The Alexandria Link

by Steve Berry

  Adam was running again.

  He sprang to his feet and bolted left, rounding a corner and heading straight toward Adam. His target disappeared into another set of glass doors, custom-fit within two elaborate arches and framed by statues.

  He made his way to them and stopped outside.

  A sign identified the dark space beyond as the chapter house where the monks had once congregated for meetings. Opening the glass door would be foolish. Not enough light to see much on the other side; only windows, two, their definition clear.

  He decided to use what he knew.

  So he swung open one glass door and kept his body behind the other, which should protect him from any shots.

  None came.

  A huge tomb filled the center of the towering rectangle.

  He searched with his gaze. Nothing. His eyes were drawn to the windows. The right set were shattered, glass strewn across the floor, a rope disappearing upward, being pulled from the outside.

  Adam was gone.

  Footsteps slapped off stone, and he saw Pam and McCollum running toward him. He stepped out into the gallery and asked McCollum, “What happened to you?”

  “Got slammed across the head. Two of them. Up in the choir. I took one out in the church, then they got me.”

  “Why are you still breathing?”

  “I don’t know, Malone. Why don’t you ask them?”

  He did the math. Three down. Two more supposedly accosted McCollum. Five? Yet he’d only seen three.

  He leveled the gun he was holding at McCollum. “Those guys break in here, come after us, try to kill me and Pam, but you they whack on the head and leave. A bit much, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What’s the point, Malone?”

  He fished the locator from his pocket. “They work for you. Here to take us out so you didn’t have to.”

  “I assure you, if I wanted you dead you would be.”

  “They came straight upstairs to that gift shop. Circled it like buzzards. They knew the geography.” He held up the locator. “And they were tracking us. I killed one upstairs and was damn close to getting the third. Then he just leaves? Strangest assassination squad I’ve ever seen.”

  He flicked on the unit and pointed it at McCollum. He changed the setting from mute and a soft pinging indicated that the receiver had found its target.

  “They were tracking you. This will tell us for sure.”

  “Go for it, Malone. Do what you have to.”

  Pam had been standing to the side, silent, and he said to her, “Thought I told you to stay up there.”

  “I did until he came. And, Cotton, he does have a nasty bump on the side of his head.”

  He wasn’t impressed. “He’s tough enough to take a shot delivered for our benefit by his hired help.”

  He aimed the locator at McCollum, but the rhythmic pulse of the beep stayed constant.

  “Satisfied?” McCollum asked.

  He swung the unit left and right, but the beeping remained unchanged. McCollum was not the source. Pam walked past, studying the inside of the chapter house.

  The beeping changed.

  McCollum noticed, too.

  Malone kept his gun aimed, which told McCollum to stay put. He pointed the unit Pam’s way and the pulse intensified.

  She heard it, too, and turned toward him.

  He lowered the gun and took two steps closer, still swinging the unit. The pulse weakened, weakened again, then solidified when pointed straight at her.

  A look of astonishment came to her face, and she asked, “What is it?”

  “They were tracking you. That’s how they found George. You.” Anger surged through him. He tossed the locator down, stuffed the gun in his pocket, and started to pat her down.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” she yelled.

  She was clearly nervous, but he didn’t spare her feelings.

  “Pam, if I have to strip you naked and search every cavity, I’m going to find what’s on you. So tell me where it is.”

  Her mind seemed to reel with incomprehension. “Where’s what?”

  “Whatever that locator is tracking.”

  “The watch,” McCollum said.

  He turned. The other man was pointing at Pam’s wrist.

  “Has to be. Has a power source and it’s plenty big to accommodate a pinger.”

  He grabbed Pam’s wrist and unclasped the watch, which he wrenched free and sent sliding across the gallery floor. He yanked up the locator and pointed. A solid beat signified that the watch was indeed the target. He pointed the unit back at Pam and the pulse subsided.

  “Oh, my God,” she muttered. “I got that old man killed.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  MALONE ENTERED THE BUSINESS CENTER FOR THE RITZ FOUR Seasons. They’d left the monastery through the main entrance. Since the doors could be opened from the inside, the portal had offered the quickest way out.

