The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle
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Personal Relationships: Married Pam Gauldin shortly after joining Judge Advocate General’s Corps. They divorced after nearly twenty years of marriage. One child—a boy named Gary—was born seven years into the relationship. Following the divorce, Malone learned that Gary was the product of an affair his wife had during the marriage. This was in retaliation for affairs Malone himself engaged in early in their relationship. His were discovered at the time of their occurrence, hers remained concealed until much later. This conflict played a key role in a recent encounter between the two (see file: The Alexandria Link). Gary, though not genetically linked, is a lot like Malone. Athletic, smart, and fond of travel, he spends the summer months with Malone in Denmark. Currently, Malone is involved with Cassiopeia Vitt, a woman of Spanish/Moorish descent, who resides in France (see files: The Venetian Betrayal and The Emperor’s Tomb).
Psychological Note: Malone openly states that he’s not good at dealing with women, and seems drawn to those with deep contradictions. He acknowledges the mistakes made in his marriage and makes no excuses for them.
Professional Career: He spent six years with Judge Advocate General’s Corps. Excelled as a litigator, receiving eight commendations for meritorious service, all of which were refused. Was promoted twice, achieving the rank of commander before retiring from active naval service. Left Judge Advocate General’s Corps after being transferred to the Justice Department as one of the original twelve lawyer/agents for The Magellan Billet. Director Stephanie Nell personally selected Malone. Worked 12 years as a Magellan Billet agent and was awarded nine commendations, all of which were refused. Suffered three serious injuries while on assignment; a fourth serious injury came in Mexico City during the assassination of a public prosecutor. Malone brought down three of the assailants and received another commendation, which was also refused (see file: The Paris Vendetta folder). After that incident, he retired from the Navy and quit the Justice Department, citing ever-increasing risks and a desire for a change in his life. He refused an exit interview. He sold his residence in Georgia and moved to Copenhagen, Denmark.
Post-Career Activities: Malone purchased an old bookshop from Danish billionaire, Henrik Thorvaldsen, the acquisition made possible by the net proceeds from the sale of his Georgia residence. The business is located in Hojbro Plads. Malone lives on the fourth floor, above the shop, in a small apartment. His Danish residence is on a temporary work visa as a shopkeeper (which Thorvaldsen arranged) and he is a member of the Danish Antiquarian Booksellers Society. Though no longer an active agent, he continues to keep a knapsack beneath his bed that contains his Magellan Billet-issued Beretta automatic (which he was allowed to retain), his passport, a thousand Euros, spare identification, and a change of clothes. He has twice encountered the local police over possession of a firearm (which is not allowed in Denmark).
Director Nelle involved Malone with a personal incident soon after he retired (see file: The Templar Legacy) which demonstrates his continued loyalty toward her. Beyond that incident he has been involved with other investigations, some at the request of Director Nelle (see files: The Templar Legacy, The Paris Vendetta, and The Emperor’s Tomb) and others more personal (see files: The Alexandria Link, The Venetian Betrayal, and The Charlemagne Pursuit.). There is no reason to assume that this pattern will not continue.
For Elizabeth,
Always
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve been lucky. The same team that produced my first novel, The Amber Room, in 2003 has stayed together. Few writers can claim that luxury. So, again, lots of thanks to each is in order. First, Pam Ahearn, my agent, who believed from the start. Next, to the wonderful folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, an extraordinary publisher; Mark Tavani, an editor far wiser than his years (and a great friend too); Ingrid Powell, who can always be counted on; Cindy Murray, who goes to great lengths to make me look good in the press (which is a task in and of itself); Kim Hovey who markets with the skill and precision of a surgeon; Beck Stvan, the talented artist responsible for the gorgeous cover; Laura Jorstad, an eagle-eyed copy editor who keeps me straight; Crystal Velasquez, the production editor who daily steers production on a true course; Carole Lowenstein, who once again made the pages shine; and finally to all those in Promotions and Sales—absolutely nothing could be achieved without their superior efforts.
