by Steve Berry
If it were even possible.
But it just might be.
He would never have deciphered the hero’s quest alone, and involving anyone other than Malone would have done nothing except escalate his chances of exposure. Making Malone his supposed ally was the only viable course.
Risky, but the move had proven productive. Half the quest seemed solved.
He crested the stairs and entered the upper gallery, turning left and walking straight for a set of glass doors, out of place in this medieval setting. His cell phone, stuffed inside his trouser pocket, had already silently recorded four calls from Alfred Hermann. He’d debated whether to make contact and soothe the old man’s anxiety, but decided that would be foolish. Too many questions—and he could provide few answers. He’d long studied the Order, especially Alfred Hermann, and believed he understood their strengths and weaknesses.
Above all, the members were dealers.
And before the Israelis or the Saudis or the Americans could be squeezed, the Order of the Golden Fleece was going to have to deal with him.
And he would not come cheap.
MALONE FOLLOWED PAM AND MCCOLLUM INTO THE RIB-VAULTED upper gallery, admiring the workmanship. From the bits and pieces he’d heard from the tour guides earlier, the Jeronymite Order, which took possession of the monastery in 1500, was a closed group devoted to prayer, contemplation, and reformist thinking. They’d possessed no direct evangelical or pastoral mission. Instead they’d focused on living an exemplary Christian life through divine worship—much like their patron saint, Jerome himself, whom he’d read about in the book from Bainbridge Hall.
They stopped before glass doors custom-fit into one of the elaborate arches. Beyond was the gift shop.
“Couldn’t be alarmed,” McCollum said. “What’s to steal? Souvenirs?”
The doors were thick sheets of glass adorned with black metal hinges and chrome handles.
“They open outward,” Malone said. “We can’t kick ’em in. That glass is half an inch thick.”
“Why don’t you see if they’re locked?” Pam said.
He grasped one of the handles and pulled.
The door swung open.
“I can see why your clients value your opinion.”
“Why would they lock them?” she said. “This place is a fortress. And he’s right, what is there to steal? The doors themselves are worth more than the merchandise.”
He smiled at her logic. Some of her surly attitude had returned, but he was glad. Kept him sharp.
They stepped inside. The dark, musty space reminded him of the confessional. So he swung the door out ninety degrees and locked it into position, as it would be when visitors milled in and out all day.
A quick survey told him that the shop was about twenty feet square, with three tall display cases abutting one wall, book racks on the other two, and a counter and a cash register lining the fourth. A freestanding counter loaded with books filled the center.
“We need light,” he said.
McCollum approached another pair of glass doors that led out to a blackened stairway. A set of three switches poked from the wall.
“We’re inside the monastery,” Malone said. “The light’s not going to be visible outside the walls. Still, on and off quick and let’s see what happens.”
McCollum flicked one of the switches. Four tiny halogen floods that illuminated the glass cases sprang to life. Their light was directed in tight beams downward. More than enough illumination.
“That’ll do,” he said. “Now let’s find something with pictures.”
Atop the center counter lay a stack of hardcover volumes in Portuguese and English, all titled Jerónimos Abbey of Santa Maria. Glossy pages, lots of text. Photos, too. Two thinner books stacked beside them were more pictures than words. He thumbed through the first stack, while Pam scanned the other. McCollum examined the other shelves. Three-quarters of the way through one of the books, Malone found a section on the chancel and a color image of the sacrarium’s silver door.
He walked the book over to the light. The photograph was close-up and detailed. “This is it.”
He read more about the sacrarium, trying to see if any of the information would be useful, and learned that it was crafted of wood sheathed in silver. Its placement in the chancel required that the central painting of the lower row be removed, which subsequently disappeared. The image of that lost painting had been carved on the sacrarium’s door, completing the iconographic cycle of the paintings—all of which dealt with the Epiphany. The door showed Gaspar, one of the wise men, worshiping the newborn child. The book noted that the Epiphany was regarded as the submission of the secular to the divine, the three wise men symbolic of the world as it was then known—Europe, Asia, Africa.
Then he found an interesting passage.
A strange phenomenon is reported to occur at certain times of the year, when the sun’s rays penetrate the church in an extraordinary way. For twenty days before the spring equinox, and for thirty days after the autumnal equinox, the sun’s golden rays, from the hour of Vespers until sunset, entering from the west and covering a distance of 450 paces, pass in a straight line through the choir and the church to the sacrarium, turning its silver into gold. One of Belém’s parish priests, a devoted student of the history, observed long ago that, “The sun seems to be asking its Creator for leave of absence from such an illustrious duty for a few hours of the night, promising to return again and shine at dawn.”
He read them the paragraph, then said, “The Guardians are apparently well versed.”
“And have good timing,” Pam said. “It’s two weeks since the autumnal equinox.”
He tore the picture from the book and thought about the remainder of the clue. “Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found an other place. That’s next. And tougher.”
“Cotton, surely you’ve already seen the connection.”
He had and was pleased that her mind was working, too.
