“Five hundred thousand.”
Silence filled the room.
He waited.
“One million euros,” Malone said.
He kept his gaze locked on his enemy.
“Satan is here. See him, Josepe. There he sits. He is an agent of the U.S. government. Wherever there is any dominion that is beneath that of the celestial world, we are to be free of it. The American continent was not designed for such a corrupt government as the United States to prosper long upon it. Let him win. Then make him pay.”
He’d never questioned the angel before and was not going to start now.
He turned toward the auctioneer and shook his head.
Ending the sale.
He watched as Malone paid the cashier an amount seven times what any other original edition would command. The Book of Mormon lay on the table, sealed in plastic, inside a stylish wooden box.
Malone lifted the prize out for a quick inspection.
Cassiopeia marched over and said, “Was it worth it?”
Malone smiled. “Every euro.”
“You are a despicable man.”
The American shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”
“You’ll regret what you just did,” she said to him.
Malone threw her a quizzical look. “Is that a threat, ma’am?”
“Take it as a promise.”
Malone chuckled as he laid the book back inside the box and sealed the lid. “I’ll do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”
“Know that there are more treasures than one for you in this world,” the angel told Salazar. “Worry not over the loss of this one. But neither allow the enemy to walk easy.”
The auction house was holding a reception after the sale, one he’d originally planned to attend.
Not anymore.
He and Cassiopeia descended to the castle’s lower level and made their way to the funicular station. The route took them across another of the castle’s open terraces, past a restaurant busy with evening diners. He pointed beyond the parapets, eastward, where she could see the streets and building lights of Salzburg’s antiseptic suburbs.
“The local ward is headquartered down there. I should call and schedule a visit before we leave town.”
“We can do that tomorrow,” Cassiopeia said.
They entered the station and found the railcar. Inside stood Cotton Malone. The interior was claustrophobic, the car nearly full. A few more people trickled inside, then the doors shut and the steep descent began. He kept his attention out the forward windows for the entire minute of the journey.
At ground level, they exited and found the street.
Malone passed them and kept walking.
His two Danites were waiting where he’d directed them to be earlier.
“I thought we’d take a stroll through the streets of old town,” he said to Cassiopeia. “Before heading back to the hotel. It’s a lovely night.”
“I’d like that.”
“Let me speak a moment with my associates. I had asked them to be here so they might take charge of my purchase. Of course, I don’t have one now.”
He left her and walked to his men. With his back to Cassiopeia he stared at them both and said, “I assume you saw Malone?”
They nodded.
“Seize him. Call me when you have him. And retrieve that wooden box he’s holding.”
THIRTY-THREE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
1:00 P.M.
LUKE HAD NOT BEEN HOME IN SEVERAL WEEKS. HE LEASED AN apartment near Georgetown in an ivy-veined brick building brimming with tenants in their seventies. He liked the quiet and appreciated the fact that everyone seemed to mind their own business. He spent only a few days here each month, between assignments, on the downtime Stephanie Nelle required all her Magellan Billet agents to take.
He’d been born and raised in a small Tennessee town where his father and uncle were both known, particularly his uncle, who served in various local political offices, then as governor before becoming president. His father died when he was seventeen. Cancer. Fatal eighteen days after diagnosis. What a shock. He and his three brothers had been there for every moment of those final days. His mother took the loss hard. They’d been married a long time. Her husband was everything to her, and then, suddenly, he was gone.
That’s why he called her every Sunday.
Never missed.
Even when on assignment.
It might be late at night her time when he had the chance, but he called. His father always said that the smartest thing he ever did was marry her, proclaiming that even the blind-eyed biscuit thrower occasionally hits the target.
Both his parents were devoutly religious—Southern Baptists—so they’d named their sons to correspond with the books of the New Testament. His two older brothers were Matthew and Mark. His younger, John. He was the third in line and acquired the name Luke.