  They’d then rounded the building and discovered where Adam and his compatriots had entered. The chapter house’s elegant windows, adorned with old stone tracery, were the only panes not barred. They stood six feet off the ground and faced a darkened side street. Two bushy trees had offered excellent cover for the break-in.

  They’d then walked a few blocks east into Belém’s business district and caught a trolley into Lisbon’s center. From there they’d taken a cab north a few miles to the hotel. No one said anything on the trip. Malone remained in a quandary. Where he’d thought McCollum was the threat, the danger turned out to be much closer. But he’d ended any further hunting by tossing the watch into a row of box hedges that lined the cloister garden.

  He needed to think.

  So they entered one of the business center’s conference rooms and closed the door. A phone and a computer waited on the table, along with pens and paper. He liked that about the Four Seasons. Tell ’em what you want and you get it.

  “Cotton,” Pam said immediately. “That watch was a gift. I told you that. From the man I’ve been seeing.”

  He did recall her saying that in London. A TAG. Expensive. He’d been impressed. “Who is he?”

  “A lawyer for another firm. Senior partner.”

  “How long you two been an item?” It came out as if he cared, but he didn’t.

  “A few months. Come on. How could he have possibly known any of this would happen? He gave me that watch weeks ago.”

  He wanted to believe her. But wives of agents had been compromised before. He reached for the phone and dialed Atlanta and the Magellan Billet. He told the voice on the other end who he was and what he wanted. He was instructed to hold. Two minutes later a male voice said in his ear, “Cotton, this is Brent Green. Your call has been sent to me.”

  “I need to talk with Stephanie.”

  “She’s unavailable. Quite a lot is happening here. You’ll have to deal with me.”

  “What’s the attorney general doing in the middle of Billet business? You usually stay way back from that.”

  “It’s complicated, Cotton. Stephanie has been relieved of her duties, and we’re both in the midst of a battle.”

  He wasn’t surprised. “And it all relates to what I’m doing here.”

  “Precisely. There are people within this administration who placed your son at risk.”

  “Who?”

  “We’re not sure. That’s what Stephanie is trying to find out. Can you tell me what’s happening there?”

  “We’re having a ball. Just one party after another. Lisbon’s a blast.”

  “Any reason why you have to be sarcastic?”

  “I can think of a ton of them. But I need you to do something. Check out a man named James McCollum. He says he was army, special forces.” He gave Green a quick physical description. “I need to know if he’s real, and his background.” As he made the request he stared straight at McCollum, but the man never flinched. “What’s happening with Stephanie?”

  “That would take too long. But we need to know what you’re doing
. That could help her.”

  “I never knew you cared that much.”

  “I fail to see why everyone thinks I dislike the woman. Actually, she has a great many strong points. But at the moment she’s in trouble. I haven’t heard from her, or Ms. Vitt, in several hours.”

  “Cassiopeia is there?”

  “With Stephanie. Your friend Henrik Thorvaldsen sent her.”

  Green was right. There was a lot happening there. “I also have an issue with my ex-wife. Seems the Israelis have been tracking her.”

  “We’re aware of that. A man she was seeing in Atlanta was an Israeli sympathizer. The Mossad asked him to give her a few things. A watch, a locket, a cocktail ring. All were GPS-active. We assume the idea was that she’d wear one of them at some time or another.”

  “That means the Israelis knew a move was coming on my son, so they got ready to take advantage of it.”

  “That’s a safe conclusion. Is the Alexandria Link still intact?”

  “Didn’t know you knew anything about that.”

  “I do now.”

  “The Israelis permanently took care of that yesterday and almost got us a little while ago.” Now he really needed to think. “I have to go. You have a number where I can dial direct?” Green gave it to him. “Sit tight. I’ll be back to you shortly.”

  “Cotton,” Green said. “That lawyer your ex-wife was seeing. He’s dead. Shot a few days ago. The Mossad cleaned up their trail.”

  He registered the message.

