The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “The truth is important,” he said, more to himself than Gary.

  From the place where you are.

  “Have you heard from Dad?” Gary asked.

  He gazed at the boy and shook his head. “Not a word. He’s off looking for something quite like what surrounds us. A library. One that may hold the key to understanding these biblical words.”

  A commotion below caught his attention. The library’s door opened, and voices could be heard. One he recognized—Alfred Hermann.

  He motioned, and they retreated to where the upper shelves were broken by a window alcove. The downstairs was dimly lit by an odd assortment of lamps, the upper balcony by recessed ceiling fixtures. He signaled for Gary to be silent. The boy nodded.

  He listened.

  The other man was speaking English.

  An American.

  “This is important, Alfred. Actually, it’s beyond important. It’s vital.”

  “I’m aware of your situation,” Hermann said. “But it’s no more vital than ours.”

  “Malone is on his way to the Sinai. You said that would be okay.”

  “And it will. Can I pour you some cognac?”

  “You trying to calm me down?”

  “I’m trying to pour you some cognac.”

  He motioned for Gary to stay put while he crept from the alcove, risking a quick glance beyond the ornate iron railing. Alfred Hermann stood below, pouring from a decanter. Standing beside him was a younger man, maybe early fifties, dressed in a dark suit. His head was crowned by a thick fleece of blond hair. The face was clean-shaven, energetic, cherubic—perfect for a portrait painter or an actor.

  Which wasn’t far from the mark.

  Thorvaldsen knew this man.

  The vice president of the United States.

  SIXTY-ONE

  CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND

  Stephanie registered the president’s words. “What do you mean your traitor?”

  Daniels threw her a troubled look. “Someone in this government is messing with me. They’re advancing their own policies, furthering their own goals, thinking I’m either too lazy, too pathetic, or too dumb to know. Now, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the ringleader. My so-called loyal vice president. He’s an ambitious sucker.”

  “Mr. President—” she said.

  “Now, that’s a first, too. Mr. President. Maybe we’re making some progress in our relationship.”

  “I’ve had my reservations about you and this administration.”

  “That’s the problem with career bureaucrats. Us politicians come and go. But you people stay, and stay, and stay. Which means you have lots to compare with. Unfortunately for me, Stephanie, you’re turning out to be right on this one. I’m surrounded by traitors. My vice president wants this job so bad he can’t stand it. And to get it, he’s willing to make a deal with the devil.” Daniels paused, and she did not interrupt his thoughts. “The Order of the Golden Fleece.”

  Had she heard right?

  “He’s there. Right now. Meeting with its head. A man named Alfred Hermann.”

  She had seriously underestimated Danny Daniels. Just as she had Brent Green. Both men were quite informed. Cassiopeia rocked in her chair, but Stephanie could see she was listening closely. She’d told Cassiopeia about the Order.

  “My father was a member,” Cassiopeia said.

  That had not been mentioned earlier when they’d talked.

  “For many years he and Henrik attended together. I chose not to continue the membership after his death.”

  “Good move,” Daniels said. “That group has been linked to a number of global instabilities. And they’re good. No fingerprints anywhere. Of course, the key players usually end up dead. Like any good gang, they have an enforcement arm. A man called the Talons of the Eagle. Typical Europeans. A hired gun with a grand title. They’re the ones who took Malone’s boy.”

  “And you’re just now telling us?”

  “Yes, Stephanie, I am. One of the prerogatives of being the head of the free world is I can pretty much do what I damn well please.” He threw her a dissecting glance. “There’s a lot going on here. Happening fast. From several angles. I’ve done the best I can under the circumstances.”

  She drew him back to the point. “What’s the vice president doing with the Blue Chair?”

  “Blue Chair? Good to see you’re informed, too. I was hoping you were. The VP is selling his soul. That Order is after, of all things, the Library of Alexandria. They’re looking for proof of a theory, and though I thought the whole thing bizarre, apparently there’s more to it.”

  “What do the Israelis say?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “They don’t want anything found. Period. Leave it alone. Seems the Order has been squeezing the Saudi royal house for decades and now they’ve decided to just swirl everything up. Get the Jews and Arabs all riled. Not a bad play, actually. We’ve been known to do the same thing. But this will escalate. Fanatics are impossible to predict, whether they be Arab, Israeli—” He paused. “—or American.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Stephanie asked.

  “Let me tell you something else you don’t know. Cotton made a second call back to Green. He needed a favor. So Green approved a military airlift for Malone, his ex-wife, and a third man to, if you can believe it, the Sinai. They’re in transit now. Our guess is that this third man is the Order’s hired gun. Malone also requested an ID check from Green—which, by the way, the attorney general ignored. No inquiries at all. So we checked. The name Cotton gave was James McCollum. The description doesn’t match, but there was a guy by that name who’s ex-army, special forces, now a freelance mercenary. Seems to have the right résumé to work for the Order, wouldn’t you say?”

  “How did he get connected with Malone?” Cassiopeia said.

  Daniels shook his head. “Don’t know, but I’m glad Cotton’s the one with him. Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do to help.”

  “We could radio that transport,” Cassiopeia said.

