The Alexandria Link

  And that seemed a problem.

  “You shot that man yesterday without a hint of remorse,” Pam said. “That’s scary, Cotton.”

  “Gary’s safety was at stake.”

  “That what you used to do?”

  “All the time.”

  “I’ve seen all the death I want to see.”

  So had he.

  They kept walking. He could tell she was thinking. He’d always known when her brain was churning.

  “I didn’t mention it yesterday,” she said, “with all that happened, but I have a new man in my life.”

  He was glad, but wondered why she was telling him. “Been a long time since we were concerned with each other’s business.”

  “I know. But he’s kind of special.” She lifted her arm and displayed her wrist. “He gave me this watch.”

  She seemed proud of it, so he indulged her. “A TAG Heuer. Not bad.”

  “I thought so, too. Surprised the heck out of me.”

  “He treat you good?”

  She nodded. “I enjoy my time with him.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “I only mention it to let you know that maybe it’s time we made peace.”

  They entered the terminal, crowded with people. Time they parted ways.

  “Mind if I come along with you?” she asked. “My plane to Atlanta doesn’t leave for seven hours.”

  He’d actually been rehearsing his goodbye, intent on keeping it nonchalant. “Not a good idea. I need to do this alone.” He didn’t have to say what they were both thinking. Especially after yesterday.

  She nodded. “I understand. I just thought it’d be a good way to pass the afternoon.”

  He was curious. “Why would you want to come? Thought you wanted away from all this?”

  “I almost got killed over that link, so I’m curious. And besides, what am I going to do in this airport?”

  He had to admit she looked great—five years his junior, but she looked even younger. And her countenance was too much like the old Pam, at once helpless, independent, and appealing, for him to be flippant. The features on her freckled face, the blue eyes, sent a rush of memories through his brain, ones that he’d fought hard to repress, especially since August when he’d found out about Gary’s parentage.

  He and Pam had been married a long time. Shared a life. Good and bad. He was forty-eight years old, divorced more than a year, separated for nearly six.

  Maybe it was time he got over it. What happened happened, and he’d been no angel.

  But brokering a peace would have to wait, so he simply said, “You get on back to Atlanta and stay out of trouble, okay?”

  She smiled. “I could say the same to you.”

  “That’s impossible for me. But I’m sure that new man in your life would like to have you home.”

  “We still need to talk, Cotton. We’ve both avoided the subject.”

  “We will, but after all this. How about a truce till then?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll let you know how things go, and don’t worry about Gary. Henrik will look after him. He’ll be well protected. You have the phone number, so check on him whenever.”

  He threw her a cheerful wave to match his grin, then drifted toward the terminal exits and a taxi. He hadn’t brought a bag. Depending on how long he stayed, he’d buy some things later, after he found the link.

  But before leaving the building he needed to check one more thing.

  At the exit doors he approached an information counter and plucked a city map from its holder. He casually turned and studied it, allowing his gaze to drift from the map to the stream of people flowing through the broad terminal.

  He’d expected String Bean to be waiting for him to leave, if indeed he was following.

  Instead, his problem tailed Pam.

  Now he was concerned.

  He tossed the map on the counter and headed across the terminal. Pam entered one of the many cafés, apparently intent on passing the time with a meal or a coffee. String Bean assumed a position in a duty-free shop where he could clearly observe the café.

  Interesting. Apparently Malone wasn’t the flavor-of-the-day.

  He, too, entered the café.

  Pam was sitting in a booth, and he walked over. Surprise flooded her face. “What are you doing here?”

  “Changed my mind. Why don’t you come along?”

  “I’d really like that.”

  “One condition.”

  “I know. My mouth stays shut.”

  STEPHANIE ALLOWED THORVALDSEN’S WORDS TO AGAIN PLAY across her mind. Then she calmly asked, “You’re a member of the Order of the Golden Fleece?”

  “For thirty years. I always thought it nothing more than a way for people with money and power to mingle with one another. That’s what we do most of the time—”

  “When you’re not paying off politicians or bribing for contracts.”

  “Come now, Stephanie. You know the way of the world. I don’t make the rules. I just play by the ones in place.”

  “Tell me what you know, Henrik. And please, no bullshit.”

  “My investigators traced the two dead men from yesterday to Amsterdam. One has a lady friend. She told us that her lover worked regularly for another man. Once she managed to see him, and from her description I believe I’ve seen him, too.”

  She waited for more.

  “Interestingly, for many years now, at Order functions, I’ve heard quite a bit about the lost Library of Alexandria. The occupant of the Blue Chair, Alfred Hermann, is obsessed with the subject.”

  “You know why?”

  “He believes there’s much we can learn from the ancients.”

  That she doubted, but she needed to know, “What’s the connection between the two dead men and the Order?”

  “The man the woman described has been present at Order functions. Not a member. An employee. She didn’t hear his name, but her boyfriend once used a term I’ve heard before, too. Die Klauen der Adler.”

  She silently translated. The Talons of the Eagle. “You going to tell me more?”

  “How about when I’m sure?”

