by Steve Berry
They followed Straw Hat.
Other than the flute player, Malone had seen no one, though the complex was clean and orderly. Sunbeams battled with curtains in the windows, but he spotted no movement beyond the panes. Terraced vegetable beds loaded with tomatoes stood hearty. One thing caught his attention. Solar panels discreetly fastened to the roofs and a number of dish antennae, each hidden behind either wooden or stone awnings that seemed to be parts of the buildings—like Disney World, Malone thought, where necessities went unnoticed in plain sight.
Straw Hat stopped before a wooden door and opened its lock with an oversized brass key. They entered a refectory, the cavernous dining hall decorated with religious murals of Moses. The air smelled of sausage and sour cabbage. Ceiling boards alternated between chocolate and butter yellow, interrupted by a diamond-shaped panel of powder blue dotted with gold stars.
“Your journey was surely long,” Straw Hat said. “We have food and drink.”
On one of the tables lay a tray of sand-brown loaves and bowls of tomatoes, onions, and oil. Dates were piled in another bowl. Still another held three huge pomegranates. A kettle emitted steam and he smelled tea.
“That’s kind of you,” Malone said.
“Real kind,” McCollum added. “But we’d like to see the library.”
The bony face betrayed the young man’s testiness, but only for an instant. “We prefer you to eat and rest. Also, you may want to clean yourselves before entering.”
McCollum stepped forward. “We’ve completed your quest. We’d like to see the library.”
“Actually, Mr. Haddad has completed his quest and has earned entry. There was no invitation extended to you or the woman.” Straw Hat faced Malone. “By involving these two, your invitation would normally be voided.”
“Then why am I here?”
“An exception has been made.”
“How do you know who I am?”
“You knew the route of your quest.”
Straw Hat offered no more and left the dining hall, closing the door behind him.
They stood in silence.
Finally Pam said, “I’m hungry.”
Malone was, too. He laid his rucksack on the table. “Then let’s accept their hospitality.”
SEVENTY-THREE
MARYLAND
Stephanie and Cassiopeia rushed from the restaurant. Nothing could be done for Larry Daley. His vehicle was a charred mass, still burning. The explosion had been confined to the car, doing little damage to any of the other vehicles.
A targeted strike.
“We need to go,” Cassiopeia said.
She agreed.
They hustled to the Suburban and jumped in, Stephanie behind the wheel. She inserted the key, but hesitated and asked, “What do you think?”
“Unless the president wired this car with a bomb, we’re okay. No one went near it while we were in there.”
She turned the key. The engine roared to life. She drove away just as a police car rounded a corner and wheeled into the parking lot.
“What did he tell you?” Cassiopeia asked.
She summarized the conversation. “I thought he was full of crap. Conspiracies to kill Daniels. But now—”
An ambulance raced past them in the other lane.
“No need for them to be in a hurry,” she said. “He never knew what hit him.”
“A bit dramatic,” Cassiopeia said. “There are a lot quieter ways to kill him.”
“Unless you want attention drawn to the fact. The deputy national security adviser being car-bombed? It’s going to be a big deal.”
She was driving slow, keeping well below the speed limit, working her way out of town and back to the highway. She stopped at an intersection and turned south.
“Where to now?” Cassiopeia asked.
“We need to find Green.”
Five miles and a car appeared in her rearview mirror, closing fast. She expected it to pass and speed down the nearly empty two-lane highway. Instead the gray Ford coupe eased up close to the Suburban’s bumper. She spotted two figures in the front seats.
“We’ve got company.”
They were moving at sixty miles an hour, the road twisty through wooded countryside. Only a few farmhouses disturbed the fields and forest.
A gun appeared out of the front passenger-side window. A pop and the bullet pinged off the rear windshield but did not shatter the glass.
“God bless the Secret Service,” she said. “Bulletproof.”
“But the tires aren’t.”
Cassiopeia was right. She increased their speed and the Ford kept pace. She yanked the wheel left and swerved into the oncoming lane, slowing, allowing the Ford to pass. As it did, the man fired into the side of the Suburban, but the shots ricocheted off.
“We’ve got armor plating, too,” Cassiopeia said.
“Gotta love a tank. Any idea who they are?”
“The one shooting chased us on the mall the other day. So I’d say the Saudis have found us.”
“They must have been on Daley and we turned up.”
“Lucky us.”
She whipped the Suburban back into the southbound lane, now tailing the Ford. Cassiopeia lowered her window and shattered the lead car’s rear window with two shots. The Ford tried a similar maneuver, changing road sides, but had to return to the southbound lane to avoid an approaching truck. Cassiopeia took advantage of the moment and sent another bullet into the rear window.
The passenger in the Ford aimed his gun out the rear, but Cassiopeia discouraged him from firing with another shot.
“We have more problems,” Stephanie said. “Behind us. Another car.”
The other vehicle sat tight on their rear bumper. Two men inside, as well. She kept speeding forward—to stop would place them at the mercy of four armed men.
