite who’d been in Copenhagen, entered.
“Cotton Malone,” his man said, “is a bookseller in Copenhagen.”
“Yet he managed to kill two of our own.” Those deaths bothered him. He’d never lost a man before. “And Barry? Any sign of him?”
“We found the cell phone on a public bus, put there to lead us off the trail. Brother Kirk has made no contact since last night outside the bookstore.”
He knew what that meant.
Three men gone.
“Did you handle things?”
His acolyte nodded. “I personally disposed of the American agent’s body.”
“Any link to us with the two who will be found in the Øresund?”
“There should not be.”
He’d already been briefed on what had happened yesterday when another American agent had been cornered outside Kalundborg, then fled, stealing one of his prop planes—which, by now, from the reports he’d received, was at the bottom of the North Sea.