  Back in June, when she’d first met Thorvaldsen, he hadn’t been all that forthcoming, which had only fueled the already existing friction between them. But since then she’d learned not to underestimate the Dane. “Okay. You said the Order’s main interest was the Middle East. What did you mean?”

  “I appreciate you not pressing.”

  “Got to start cooperating with you sometime. Besides, you weren’t going to tell me anyway.”

  Thorvaldsen chuckled. “We’re a lot alike.”

  “Now, that scares me.”

  “It’s not all that bad. But to answer your question about the Middle East, unfortunately the Arab world only respects strength. They also know how to deal, however, and they have much to bargain with, especially oil.”

  She couldn’t argue with that conclusion.

  “Who’s the Arab’s number one enemy?” Thorvaldsen asked. “America? No. Israel. That’s the thorn in their side. There it sits. Right in the middle of their world. A Jewish state. Partitioned out in 1948 when nearly a million people were, if you believe the Arab line, forcibly displaced. Land Palestinians, Egyptians, Jordanians, Lebanese, and Syrians had claimed for centuries was simply surrendered by the world to the Jews. The nakba, the catastrophe, they called it. A fitting name.” Thorvaldsen paused. “For both sides.”

  “And war immediately broke out,” Stephanie said. “The first of many.”

  “Every one of them, thankfully, won by Israel. For the past sixty years the Israelis have clung to their land, and all because God told Abraham that it was to be so.”

  She remembered the passage Brent Green had quoted. The Lord said to Abram, lift up now your eyes and look from the place where you are northward and southward and eastward and westward, for all the land which you see, to you I will give it, and to your seed forever.

&nb
sp; “God’s promise to Abraham is one reason why Palestine was given to the Jews,” Henrik said. “Supposedly their ancestral homeland, bequeathed by God Himself. Who’s to argue with that?”

  “At least one Palestinian scholar I know of.”

  “Cotton told me about George Haddad and the library.”

  “He shouldn’t have.”

  “I don’t think he gives a damn about rules at the moment, and you’re not one of his favorite people right now, either.”

  She deserved that one.

  “My sources in Washington tell me that the White House wants Haddad found. I assume you know that.”

  She did not answer.

  “I wouldn’t imagine you’d confirm or deny that one. But there’s something happening here, Stephanie. An event of substance. Men of power don’t usually waste their time on nonsense.”

  She agreed.

  “You can blow people up. Terrorize them every day. Solves nothing. But when you possess what your enemy either wants, or doesn’t want anyone else to have, then you have real power. I know the Order of the Golden Fleece. Leverage. That’s what Alfred Hermann and the Order are after.”

  “And what will they do with it?”

  “If it strikes at the heart of Israel, as it may well, then the Arab world would deal to obtain it. Everyone in the Order stands to profit from friendly relations with the Arabs. The price of oil alone is enough to command their attention, but new markets for their goods and services—that’s an even greater prize. Who knows? The information might even call into question the Jewish state, which could soothe a multitude of open sores. America’s long-standing defense of Israel is costly. How many times has it happened? An Arab nation claims Israel should be destroyed. The United Nations weighs in. The U.S. denounces it. Everyone becomes angry. Swords are rattled. Then concessions and dollars have to be doled out to quell tempers. Imagine, if that was no longer needed, how much more accommodating the world, and America, could be.”

  Which might be the legacy Larry Daley wanted for the president. But she had to say, “What could possibly be that powerful?”

  “I don’t know. But you and I a few months ago read an ancient document that fundamentally changed everything. Something of equal power might be present here, too.”

  He was right, but the reality was, “Cotton needs this information.”

  “He’ll get it, but first we have to learn the whole story.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “The Order is convening its winter gathering this weekend. I wasn’t going, but I am now.”

  TWENTY

  LONDON

  1:20 PM

  MALONE CLIMBED FROM THE TAXI AND STUDIED THE QUIET street. Lots of gabled façades, fluted side posts, and flowery sills. Each of the picturesque Georgian houses seemed a serene abode of antiquity, a place that would naturally harbor bookworms and academics. George Haddad should be right at home.

  “This where he lives?” Pam asked.

  “I hope so. I haven’t heard from him in nearly a year. But this is the address I was given three years ago.”

  The afternoon was cool and dry. Earlier, he’d read in The Times how England was still in the midst of an unusual autumn drought. String Bean had not followed them from Heathrow, but perhaps someone else had taken up the task since the man was clearly in communication with others. Yet no other taxis were in sight. Strange still having Pam with him, but he deserved the feeling of awkwardness. He’d asked for it by insisting she come.

  They climbed the stoop and entered the building. He lingered in the foyer, out of sight, watching the street.

  But no cars or people appeared.

  The bell for the flat on the third floor gave a discreet tinkle. The olive-skinned man who answered the door was short and doughy, with ash-white hair and a square face. Brown eyes came alive when he saw his guest, and Malone noticed an instant of repressed excitement in the broad grin of welcome.

  “Cotton. What a surprise. I was just thinking of you the other day.”

  They warmly shook hands and Malone introduced Pam. Haddad invited them in. Daylight was dimmed by thick lace curtains and Malone quickly absorbed the décor, which seemed an intentional mismatch—there was a piano, several sideboards, armchairs, lamps adorned with pleated silk shades, and an oak table where a computer was engulfed by books and papers.

