The Alexandria Link

by Steve Berry

  She guided Cassiopeia to the thick trunk of a tall maple, one of three stately trees shading the garden.

  She checked her watch: 9:43 PM.

  She’d brought them this far through a combination of anger and curiosity, but the next step was where she irrefutably crossed the line.

  “Get that air pistol ready,” she whispered.

  Her cohort slid a dart down the barrel. “I hope you note my blind obedience to this foolishness.”

  She considered the next move.

  Breaking into the house was certainly an option. Cassiopeia possessed the requisite skills. But simply knocking on the door would work, too. She actually liked that approach. Their course, though, was instantly set when the rear door opened and a black form strolled out among the slender pillars supporting a shallow colonnade. The tall man was wearing a bathrobe tied at the waist, his feet sheathed in slippers that scraped off the terrace.

  She motioned to the gun, then at the form.

  Cassiopeia aimed and fired.

  A soft pop, then a swish accompanied the dart’s flight.

  Its tip found the man, who cried out as his hand reached for his shoulder. He seemed to fiddle with the dart, then gasped as he collapsed.

  Stephanie raced over. “Stuff works fast.”

  “That’s the idea. Who is this?”

  They stared down at the man.

  “Congratulations. You just shot the attorney general of the United States. Now help me drag him into the house.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 6

  LONDON

  3:15 AM

  SABRE STUDIED HIS LAPTOP. FOR THE PAST THREE HOURS HE’D been scanning what he’d downloaded off George Haddad’s computer.

  And he was astounded.

  The information was certainly as much as he would have gleaned from the Palestinian himself, and without the aggravation of forcing the Arab to talk. Haddad had apparently spent years researching the Library of Alexandria, along with the mythical Guardians, assimilating an impressive array of data.

  A whole series of files concerned an English earl named Thomas Bainbridge, of whom he’d heard Alfred Hermann speak. According to Haddad, in the latter part of the eighteenth century Bainbridge visited the Library of Alexandria, then wrote a novel about his experience that, according to the notes, contained clues to the library’s location.

  Had Haddad found a copy?

  Was that what Malone had retrieved?

  Then there was Bainbridge’s ancestral estate west of London. Haddad had apparently visited several times and believed more clues lay there, especially concerning a marble arbor and something called The Epiphany of St. Jerome. But no details were offered to explain the significance of either.

  Then there was the hero’s quest.

  An hour ago he’d found a narrative account of what had happened five years back in Haddad’s West Bank home. He’d read the notes with interest and now reassembled the events in his mind, his excitement piqued.

  “You’re saying that the library still exists?” Haddad asked the Guardian.

  “We’ve protected it for centuries. Saved what would have been lost through ignorance and greed.”

  Haddad motioned with the envelope that his guest had handed him. “This hero’s quest shows the way?”

  The man nodded. “To those who understand, the path will be obvious.”

  “And if I don’t understand?”

  “Then we’ll never see each other again.”

  He considered the possibilities and said, “I fear that what I want to learn is better left hidden.”

  “Why would you say that? Knowledge should never be feared. I’m familiar with your work. I study the Old Testament, too. That’s why I was chosen as your Guardian.” The younger man’s face brightened. “We have sources you can’t even imagine. Original texts. Correspondence. Analyses. From men long ago, who knew far more than you or me. My mastery of Old Hebrew is not on your level. You see, for a Guardian, there are levels of achievement, and the only way to ascend is through accomplishment. Like you, I’m fascinated by Christianity’s interpretation of the Old Testament, how it was manipulated. I want to learn more, and you, sir, can teach me.”

  “And learning will help you ascend?”

  “Proving your theory would be a great accomplishment for us both.”

  So he opened the envelope.

  Sabre scrolled down to what that envelope contained. Haddad had apparently scanned the document into the computer. The words were penned in a sharply angled masculine script, all in Latin. Luckily Haddad had translated the message. Sabre read the hero’s quest, the supposed path to the Library of Alexandria.

