Why was it that every man who showed her interest came with his own assortment of problems? It had started with Josepe and his religion, then continued through a litany of suitors, all of them wonderful in one respect, awful in another. Now she seemed to have come full circle. Back to the beginning. Part of her cared for this man, part was repulsed. And she was not sure which side of her should prevail.
But she had to find out.
“This time I will not force a choice,” he said. “You can decide in your own way and in your own time. That lesson I did learn long ago.”
She appreciated that on a multitude of levels. “Thank you.”
“I need your help,” he said.
“It’s significant that you trust me enough to include me. I won’t let you down.”
He smiled.
“You never have.”
FORTY-EIGHT
SALZBURG
MALONE WAS FOUR HUNDRED FEET ABOVE SALZBURG, ATOP the pine-clad escarpment known as Mönchsberg. The air was cold, his exhales rising in white columns. Hohensalzburg’s gray hulk rose to his right, the local museum of modern art, clad in minimalist white marble, to his left. Beyond the museum stood the Mönchstein—a former castle, now a luxury hotel. Rays from the morning sun blazed off its shiny windows in brilliant reds, golds, and yellows. He knew this mound of rock, made of crushed river stone deposited for eons, liked to fall away in avalanches. One in the 17th century killed a couple hundred townspeople as they slept in their beds. Today there were inspectors who made sure the cliff face remained free of danger, and he’d spotted the mountaineers at work on his way up.
He’d risen early and walked from his hotel, approaching the Goldener Hirsch with caution. High above, among the trees on the Mönchsberg plateau, he’d caught sight of a man keeping watch. He’d thought at first it was simply another early riser, but when the tiny figure never moved from his perch he decided that one of the Danites had decided to make use of the high ground.
The Goldener Hirsch was directly below, the entrance to the restaurant visible, as was a busy boulevard with cars winding a path around the pedestrian-only old town. He assumed the other Danite was watching the hotel’s second entrance onto Getreidegasse.
Tall lime and chestnut trees formed an unbroken canopy above him, providing shade. He’d made his way up using the same footpath as last night, rounding the fortress and walking the quarter mile across the top of the escarpment. Below him, cut through the rock, was the Sigmundstor, a four-hundred-foot-long tunnel with elaborate Baroque portals on both ends. Cars whizzed in and out of the entrance on this side of the Mönchsberg, stopping occasionally at a traffic signal directly in front of the Goldener Hirsch.
Surrounding him was a manicured wilderness park of trees, grass, and shrubs. He’d managed to close within fifty yards of the Danite, close enough to the edge that he could also see below. What happened last night surely had spooked Salazar, so he was apparently taking no chances, his men ready for anything. He was still in the dark as to what was going on, but none of that really mattered anymore.
Cassiopeia was the problem.
Her visit had haunted him.
She was not the same.
The last time they were together, three weeks back, had been so different. They’d spent the weekend in Avignon, enjoying the old city, dining at cafés lining its cobbled streets. They’d stayed in a quaint inn, an iron terrace offering stunning views of the former papal palace. Everything had been wonderful. Just like other times they’d spent together, outside some crisis.
Maybe that was it?
Too many crises.
That he could understand. Like him, Cassiopeia seemed to thrive on adventure.
But at what price?
He huddled close to the trunk of a massive chestnut tree, the young Danite’s attention remaining downward. He, too, glanced out at the city, preparing itself for another busy day. Salzburg was a town of walkers, each seemingly with little time for dawdling.
A siren wailed in the distance.
He spotted the footbridge that led from the old to the new city, spanning the river. He knew what adorned its railings. Tiny locks, all shapes and sizes, each clamped tight to metal fencing. On each was scrawled some form of affection signifying a union of two people. Usually initials joined with and surrounded by hearts. Symbols of love, hundreds of them. A local tradition. Like the way folks in the South carved hearts into trees.
He’d never really understood any of that sentiment—until recently.
He felt a strange uneasiness coupled with a touch of anger. He was glad to be alone, since he was not in a talkative mood. Silence enveloped him, which he welcomed. He liked to think that he wasn’t cynical. More pragmatic.