Alexandria Link by Steve Berry

chicken pox. Sabre’s black hair was cut straight and always held together with a dash of oil that added gleam. Stubble often dusted his cheeks partly, the Blue Chair knew, to conceal the scars, but also to disarm those around him.
    Sabre maintained a relaxed look, wearing clothes, usually a size too big, that concealed a lean-limbed muscular frame—surely more of his effort to be constantly underestimated.
    From a psychological profile Sabre had to endure prior to being hired, the Blue Chair learned that there was something about defiance of authority that appealed to the American. But that same profile also revealed that, if he was given a task, told the intended result, and left alone, Sabre would always perform.
    And that was what mattered.
    Both he and the Chairs could not care less how a given task was completed, only that the desired result be obtained. So their association with Sabre had been fruitful. Yet a man with no morals and little respect for authority bore watching.
    Especially when the stakes were high.
    As now.
    So the Blue Chair reached for the phone and dialed.
    SABRE ANSWERED HIS CELL PHONE, HOPING THE CALL WAS FROM his man at Kronborg Slot. Instead the strained voice on the other end belonged to his employer.
    “How did Mr. Malone enjoy your initial greeting?” the Blue Chair asked.
    “Handled himself well. He and the ex-wife crawled out through the window.”
    “As you predicted. But I wonder, are we drawing unnecessary attention?”
    “More than I’d like, but it was necessary. He tried to call our bluff, so he had to see he’s not in charge. But I’ll be more discreet from here on out.”
    “Do that. We don’t need law enforcement overly involved.” He paused. “At least not any more than they are as of now.”
    Sabre was ensconced in a rental house on Copenhagen’s north side, a few blocks inland from Amalienborg, the seaside royal palace. He’d brought Gary Malone here from Georgia on the pretense that his father was in danger, which the boy had believed thanks to falsified Magellan Billet identification Sabre had showed him.
    “How is the lad?” the Blue Chair asked.
    “He was anxious, but he thinks this is a U.S. government operation. So he’s calm, for now.”
    They’d terrorized Pam Malone with a photo of her son. The young man had cooperated with that, too, thinking they were producing security credentials.
    “Isn’t the boy located too close to Malone?”
    “He wouldn’t have gone voluntarily anywhere else. He knows his father is nearby.”
    “I realize you have this under control. But do be careful. Malone may surprise you.”
    “That’s why we have his son. He won’t jeopardize him.”
    “We need the Alexandria Link.”
    “Malone will lead us straight there.”
    But the call from his man at Kronborg still had not come. For everything to work, it was critical that his operative perform exactly as he’d instructed.
    “We also need this resolved in the next few days.”
    “It will be.”
    “From what you’ve told me,” the Blue Chair said, “this Malone is a free spirit. You sure he’ll stay properly motivated?”
    “Not to worry. Right now more than sufficient motivation is being provided.”
    MALONE EXITED THE GROUNDS OF KRONBORG SLOT AND spotted his quarry strolling calmly into Helsingør. He loved the town’s market square, quaint alleys, and timber-and-brick buildings. But none of that Renaissance flavor mattered today.
    More sirens wailed in the distance.
    He knew murders were rare in Denmark. Given that this one occurred inside a National Historic Site, it would surely make for big news. He needed to notify Stephanie that one of her agents was dead, but there was no time. He assumed Durant had been traveling under his own name—that was standard Billet practice—so once the local authorities determined that their victim worked for the American government, the right people would be contacted. He thought about Durant. Damn shame. But he learned