“Where a retreating star finds a rose, pierces a wooden cross, and converts silver to gold. Find the place.” She motioned at the photo from the book. “The sacrarium door. Bethlehem. The Nativity. This is Belém. Remember what we read this morning in London. Portuguese for ‘Bethlehem.’ And what did Haddad write? Great journeys often start with an epiphany.”
“I think you’re going to make it to Final Jeopardy,” he said.
Glass shattered in the distance.
“That came from inside the cloister,” McCollum said.
Malone darted for the light switch and killed the halogens. Darkness again engulfed them and his eyes needed a moment to adjust.
Another crash.
He crept to the open door and identified the sound’s direction. Catty-corner across the cloister, on the far side, lower level.
He saw movement in the semi-darkness and spotted three men emerging from another set of glass doors.
Each carried a weapon.
The three fanned out into the lower gallery.
FIFTY-TWO
WASHINGTON, DC
2:45 PM
STEPHANIE HANDED THE ATTENDANT HER TICKET AND ENTERED the National Air and Space Museum. Green had not come with them, because the attorney general’s presence in such a public place would not have gone unnoticed. Stephanie had chosen the locale for the building’s many transparent walls, reputation as the world’s most visited museum, abundance of security staff, and metal detectors. She doubted Daley would, at this point, invoke anything official that might lead to uncomfortable questions, but he could bring Heather Dixon and her new Arab associates.
They pushed through the crowds and glanced around at the museum’s three-block-long interior composed of steel, marble, and glass. Ceilings soared at nearly a hundred feet, creating a hangarlike effect, and displayed a history of flight from the Wright Brothers’ flier, to Lindbergh’s Spirit of St. Louis, to the Apollo 11 moon ship.
“Lots of people,” Cassiopeia muttered.
They passed an IMAX theater with a thick line of patrons and entered the busy Space Hall. Daley stood near a full-sized, spiderlike Lunar Module, displayed as it would have appeared on the moon, with an astronaut balanced on its landing leg ladder.
Daley looked calm, considering. Not a hair on his head had escaped its usual brilliantine hold.
“Got your clothes back on,” she said as they approached.
“I underestimated you, Stephanie. My mistake. I won’t make it again.”
“You leave all your escorts at home?” She knew Daley rarely went anywhere without bodyguards.
“All but one.”
He motioned and she and Cassiopeia turned. Heather Dixon appeared from the far side of the Skylab exhibit.
“Deal’s off, Larry,” she said.
“You want to know about the Alexandria Link? She’s the one to fill in the gaps.”
Dixon strolled through the crowd toward them. A group of noisy children congealed at the Lunar Module, hugging the wooden railing that wrapped the display. Daley led them closer to a narrow walk on its rear side that paralleled a glass wall, the museum’s busy cafeteria beyond.
“You’re still dead,” Dixon said to her.
“I didn’t come here to be threatened.”
“And I’m only here because my government ordered me.”
“First things first,” Daley said.
Dixon brought out an electronic device about the size of a cell phone and switched it on. After a few seconds, she shook her head. “They’re not wired.”
Stephanie knew how the device worked. Billet agents routinely used them. She grabbed the detector and pointed it at Dixon and Daley.
Negative, too.
She tossed it back to Dixon. “Okay, since we’re alone, talk.”
“You’re a bitch,” Dixon said.
“Great. Now could you get to the point of this drama?”
“Here it is, short and sweet,” Daley said. “Thirty years ago George Haddad was reading a copy of a Saudi Arabian gazette, published in Riyadh, studying place-names in west Arabia, translating them into Old Hebrew. Why he was doing that, I have no idea. Sounds like watching paint dry. But he began to notice that some of the locations were biblical.”
“Old Hebrew,” Cassiopeia said, “is a tough language. No vowels. Hard to interpret and loaded with ambiguities. You have to know what you’re doing.”
“An expert?” Dixon asked.
“Hardly.”
“Haddad is an expert,” Daley said, “and here’s the problem. These biblical place-names he noticed were concentrated in a strip about four hundred miles long and one hundred wide, in the western portion of Saudi Arabia.”
“Asir?” Cassiopeia asked. “Where Mecca is?”
Daley nodded. “Haddad spent years looking at other locales but could find no similar concentration of Old Hebrew biblical place-names anywhere else in the world, and that included Palestine itself.”
Stephanie realized that the Old Testament was a record of ancient Jews. So if the place-names in modern-day west Arabia, translated into Old Hebrew, were actually biblical locations, that could have enormous political implications. “Are you saying there were no Jews in the Holy Land?”
“Of course not,” Dixon said. “We were there. All he’s saying is that Haddad believed that the Old Testament was a record of the Jewish experience in west Arabia. Before they traveled north to what we know as Palestine.”
“The Bible came from Arabia?” Stephanie asked.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Daley said. “Haddad’s conclusions were confirmed when he started matching geography. For more than a century archaeologists have tried to find, in Palestine, sites that match biblical descriptions. But nothing fits. Haddad discovered that if you match locales in west Arabia, translated into Old Hebrew, with biblical geography, location after location matches.”
Stephanie was still skeptical. “Why has no one noticed this before? Haddad’s surely not the only person who can understand Old Hebrew.”
