The Library of the Kings: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “Mother, please. Don’t start. You know I had my reasons.”

  “Yes, because you lost your mind over that Austrian soldier.”

  “He wasn’t a soldier. He was with Cobra.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They’re all the same. But why have you called? Not just to ask me how I’ve been, I imagine.”

  Hellen sighed and summoned up her courage.

  “I need . . . “ She was struggling hard to get the words out. “I need your help. UNESCO’s help, actually. I’m in Egypt, and I’ve found something sensational in the Necropolis of Anfushi.”

  “The Necropolis of Anfushi? That dump? What are you even doing in Egypt?”

  “That’s beside the point. Listen, I found two amphorae that, I believe, contain something of exceptional importance. It’s just . . .”

  Her voice faltered.

  “Just what?” her mother pressed.

  “It’s just that some Egyptian soldiers took them away from me.”

  “Why would they do that? Oh my God, don’t tell me you were poking around without permission.”

  Hellen said nothing.

  “Dammit, Hellen! You used to be such a responsible person. Ever since that Tom Wagner turned your head, I don’t know you anymore. He had such a terrible influence on you.”

  “Mother, please. Tom and I are done.”

  “So tell me, what’s so exciting about these amphorae? What do you think is inside?”

  “I can’t say for certain,” Hellen had to admit.

  “Then what makes you think their contents are so sensational?”

  Hellen took a deep breath. She had to lay her cards on the table. She had to tell her mother the truth.

  “Well, there was a symbol on them.”

  “What kind of symbol? Honestly, Hellen, getting anything out of you is like pulling teeth.”

  “Well, it’s the symbol of . . . of the Library of Alexandria.”

  There was silence on the other end. Hellen’s mother was saying nothing, and Hellen could picture her struggling to contain her outrage.

  “The Library of Alexandria? Have you completely lost your mind? Your father tortured me with that for decades, and here you come with the same old fairy tales?”

  “Mother, they’re not fairy tales.”

  “Yes, your father used to say that, too. And you know what happened to him.”

  “No, Mother, I don’t know. No one knows.”

  “Of course not. Because he went looking for the library and disappeared without a trace. And now you want to follow in his footsteps. Never! I forbid you! Don’t you dare pursue this fantasy any further. I don’t want to lose you too, like I lost him. That’s final. Don’t expect any help from me, or from UNESCO.”

  The line went dead.

  “That went better than expected,” Arno said grimly, and he gave Hellen a crooked smile.

  “It went exactly as expected,” Hellen replied sourly.

  “Then we’ll just have to do this ourselves,” said Arno firmly.

  * * *

  Theresia de Mey ended the call without saying goodbye, then paced back and forth in her office. Hellen had raised a subject that Theresia thought had been closed for years. After the disappearance of Hellen’s father, it had taken her a long time to return to a normal life. She had hoped that Hellen would never follow in her father’s footsteps. But now it seemed her worst fears had come true.

  13

  Austrian Embassy, Washington D.C.

  The car hurtled along Connecticut Avenue, heading north. Tom’s mind was racing. Where was Noah? What had they done to him? How could this happen? Where was he being held?

  After Ossana had presented her conditions and instructions, she had simply walked out, leaving Tom alone in the conference room. He had a lot to digest. Ossana had left a file with the details of his assignment on the table and given him a disposable cell phone, with one number stored in it: the number he was to call to work out Noah’s handover, once the job was done.

  He sat in the large room no more than five minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Then he jumped to his feet, went back to his room, grabbed his duffel bag and checked out. He did not even notice that Jennifer was no longer there; he had simply forgotten all about her. He had the valet bring his rental car around—a Mustang, of course—and he roared off toward the Austrian Embassy. It was in a small embassy district in Van Ness, just behind the University of the District of Columbia. Austria, Egypt, Ethiopia and thirteen other countries kept embassies in the area.

  Tom turned onto Van Ness Drive, then International Drive. At the end of the cul-de-sac was the embassy. Cul-de-sacs in America usually ended in a circle that made turning around a breeze, and this was no exception. Smart, he thought, and it surprised him that such a banal thought would enter his head now. He steered the Mustang into the embassy driveway and pulled up in front of the main entrance. The unattractive concrete block looked more like a Bond villain’s headquarters than an inviting embassy, and was surrounded by a small forest of trees and bushes. In the center of the circular entrance was a red marble sign ten feet long inscribed with “Embassy of Austria”; the Austrian flag and the blue flag of the EU rippled from the northern tower of the concrete castle.

  He had made it clear to the embassy staffer on the ground floor who he was and who he wanted to speak to, and two minutes later Jakob Leitner picked him up in the foyer and led him upstairs to a small break room among the offices.

  “What’s so urgent that’s got you charging in here like you’ve been stung by a bee?” Jakob asked his former colleague.

  “Noah’s been kidnapped. He left a message on my voicemail, from a number I don’t know. Can you find out where the call originated?” Tom snapped out.

  “Kidnapped? Who’d do something like that?” Leitner asked. He feigned sympathy, but he was grinning on the inside. “Yeah, sure. Give me the number. I’ll get it checked.”

