by Steve Berry
“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 fore
st 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 FROM 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.”
“You in charge?”
“I have that honor.”
“I want to see the library.”
“To do that, you must release the man you’re holding.”
Sabre shoved the Guardian away. “All right.” He leveled the gun at the Librarian. “You take me.”
“Certainly.”
MALONE AND PAM ENTERED THE CHURCH. TWO ROWS OF monolithic granite columns, painted white, their capitals gilded, displayed medallions of Old Testament prophets and New Testament apostles. Frescoes on the walls showed Moses receiving the Law and confronting the Burning Bush. Reliquaries, patens, chalices, and crosses rested in glass-fronted cupboards.
No sign of McCollum or Straw Hat.
To Malone’s right, in an alcove, he spotted two bronzed cages. One held hundreds of sandstone-colored skulls, piled upon one another in a ghastly hillock. The other housed a hideous assortment of bones in an anatomical jumble.
“Guardians?” Pam asked.
“Has to be.”
Something else about the sunlit nave caught his attention. No pews. He wondered if this was an Orthodox church. Hard to tell from the decoration, which seemed an eclectic mixture of many religions.
He crossed the mosaic floor to the opposite alcove.
Inside, perched on a stone shelf, backdropped by a bright stained-glass window, was a full skeleton dressed in embroidered purple robes and a cowl, propped in a sitting position, head slightly atilt, as if questioning. The finger bones, still clinging to bits of dried flesh and nails, clutched a staff and a rosary. Three words were chiseled into the granite below.
CVSTOS RERVM PRVDENTIA
“Prudence is the guardian of things,” he said, translating, but his Greek was good enough to know that the first word could also be read as “wisdom.” Either way, the message seemed clear.
What sounded like a door opening then closing echoed from beyond an iconostasis at the front of the church. Clutching the gun, he crept forward and stepped through the doorway in the center of the elaborately decorated panel.
A single door waited on the far side.
He came close.
The panels were cedar, and upon them were inscribed the words from Psalm 118. THIS GATE OF THE LORD, INTO WHICH THE RIGHTEOUS SHALL ENTER.
He grasped the rope handle and pulled. The door opened with a cacophony of moans. But he noticed something else. The ancient panel was equipped with a modern addition—an electronic deadbolt fit to the opposite side. A wire snaked a path to the hinge, then disappeared into a hole drilled into the stone.
Pam saw it, too.
“This is weird,” she said.
He agreed.
Then he stared beyond the doorway and his confusion multiplied.
SEVENTY-FIVE
MARYLAND
STEPHANIE LEAPED FROM THE CHOPPER THAT HAD DEPOSITED her and Cassiopeia back at Camp David. Daniels waited for them on the landing pad
. Stephanie marched straight for him as the helicopter rose back into the morning sky and disappeared across the treetops.
“You may be the president of the United States,” she said in a sharp tone, “but you’re a sorry son of a bitch. You sent us in there knowing we’d be attacked.”
Daniels looked incredulous. “How would I have known that?”
“And a helicopter with a marksman happened to be in the neighborhood?” Cassiopeia asked.
The president motioned. “Let’s take a walk.”
They strolled down a wide path. Three Secret Service agents followed twenty yards behind.
“Tell me what happened,” Daniels said.
Stephanie calmed down, recapped the morning, and finished by saying, “He thought somebody is plotting to kill you.” Weird referring to Daley in the past tense.
“He’s right.”
They stopped.
“I’ve had enough,” she said. “I don’t work for you anymore, but you’ve got me operating in total darkness. How do you expect me to do this?”
“I’m sure you’d like your job back, wouldn’t you?”
She did not immediately answer and her silence conveyed, to her annoyance, that she did. She’d conceived of and started the Magellan Billet, heading it for its entire existence. Whatever was happening had, at first, not involved her, but now men she neither liked nor admired were using her. So she answered the president honestly. “Not if I have to kiss your ass.” She paused. “Or place Cassiopeia in any more danger.”
Daniels seemed unfazed. “Come with me.”
They walked in silence through the woods to another of the cabins. Inside, the president grabbed a portable CD player.
“Listen to this.”
“Brent, I cannot explain everything, except to say that last evening I overheard a conversation between your vice president and Alfred Hermann. The Order or, more specifically, Hermann is planning to kill your president.”
“You hear details?” Green asked.
“Daniels is taking an unannounced visit to Afghanistan next week. Her mann has contracted bin Laden’s people and supplied the missiles needed to destroy the plane.”