“Others have noticed,” Dixon said. “Three, between 1948 and 2002.”
Stephanie caught the finality of Dixon’s tone. “But your government took care of them? That’s why Haddad had to be killed?”
Dixon did not answer.
Cassiopeia broke the moment. “This all goes back to the conflicting claims, doesn’t it? God made a covenant with Abraham and gave him the Holy Land. Genesis says the covenant passed through Abraham’s son Isaac to the Jews.”
“It’s been assumed for centuries,” Daley said, “that the land God identified for Abraham lay in what we know as Palestine. But what if that wasn’t the case? What if, instead, the land God identified was somewhere else? Somewhere far from Palestine. In west Arabia.”
Cassiopeia chuckled. “You’re nuts. The Old Testament has its roots there? In the heart of Islam? The land of the Jews, what God promised them, contains Mecca? A few years ago factions of Islam rioted worldwide over a cartoon of Muhammad. Can you imagine what they would do with this?”
Daley seemed unmoved. “Which is why the Saudis and the Israelis wanted Haddad dead. He said proof of his theory was to be found within the lost Library of Alexandria. And he was told that this was the case by someone called a Guardian.”
“As were those other three individuals,” Dixon said. “Each one visited by an emissary called a Guardian, who offered a way to find the library.”
“What kind of proof could there possibly be?” Stephanie asked.
Daley seemed impatient. “Haddad told the Palestinian authorities five years ago that he believed ancient documents could be used to verify his conclusions. Just an Old Testament, written before the time of Christ, in its original Hebrew could prove decisive. None older than the tenth century exist today. Haddad knew from other writings that have survived that there were biblical texts in the Library of Alexandria. Finding one may be the only way to prove anything, since the Saudis will not allow archaeological research in Asir.”
Stephanie remembered what Green told her early Tuesday morning. “That’s why they bulldozed those villages. They were afraid. They didn’t want anything found. Nothing that might be associated with the Jewish Bible.”
“And it’s why they now want you dead,” Dixon said. “You’re interfering in their business. No chances are going to be taken.”
Stephanie stared out into the Space Hall. Rockets on display reached for the ceiling. Excited schoolchildren wove their way through the exhibits. She glared at Dixon. “Your government believes all this?”
“That’s why those three men were killed. It’s why Haddad was targeted.”
She pointed at Daley. “He’s not a friend of Israel. He’d want to use whatever he found to bring your government to its knees.”
Dixon laughed. “Stephanie, you’re losing it.”
“There’s no question that’s his motive.”
“You have no idea of my motives,” Daley said, his indignation rising. “I know you’re a liar.”
Daley stared back at her with uncertainty. He almost seemed confused, which surprised her, so she asked, “What’s really going on, Larry?”
“More than you can possibly realize.”
FIFTY-THREE
LISBON
8:45 PM
MALONE RETREATED INTO THE GIFT SHOP BUT KEPT HIS ATTENTION on the three armed men, who were advancing in trained movements across the lower gallery. Pros. Great.
He used one of the glass cases adjacent to the open door as a shield, Pam beside him, and continued to peer out into the cloister. McCollum was crouched behind the center table.
“They’re down and we’re up. Should buy us a few minutes. The church and galleries are big. It’ll take time to search. Those locked?” he asked McCollum, motioning to the other set of glass doors leading out of the shop.
“Afraid so. They lead down and out. So they must lock them as a precaution.”
He didn’t like their position. “We need
to get out of here.”
“Cotton,” Pam said, and he turned his attention back out into the upper gallery. One of the men had emerged from the stairway leading down and started advancing toward the gift shop.
McCollum slipped up behind him and whispered, “Take her over to the register and get behind the counter.”
Anyone who could shoot two men in the head and then enjoy his breakfast warranted some respect. So he decided not to argue. He grasped Pam’s arm and led her to the far side of the counter.
He saw McCollum palm the knife.
The three glass display cases nestled beside one another with a gap between wide enough to accommodate McCollum. Darkness would shield him, at least until it was too late for his prey to react.
The armed man drew closer.
STEPHANIE WAS LOSING PATIENCE WITH LARRY DALEY. “WHAT do you mean more than I can possibly realize?”
“There are some within the administration who want to prove Haddad’s theory,” Daley said.
She recalled what Daley had said to Brent Green when he thought they were alone. “Including you.”
“That’s not true.”
She wasn’t buying it. “Get real, Larry. You’re only here because I have the dirt on you.”
Daley seemed unfazed. “Time for a reality check, Stephanie. Our media people will spin whatever you do into a tale of fabricated evidence by an out-of-control employee trying to save her job. Sure, there may be some embarrassment, questions from the press, but you don’t have enough to take me or anyone else down. I didn’t give a dime to anyone. And those lobbyists? It’s a swearing contest. A battle you’ll lose.”
“Maybe. But you’d be radioactive. Your career over.”
Daley shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”
Cassiopeia was studying the exhibit hall and Stephanie sensed she was anxious. So she said to Daley, “Get to the point.”
“The point,” Dixon said, “is that we want all this to go away. But somebody within your government won’t let it die.”
“That’s right. Him.” And she pointed at Daley.