Cassiopeia seemed to assess the situation and made a decision. “I’m going to take out the tires on the one ahead of us. Then we’ll see about the one behind.”
A pop came from outside, then a bang.
Stephanie felt the right rear of the SUV swerve and instantly realized what had happened. Their own tire had been shot. She pounded the brake and kept the vehicle under control.
Another pop and the left rear jolted.
She knew that ordinary rounds did not explode tires. But they were losing air and she had only a couple of minutes before they’d be riding on rims. She kept the car planing, which should buy them another mile or so.
Cassiopeia handed her a gun and changed the magazine in her weapon. They could initially use the Suburban’s defenses to shield them. After that, it would be a shootout, and the early hour and rural location offered far too much privacy to their attackers.
The rear end settled to the road and a loud clunk told her the trip was over.
She stopped the Suburban and gripped the gun.
The lead Ford skidded onto the shoulder.
The vehicle behind them did the same.
Armed men rolled from both cars.
Malone finished off the pomegranate, one of his favorite fruits, and swallowed another cup of the bitter tea. They’d been left alone about forty-five minutes, though he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. He spied the surroundings carefully, trying to decide if the room was wired for video. The tables all stood empty, as did a sideboard against one wall. He imagined a mild clatter of plates, the polite scraping of forks, and chatter in several languages that surely accompanied every meal. A door at the far end stood closed, one he assumed led to the kitchen. The refectory itself was cool—thanks, he reasoned, to thick stone walls.
The exterior door opened and Straw Hat entered.
Malone noticed that every action by the young man seemed conducted in the manner of a servant, as if he contemplated only one thought at a time.
“Mr. Haddad, are you ready to enter the library?”
Malone nodded. “Belly’s full and I’m all rested.”
“Then we can go.�
�
McCollum sprang from his chair. Malone had been waiting to see what he’d do. “Mind if we visit a bathroom first?”
Straw Hat nodded at the request. “I can take you. But then you’re to return here. Mr. Haddad is the invitee.”
McCollum waved the proviso off. “Fine. Just take me to the bathroom.”
Straw Hat asked, “Mr. Haddad, do you require use of the facilities?”
Malone shook his head. “You a Guardian?”
“I am.”
He studied Straw Hat’s young face. The skin was extraordinarily smooth, the cheekbones high, his oval eyes casting an Oriental appearance. “How can you handle this place with so few people? We only saw one coming in.”
“There’s never been a problem.”
“What about intruders?” McCollum asked.
“Mr. Haddad is a learned man. We have nothing to fear.”
Malone let it go. “Take him to the bathroom. We’ll wait here.”
The Guardian turned to Pam.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“We shall return shortly.”
Stephanie braced herself for a fight. Somebody had killed Larry Daley and now they wanted her. She was angry that Cassiopeia had been drawn into the fray, but that was a choice her friend had freely made. And she saw no fear, no regret, just determination in Cassiopeia’s eyes.
The four men advanced on the Suburban.
“You take the two in front,” Cassiopeia said. “I’ll deal with the two behind.”
She nodded.
They both prepared to open their doors and fire. Made more sense than just sitting and allowing the men to attack at will. Perhaps a moment of surprise might give them an advantage. She’d use the door and window as a shield for as long as she could.
A thumping sound grew in intensity and the car began to vibrate.
Stephanie saw the two in front scatter as a rush of wind swept over the vehicle and a helicopter glided into view.
Then a car appeared and squealed to a stop.
She heard a rapid bang of gunfire.
The bodies of the two gunmen in front twirled like tops. She glanced in the rearview mirror. The rear car was trying to leave. One of the gunmen lay dead on the highway.
The car wheeled around.
The helicopter hung fifty feet in the air.
A side door opened and a man with a rifle appeared. The helicopter paralleled the escaping car and she saw, but could not hear, shots. The car veered sharply left and crashed into a tree.
The two men in front lay bleeding on the pavement.
She opened the Suburban’s door.
“Everyone okay there?” a male voice said.
She turned to see the Secret Service agent from the museum standing by the other parked car.
“Yeah. We’re all right.”
Her cell phone was ringing from inside the Suburban. She grabbed the unit and answered.
“Thought you might need some help,” Daniels said.
Sabre followed the Guardian outside and through the warren of quiet buildings. The sun cast long shadows past the rooflines and across the uneven street. A ghost town, he thought. Dead, yet alive.
He was taken to another building where, inside, he found a bathroom floored in lead. A tin container suspended from the ceiling fed the toilet with water. He decided the time was now, so he brought out the gun from the monastery, stepped from the toilet, and jammed the barrel into the younger man’s face.
“To the library.”
“You’re not the invitee.”
He made clear, “How about this? I shoot you in the head and find it myself.”
The other man seemed more puzzled than frightened.
“Follow me.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
VIENNA
Hermann quickly learned that Thorvaldsen had walked to the schmetterlinghaus. His chief of the guard, a burly man with deep olive skin and an eager personality, followed him as he headed that way, too. He did not want to attract attention, so he kept his gait measured, smiling and casually greeting members who milled about in the rose garden near the house.
