“You may count me a part of whatever you have in mind.”
But she wanted to know, “Still don’t like me?”
“Let’s reserve judgment on that one.”
ELEVEN
MALONE DECIDED A STROLL IN THE PLAZA WOULD CLEAR HIS HEAD. Court had started early and not recessed till well after the noon hour. He wasn’t hungry, but he was thirsty, and he spotted a café on the far side of the expanse. This was an easy assignment. Something different. Observe and make sure the conviction of a drug-smuggler-turned-murderer happened without a hitch. The victim, a DEA supervisor out of Arizona, had been shot execution-style in northern Mexico. The agent had been a personal friend of Danny Daniels, president of the United States, so Washington was watching carefully. The trial was in its fourth day and probably would end tomorrow. So far, the prosecution had done a good job. The evidence was overwhelming. Privately, he’d been briefed about a turf war between the defendant and several of his Mexican competitors—the trial apparently an excellent way for some of the reef sharks to eliminate a deep-water predator.
From some nearby belfry came the fiendish clamor of bells, barely discernible over Mexico City’s daily drone. Around the grassy plaza, people sat in the shade of bushy trees, whose vibrant color tempered the severity of the nearby sooty buildings. A blue marble fountain shot slender columns of foamy water high into the warm air.
He heard a pop. Then another.
A black-skirted nun fifty yards away dropped to the ground.
Two more pops.
Another person, a woman, fell flat.
Screams pierced the air.
People fled in every direction, as if an air-raid warning had been issued.
He noticed little girls in sober, gray uniforms. More nuns. Women in bright-colored skirts. Men in somber business suits.
All fleeing.
His gaze raked the mayhem as bodies kept dropping. Finally, he spotted two men fifty yards away with guns—one kneeling, the other standing, both firing.
Three more people tumbled to the ground.
He reached beneath his suit jacket for his Beretta. The Mexicans had allowed him to keep it while in the country. He leveled the gun and ticked off two rounds, taking down both shooters.
He spotted more bodies. Nobody was helping anyone.
Everybody simply ran.
He lowered the gun.
Another crack rang loud and he felt something pierce his left shoulder. At first there was no sensation, then an electric charge surged through him and exploded into his brain with a painful agony he’d felt before.
He’d been shot.
From a row of hedges a man emerged. Malone noticed little about him save for black hair that curled from under the rakish slant of a battered hat.
The pain intensified. Blood poured from his shoulder, soaking his shirt. This was supposed to be a low-risk courtroom assignment. Anger rushed through him, which steeled his resolve. His attacker’s eyes grew impudent, the mouth chiseled into a sardonic smile, seemingly deciding whether to stay and finish what he started or flee.
The gunman turned to leave.
Malone’s balance was failing, but he summoned all his strength and fired.
He still did not recall actually pulling the trigger. He was told later that he fired three times, and two of the rounds found the target, killing the third assailant.
The final tally? Seven dead, nine injured.
Cai Thorvaldsen, a young diplomat assigned to the Danish mission, and a Mexican prosecutor, Elena Ramirez Rico, were two of the dead. They’d been enjoying their lunch beneath one of the trees.
Ten weeks later a man with a crooked spine came to see him in Atlanta. They’d sat in Malone’s den, and he hadn’t bothered to ask how Henrik Thorvaldsen had found him.
“I came to meet the man who shot my son’s killer,” Thorvaldsen said.
“Why?”
“To thank you.”
“You could have called.”
“I understand you were nearly killed.”
He shrugged.
“And you are quitting your government job. Resigning your commission. Retiring from the military.”
“You know an awful lot.”
“Knowledge is the greatest of luxuries.”
He wasn’t impressed. “Thanks for the pat on the back. I have a hole in my shoulder that’s throbbing. So since you’ve said your peace, could you leave?”
Thorvaldsen never moved from the sofa, he simply stared around at the den and the surrounding rooms visible through an archway. Every wall was sheathed in books. The house seemed nothing but a backdrop for the shelves.
“I love them, too,” his guest said. “I’ve collected books all my life.”
“What do you want?”
“Have you considered your future?”
He motioned around the room. “Thought I’d open an old-book shop. Got plenty to sell.”
“Excellent idea. I have one for sale, if you’d like it.”
He decided to play along. But there was something about the tight points of light in the older man’s eyes that told him his visitor was not joking. Hard hands searched a suit coat pocket and Thorvaldsen laid a business card on the sofa.
“My private number. If you’re interested, call me.”
That was two years ago. Now he was staring at Henrik Thorvaldsen, their roles reversed. His friend was the one in trouble.
Thorvaldsen remained perched on the edge of the bed, an assault rifle lying across his lap, his face cast with a look of utter defeat.
“I was dreaming about Mexico City earlier,” Malone said. “It’s always the same each time. I never can shoot the third guy.”
“But you did.”
“For some reason, I can’t in the dream.”
“Are you okay?” Thorvaldsen asked Sam Collins.
“I went straight to Mr. Malone—”
“Don’t start that,” he said. “It’s Cotton.”
“Okay. Cotton took care of them.”
“And my shop’s destroyed. Again.”
“It’s insured,” Thorvaldsen made clear.
Malone stared at his friend. “Why did those men come after Sam?”
“I was hoping they wouldn’t. The idea was for them to come after me. That’s why I sent him into town. They apparently were a step ahead of me.”
“What are you doing, Henrik?”
“I’ve spent the past two years searching. I knew there was more to what happened that day in Mexico City. That massacre wasn’t terrorism. It was an assassination.”
He waited for more.
Thorvaldsen pointed at Sam. “This young man is quite bright. His superiors don’t realize just how smart he is.”
Malone spotted tears glistening on the rims of his friend’s eyes. Something he’d never seen before.
“I miss him, Cotton,” Thorvaldsen whispered, still staring at Sam.
He laid a hand on the older man’s shoulders.
“Why did he have to die?” Thorvaldsen whispered.
“You tell me,” Malone said. “Why did Cai die?”
PAPA, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?
Thorvaldsen so looked forward to Cai’s weekly telephone calls and he liked that his son, though thirty-five years old, a part of Denmark’s elite diplomatic corp, still called him Papa.
“It’s lonely in this big house, but Jesper keeps things interesting. He’s trimming the garden, and he and I disagree on how much cutting he should do. He’s a stubborn one.”
“But Jesper is always right. We learned that long ago.”
He chuckled. “I shall never tell him. How are things across the ocean?”
Cai had asked for and received assignment to the Danish consulate in Mexico City. From an early age his son had been fascinated with Aztecs and was enjoying his time near that long-ago culture.
“Mexico is an amazing place. Hectic, cluttered, and chaotic, while at the same time fascinating, challenging, and romantic. I’m glad I came.?
??
“And what of the young lady you met?”
“Elena is quite wonderful.”
Elena Ramirez Rico worked for the federal prosecutor’s office in Mexico City, assigned to a special investigative unit. Cai had told him some about it, but much more about her. Apparently, his son was quite taken.
“You should bring her for a visit.”
“We talked about that. Maybe at Christmas.”
“That would be wonderful. She would like the way Danes celebrate, though she might find our weather uncomfortable.”
“She’s taken me to many archaeological sites. She’s so knowledgeable about this country’s history”
“You seem to like her.”
“I do, Papa. She reminds me of Mother. Her warmth. Her smile.”
“Then she has to be lovely.”