The second reason was personal.
Gary had asked to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with him. School was out and his ex-wife, Pam, thought an overseas trip a good idea. He’d wondered why she was so reticent, and found out last week when Pam called his bookshop in Copenhagen.
“Gary’s angry,” she said. “He’s asking a lot of questions.”
“Ones you don’t want to answer?”
“Ones I’m going to have a tough time answering.”
Which was an understatement. Six months ago she’d revealed a harsh truth to him during another call from Atlanta to Denmark. Gary was not his natural son. Instead, the boy was the product of an affair some sixteen years past.
Now she’d told Gary that truth, and his son was not happy. For Malone, the news had been crushing. He could only imagine what it had been for Gary.
“Neither one of us was a saint back then, Cotton.”
She liked to remind him of that reality—as if somehow he’d forgotten that their marriage supposedly ended because of his lapses.
“Gary wants to know about his birth father.”
“So do I.”
She’d told him nothing about the man, and refused his requests for information.
“He has no involvement here,” she said. “He’s a total stranger to all of us. Just like the women you were with have nothing to do with this. I don’t want to open that door. Ever.”
“Why did you tell Gary about this? We agreed to do that together, when the time was right.”
“I know. I know. My mistake. But it had to be done.”
“Why?”
She did not answer him. But he could imagine the reason. She liked to be in control. Of everything. Only she wasn’t in control here. Nobody was, actually.
“He hates me,” she said. “I see it in his eyes.”
“You turned the boy’s life upside down.”
“He told me today that he might want to live with you.”
He had to say, “You know I would never take advantage of this.”
“I know that. This is my fault. Not yours. He’s so angry. Maybe a week with you would help ease some of that.”
He’d come to realize that he didn’t love Gary one drop less because he carried no Malone genes. But he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t bothered by the fact. Six months had passed and the truth still hurt. Why? He wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been faithful to Pam while in the navy. He was young and stupid and got caught. But now he knew that she’d had an affair of her own. Never mentioned at the time. Would she have strayed if he hadn’t?
He doubted it. Not her nature.
So he wasn’t blameless for the current mess.
He and Pam had been divorced for over a year, but only back in October had they made their peace. Everything that happened with the Library of Alexandria changed things between them.
For the better.
But now this.
One boy in his charge was angry and confused.
The other seemed to be a delinquent.
Stephanie had told him some. Ian Dunne had been born in Scotland. Father unknown. Mother abandoned him early. He was sent to London to live with an aunt and drifted in and out of her home, finally running away. He had an arrest record—petty theft, trespassing, loitering. The CIA wanted him because a month ago one of their people was shoved, or jumped, into the path of an oncoming Underground train. Dunne was there, in Oxford Circus. Witnesses say he might even have stolen something from the dead man. So they needed to talk to him.
Not good, but also not his concern.
In a few minutes his favor for Stephanie Nelle would be over, then he and Gary would catch their connecting flight to Copenhagen and enjoy the week, depending of course on how many uncomfortable questions his son might want answered. The hitch was that the Denmark flight departed not from Heathrow, but Gatwick, London’s other major airport, an hour’s ride south. Their departure time was several hours away, so it wasn’t a problem. He would just need to convert some dollars to pounds and hire a taxi.
They left Customs and claimed their luggage.
Both he and Gary had packed light.
“The police going to take me?” Ian asked.
“That’s what I’m told.”
“What will happen to him?” Gary asked.
He shrugged. “Hard to say.”
And it was. Especially with the CIA involved.
He shouldered his bag and led both boys out of the baggage area.
“Can I have my things?” Ian asked.
When Ian had been turned over to him in Atlanta, he’d been given a plastic bag that contained a Swiss Army knife with all the assorted attachments, a pewter necklace with a religious medal attached, a pocket Mace container, some silver shears, and two paperback books with their covers missing.
Ivanhoe and Le Morte d’Arthur.
Their brown edges were water-stained, the bindings veined with thick white creases. Both were thirty-plus-year-old printings. Stamped on the title page was ANY OLD BOOKS, with an address in Piccadilly Circus, London. He employed a similar branding of inventory, his simply announcing COTTON MALONE, BOOKSELLER, H?JBRO PLADS, COPENHAGEN. The items in the plastic bag all belonged to Ian, seized by Customs when they took him into custody at Miami International, after he’d tried to enter the country illegally.
“That’s up to the police,” he said. “My orders are to hand you and the bag over to them.”
He’d stuffed the bundle inside his travel case, where it would stay until the police assumed custody. He half expected Ian to bolt, so he remained on guard. Ahead he spied two men, both in dark suits walking their way. The one on the right, short and stocky with auburn hair, introduced himself as Inspector Norse.
He extended a hand, which Malone shook.
“This is Inspector Devene. We’re with the Met. We were told you’d be accompanying the boy. We’re here to give you a lift to Gatwick and take charge of Master Dunne.”
“I appreciate the ride. Wasn’t looking forward to an expensive taxi.”
“Least we can do. Our car is just outside. One of the privileges of being the police is we can park where we want.”