  How strange are the manuscripts, great traveler of the unknown. They appear separately, but seem as one to those who know that the colors of the rainbow become a single white light. How to find that single ray? It is a mystery, but visit the chapel beside the Tejo, in Bethlehem, dedicated to our patron saint. Begin the journey in the shadows and complete it in the light, where a retreating star finds a rose, pierces a wooden cross, and converts silver to gold. Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place. Then, like the shepherds of the painter Poussin, puzzled by the enigma, you will be flooded with the light of inspiration. Reassemble the fourteen stones, then work with square and compass to find the path. At noon, sense the presence of the red light, see the endless coil of the serpent red with anger. But heed the letters. Danger threatens one who arrives with great speed. If your course remains true, the route will be sure.

  Sabre shook his head. Riddles. Not his strong point. And he had not the time to wrestle with them. He’d reviewed every file from the computer, but Haddad had not deciphered the message.

  And that was a problem.

  He was not a historian, a linguist, or a biblical scholar. Alfred Hermann was the supposed expert, but Sabre wondered how much the Austrian actually knew. Both of them were opportunists, trying to make the most of a unique situation.

  Just for differing reasons.

  Hermann was trying to forge a legacy, to stamp his mark on the Order of the Golden Fleece. Perhaps even to smooth Margarete’s ascendency to power. God knew she needed help. He knew she’d eliminate him once Hermann was gone. But if he could preempt her, stay a step ahead, just beyond her grasp, he just might succeed. He wanted an all-expenses-paid pass straight to the top. A seat at the table. Bargaining power to become a full-fledged member of the Order of the Golden Fleece. If the lost Library of Alexandria contained what Alfred Hermann had told him it might, then possessing it was worth more than any family fortune.

  His cell phone rang.

  The LCD display indicated that it was his operative. About time. He answered.

  “Malone’s on the move,” she said. “Bloody early. What do you want me to do?”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Took a bus to Paddington Station, then a train west.”

  “Is Oxfordshire on that route?”

  “Straight through it.”

  Apparently Malone was curious, too. “Did you arrange that extra help, like I asked?”

  “They’re here.”

  “Wait at Paddington Station. I’m on my way.”

  He clicked off the phone.

  Time to start the next phase.

  STEPHANIE TOSSED A TUMBLER OF WATER IN BRENT GREEN’S face. They’d dragged his limp body into the kitchen and fastened him to a chair with packing tape Cassiopeia found in a drawer. The attorney general stirred himself out of unconsciousness, shaking the moisture from his eyes.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  Green was still coming around, so she helped him with another splash.

  “That’s enough,” Green said, lids wide open, his face and bathrobe soaked. “I assume there’s a good reason why you’ve decided to violate so many federal laws.” The words came with the speed of molasses and in the tone of a funeral director, both normal for Green. Never had she heard
him talk fast or loud.

  “You tell me, Brent. Who you working for?”

  Green glanced at the bindings that held his wrists and ankles. “And I thought we were making progress in our relationship.”

  “We were until you betrayed me.”

  “Stephanie, I’ve been told for years that you’re a loose cannon, but I always admired those traits in you. I’m beginning, though, to see the other side’s complaint.”

  She came close. “I didn’t trust you, but you faced off against Daley and I thought maybe, just maybe, I was wrong.”

  “Do you have any idea what would happen if my security detail came to check on me? Which, by the way, they do each night.”

  “Nice try. You waved them off months ago. Said it wasn’t necessary unless the threat level was elevated, and it’s not at the moment.”

  “And how do you know that I didn’t press my panic button before I fell to the terrace?”

  She removed the transmitter she carried from her pocket. “I pressed mine, Brent, back on the mall, and you know what happened? Not a damn thing.”

  “Might be different here.”