  Haddad waved his arm as if to embrace the clutter. “My world, Cotton.”

  The walls were dotted with maps, so many that the sage-green wall covering was barely visible. Malone’s gaze raked them, and he noted that they depicted the Holy Land, Arabia, and the Sinai, their time line varying from modern to ancient. Some were photocopies, others originals, all interesting.

  “More of my obsession,” Haddad said.

  After a genial exchange of small talk, Malone decided to get to the point. “Things have changed. That’s why I’m here.” He explained what had happened the day before.

  “Your son is okay?” Haddad asked.

  “He’s fine. But five years ago I asked no questions because that was part of my job. It’s not anymore, so I want to know what’s going on.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “Which ought to buy me the truth.”

  Haddad led them into the kitchen, where they sat at an oval table. The tepid air hung heavy with a lingering scent of wine and tobacco. “It’s complicated, Cotton. I’ve only in the past few years understood it myself.”

  “George, I need to know it all.”

  An uneasy understanding passed between them. Old friendships could atrophy. People changed. What was once appreciated between two people became uncomfortable. But Malone knew Haddad trusted him, and he wanted to reciprocate. Finally the older man spoke. Malone listened as Haddad told them about 1948 when, as a nineteen-year-old, he’d fought with the Palestinian resistance, trying to stop the Zionist invasion.

  “I shot many men,” Haddad said. “But there was one I never forgot. He came to see my father. Unfortunately that blessed soul had already killed himself. We captured this man, thinking him a Zionist. I was young, full of hate, no patience, and he spoke nonsense. So I shot him.” Haddad’s eyes moistened. “He was a Guardian and I killed him, never learning anything.” The Palestinian paused. “Then, fifty-some years later, incredibly, another Guardian visited me.”

  Malone wondered about the significance.

  “He appeared at my home, standing in the dark, saying the same thing that the first man said in 1948.”

  “I’m a Guardian.”

  Had Haddad heard right? The question formed immediately in his mind. “From the library? Am I to be offered an invitation?”

  “How do you know that?”

  He told the man what had happened long ago. As he spoke, Haddad tried to assess his guest. He was wiry with coal-black hair, a thick mustache, and sun burned skin that bore the texture of tawny leather. Neat and quietly dressed, with a manner to match. Not unlike the first emissary.

  The younger man sat silent and Haddad decided this time he, too, would be patient. Finally the Guardian said, “We’ve studied your writings and your published research. Your knowledge of the Bible’s ancient text is impressive, as is your ability to interpret the original Hebrew. And your arguments on the accepted translations are persuasive.”

  He appreciated the compliment. Those came few and far between in the West Bank.

  “We’re an ancient band. Long ago the first Guardians saved much of the Library of Alexandria from destruction. A great effort. From time to time—to those, like yourself, who could benefit—we’ve offered an invitation.”

  Many questions formed in his mind, but he asked, “The Guardian I shot said that the war we were fighting back then wasn’t necessary. That there are things more powerful than bullets. What did he mean?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Obviously your father failed to appear at the library, so he never benefited from our knowledge—and we did not benefit from his. Hopefully, you’ll
not fail.”

  “What do you mean failed to appear?”

  “To have the right to use the library you must prove yourself through the hero’s quest.” The man produced an envelope. “Interpret these words wisely and I’ll see you at the entrance, where it will be my honor to allow you into the library.”

  He accepted the packet. “I’m an old man. How could I possibly take a long journey?”

  “You’ll find the strength.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because in the library you will find answers.”

  “My mistake,” Haddad said, “was telling the Palestinian authorities about that visit. I spoke the truth, though. I couldn’t make the journey. When I reported what happened, I thought I was speaking with friends in the West Bank. But Israel’s spies heard everything, and the next thing I knew you and I were in that café when it exploded.”

  Malone recalled the day. One of the scariest in his life. He’d barely managed to extricate them both.

  “What were you doing there?” Pam asked him, concern in her voice.

  “George and I had known each other for years. We share an interest in books, especially the Bible.” He pointed. “This man is one of the world’s experts. I’ve enjoyed picking his brain.”

  “I never knew you had an interest,” Pam said.

  “Apparently there was a lot neither one of us knew about the other.” He saw that she registered his true meaning, so he let that truth hang and said, “When George sensed trouble and didn’t trust the Palestinians, he asked for my help. Stephanie sent me to find out what was happening. Once that bomb went off, George wanted out. Everyone assumed he died in the blast. So I made him disappear.”

  “Code-named the Alexandria Link,” Pam said.

  “Someone obviously found out about me,” Haddad declared.

  Malone nodded. “The computer files were breached. But there’s no mention of where you live, just that I’m the only one who knows your whereabouts. That’s why they went after Gary.”

  “And for that I’m truly sorry. I would never want to place your son in jeopardy.”

  “Then tell me, George, why do people want you dead?”

  “At the time the Guardian visited me, I was working on a theory regarding the Old Testament. I’d previously published several papers on the then-current state of that holy text, but I was formulating something more.”