He stopped.
So did she, retreating into a doorway, glimpsing a neat list of names posted to one side that signaled apartments overhead.
The angle of his shadowed right arm confirmed that he was talking on the phone. A short call. Just a few seconds. He then replaced the unit inside his jacket and kept walking. He was headed down a street identified as Sigmund-Haffner-Gasse. They were a block or so over from the cathedral and the Residenzplaz, heading toward the rock face that rose north of the city and supported the castle. Shadows from the streetlights near him danced a strange jig on the pavement. If caught, she could use the excuse that she’d risen to his defense at the auction and had not wanted to sit idly by while he might need her. Sounded good. She was still angry with Cotton, and wondered why he was so involved. Buying that book for a million euros had made a loud statement. She needed to speak with him.
But not right now.
Josepe came to the end of the street and turned left.
She hustled to the intersection, arriving just as he disappeared around another corner. Above she saw the dark outline of St. Peter’s church, its onion-shaped roof distinctive. She entered the abbey’s courtyard, which spread out before the church’s main entrance, buildings encasing all sides. Another fountain splashed at its center.
No sign of Josepe.
All of the buildings were dark, no way out of the courtyard.
Except.
An open passageway, to the right of the church.
SALAZAR FOUND THE CEMETERY.
His man had called and said that Malone was in custody and that they had retrieved the book. His Danites were good. Not as highly trained as an American intelligence agent, but competent. Thanks to three deaths he was down to two men, but he had an ample reserve of candidates from which to replenish the ranks.
St. Peter’s graveyard was a familiar place. He’d visited several times, always amazed at how gentiles adorned their tombs as shrines.
Here was a perfect example of that excess.
Graves intentionally decorated with flowers and ironworks, open all day for people to gawk at as a tourist attraction. No Saint would ever be treated that way. True, there were places of pilgrimage. He’d witnessed where Joseph Smith, his brother, and his wife lay buried in Illinois. And Brigham Young’s final resting place in Salt Lake. A Saint might also pay homage to an individual pioneer’s grave if they were a descendant. But on the whole, Saints were not honored with great memorials. The body was a sacred entity, formed in the image of Heavenly Father. A temple of the Holy Spirit. The flesh was to be treated with great respect, both in life and death. During life it must be kept clean and free from evil contamination. When the spirit left the body to return to its heavenly home, mortal remains were laid to rest with reverence and dedication. His eternal reward should be great, as he’d led an exemplary life, directed by the prophets, guided by the angel, all in furtherance of his church.
His man had told him that they were holding Malone near the entrance to the catacombs, which were actually caves high overhead. The darkness here was nearly absolute, the cemetery framed in jagged shadows. No one else was around, the silence broken only by the sudden scurry of a startled animal. High overhead, lights still burned in the castle where the auction reception was surely in progress.
“Here, sir.”
He scanned the shadows in the direction of the voice.
Two men stood at the top of a short incline, one holding the other from behind. The body in front seemed limp, with its head down and arms drooping at the sides.
He approached.
The man holding the body released his grip, allowing the shadow to fold to the ground. The gun came up, level to his face, and the form said, “It’s time for you and me to have a chat.”
New voice.
Malone.
A twinge of alarm jarred his nerves, but he quickly regained control. “Perhaps we should.”
Malone motioned with the gun. “Inside.”
He saw that the iron grille gate that restricted access to the caves above was open. “You would think they lock that at night.”
“They do. Up the stairs. We’ll talk there.”
CASSIOPEIA WATCHED AS JOSEPE STOPPED AT THE TOP OF THE inclined path, then turned and disappeared to her right. She was unsure of her location, as Salzburg was only partially familiar to her, but it appeared that she’d entered St. Peter’s cemetery. Graves lined the path on both sides. Her position was exposed so she kept to the sides, utilizing the stone markers for cover. She’d heard the sound of voices. Not loud but there, to the right. Unfortunately, she’d not been able to hear the words.
At the top of the incline she hesitated, using shrubbery to shield her body. She peered right and saw nothing. To her left, twenty meters away, she caught sight of a black mass with form and definition. A man. Staggering to his feet. She rushed over and saw it was one of the men from earlier, who’d been waiting for Josepe when they returned from the auction.