The Alexandria Link

by Steve Berry

  He’d hoped that somehow Malone would get the best of his hired help. That was the idea. And the opportunity came once he’d spotted Pam Malone heading for the house. He’d radioed his minion and told him how to use her carelessness to make the point even clearer to Malone, bribing the man to shoot the other with a pledge of a bonus.

  Thankfully, Malone had ensured that the payment would never be made.

  Which also meant there was no one left alive to connect Sabre to anything.

  Even better, Malone had his son back, which should calm his enemy’s most dangerous instincts.

  But that didn’t mean this endeavor was over.

  Not at all.

  In fact, only now could it finally begin.

  SEVENTEEN

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 5

  VIENNA, AUSTRIA

  1:30 PM

  SABRE BRAKED AT THE GATE AND WOUND DOWN THE DRIVER’S-SIDE window. He displayed no identification, but the guard immediately waved him through. The sprawling château stood thirty miles southwest of downtown among forests known as the Vienna Woods. Three centuries old and built by aristocracy, its mustard-colored walls of baroque splendor encased seventy-five spacious rooms, all topped by steep gables of Alpine slate.

  A bright sun poured past the Audi’s hazy windshield, and Sabre noted that the asphalt drive and side parking lots were all empty. Only the guards at the front gate and a few groundskeepers tending the walkways disturbed the otherwise tranquil scene.

  Apparently this was to be a private discussion.

  He parked beneath a porte cochere and climbed out into a balmy afternoon. Immediately he buttoned his Burberry jacket and followed a pebbled path to the schmetterlinghaus, an iron-and-glass enclave a hundred yards south of the main château. Painted an unadorned green, its walls lined with hundreds of panels of Hungarian glass, the imposing nineteenth-century structure easily blended into the forested surroundings. Inside, its fortified indigenous soil supported a variety of exotic plants, but the building took its name—schmetterling—from the thousands of butterflies roaming free.

  He jerked open a rickety wooden door and stepped into a dirt foyer. A leather curtain kept hot, humid air inside.

  He pushed through.

  Butterflies danced through the air to the accompaniment of soft instrumental music. Bach, if he wasn’t mistaken. Many of the plants were in bloom, the tranquil scene a stunning contrast with the stark images of autumn outlined through the moisture-dotted glass.

  The building’s owner, the Blue Chair, sat among the foliage. He possessed the face of a man who’d worked too much, slept too little, and cared nothing about nutrition. The old man wore a tweed suit atop a cardigan sweater. Which had to be uncomfortable, Sabre thought. Yet, he silently noted, cold-blooded creatures needed lots of warmth.

  He slipped off his jacket and approached an empty wooden chair.

  “Guten morgen, Herr Sabre.”

  He sat and acknowledged the greeting. Apparently German would be their language of the day.

  “Plants, Dominick. I’ve never asked, but how much do you know about them?”

  “Only that they produce oxygen from carbon dioxide.”

  The old man smiled. “Wouldn’t you say they do so much more? What about color, warmth, beauty?”

  He glanced at the transplanted rain forest, watched the butterflies, and listened to the peaceful music. He cared nothing about soothing aesthetics but knew better than to express that opinion, so he simply said, “They have their place.”

  “You know much about butterflies?”

  A china plate smeared with blackened banana rested in the old man’s lap. Insects sporting wings of sapphire, crimson, and ivory were eagerly devouring the offering.

  “The odor attracts them.” The old man gently stroked the wings of one. “Truly beautiful creatures. Flying gems, exploding into the world in a burst of color. Sadly, they live only a few weeks before rejoining the food chain.”

  Four greenish gold butterflies arrived at the banquet.

  “This species is quite rare. Papilio dardanus. The mocker swallowtail. I import their chrysalides specially from Africa.”

  Sabre hated bugs, but he tried to appear interested and waited.

  Finally the old man asked, “All went well in Copenhagen?”

  “Malone is on his way to find the link.”

  “Just as you predicted. How did you know?”

  “He has no choice. To protect his son, he needs to expose the link so he’s no longer vulnerable. A man like that is easy to read.”

  “He may realize that he was manipulated.”

  “I’m sure he does, but he genuinely thinks, in the end, he managed to get the upper hand. I doubt he assumes I wanted those men to die.”

  A crease of amusement invaded the old man’s face. “You enjoy this game, don’t you?”

  “It has some satisfying aspects.” He paused before adding, “When played right.”

  A few more butterflies joined those already on the plate.

  “It’s actually a lot like these precious creatures,” the Blue Chair said. “They gorge themselves, drawn by the lure of easy food.” Gnarly fingers plucked one by the wings, the dark spiracle and tiny legs wrenched as the insect tried to break free. “I could easily kill this specimen. How hard would it be?”

  The Blue Chair released his hold. Orange and yellow wings sputtered then caught air.

  “But I could just as easily let it go.” The old man focused on him with eyes full of zest. “Use Malone’s instincts to our advantage.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “What will you do once the link is found?” the Blue Chair asked.

  “Depends.”

  “Malone will need to be killed.”