He liked where Thorvaldsen had gone. The building was far enough away that he could deal with his problem in privacy.
And that was exactly what he needed.
Through the plants and glass walls, Thorvaldsen saw his host coming. He noticed the determined stride and purposeful manner. He also recognized the chief of the guard.
“Gary, Mr. Hermann is on his way. I want you to retreat to the far side and stay among the plants. He’ll likely be in an ill humor and I have to deal with him. I don’t want you involved until I call for you. Can you do that for me?”
The boy nodded.
“Off with you, and stay quiet.”
The boy scampered down a path that cleaved a trail through the transplanted rain forest and disappeared into the foliage.
Hermann stopped outside. “Wait here,” he said to the chief of the guard. “I don’t want to be disturbed. Make sure.”
He then swung open the wooden door and pushed through the leather curtain. Butterflies flew in silent zigzags across the warm air. Their musical accompaniment had not, as yet, been switched on. Thorvaldsen sat in one of the chairs he and Sabre had occupied a couple of days ago. He immediately saw the letters and removed the gun from his pocket.
“You have my property,” he said in a firm tone.
“That I do. And you apparently want it back.”
“This is no longer amusing, Henrik.”
“I have your daughter.”
“I’ve decided I can live without her.”
“I’m sure you can. I wonder if she realizes.”
“At least I still possess an heir.”
The jab cut deep. “You feel better saying that?”
“Much. But as you aptly noted, Margarete will likely be the ruin of this family once I’m gone.”
“Perhaps she takes after her mother? As I recall, she was an emotional woman, too.”
“In many ways. But I will not have Margarete standing in the way of our success. If you intend to harm her, do it. I want my property back.”
Thorvaldsen motioned with the letters. “I assume you’ve read these?”
“Many times.”
“You’ve always spoken decisively when it comes to the Bible. Your criticisms were pointed and, I have to say, well reasoned.” Thorvaldsen paused. “I’ve been thinking. There are two billion Christians, a little more than a billion Muslims, and about fifteen million Jews. And the words on these pages will anger them all.”
“That’s the flaw of religion. No respect for truth. None of them cares what’s real, only what they can pass off as reality.”
Thorvaldsen shrugged. “The Christians will have to face the fact that their Bible, both New and Old, is manufactured. The Jews will learn that the Old Testament is a record of their ancestors from a place other than Palestine. And Muslims will come to know that their sacred ground, the holiest of places, was originally a Jewish homeland.”
“I don’t have time for this, Henrik. Give me the letters, then my chief of the guard will escort you from the estate.”
“And how will that be explained to the members?”
“You’ve been called back to Denmark. Business emergency.” He glanced around. “Where’s Malone’s son?”
Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Entertaining himself somewhere on the estate. I told him to stay out of trouble.”
“You should have taken that advice yourself. I know of your ties to Israel, and I assume you’ve already informed them of what we’re planning. But as I’m sure you’ve been told, they know we’re after the Library of Alexandria, just as they are. They’ve tried to stop us but have so far been unsuccessful. By now it’s too late.”
“You have a lot of faith in your employee. He might disappoint you.”
Hermann could not voice his own uncertainty. Instead he boldly declared, “Never.”
Malone stood fr
om the table and withdrew his gun from the rucksack.
“I was wondering how long you were going to sit here,” Pam said.
“Long enough to know that our friend isn’t coming back.”
He shouldered the pack and opened the outside door. No hum of voices. No click of hooves. No flute. The compound seemed at once sacred and eerie.
Bells pealed, signaling three pm.
He led the way through a variety of buildings, each with the tint and texture of dead leaves. A tower, the color of putty, stood solemnly, topped by a convex roof. The street’s unevenness revealed its age. The only sign of habitation came from clothes—underwear, socks, trousers—hanging to dry from a balcony.
Around a corner he spotted McCollum and Straw Hat, a hundred feet away, traversing a small square with a fountain. The monastery obviously had access to a well, as water didn’t seem a problem. Neither did power, considering the number of solar panels and satellite dishes.
McCollum held a gun to Straw Hat’s head.
“Good to know we were right about our partner,” he whispered.
“Guess he wants a first look.”
“Now, that is downright rude. Shall we?”
SABRE KEPT HIS GUN LEVELED AT THE BACK OF THE GUARDIAN’S head. They passed more buildings and headed deeper into the complex, near a point where the human-made met the natural.
He loathed the unholy calm.
An unassuming church washed primrose yellow nestled close to the rock face. Inside, the vaulted nave was naturally lit and crowded with icons, triptychs, and frescoes. A forest of silver and gold chandeliers hung above a richly detailed mosaic floor. The opulence stood in stark contrast with the simple exterior.
“This isn’t a library,” he said.
A man appeared at the altar. He, too, was olive-skinned, but short with ash-white hair. And older. Maybe seventies.
“Welcome,” the man said. “I’m the Librarian.”