A special thanks to one of the “girls,” Daiva Woodworth, who gave Cotton Malone his name. But I can’t forget my two “other girls,” Nancy Pridgen and Fran Downing. The inspiration from all three remains with me everyday.
On a personal note. My daughter Elizabeth (who’s growing up so fast) brought daily joy to the incredible trials and tribulations that occurred during the production of this book. She is truly a treasure.
This book is for her.
Always.
CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF COTTON MALONE?
Read all the Steve Berry novels in the Cotton Malone series:
THE TEMPLAR LEGACY
THE ALEXANDRIA LINK
THE VENETIAN BETRAYAL
THE CHARLEMAGNE PURSUIT
THE PARIS VENDETTA
THE EMPEROR’S TOMB
And don’t miss Steve Berry’s other novels of suspense:
THE AMBER ROOM
THE ROMANOV PROPHECY
THE THIRD SECRET
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The Alexandria Link is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Steve Berry
Maps copyright © 2007 by David Lindroth
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-345-49712-3
v3.0_r3
CONTENTS
Master - Table of Contents
The Alexandria Link
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Part Two
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
&n
bsp; Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Part Four
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
Chapter Eighty-seven
Writer’s Note
Cotton Malone Dossier
Dedication
Acknowledgments
History is the distillation of evidence surviving the past.
—OSCAR HANDLIN, Truth in History (1979)
Since the first Adam who beheld the night and the day and the shape of his own hand, men have made up stories and have fixed in stone, in metal, or on parchment whatever the world includes or dreams create. Here is the fruit of their labor: the Library … The faithless say that if it were to burn, history would burn with it. They are wrong. Unceasing human work gave birth to this infinity of books. If of them all not even one remained, man would again beget each page and every line.
—JORGE LUIS BORGES,
regarding the Library of Alexandria
Libraries are the memory of mankind.
—JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
PROLOGUE
PALESTINE
APRIL 1948
GEORGE HADDAD’S PATIENCE ENDED AS HE GLARED AT THE MAN bound to the chair. Like himself, his prisoner possessed the swarthy skin, aquiline nose, and deep-set brown eyes of a Syrian or a Lebanese. But there was something about this man Haddad simply did not like.
“I’ll only ask one more time. Who are you?”
Haddad’s soldiers had caught the stranger three hours ago, just before dawn. He’d been walking alone, unarmed. Which was foolish. Ever since the British decided last November to partition Palestine into two states, one Arab, the other Jewish, war had raged between the two sides. Yet this fool had walked straight into an Arab stronghold, offering no resistance, and had not said anything since being bound to the chair.
“Did you hear me, imbecile? I asked who you are.” Haddad spoke in Arabic, which the man clearly understood.
“I’m a Guardian.”
The answer meant nothing to him. “What’s that?”
“We’re keepers of knowledge.”
He was not in the mood for riddles. Just yesterday the Jewish underground had attacked a nearby village. Forty Palestinian men and women had been herded into a quarry and shot. Nothing unusual. Arabs were being systematically murdered and expelled. Land that their families had occupied for sixteen hundred years was being confiscated. The nakba, the catastrophe, was happening. Haddad needed to be out fighting the enemy, not listening to nonsense.
“We’re all keepers of knowledge,” he made clear. “Mine is how to wipe from the face of this earth every Zionist I can find.”
“Which is why I’ve come. War is not necessary.”
This man was an idiot. “Are you blind? Jews are flooding this place. We’re being crushed. War is all we have left.”
“You underestimate Jewish resolve. They’ve survived for centuries and will continue.”
“This land is ours. We shall win.”
“There are things more powerful than bullets that can provide you victory.”
“That’s right. Bombs. And we have plenty of those. We’ll crush every one of you thieving Zionists.”
“I’m not a Zionist.”
The declaration came in a quiet tone, then the man went silent. Haddad realized that he needed to end this interrogation. No time for dead ends.
“I’ve come from the library to speak with Kamal Haddad,” the man finally said.
His rage bowed to confusion. “That’s my father.”
“I was told he lived in this village.”