  She knew that Green, like all senior administrative staff, carried a panic button. It instantly relayed trouble to either a nearby security detail or the Secret Service command center. It could also act as a tracking device.

  “I watched your hands,” she said. “Both empty. You were too busy trying to figure out what stung you.”

  Green’s face stiffened, and he stared at Cassiopeia. “You shot me?”

  She gave him a gracious bow. “At your service.”

  “What’s the chemical?”

  “Fast-acting agent I found in Morocco. Quick, painless, short-term.”

  “I can attest to all those.” Green turned back toward Stephanie. “This must be Cassiopeia Vitt. She knew your husband, Lars, before he killed himself.”

  “How in the world do you know that?” She hadn’t mentioned what happened to anyone on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Only Cassiopeia, Henrik Thorvaldsen, and Malone knew.

  “Ask me what you came to ask me,” Green said with a quiet resolve.

  “Why’d you call off my security detail? You left me bare-ass for the Israelis. Tell me you did it.”

  “I did.”

  The admission surprised her. She was too accustomed to lies. “Knowing that the Saudis would try to kill me?”

  “I knew that, too.”

  Anger swelled inside her and she fought the urge to lash out, saying only, “I’m waiting.”

  “Ms. Vitt,” Green said. “Are you available to keep an eye on this woman until this is over?”

  “Why do you give a damn?” Stephanie blurted out. “You’re not my keeper.”

  “Somebody has to be. Calling Heather Dixon wasn’t smart. You’re not thinking.”

  “Like I need you to tell me that.”

  “Look at yourself. Here you are, assaulting the chief law enforcement officer of the United States with little or no information. Your enemies, on the other hand, have access to an abundance of intelligence, which they are using to full advantage.”

  “What in the hell are you babbling about? And you never did answer the question.”

  “That’s true. I didn’t. You wanted to know why I called off your security detail. The answer is simple. I was asked to, so I did.”

  “Who asked you?”

  Green’s eyes surveyed her with the unruffled look of a Buddha.

  “Henrik Thorvaldsen.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  BAINBRIDGE HALL, ENGLAND

  5:20 AM

  MALONE ADMIRED THE MARBLE ARBOR IN THE GARDEN. THEY’D taken a train twelve miles north from London, then a taxi from the nearby town station to Bainbridge Hall. He’d read all of Haddad’s notes stashed in the satchel and skimmed through the novel, trying to make sense of what was happening, remembering everything he and Haddad had discussed through the years. But he’d come to the conclusion that his old friend had taken the most important things with him to his grave.

  Above stretched a velvet sky. A cool draft of night air chilled him. Manicured grass stretched out from the garden in a pewter sea, the bushes and shrubs islands of shadow. Water danced in a nearby fountain. He’d decided on a predawn visit as the best way to learn anything, and had obtained a flashlight from the hotel concierge.

  The grounds were unfenced and, as far as he could see, not alarmed. The house itself, he assumed, would be another matter. From what he’d read in Haddad’s notes, the estate was a minor museum, one of hundreds owned by the British Crown. Several of the mansion’s ground-floor rooms were lit, and he spotted, through uncurtained panes, what appeared to be a cleaning crew.

  He turned his attention back to the arbor.

  The wind rustled the trees then rose to sweep the clouds. Moonlight vanished, but his eyes were fully accustomed to the eerie pall.

  “You plan to tell me what this thing is?” Pam asked. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet on the trip.

  He directed the light onto the image etched into the marble. “That’s from a painting called The Shepherds of Arcadia Two. Thomas Bainbridge went to a lot of trouble to have it carved.” He told her what Haddad had written concerning the image, then used the beam to trace the letters beneath.

  D O.V.O.S.V.A.V.V. M

  “What did he say about those?” Pam asked.

  “Not a word. Only that this was a message and that there are more inside the house.”

  “Which certainly explains why we’re here at five o’clock in the morning.”

  He caught her irritation. “I don’t like crowds.”

