Cotton followed Stephanie as they left the jail and stepped back onto the streets of Bruges. A flood of tourists was out enjoying the beautiful evening. The police had not been happy to see him go, but no one challenged Stephanie. Her authority came straight from Brussels, far higher on the food chain than any local police chief.
Though his clothes had begun to dry from the dunking, his sandy-blond hair was still a mess. He was coming down off the high that action always gave him. He told himself over and over that he didn’t miss it. But that was a lie. He seemed at his best when the pressure was on, though his attempt to catch the Three Amigos had not been one of his finest moments. Stephanie’s sudden appearance, however, had placed a new light on things.
Something big was happening.
And who didn’t like being a part of that?
They made their way into the crowded central square.
Bruges began as a 9th-century fortress, built to defend the coast from Vikings. Back then the town faced the sea. But slowly, over the centuries, the ocean withdrew and the remaining mudflats evolved into dry, fertile soil, transforming the town into a major medieval trading hub. People had gathered in its cobbled main square since the 10th century, and standing there now he envisioned fishermen selling their wares, farmers hocking produce, Flemish cloth being inspected by foreign buyers, and the many fairs and festivals that drew crowds from all over Europe. This was the New York City of its time. The center of social, political, and economic life for the entire province.
He stared at the square.
Most of it, he knew, came from a 1990s renovation that retained the feel of a bygone era while making it more pedestrian-friendly. No billboards, neon, or high-rises existed then or now. Its charm oozed from an unpretentious simplicity, the aging hand of time dominating with not a hint of neglect. The rows of step-gabled houses were full of hotels, banks, souvenir shops, retailers, bars, and cafés, everything put to good use as though it were not a priceless relic from another epoch. The trademark belfry cut a path high into the evening sky. Nearly three hundred feet tall and, as he’d found out a few years ago, worth a climb. On a clear day the Flemish coast could be seen miles in the distance.
“I’m listening,” he finally said to Stephanie, who’d been quiet on the walk. Time for her to ante up.
“Washington’s in upheaval,” she said.
He smiled. “What else is new?”
Every day there were press reports on the Warner Fox administration, detailing one misstep after another. Policy shifts and staff changes occurred constantly, all with little to no consistency. Fox would say one thing, his advisers and cabinet officers another. Everything seemed rudderless, adrift, lacking direction. Hit or miss. Mostly miss.
“How bad is it,” he asked.
“They’re idiots. They have no clue what they’re doing. A band of arrogant, stupid imbeciles who managed somehow to get a grip on power.”
He chuckled. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“The attorney general has never been inside a courtroom. Never served in public office. He was a Wall Street corporate lawyer who graduated from Yale 145th out of a class of 152. His only saving grace is that the guy at number 133 in that same class was Warner Fox. They were roommates in law school. He’s absolutely loyal to Fox. Never questions anything. He just does what he’s told.”
“Are you still being frozen out?”
He’d been there on Inauguration Day, seen the early ineptness for himself. But Fox had been conciliatory, promising to be more open-minded and agreeing to keep Stephanie on as head of the Magellan Billet, though the new president had initially tried hard to eliminate both her and the agency.
She shook her head. “Even our successes have been met with skepticism. My budget has been hacked by a third, which has handicapped what I can effectively accomplish. But that’s the whole idea. They want me gone.”
He got it. “But they’re afraid of Senator Danny Daniels.”
“He’s a force to be reckoned with. A bad enemy to have, but a good ally.”
“And boyfriend?”
She smiled. “That too.”
“He makes you happy?”
“Every day.”
“That’s good to hear.”
And he meant it. Stephanie had lived a solitary life. Her husband died long ago, and her son lived in France fairly inaccessibly. He knew of no close personal relationships, until Danny came along. Cotton firmly believed there was somebody for everybody. His own life seemed proof of that. He’d been divorced from his first wife for a number of years and thought love something of the past. Then Cassiopeia Vitt came along and changed everything.
“How is Cassiopeia?” she asked, seemingly reading his mind.
“Feisty, like always. She’s coming to Copenhagen this weekend.”
“So you need to be done by Friday?”
“Something like that.”
People filled the square, out for an early dinner or finishing off a day of sightseeing and shopping. He scanned the faces and tried to assess threats, but there were simply too many to know anything for sure. This wasn’t like inside the cathedral where things had been more contained, the people easier to compare and contrast.
“Something strategic is occurring,” she said. “What you saw in the basilica is not the first theft of a holy relic.”
He waited for more.
“There have been four others.”
Interesting.
“All have been kept secret,” she said. “For the record, I didn’t agree with that tactic, but chalk it up to the all-knowing Fox administration, which stepped in and imposed that strategy.”
“Did other locations with relics at least beef up security?”
She shook her head. “None were advised. The know-it-alls decided it would only attract more attention.”
“Obviously not a smart decision, given what happened today.”
“There’s been a lot of those made lately in Washington.”
He could see she was frustrated, which was not normal. This woman was usually a model of self-control. Direct. Pragmatic. Truthful to the point of pain. Honest to the point of nuisance. She almost never lost her cool. And there wasn’t a political bone in her body, which could be both an asset and a liability.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
“What do you know about the Arma Christi?”