by Steve Berry
“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 long ago not to waste emotion on things he could not change.
He slackened his pace and yanked Pam alongside him. “We need to stay back. He isn’t paying attention, but he could still spot us.”
They crossed the street and clung to an attractive row of buildings that fronted a narrow walk facing the sea. The shooter was a hundred feet ahead. Malone watched as he turned a corner.
They reached the same corner and peered around. The man was plowing ahead down a pedestrian-only lane lined with shops and restaurants. A clutter of people milled about, so he decided to risk it.
They followed.
“What are we doing?” Pam asked.
“The only thing we can do.”
“Why don’t you just give them what they want?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.”
He kept his gaze ahead. “Thanks for the advice.”
“You’re an ass.”
“I love you, too. Now that we’ve established that, let’s focus on what we’re doing.”
Their objective turned right and disappeared.
Malone hustled forward, glanced around the corner, and saw the shooter approach a dirty Volvo coupe. He hoped he wasn’t leaving. No way to follow. Their car was a long way off. He watched as the man opened the driver’s-side door and tossed something inside. Then he closed the door and started back their way.
They ducked into a clothing shop just as the shooter passed in front, heading back in the direction from which they’d come. Malone crept to the door and watched the man enter a café.
“What’s he doing?” Pam asked.
“Waiting for the commotion to die down. Don’t force the issue. Just sit tight, blend in. Leave later.”
“That’s nuts. He killed a man.”
“And only we know that.”
“Why kill him at all?”
“To rattle our nerves. Silence any information flow. Lots of reasons.”
“This is a sick business.”
“Why do you think I got out?” He decided to use the interlude to his advantage. “Go get the car and bring it around to over there.” He pointed through an alley at the seaside train station. “Park and wait for me. When he leaves, he’s going to have to go that way. It’s the only route out of town.”
He passed her the keys and, for an instant, memories of other times he’d handed her car keys rattled through his brain. He thought of years past. Knowing she and Gary were waiting at home, after an assignment, had always brought him a measure of comfort. And as much as neither of them wanted to admit it, they’d once been good for each other. He remembered her smile, her touch. Unfortunately, her deceit about Gary now colored all that pleasantness with suspicion. Made him wonder. Question whether their life together had all been an illusion.
She seemed to sense his thoughts and her gaze softened, like the Pam before bad things changed them both. So he said, “I’ll find Gary. I swear to you. He’ll be all right.”
He actually wanted her to respond, but she said nothing.
And her silence stung.
So he walked away.
TWELVE
OXFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
10:30 AM
George Haddad entered Bainbridge Hall. For the past three years he’d been a frequent visitor, ever since he’d convinced himself that the answer to his dilemma lay within these walls.
The house was a masterpiece of marble pavings, Mortlake tapestries, and richly colored decorations. The grand staircase, with elaborately carved floral panels, dated from the time of Charles II. The plaster ceilings from the 1660s. The furnishings and paintings were all eighteenth and nineteenth century. Everything a showpiece of English country style.
But it was also much more.
A puzzle.
Just like the white arbor monument in the garden where members of the press were still gathered, listening to the so-called experts. Just like Thomas Bainbridge himself, the unknown English earl who’d lived in the latter part of the eighteenth century.
Haddad knew the family history.
Bainbridge had been born to the world of privilege and high expectations. His father had served as the squire of Oxfordshire. Though his position in society had been fixed by generational affluence and family tradition, Thomas Bainbridge shunned the traditional military service and turned his attention to academics—mainly history, languages, and archaeology. When his father died, he inherited the earldom and spent decades traveling the world, being one of the first Westerners to intimately explore Egypt, the Holy Land, and Arabia, documenting his experiences in a series of published journals.
He taught himself Old Hebrew, the language in which the Old Testament had originally been written. Quite an accomplishment considering that the dialect was mainly vocal and consonantal, and had disappeared from common usage around the sixth century before Christ. He wrote a book published in 1767 that challenged the known translations of the Old Testament, calling into question much of his age’s conventional wisdom, then spent the latter part of his life defending his theories, dying bitter and broken, the family fortune gone.
Haddad knew the text well, having studied every page in detail. He could relate to Bainbridge’s troubles. He, too, had challenged conventional wisdom with disastrous consequences.
He enjoyed visiting the house but, sadly, most of the original furnishings had been long ago lost to creditors, including Bainbridge’s impressive library. Only in the past fifty years had some of the furniture been found. The vast majority of the books remained missing, drifting from collectors, to vendors, to the trash, which seemed the fate of much of humanity’s recorded knowledge. Yet Haddad had been able to locate a few volumes, spending time rummaging through the myriad of rare-book shops that dotted London.
