He shrugged. “You should have told me.”
“Get. Out.”
“I’m leaving. But if I were you, I’d tell your ex-husband and son the truth. ’Cause now that I know, you haven’t seen the last of me.”
And he’d meant it.
Immediately, he’d hired private surveillance to keep tabs on both Pam and Gary Malone. It cost a couple thousand dollars a month, but had been worth every penny to learn their comings and goings, their wants and desires. The person he’d hired cared nothing about the law and even managed to tap the landlines on Pam’s home phone. Every other day a recording would be forwarded by email of the calls in and out. That’s how he learned Cotton Malone knew that Gary was not his biological son. The conversation between the two of them had been heated, Pam telling Malone that Gary was upset, wanting to spend Thanksgiving break with him in Denmark. Even better, neither Gary nor Malone knew Antrim’s identity. Both had been kept in the dark by Pam.
Good girl.
He’d never followed through on his threat to contact either Malone or Gary. Neither path seemed the way to go. Instead, he’d remained patient, doing what intelligence officers did, gathering information from which smart decisions could be made. Originally, he’d intended on connecting with Gary in Copenhagen sometime next week.
But the unexpected surfacing of Ian Dunne changed that plan.
Making contact here, in London, worked much better.
So he’d ordered Dunne flown from Florida to Georgia and informed Langley that Malone was in Atlanta, headed back to Europe. How about a favor among agencies? The Magellan Billet, or at least a former Magellan Billet agent, helping out the CIA. Simple babysitting. This way we’ll know Dunne will be safely delivered.
Which worked.
Thanks to everyone’s anxiety about what the Scottish government intended doing.
During the rescue he’d studied Gary closely, noting the pinched nose, long chin, high brow, and, most important, the gray eyes. Now he had Gary to himself. Pam Malone was nowhere to be seen. Cotton Malone clearly had no idea of the connection, and, based on Malone’s comment earlier outside the café, he doubted that he’d be checking with his ex-wife. All he had to do was not allow Gary to call Georgia.
And that would be easy.
The next few hours were critical.
He told himself to handle things carefully.
But it should not be a problem.
After all, he was a pro.
Twenty-five
11:02 PM
MALONE ALWAYS LIKED THE THROB OF PICCADILLY CIRCUS. IT was boisterous and brash, and comparisons to Times Square were inevitable. But this tangle of noise had existed centuries before its American interpretation. Five roads met at the circular junction and surrounded the plinth of Eros, the statue a London landmark. St. James Palace sat a few blocks away, one of the last remaining Tudor residences. Reading about Katherine Parr and Elizabeth I earlier had set his mind on the Tudors, who ruled from 1485 to 1603. He’d read many books about them and even maintained a Tudor section at his bookstore in Copenhagen, as he’d learned others shared his interest. Now he was privy to something he’d never read in any of those books.
Some secret.
Important enough to have attracted the attention of the CIA.
Cars slithered to a standstill at the busy intersection and he crossed among them, heading deeper into London’s entertainment district that stretched out beyond Piccadilly. Cinemas, theaters, restaurants, and pubs filled the olden buildings, all of them alive with a late-Friday-night business. Wood fronts and plate glass cast him back to another era. He zigzagged a path through the menagerie of people, heading for the address he’d located on his iPhone.
Any Old Books occupied a space not unlike his own shop, a turn-of-the-century structure squeezed between a pub on one side and a haberdashery on the other. Its front door was stained oak and half glass with a worn brass knob. Inside was also similar to his shop. Rows of wooden shelves from floor to ceiling packed with used books. Even the smell, that combination of dust, old paper, and aged wood, reminded him of Copenhagen. He immediately noted an order to the madness, placards jutting from the shelves announcing the various subjects. Organization seemed an affliction common to all successful bookstore owners.
The woman who stood behind the counter was small and thin with short, silver hair. Only a few noticeable lines had settled over her dainty features, like a faint net of age. She spoke in a gentle voice that he noticed was never raised, a smile accompanying every word.
And not a phony one.
She seemed to genuinely care, ringing up a purchase, dispensing change, thanking customers for their business.
“Are you Miss Mary?” he asked her when she finished with a purchase.
“That’s what they call me.”
“Is this your store?”
She nodded. “I’ve owned it a long time.”
He noticed the stacks of books dominating the counter, surely ones she’d just acquired. He did the same, every day, “buying for pennies, selling for euros.” He hoped his two employees were taking care of things back in Denmark. He was supposed to work there tomorrow.
“You’re open late.”
“Friday and Saturday nights are busy for me. The stage shows are just ending, everyone off for a late dinner or a drink. I learned long ago that they also enjoy buying books.”
“I own a bookshop. In Copenhagen.”
“Then you must be Cotton Malone.”
GARY WATCHED BLAKE ANTRIM AS HE DIRECTED HIS TWO agents and made things happen. He’d never met anybody who actually worked for the CIA. Sure, you saw them on television and in movies, or read about them in books. But to deal with one in person? That had to be rare. His father had been an agent for the Justice Department, but never, until recently, had he understood what that meant.
“We appreciate your dad helping us out,” Antrim said to him. “We can use the assist.”