“He has only recently arrived,” the woman said. “And did not mention any guests were expected.”
He feigned annoyance. “I was told to be here now.”
“He’s in the restaurant,” one of the young men in uniform said.
He smiled at the attendant, then found a wad of cash he’d purposefully stuffed into his pant pocket and handed over twenty euros.
“Danke,” he said, as the offering was accepted.
The woman threw him a look, as she realized her lost opportunity. He nearly smiled. Even in supposed highbrow accommodations with centuries-old traditions, money talked.
He’d stayed at the Goldener Hirsch before and knew that its restaurant was on the ground floor, on the opposite side of the building. He followed a narrow corridor through arches, past the bar, to its entrance. Once a blacksmith’s shop, it was now regarded as Salzburg’s swankiest place to eat, though he imagined there were other establishments that might challenge the assertion. Austrians tended to dine after seven o’clock, so the clothed tables with sparkling china and crystal were empty.
Except for one, near the center.
Where Salazar sat facing toward him and Cassiopeia away.
He stayed short of the doorway, concealing himself, and studied the Spaniard.
Whatever he chose to do next came with risk.
But he’d come this far.
SALAZAR WAS PLEASED.
He and Cassiopeia had flown by private jet from Denmark to Salzburg, then checked into their suites. The auction was set to begin at 7:00 P.M., so they’d decided to have an early dinner. The event was to be held within the Hohensalzburg, a grim hulk of a fortress resting 120 meters above the city on a pine-clad granite mound. The castle was first built in the 11th century, but another six hundred years had been needed for its completion. Today it was a museum and tourist attraction that offered lovely panoramas. He thought a walk along its parapets before the auction would be perfect, especially considering the evening’s clear skies and seasonable air.
Cassiopeia looked lovely. She’d chosen a black silk pantsuit, low heels, moderate jewelry, and a gold belt that wrapped loosely around her trim waist. He had to catch himself from noticing her décolletage, framed by a low-cut blouse. Her dark hair hung in curled layers past her shoulders, her face cast in muted tones from only a touch of color. Some of the auctions he attended were formal affairs. This one tonight not so much, but he was glad that she’d nonetheless dressed for the occasion.
“Would it be inappropriate to say that you look stunning?”
She smiled. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
He’d asked the waiter to give them a few moments before offering anything to drink.
“We have time for a leisurely dinner,” he said. “Then I thought we’d take the funicular up the mountainside to the castle. It’s the easiest way to get there.”
“That sounds perfect. Is the book the only thing you’re after at the auction?”
They’d discussed the sale on the plane. The greatest acquisition any collector of Saints’ artifacts could hope for was an original Book of Mormon. An 1830 American edition had been found among the personal effects of an Austrian who’d recently died. Auctions and private sales had been how most of his collection had been acquired, only a few items gifts or heirlooms. He’d known of this sale for some time, wanting to come, then the appearance of the Americans had added a new purpose.
The first agent in the cell had proven tight-lipped.
The second stole his plane and escaped.
The third was some sort of bookseller, working with his enemy, who killed at least two of his men.
And just now entered the restaurant.
Thank you.
“You’re welcome,” the angel said.
MALONE CAUGHT JOSEPE SALAZAR’S INTENSE SCRUTINY. BUT IF the Spaniard recognized him, nothing in the man’s countenance betrayed the fact. The brown eyes remained expressionless. The Danites had surely reported his involvement, but that did not mean Salazar knew his face.
He approached and Salazar said, “May I help you?”
He slid a wooden chair from the adjacent table and, not waiting for an invitation, sat at their table.
“Name’s Cotton Malone.”
CASSIOPEIA HAD BEEN IN TIGHT SPOTS, A FEW EVEN LIFE threatening, but she could not recall one more uncomfortable than this. Her first thought was wondering how Cotton had managed to be here, in Austria, at the Goldener Hirsch. The second was if Stephanie knew. Surely not. Or she would have warned her of the possibility, especially considering the consequences. The third was guilt. Had she betrayed Cotton? Did he think she had? What did he know?
“Is your name supposed to mean something to me?” Josepe asked.