And on the Internet.
What an amazing treasure. What they could have done in Palestine sixty years ago with that instant information network.
Lately he’d thought a lot about 1948.
When he’d toted a rifle and killed Jews during the nakba. The arrogance of the current generation always amazed him, considering the sacrifices made by their predecessors. Eight hundred thousand Arabs were driven into exile. He’d been nineteen, fighting in the Palestinian resistance—one of its field leaders—but it had all been fruitless. The Zionists prevailed. The Arabs were defeated. Palestinians became outcasts.
But the memory remained.
Haddad had tried to forget. He truly wanted to forget. Killing, though, came with consequences. And for him it had been a lifetime of regret. He became an academician, abandoned violence, and converted to Christianity, but none of that rid him of the pain. He could still see the dead faces. Especially one. The man who called himself the Guardian.
You fight a war that is not necessary. Against an enemy that is misinformed.
Those words had been burned into his memory that day in April 1948, and their impact eventually change
d him forever.
We’re keepers of knowledge. From the library.
That observation had charted the course of his life.
He kept strolling through the house, taking in the busts and paintings, the carvings, the grotesque gilding, and the enigmatic mottoes. Walking against a current of new arrivals, he eventually entered the drawing room, where all the antique gravity of a college library blended with a feminine grace and wit. He focused on the shelving, which had once displayed the varied learning of many ages. And the paintings, which recalled people who had privately shaped the course of history.
Thomas Bainbridge had been an invitee, just like Haddad’s father. Yet the Guardian had arrived in Palestine two weeks too late to pass on the invitation, and a bullet from Haddad’s gun had silenced the messenger.
He winced at the memory.
The impetuousness of youth.
Sixty years had passed, and he now viewed the world through more patient eyes. If only those same eyes had stared back at the Guardian in April 1948, he might have found what he sought sooner.
Or maybe not.
It seemed the invitation must be earned.
But how?
His gaze raked the room.
The answer was here.
THIRTEEN
WASHINGTON, DC
5:45 AM
Stephanie watched as Larry Daley collapsed into one of the club chairs in Brent Green’s study. True to his word, the deputy national security adviser had arrived within half an hour.
“Nice place,” Daley said to Green.
“It’s home.”
“You’re always a man of few syllables, aren’t you?”
“Words, like friends, should be chosen with care.”
Daley’s amicable smile disappeared. “I was hoping we wouldn’t be at each other’s throats so soon.”
Stephanie was anxious. “Make this visit worth our while, like you said on the phone.”
Daley’s hands gripped the overstuffed armrests. “I’m hoping you two will be reasonable.”
“That all depends,” she said.
Daley ran a hand through his short gray hair. His good looks projected a boyish sincerity, one that could easily disarm, so she cautioned herself to stay focused.
“I assume you’re still not going to tell us what the link is?” she asked.
“Don’t really want to be indicted for violating the National Security Act.”
“Since when did breaking laws bother you?”
“Since now.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“How much do you know?” Daley asked. “And don’t tell me that you don’t know anything, because I’d be really disappointed in you both.”
Green repeated the little bit he’d already related about George Haddad.
Daley nodded. “The Israelis went nuts over Haddad. Then the Saudis entered the picture. That one shocked us. They usually don’t care about anything biblical or historical.”
“So I sent Malone into that quagmire five years ago blind?” she asked.
“Which is, I believe, in your job description.”
She recalled how the situation had deteriorated. “What about the bombing?”
“That was when the shit hit the fan.”
A car bomb had obliterated a Jerusalem café with Haddad and Malone inside.
“That blast was meant for Haddad,” Daley said. “Of course, since this was a blind mission, Malone didn’t know that. But he did manage to get the man out in one piece.”
“Lucky us,” Green noted with sarcasm.
“Don’t give me that crap. We didn’t kill anybody. The last thing we wanted was for Haddad to die.”
Her anger was rising. “You placed Malone’s life at risk.”
“He’s a pro. Goes with the territory.”
“I don’t send my agents on suicide missions.”
“Get real, Stephanie. The problem with the Middle East is the left hand never knows what the right is doing. What happened is typical. Palestinian militants just chose the wrong café.”
“Or maybe not,” Green said. “Perhaps the Israelis or the Saudis chose the right one?”
Daley smiled. “You’re getting good at this. That’s exactly why we agreed to Haddad’s terms.”
“So tell us why it’s necessary for the American government to find the lost Library of Alexandria?”
Daley applauded softly. “Bravo. Well done, Brent. I figured if your sources knew about Haddad, they’d deliver that tidbit, too.”
“Answer his question,” Stephanie said.
“Important stuff is sometimes kept in the strangest places.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all you’re going to get.”