  The president shook his head. “No way. We can’t let anyone know we’re in the loop. I want my traitors. And to get them we have to remain silent.”

  “And the finalists are,” she said, “Larry Daley and Brent Green.”

  Daniels cocked his head. “The winner of that contest gets an all-expense-paid trip straight to federal prison. After I personally kick his ass.”

  His habit of command seemed to return.

  “You two are all I have to find out the answer to the question of the day. I can’t involve any other agency for obvious reasons. I allowed all this to stay in motion so you’d have an opportunity. Stephanie, I knew you were on to Daley, but thankfully you didn’t act on him. Now we need to find the truth.”

  “You actually think the attorney general is involved?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “I have no idea. Brent plays that holier-than-thou act to perfection, and maybe he is a God-fearing Bible-toting Christian. But he’s also a man who doesn’t want to leave a position of power and influence to go be ‘of counsel’ window dressing at some Washington law firm. That’s why he stayed for the second term. Hell, everyone else jumped ship—polished up their résumés with all that juicy government experience and cashed in their contacts. Not Brent.”

  She felt she needed to say, “He told me that he leaked the Alexandria Link, looking for the traitor himself.”

  “Hell, maybe he did. I don’t know. What I do know is that my deputy national security adviser has been bribing Congress. My vice president is plotting with one of the richest men in the world. And two nations in the Middle East, which normally despise each other, are currently working together to stop a fifteen-hundred-year-old library from being found. That about sum it up, Stephanie?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. We get the picture.”

  “Then find my traitor.”

  “How do you suggest we do that?”

  He smiled at the decisive nature of her question.

  “I
’ve given that a lot of thought. Let’s have something to eat, then the two of you get some sleep. Both of you look beat. You can rest here in safety.”

  “This can’t wait till morning,” she said.

  “Has to. You know what makes good grits? Not boiling. It’s the simmering in the pot, with the lid on and the heat down low. That’s what turns rough cornmeal into heaven. Now we’re going to let this simmer for a few hours, then I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  VIENNA

  Thorvaldsen retreated toward the window alcove but kept his ears trained on the conversation below. That the American vice president was here, at Hermann’s château, raised a host of new possibilities. He quickly glanced at Gary and brought a finger to his lips, signaling for continued quiet.

  Glasses clinked below.

  “To our friendship,” Hermann said.

  “That’s what I like about you, Alfred. Loyalty. It’s in short supply these days.”

  “Perhaps your superior might feel the same way.”

  The other man chuckled. “Daniels is a fool. He has a simplistic view of life and the world.”

  “And would you say that you’re loyal?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve suffered through five years of Danny Daniels. Did exactly what he wanted. Smiled. Defended him. Took some heat for him. But I can’t take it anymore. Americans can’t take it anymore.”

  “I hope that time wasn’t wasted.”

  “I’ve spent the years building coalitions. Making friends. Appeasing enemies. I have everything I need—”

  “Except money.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I have ample commitments to get things rolling. My Arab friends are being quite generous.”

  “The Order, too, is appreciative of those who show it support. Your president has not been friendly to world business. He seems to like tariffs, trade restrictions, open banking.”

  “Which is a whole other problem. I assure you, there are many in Washington who feel differently from Daniels.”

  Sounds from below indicated that the two men were sitting down. Thorvaldsen crept close to the railing. Hermann sat in a chair, the vice president on one of the settees. Both men held drinks.

  “Israel is trying to find out what’s happening,” the vice president said. “They know the link is exposed.”

  “I’ve been informed,” Hermann said. “I have an associate, as we speak, dealing with that.”

  “My chief of staff told me that an Israeli surveillance team is missing in Germany and one of their Foreign Office officials was found dead in Rothenburg, suspected of selling information. An assassination squad has been sent to London. Strangely, Tel Aviv actually wanted us to know that.”

  “Again, my friend, I’m aware.”

  “Then you surely know that one of our former agents, Cotton Malone, is on his way to the Sinai with, of all people, his ex-wife and another man.”

  Silence came in response.

  “We were curious,” the vice president said. “So the other man’s fingerprints were obtained from a railing he touched while boarding the military plane in Lisbon. He’s an American. James McCollum. You know him?”

  “His alias is Dominick Sabre. He works for us.”

  “And because you’re my friend, Alfred, I’m going to respectfully say that you’re full of shit. I saw it in your eyes. You didn’t know your man was headed to the Sinai.”

  Another pause.

  “He’s not required to keep me informed. Results are all that matter.”

  “So tell me. What’s he doing with Cotton Malone, and is he going to find that library?”

  “You said the Sinai. They’re certainly in a location for that to be possible. Near enough to Alexandria to make transport of the manuscripts in ancient times possible, but also isolated. Trade routes existed there before and after the time of Christ. Pharaohs mined the land for copper and turquoise. Egypt knew the Sinai well.”

  “You know your history.”

  “Knowledge is a good thing. Especially here.”

  “Alfred, this is not some intellectual exercise, I’m trying to fundamentally change American foreign policy. Daniels and I have fought over this. Now I can do something about it. It’s time we show the Arabs the same consideration we’ve always given Israel. And like you with the hired help, I, too, am only interested in results. You and your cohorts want to profit. I want to be in charge.”