  Tom scribbled the number onto a sheet of paper and Jakob disappeared with it into an adjoining office. “Be right back. Make yourself at home.”

  Tom paced back and forth in the break room. He took out his phone and called his uncle’s number. Voicemail. He was probably in another one of those tedious meetings at the Pentagon that he often complained about. Tom put the phone away and made himself a black coffee on the oversized espresso machine.

  Leitner was back in twenty minutes, a computer printout in his hand. He signaled to Tom to sit, then pulled up a chair beside him.

  “What have you got?” Tom asked.

  “Okay, well, the number you gave me belongs to a mobile phone that’s been inactive since yesterday. The guys in Intelligence have assured me that when the call was made, the phone was in Cairo, but they weren’t able to narrow it down any further.”

  Tom’s eyes widened. Cairo. That’s where Ossana’s errand was sending him.

  “That’s not all,” Leitner continued. “I called a contact in Israel who told me that Noah resigned two months back. It looks like some software company cherry-picked him. They haven’t heard a peep from him since.”

  Tom’s amazement grew. Noah had quit Mossad? Was it even possible to quit Mossad? He had to smile: that must have been the big surprise Noah had announced that last time they’d spoken.

  “That’s all I’ve got so far. Maybe with more time . . .”

  “I didn’t know he’d given up his job,” said Tom a little sadly. It seemed they had really grown apart in the last six months.

  “What makes you think he’s been kidnapped? Maybe he’s just got normal problems and had bad reception.”

  “I just know.” Tom had made up his mind. He stood up and exited the break room. Leitner, surprised, followed him out.

  “Where are you going? You can’t just wander around here these days.”

  “Is he in the building? I have to talk to him,” Tom said. Leitner still trotted close behind.

  When Tom reached the door of the office reserved for the chancellor’s visit
s, he knocked and entered without waiting for a response. He closed the door behind him, shutting Leitner outside.

  “Okay. I’m in. I’ll go to Egypt with you.”

  Konstantin Lang looked up from his desk, and when he saw Tom he shook his head and said, “Can’t you ever do things like normal people? A phone call would have done.”

  Half an hour later, after they had talked through the details of the job, Tom went and found Leitner at his desk.

  “I need a suit, a service pistol, and a bug-proof cell phone,” Tom barked. Leitner gaped, stunned to find himself suddenly relegated to the bench.

  Tom didn’t wait around, but turned and went back to the break room. He still had an important call to make. He needed support in Egypt, both for the search for Noah and for the assignment Ossana had dumped on him. Noah’s life was at stake. There was only one man who could help, only one man that had been through enough with him that Tom could trust him with his life.

  14

  Route 75, the Alexandria Desert Road, heading toward Cairo

  “Don’t torment me like this,” said Hellen, and she punched Arno in the side. He sat behind the wheel of the Toyota Landcruiser they had rented in Alexandria and smiled happily. “Tell me what you’re up to.”

  Arno laid one hand reassuringly on Hellen’s thigh. He exuded composure and warmth, and Hellen calmed down. “As you know, my father is not only very well off, but also has friends in some very high places. Through our businesses, many people in many countries owe us favors.”

  “But what does that have to do with the amphorae?” Hellen said, her impatience returning.

  “Isn’t it enough for me to assure you that in a few hours we’ll have the amphorae back in our hands, and you’ll be able to take your time examining them?”

  Hellen was torn. On the one hand, that was exactly what she desperately wanted. And to be honest, she didn’t care how Arno made it happen. But on the other hand, she was dying to know what he had in mind.

  “First, tell my why these amphorae matter so much to you” said Arno decisively. Hellen couldn’t refuse him.

  “I was still a child, maybe six or seven, when my father first told me about the Library of Alexandria. He told me that all the knowledge of the antique world was collected there, and that it was safe to assume that a lot of that knowledge would still be useful today. Old recipes for medicines, the calculations and formulas they used to build the pyramids, the secrets of ancient places like Atlantis, that are still so mysterious today.”

  Arno’s eyes were filled with fascination.

  “And that’s just the things we know about. There might be treasures in the library that we can hardly dream of, things that could explain all the myths that have been handed down over the last four millennia.”

  “I see. And your father wanted to find it.”

  “Mystical artifacts have intrigued my entire family for generations. But the Library of Alexandria, for my father, was the crown jewel of them all. He used to say that the Holy Grail, the Philosopher’s Stone, and Excalibur paled in comparison to the Library of Alexandria.”

  “Now I understand why this absorbs you the way it does. But why does your mother have such a problem with it?”

  Hellen turned away and gazed out the window. Seconds passed in silence, as the harsh desert landscape rolled by. Arno could sense how difficult it was for her to go on.

  “Because when he was searching for the library my father suddenly disappeared. I was eight when we heard that he was missing.

  Arno nodded.

  “My father was obsessed with the library. Everything else in his life took second place, even my mother and I. That’s what hurt my mother so much, and that’s why she doesn’t want to hear anything about it these days.”

  “And you? Why do you want to find the library?” Arno asked.