  “I can handle that.”

  The old man threw him a glance. “He might prove a challenge.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “There’s a problem.”

  He’d wondered why he’d been summoned back to Vienna.

  “The Israelis are alerted. Seems George Haddad made another call to the West Bank, and Jewish spies within the Palestinian Authority reported his contact to Tel Aviv. They know he’s alive, and I assume they know where he is, too.”

  That was a problem.

  “The Chairs are aware of this exposure and have ratified the authority I granted you to handle the matter as you see fit.”

  Which he planned to do anyway.

  “As you know, the Israelis have far different motivations than we do. We want the link. They want it gone.”

  Sabre nodded. “They bombed their own people in that café just to kill Haddad.”

  “Jews are a problem,” the Blue Chair quietly declared. “They’ve always been difficult. Being different and obstinate breeds unmitigated pride.”

  Sabre decided to leave that comment alone.

  “We intend to help end the Jewish problem.”

  “I wasn’t aware there was a problem.”

  “Not for us, but for our Arab friends. So you must stay ahead of the Israelis. They cannot be allowed to interfere.”

  “Then I need to leave.”

  “Where did Malone go?”

  “London.”

  The Blue Chair went silent, concentrating on the bugs fluttering in his lap. Finally he swiped the butterflies away. “On the way to London, there’s a stop you need to make.”

  “Is there time?”

  “No choice. Another contact within the Israeli government has some information that he will only convey, in person, to you, and he wants to be paid.”

  “Don’t they all?”

  “He’s in Germany. It shouldn’t take long. Use one of the company jets. I’m told this man has been sloppy. He’s exposed, though he doesn’t realize it. Resolve our account with him.”

  He understood.

  “And needless to say, there will be others there, watching. Please make the show memorable. The Israelis need to understand this is a high-stakes affair.” The
old man shifted in the wooden chair, then angled his stiletto of a nose back down toward the plate. “You’re also aware of what occurs this weekend?”

  “Of course.”

  “I need a financial dossier on a certain individual. By Friday. Can it be done?”

  He knew the correct answer, though he didn’t have time for that, either. “Certainly.”

  The Blue Chair told him the name he was to investigate, then said, “Have the information delivered here. In the meantime, do what you do best.”

  EIGHTEEN

  WASHINGTON, DC

  7:30 AM

  STEPHANIE DECIDED TO STAY IN THE CAPITAL. THE MAJOR players were all here, and if she was going to help Malone she would need to be close to every one of them. She was connected to Atlanta and Magellan Billet headquarters through her laptop and cell phone and presently had three agents heading for Denmark. Another two were already in London, a solo on the way to Washington. Her hotel room, for now, would be command central.

  She’d been waiting for the past twenty minutes, and when the phone on the desk finally rang, she smiled. One thing about Thorvaldsen, he was punctual. She lifted the receiver. “Yes, Henrik.”

  “So sure it was me?”

  “Right on time.”

  “Lateness is rude.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. What did you learn?”

  “Enough to know we have a problem.”

  Yesterday Thorvaldsen had dispatched a squadron of investigators to back track the movements of the two men Malone had shot. Since one of them had killed a federal agent, she was also able to muster Europol’s help.

  “Ever heard of der Orden des Goldenen Vliesses? The Order of the Golden Fleece?”

  “It’s a European economic cartel. I’m aware of it.”

  “I need an Internet connection to your laptop.”

  “That’s classified,” she said lightheartedly.

  “I assure you, with what I know, I have all the clearances I need.”

  She told him the routing address. A minute later five photographs materialized on her screen. Three were head shots—two, full-body. The five men were well into their seventies, faces like caricatures, full of dull angles, cold and expressionless, each casting a veneer of sophistication—the aristocratic bearing of men accustomed to having their way.

  “The Order of the Golden Fleece was re-formed in the late forties, just after the communist socialization of Austrian industry. It was organized in Vienna, the initial membership restricted to a select group of industrialists and financiers. In the fifties it diversified, adding manufacturing and mining magnates, along with more financiers.”

  She slid a notepad closer and clicked open a ballpoint pen. “What do you mean, re-formed?”

  “The name comes from a French medieval order that Philip, the duke of Burgundy, created in 1430. But that group of knights lasted only a few decades. Through the centuries reincarnations appeared, and a social Order of the Golden Fleece still exists in Austria. But it’s the economic cartel of the same name that poses a threat.”

  Her eyes were locked on the screen, her memory absorbing the stern faces.

  “An interesting group,” Thorvaldsen said. “A strict code of statutes governs the Order’s business. Membership is restricted to seventy-one. A Circle of five chairs governs. What’s called the Blue Chair heads both the Circle and the Order. These people wear crimson robes and dangle gold medallions around their necks. Each medallion is forged with fire steels and flints emitting tongues of flame encircling a golden fleece. Quite dramatic.”

  She agreed.

  “You need to understand about the five on your screen. The face at the top left is an Austrian industrialist, Alfred Hermann. He presently occupies the Blue Chair. A billionaire several times over, he’s the owner of European steel factories, African mines, Far East rubber plantations, and banking concerns worldwide.”