His father had been an academic, schooled in Palestinian history, teaching at the college in Jerusalem. A man big in voice and laugh, body and heart, he’d recently acted as an emissary between the Arabs and the British, trying to stop the massive Jewish immigration and prevent the nakba. His efforts had failed.
“My father is dead.”
For the first time he spied concern in the prisoner’s barren eyes. “I was not aware.”
Haddad retrieved a memory he’d wanted to forever dismiss. “Two weeks ago he ate the end of a rifle and blew off the back of his head. He left a note that said he couldn’t bear to watch the destruction of his homeland. He thought himself responsible for not stopping the Zionists.” Haddad brought the revolver he now held close to the Guardian’s face. “Why did you need my father?”
“He’s the one to whom my information must be passed. He’s the invitee.”
Anger built. “What are you talking about?”
“Your father was a man due great respect. He was learned, entitled to share in our knowledge. That’s why I came, to invite him to share.”
The man’s calm voice hit Haddad like a pail of water dousing a flame. “Share what?”
The Guardian shook his head. “That’s only for him.”
“He’s dead.”
“Which means another invitee will be chosen.”
What was this man rambling about? Haddad had captured many Jewish prisoners—torturing them to learn what he could, then shooting what of them remained. Before the nakba Haddad had been an olive farmer, but like his father, he was drawn to academics and wanted to pursue further studies. That was now impossible. The state of Israel was being established, its borders carved from ancient Arab land, the Jews apparently being compensated by the world for the Holocaust. And all at the expense of the people of Palestine.
He nestled the barrel of the gun between the man’s eyes. “I just made myself the invitee. Speak your knowledge.”
The man’s eyes seemed to penetrate him and, for a moment, a strange uneasiness overtook him. This emissary had clearly faced dilemmas before. Haddad admired courage.
“You fight a war that is not necessary, against an enemy that is misinformed,” the man said.
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“That’s for the next invitee to know.”
Midmorning was approaching. Haddad needed sleep. From this prisoner he’d hoped to learn the identity of some of the Jewish underground, perhaps even the monsters who’d slaughtered those people yesterday. The cursed British were supplying the Zionists with rifles and tanks. For years the British had made it illegal for Arabs to own weapons, which had placed them at a severe disadvantage. True, Arabs came with more numbers, but the Jews were better prepared, and Haddad feared the outcome of this war would be the legitimacy of the state of Israel.
He stared back at a hard, unbending expression, into eyes that never d
rifted from his, and he knew that his prisoner was prepared to die. Killing had become much easier for him over the past few months. Jewish atrocities helped ease what little of his conscience remained. Only nineteen, and his heart had turned to stone.
But war was war.
So he pulled the trigger.
ONE
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4, THE PRESENT
1:45 AM
Cotton Malone stared straight into the face of trouble. Outside his bookshop’s open front door stood his ex-wife, the last person on earth he’d expected to see. He quickly registered panic in her tired eyes, remembered the pounding that had awoken him a few minutes before, and instantly thought of his son.
“Where’s Gary?” he asked.
“You son of a bitch. They took him. Because of you. They took him.” She lunged forward, her closed fists crashing down onto his shoulders. “You sorry son of a bitch.” He grabbed her wrists and stopped the attack as she started crying. “I left you because of this. I thought this kind of thing was over.”
“Who took Gary?” More sobs were his answer. He kept hold of her arms. “Pam. Listen to me. Who took Gary?”
She stared at him. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Because they said not to. They said if I went anywhere near the police, Gary was dead. They said they would know, and I believed them.”
“Who’s they?”
She wrenched her arms free, her face flooded with anger. “I don’t know. All they said was for me to wait two days, then come here and give you this.” She rummaged through her shoulder bag and produced a phone. Tears continued to rain down her cheeks. “They said for you to go online and open your e-mail.”
Had he heard right? Go online and open your e-mail?
He flipped open the phone and checked the frequency. Enough megahertz to make it world-capable. Which made him wonder. Suddenly he felt vulnerable. Højbro Plads was quiet. At this late hour no one roamed the city square.