  “I . . . I believe it will bring me closer to my father. When I recognize, when I understand what fascinated him so much about the library, I feel . . . closer to him.” Her voice broke a little and she looked away again. “I never even got to say goodbye.”

  Arno abruptly braked and pulled off onto the shoulder on the right. He took Hellen’s hand in his and gazed into her eyes. It felt like an eternity before he spoke.

  “As I said, through our business we know many people in Cairo who owe us favors. I made a few phone calls. Tonight, a member of staff at the Egyptian Museum will meet us, and you will have the opportunity to examine the amphorae and whatever they contain.”

  Hellen’s eyes opened wide. “How?”

  “He’ll smuggle us into the museum tonight and deactivate the alarm system for a while. He’ll tell us where they’re keeping the amphorae and you’ll have time to examine them.”

  “And this is legal?”

  “Of course not, but no one will find out about it. Don’t worry. We walk in, you look at the amphorae, and then we just walk out again.”

  Hellen hugged Arno and snuggled against him.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “You don’t have to put yourself in danger for me. We can find another way, something less risky.”

  “There is no other way. And the risk is negligible. My contact is trustworthy. Everyone’s attention is on the construction of the new museum near Giza, he says, so security is even more lax than usual. A lot of the staff have been sent home for a while. We’ve got this. Easy-peasy.”

  Hellen planted a dozen kisses on Arno’s face. “You really don’t have to do this for me,” she said.

  “I know. But I want to.”

  Hellen was endlessly grateful. Still, she felt more than a little guilty for dragging Arno into this.

  15

  Curitiba, Brazil

  The American had spent the entire flight pondering the assignment the president had given him. He had not yet been able to fully digest what he had been asked to accept. He knew, of course, about the CIA’s Special Projects Division, which worked with projects beyond the normal confines of comprehension. And he also knew that Area 51 was just an elaborate lie, created to distract people from the real truth: the CIA really did operate underground bunkers, where the most absurd and irrational things were collected and investigated. There were three such bunkers, spread around the United States. Personally, he had always felt that the research they did was crazy. But now that the president himself had ordered him to obtain this particular artifact, the status quo had changed.

  During the flight, he had studied the top-secret file that Langley, on the president’s orders, had sent him. The CIA had recently recovered the long-lost Capri files: Capri was a company that had been founded in Brazil after World War II. It had been set up by former Nazi VIPs who had found refuge in Argentina and Brazil. Even today not much was really known about it, except that the war criminal Adolf Eichmann had been involved in a big way.

  The American strode through the arrivals hall. From the corner of his eye, he spotted his CIA contact man. He approached him.

  “Got a match?”

  The man looked at him and answered: “Sorry, Señor, but smoking is forbidden even in South American airports.”

  “Where can I smoke?”

  “Outside, by the taxis. I’m sorry I can’t give you a match. I always use my lighter.” The man paused, then added; “And I’ll use it till it breaks. What brand do you smoke?”

  “Nothing but Lucky Strikes. I hate the Marlboro Man.”

  The conversation sounded harmless enough, but it contained the necessary code words, more trustworthy for the two men than any ID card.

  They left the terminal, got into a car that looked like a regular taxi, and drove in the direction of the town center. As soon as the car doors closed, the façade fell away.

  “My name is Will Jimenez. I’m your liaison here. We can talk freely—the driver is Jerry. He works at the embassy.”

  “I’m the one who always gets to play the taxi driver. Shitty job, but it pays well,” the driver joked.

  Will got
down to business. “We stumbled onto this file by accident. With the help of the DEA, we pulled apart the headquarters of a drug kingpin who called himself El Azul. We found a lot of files in the guy’s vault; the Capri files were among them. They were thought to have disappeared.”

  “Do the Germans know about this? They’d be very interested.”

  “We’re not crazy! The Germans have no idea. Why should we tell them anything? Since they discovered that the NSA have been listening in on them 24/7—and that we have too, of course—relations have been a little frosty. They don’t tell us anything anymore. We are not at war, exactly, but things are definitely chilly. So they don’t get anything from us.”

  “Okay. When can I see the files?”

  “We’re going to our safe house in Santa Felicidada at the other end of the city. It will take a little while. The traffic jams here are hell. What exactly do you hope to find in the files?” Jimenez asked, although he knew even as he did so that he was asking too much. The man frowned and looked at him with disapproval. Jimenez answered his own question: “Let me guess. Top secret. National security. Above my clearance level.”

  “Bingo,” said the American. The rest of the drive passed in silence.

  The car stopped in front of a shop with a sign over the door that read “Multiciclo Bike,” a cycling accessories store. They climbed out, went inside, and passed through the shop and the workshop behind. At the end of the workshop was a door; the stairs beyond it led down to a shabby basement. Once they had passed through another door, the shabby basement was quickly revealed for what it was: the front for a CIA base. The fingerprint scanner at the entrance was the first sign that there were no old bicycle tubes stored down there.

  Jimenez handed the American the Capri file. “Where can I read this in private?” was all he said. Jimenez opened the door to a small, windowless meeting room. The American nodded, pulled out a chair and began to comb through the papers.