  Thorvaldsen explained about the other four. One owned a controlling interest in the VRN Bank that was nationwide in Austria, Germany, Switzerland, and Holland, along with pharmaceutical and automobile companies. Another dominated the European securities markets with investment firms that handled portfolios for many European Union nations. A third wholly owned two French companies and one Belgian that, outside the United States, were the world’s leading aircraft producers. The last was the self-designated “king of concrete,” his companies the leading producers throughout Europe, Africa, and the Middle East.

  “That’s a formidable group,” she said.

  “To say the least. A distinctive Aryan flavor permeates the Chairs, and always has—German, Swiss, and Austrian members dominating. The Chairs are elected from the membership and serve for life. A Shadow is simultaneously chosen who can immediately step in and succeed at death. The Blue Chair is elected by the Chairs and likewise serves for life.”

  “Efficient devils.”

  “They pride themselves on it. The entire membership meets twice a year in a formal Assembly, once in late spring, the other just before winter, on a four-hundred-acre estate owned by Alfred Hermann outside Vienna. The rest of the year business is conducted by the Chairs or through standing committees. There’s a chancellor, treasurer, and secretary, along with a support staff that work out of Hermann’s château. Organization is intentionally streamlined. No unnecessary parliamentary delays.”

  She jotted notes on the pad.

  “The Blue Chair is not allowed a vote, either in the Circle or at Assembly, unless there’s a tie. The odd numbers of seventy-one members and five Chairs create the possibility.”

  She had to admire Thorvaldsen’s investigative efforts. “Tell me about the membership.”

  “The majority are European, but four Americans, two Canadians, three Asians, a Brazilian, and an Australian are among the current seventy-one. Men and women. They went coed decades ago. Turnover is only occasional, but a waiting list ensures that seventy-one will always be maintained.”

  She was curious. “Why be headquartered in Austria?”

  “For the same reason many of us have money there. An express provision in the national constitution forbids violations of bank secrecy. Money is difficult to trace. The Order is well financed. Members are assessed equally based on a projected budget. Last year’s topped one hundred fifty million euros.”

  “And what do they spend that kind of revenue on?”

  “What people have sought for centuries—political influence, mainly toward the European Community’s efforts to centralize currency and reduce trade barriers. The emergence of Eastern Europe also interests them. Rebuilding the infrastructure of the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, and Poland is big business. Through some carefully placed contributions, members have obtained more than their fair share of contracts.”

  “Still, Henrik, a hundred fifty million euros couldn’t be spent on simply securing contracts and bribing politicians.”

  “You’re right. There’s a greater purpose to what the group does.”

  She was getting impatient. “I’m waiting.”

  “The Middle East. That’s their highest priority.”

  “How in the world do you know all this?”

  Silence came from the other end of the phone.

  She waited.

  “I’m a member.”

  NINETEEN

  LONDON

  12:30 PM

  MALONE WALKED WITH PAM DOWN THE RAMP AS THEY DEPLANED from their British Airways flight. They’d spent the night at Christiangade, then flown together from Copenhagen to England, Pam on a layover as she made her way back to Georgia, Malone as a final destination. Gary was left with Thorvaldsen. His son knew the Dane from the past two summers he’d spent in Denmark. Until he could determine exactly what was happening, Malone believed Christiangade the safest place for Gary. For added measure, Thorvaldsen hired a cadre of private security to patrol the estate. Pam had not been happy with the decision, and they’d argued. Eventually she understood the wisdom, especially conside
ring what had happened in Atlanta. With the crisis ended, she needed to get back to work. She’d departed quickly with no notice to her firm. Leaving Gary was not what she’d wanted, but finally she conceded that Malone could protect him better than she ever could.

  “Hope I still have a job,” she said.

  “I imagine your billable hours are enough to garner forgiveness. You going to tell them what happened?”

  “I’ll have to.”

  “It’s okay. Tell them what you need to.”

  “Why are you keeping on with this?” she said. “Why not let it alone?”

  He noticed that she seemed to have slept much of her gloom away. She’d repeatedly apologized for yesterday and he’d brushed it aside. He actually didn’t want to talk with her and, thanks to their late booking, they hadn’t sat together on the flight. Which was good. There were still things that needed to be said about Gary. Unpleasant things. But now was not the time.

  “It’s the only way to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he said. “If I’m not the only one who knows about the link, then I’m not a target anymore. And by the way, neither are you or Gary.”

  “What do you plan to do?” Pam asked.

  He truly didn’t know, so he said, “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

  They wove a path through the crowded concourse toward the terminal, their silence and thoughtful steps salient signals that they were better off apart. Dormant senses, tuned from twelve years as a Justice Department agent, were once again alert. He’d noticed something on the plane. A man. Sitting three rows ahead on the opposite side of the cabin. A string-bean body, brown as a berry, his cheeks dark with stubble. He’d boarded in Copenhagen, and something about him had grabbed Malone’s attention. Nothing during the flight had been a problem. But even though the man had deplaned ahead of them, he was now positioned at their rear.