  “And we want you to have the job.”

  “Then tell me, Alfred. When does the president of the United States die?”

  Spindly fingers tickled Thorvaldsen’s crooked spine as the vice president’s words sank in.

  “You seem to be warming to the idea,” Hermann said.

  “You’ve convinced me.”

  “And it’s arranged,” Hermann said. “Daniels’s unannounced trip to Kabul will come to a spectacular end.”

  “Once he’s in the air,” the vice president said, “I’ll have everything confirmed through the means we discussed. As of now, he leaves next Thursday. Only four people know. Him, me, and our chiefs of staff. Even the Afghan president doesn’t know he’s coming. He’ll be told right before they land. The whole thing is a PR stunt by the White House communications people. Prop up the poll numbers with a rousing trip to the troops.”

  “The missiles are already there,” Hermann said. “The deal was made with one of bin Laden’s main deputies. He was most appreciative. This will be their first significant strike at America in several years. We’ve dealt with these devils before, always at arm’s length and with caution, but successfully.”

  “I still have my concerns. Arabs killing Daniels. But my friends in Arabia tell me most of them are sick of bin Laden, too. They’d love to take him out. His antics make changing world opinion infinitely more difficult. They just can’t link up with us so long as it’s ‘Israel’s way or no way.’ But with Daniels gone and a change in policy made clear, they’ll join with us in getting bin Laden.”

  “My Political Committee thinks the Arabs will be more than negotiable.”

  “They know about this?” the vice president asked, surprise in his voice.

  “Of course not. They simply explore scenarios—with a change in American foreign policy being one. We’ve long wanted that to happen.”

  “Now, Alfred, you know what’s on my mind?”

  Hermann chuckled. “There’s no trail. The emissaries used to negotiate the deal with bin Laden will be sent to Allah next week. That associate you mentioned will handle the matter personally. Nothing will link anybody.”

  “Lot of trust you place in that man,” the vice president said.

  “He’s never disappointed us.”

  “It’s imperative he doesn’t start now. I’ll be in Chicago the day Daniels leaves. The White House announces nothing. It’s like the president is in Washington, working, and the next thing you know he’s on the news in Afghanistan. Then they hide me until he gets back. Standard post-9/11 procedure.”

  “What will you do after the plane is brought down?” Hermann asked.

  “Take the oath and govern for the next three years. Then I’ll run, get four more, and walk away.”

  “I want you to understand that if we are successful in locating the lost library, then what we have planned will immediately start.”

  “Damn right. Sooner the better. I need Israel and the Arabs kept off base. I’ll stroke them—you’ll smack them. The Saudis will have to deal. They can’t afford for their country to implode. And I want oil prices down just as badly as you do. A few dollars a barrel changes our GNP by billions. I’ll be mobilizing America to retaliate for Daniels’s death. No one will fight me on that one. The whole world will join us. The Arabs will be dangling, begging for friends. That’s when they’ll climb aboard and we all win.”

  “My Political Committee believes there could be widespread destabilization.”

  “Who cares? My poll numbers will be through the roof. Nothing energizes Ame
ricans more than a rally around the flag. And I plan to lead one for the next seven years. Arabs are dealers. They’ll see that the time for cooperation has come, especially if it hurts Israel.”

  “You seem to have thought this through.”

  “I’ve thought of little else the past few months. I’ve tried to get Daniels to shift, but he won’t bend when it comes to Israel. That damn nation the size of some American counties will be the ruin of all of us. And I don’t plan to let that happen.”

  “The next time we meet,” Hermann said, “you’ll be president of the United States.”

  “Alfred, besides the terrorists who’ll actually do it, you and I are the only two people on this planet that know what’s coming. I made sure of that.”

  “As have I.”

  “So let’s make it happen and both enjoy the reward.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  Hermann tried to gauge the man sitting across from him. He was indeed the vice president of the United States, but he was no different from the myriad of other politicos he’d bought and sold from around the world, men and women eager for power and lacking in conscience. The Americans liked to portray themselves as above that type of reproach, but ambition was irresistible to anyone who’d tasted its potential. The man here, in his library, on the night of the winter Assembly, was no exception. He talked of lofty political goals and shifts in foreign policy, but he’d been willing from the start to betray his country, his president, and himself.

  Thank heaven.

  The Order of the Golden Fleece thrived off the moral deficiencies of others.

  “Alfred,” the vice president was saying. “Level with me. Is it really possible there’s evidence Israel has no biblical claim to the Holy Land?”

  “Of course. The Old Testament was a major source of study at the Library of Alexandria. The emerging New Testament, toward the end of the library’s existence, also was analyzed in detail. We know that from surviving manuscripts. It’s reasonable to assume that both texts and analyses of the Bible, in its original Old Hebrew, still exist.”

  He recalled what Sabre had reported from Rothenburg. Three others had been killed by Israel. Each visited by a Guardian. Each involved in Old Testament study. Haddad himself had received an invitation. Why else had he been extended such an honor? And why had Israel moved to kill the Palestinian?