  Pam brought her eyes close to the arbor. “Wonder why he separated the D and the M like that?”

  He had no idea. But there was one thing he did comprehend. The pastoral scene of The Shepherds of Arcadia II depicted a woman watching as three shepherds gathered around a stone tomb, each pointing at engraved letters. ET IN ARCADIA EGO. He knew the translation.

  And in Arcadia I.

  An enigmatic inscription that made little sense. But he’d seen those words before. In France. Contained within a sixteenth-century codex describing what the Knights Templar had secretly accomplished in the months before their mass arrest in October 1307.

  Et in arcadia ego.

  An anagram for I tego arcana dei.

  I conceal the secrets of God.

  He told Pam about the phrase.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Just telling you what I know.”

  They needed to explore the house. From a safe distance in the garden, among belts of towering cedars, he studied the ground floor. Lights flicked on and off as the cleaners went about their work. Doors to the rear terrace were propped open with chairs. He watched as a man stepped outside carrying two garbage bags, which he tossed into a pile, then disappeared back inside.

  He glanced at his watch: 5:40 AM.

  “They’re going to have to finish soon,” he said. “Once they’re gone, we should have a couple of hours before anyone arrives for work. This place doesn’t open till ten.” He’d learned that from a sign near the main gate.

  “No need to say how foolish this is.”

  “You always wanted to know what I did for a living, and I never could tell you. Top secret, and all that crap. Time to find out.”

  “I liked it better when I didn’t know.”

  “I don’t believe that. I remember how aggravated you’d get.”

  “At least I didn’t have any bullet wounds.”

  He smiled. “Your rite of passage.” Then he motioned her forward. “After you.”

  SABRE WATCHED AS THE SHADOWY FORMS OF COTTON MALONE and his ex-wife merged with the trees behind Bainbridge Hall. Malone had come straight to Oxfordshire. Good. Everything hinged on his curiosity. His operative had also done her job. She’d hired the three extra men he’d requested and delivered him a weapon.

  He drew a few long breaths and we
lcomed the brisk night air, then removed the Sig Sauer from his jacket pocket.

  Time to meet Cotton Malone.

  MALONE APPROACHED THE OPEN REAR DOOR, STAYING TO ONE side, embracing the shadows, and peered inside.

  The room beyond was an elaborate parlor. Shimmering light cascaded from the vaulted ceiling, illuminating gilded furniture and paneled walls livened by tapestries and paintings. No one was in sight, but he heard the whine of a floor polisher and the blare of a radio from beyond the archways.

  He motioned and they entered.

  He knew nothing of the house’s geography, but a placard told him he was in the Apollo Room. He recalled what Haddad had written. In the drawing room of Bainbridge Hall is more of Bainbridge’s arrogance. Its title is particularly reflective. The Epiphany of St. Jerome. Fascinating and fitting, as great quests often begin with an epiphany.

  So they needed to find the drawing room.

  He led Pam to one of the exits that opened into a foyer possessing the majestic lines of a cathedral transept, arches eloquently stacked atop one another. Interesting, the abrupt change in style and architecture. Less light softened the outlines of the furniture into gray shadows. Within one of the arches he spotted a bust.

  He crept across the marble floor, careful with his rubber soles, and discovered the likeness of Thomas Bainbridge. The middle-aged face was replete with furrows and curves, the jaw clenched, the nose beaklike, the eyes cold and squinty. From what he’d read in Haddad’s notes, Bainbridge was apparently a learned man of science and literature, as well as a collector—acquiring art, books, and sculptures with a calculated judgment. He’d also been an adventurer, traveling to Arabia and the Middle East at a time when both places were as familiar to the West as the moon.

  “Cotton,” Pam said in a low voice.

  He turned. She’d drifted to a table where brochures were stacked. “Layout of the house.”

  He stepped close and grabbed one from the pile. Quickly he found a room labeled DRAWING. He oriented himself. “That way.”