“You’re in league with whatever is happening over there,” she declared.
“No, I’m not. But I won’t deny there are others within the administration who are interested in using this as the quickest route to solving a problem.”
“The problem being?” Green asked.
“Israel. Bunch of arrogant idealists who won’t listen to a word anybody says. Yet at the drop of a hat they’ll send tanks or gunships to annihilate anyone and anything, all in the name of security. What happened a few months ago? They started shelling the Gaza Strip, one of their shells goes astray, and an entire family having a picnic on the beach is killed. What do they say? Sorry. Too bad.” Daley shook his head. “Just show a shred of flexibility, an ounce of compromise, and things could be achieved. No. It’s their way or no way.”
Stephanie knew that, of late, the Arab world had been far more accommodating than Israel—surely a result of Iraq, where American resolve was demonstrated firsthand. Worldwide sympathy for the Palestinians had steadily grown, fed by a change of leadership, a moderation in militant policies, and the foolishness of Israeli hard-liners. She recalled from the news reports the lone survivor of that family on the beach, a young girl, wailing at the sight of her dead father. Powerful. But she wondered what realistically could be done. “How do they plan to do anything about Israel?” Then the answer came to her. “You need the link to do that?”
Daley said nothing.
“Malone is the only one who knows where it is,” she made clear.
“A problem. But not insurmountable.”
“You wanted Malone to act. You just didn’t know how to get him to do it.”
“I won’t deny that this is something of an opportunity.”
“You son of a bitch,” she spat out.
“Look, Stephanie. Haddad wanted to disappear. He trusted Malone. The Israelis, the Saudis, and even the Palestinians all thought Haddad died in the blast. So we did what the man wanted, then backed off the whole idea, moved on to other things. But now everyone’s interest is piqued again and we want Haddad.”
She wasn’t going to allow him any satisfaction. “And what about whoever else may be after him?”
“I’ll handle them as any politician would.”
Green’s countenance darkened with anger. “You’re going to make a deal?”
“It’s the way of the world.”
She had to learn more. “What could possibly be found in two-thousand-year-old documents? And that’s assuming the manuscripts survived, which is unlikely.”
Daley cast her a sideways glance. She realized that he’d come to keep her and Green from interfering—so maybe he’d throw them a bone.
“The Septuagint.”
She found it hard to conceal her puzzlement.
“I’m no expert,” Daley said, “but from what I’ve been told, a couple of hundred years before Christ, scholars at the Library of Alexandria translated the Hebrew Scriptures, our Old Testament, into Greek. A big deal for the day. That translation is all we know of the original Hebrew text, since it’s gone. Haddad claimed that the translation, and all the others that followed, were fundamentally flawed. He said the errors changed everything, and he could prove it.”
“So what?”
she asked. “How would that change anything?”
“That, I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“In this instance, they’re the same thing.”
“He has remembered His covenant forever,” Green whispered, “the word which He commanded to a thousand generations, the covenant which He made with Abraham, and His oath to Isaac. Then He confirmed it to Jacob for a statute, to Israel as an everlasting covenant, saying, ‘To you I will give the land of Canaan as the portion of your inheritance.’”
She saw that the words genuinely moved the man.
“An important promise,” Green said. “One of many in the Old Testament.”
“So you see our interest?”
Green nodded. “I see the point, but I question its ability to be proven.”
She didn’t grasp that, either, but wanted to know, “What are you doing, Larry? Chasing phantoms? This is crazy.”
“I assure you, it’s not.”
The implications quickly became real. Malone had been right to chastise her. She should have immediately told him about the breach. And now his son was in jeopardy, thanks to the U.S. government, which apparently was willing to sacrifice the boy.
“Stephanie,” Daley said, “I know that look. What are you planning?”
No way she was telling this demon anything. So she drank the dregs of humiliation, smiled, and said, “Precisely what you want, Larry. Absolutely nothing.”
FOURTEEN
COPENHAGEN
12:15 PM
Dominick Sabre knew that the next hour would be critical. He’d already watched on the Copenhagen television stations as the shooting at Kronborg Slot was reported. Which meant Malone and his ex-wife were now on the move. He’d finally heard from the man he’d dispatched to the castle and was glad he’d followed orders.
He checked his watch, then stepped from the front parlor to the back bedroom where Gary Malone was being held. They’d managed to take the boy at school, using official credentials and tough talk, all supposedly in the name of the U.S. government. Within two hours they’d left Atlanta on a charter flight. Pam Malone was approached while they were en route and told precisely what to do. All reports painted her as a difficult woman, but a photo and thoughts of harm coming to her son had ensured that she’d do exactly what they wanted.