He nodded. “More than fourteen million members. Over half live outside the United States.”
She was trying to calm him down, help him forget about the intrusion. But she could see that he was still bothered.
“What Malone mentioned,” she said. “About the U.S. government investigating you. Is that true?”
“There have been rumors. I’ve been told that it involves the church and some vendetta the government has against us. But I know nothing for sure.”
“And the allegation of you being a murderer.”
“That was outrageous, as was his personal attack on you.”
“Who is Barry Kirk?”
“He works for me and has been missing for a few days now. I have to confess, that part of what he said is of concern.”
“Then we should call the police.”
Josepe seemed troubled. “Not yet. I have my associate investigating. It could be that Barry simply quit without notice. I need to be sure before involving the authorities.”
“I appreciate you coming to my defense.”
“My pleasure, but I want you to know that there is nothing here to be concerned about. I just told my associate to telephone Salt Lake City and report what happened. Hopefully, church officials can contact the right people in the government and make sure that we’ve seen the last of Mr. Malone.”
“He made some wild accusations.”
Josepe nodded. “Designed, I’m sure, to provoke a response.”
“If I can help in any way, you know I’m here for you.”
He seemed to appreciate her concern. “That means a lot.” He glanced at his watch. “Shall we prepare ourselves for the auction? We can meet in the lobby in, say, fifteen minutes.”
They rose from the table and walked from the restaurant, back into the hotel. Her apprehensions had now turned to outright fear.
Unfortunately Josepe was wrong.
Neither one of them had heard the last of Cotton.
THIRTY
SALZBURG
7:00 P.M.
MALONE SHOWERED AND CHANGED, DONNING A PAIR OF DRESS slacks, a buttondown Paul & Shack shirt, and a blazer. He’d brought the clothes especially for the auction, unsure whether to attend. But after his visit with Salazar, he knew he had to go.
The brochure he’d found in Salazar’s study had indicated that the sale would happen in the Golden Hall of Festung Hohensalzburg, the High Salzburg Fortress, which sat four hundred feet above the city. Two great bastions rose, the lower one hewn straight from the rock, both bristling with the battlements and towers expected of a medieval fortress. He’d visited once, following its twisted corridors into great halls and gilded chambers, past glistening tile stoves and down to a dungeon.
He avoided the funicular, thinking that might be the way Salazar and Cassiopeia would ascend. Instead he walked the footpath, a steep thirty-minute stroll beneath trees shedding their summer foliage. Visitors from the castle, leaving for the day, passed him on their way back down to town. Dusk fell along the way, the moon and stars emerging overhead, the air chilly but with a benign bite.
The climb provided him an opportunity to think.
Danny Daniels being on the phone with Stephanie had surprised him, and he wondered what was happening across the Atlantic. The president knew of Salazar, so whatever was happening reached all the way to the Oval Office. That meant the stakes were at their highest.
Fine by him.
Nothing kept the senses sharper.
And he needed to stay focused.
He entered the castle across a stone bridge that traversed what was once a moat. Above the archway he spotted a circular loophole, above that a bay from where projectiles could be hurled down onto intruders. He’d timed his appearance to just after the auction’s beginning. He noticed from a placard that the castle closed at 6:30, its Golden Hall presumably leased out in the evenings for special events. An older woman guarded the stairs that led inside. He explained he was here for the sale and she waved him ahead.
He was familiar with Dorotheum. They ran a professional, no-nonsense sale. Upstairs, in a spacious hallway, another woman handed him a catalog and registered him. His gaze settled across the space on a towering statue of Charlemagne that guarded the entrance to the Golden Hall. Another of the castle’s claims to fame was that the first Holy Roman Emperor once visited. Beyond the open doorway he could hear the auctioneer going about his business.
“Sales are all final,” she said to him, “and require immediate payment of certified funds.”
He knew the drill, so he displayed his phone and told her, “I have money ready and waiting.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
That he would.
CASSIOPEIA SAT BESIDE JOSEPE.
They’d journeyed up to the castle by way of the funicular railway, a one-minute steep-angled haul through a tunnel in the lower bastion. Twilight had firmly taken hold, the city lights springing to life, an orange sun disappearing into the western horizon.