  “I’d keep her close,” Green said. “She’s a loose end, too.”

  “Or something more.”

  “Either way, she’s a problem.”

  He hung up. Pam stared at him. “Your lover’s dead. Israel took care of him. He was working with them.”

  Shock twisted her face. He could not have cared less. That man had been part of placing Gary at risk. “It’s what happens when you pet a rattlesnake. I wondered how we were tracked to the hotel in London. There’s no way we were followed from Haddad’s apartment.”

  He saw how upset she was, but there was no time for her feelings. Worrying over impossibilities could get you killed. He faced McCollum. “You heard me. I’m checking you out.”

  “Through with the theatrics? Remember, I still have the rest of the quest and we don’t know where to go from here.”

  “Who says?” He found the photo from the book in the gift shop and unfolded it. “Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place. Okay, we found the place where silver is turned to gold. This. The Nativity. Bethlehem. Belém. What has an address but no place?” He pointed to the computer. “Lots of addresses and no places associated with a single one. Web addresses.”

  He sat before the machine.

  “The Guardians had to have a way to control the clues. They don’t seem the type to just throw something out there and leave it. Once an invitee, or a stranger, made it this far, they’d need a way to stop the quest if they wanted to. What better way than to have the final clues on a website they control.”

  He typed BETHLEHEM.COM, but was routed to a commercial site loaded with junk. He tried BETHLEHEM.NET and found more of the same. Then, on BETHLEHEM.ORG, the screen turned white and a question appeared in black letters.

  WHAT IS IT YOU SEEK?

  The cursor flashed below the inquiry above a black line, ready for the answer. He typed in THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA. The screen flickered, then changed.

  NOTHING MORE?

  He typed what he thought they wanted to hear.

  KNOWLEDGE.

  The screen changed again.

  28º 41.41N

  33º 38.44E

  Malone knew what those numbers represented. Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place. “It’s the other place.”

  “GPS coordinates,” McCollum said.

  He agreed, but he needed to ground-site them, so he found a website and entered the numbers.

  A few seconds later a map appeared.

  He immediately recognized the shape—an inverted isosceles triangle, a wedge cleaving Africa from Asia, home to a unique combination of mountains and deserts surrounded by the narrow Gulf of Suez to the west, the even narrower Gulf of Aqaba on the east, and the Red Sea to the south.

  The Sinai.

  The GPS coordinates identified a site in the extreme southern region, in the mountains, near the apex of the inverted triangle.

  “Looks like we found the place.”

  “And how do you plan to get there?” McCollum asked. “That’s Egyptian territory, patrolled by the United Nations, close to Israel.”

  Malone reached for the phone. “I don’t think it’s going to be a problem.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  VIENNA

  10:30 PM

  THORVALDSEN SAT IN THE CHTEAU’S GRAND HALL, WATCHING the Order of the Golden Fleece’s winter Assembly unfold. He, like the other members, filled a gilded antique chair. They were aligned in rows of eight, the Circle facing them, Alfred Hermann’s center chair draped in a blue silk. Everyone seemed anxious to talk, and the discussion had quickly gravitated to the Middle East and what the Political Committee had proposed the previous spring. At that time the plans had been merely tentative. Things were now different. And not everyone agreed.

  In fact, there was more dissent than Alfred Hermann had apparently expected. The Blue Chair had already twice interjected himself into the debate, which was a rarity. Usually, Thorvaldsen knew, Hermann remained silent.

  “Displacing the Jews is impossible and ridiculous,” one of the members said from the floor. Thorvaldsen knew the man, a Norwegian heavy into North Atlantic fishing. “Chronicles makes clear that God chose Jerusalem and sanctified the Temple there. I know my Bible. First Kings says God gave Solomon one tribe, so David would have a lamp before Him in Jerusalem. The city He chose for Himself. The reestablishment of modern Israel was not an accident. Many believe it came by heavenly inspiration.”

  Several other members echoed the observation with Bible passages of their own from Chronicles and Psalms.

  “And what if all that you quote is false?”

  The inquiry came from the front of the hall. The Blue Chair stood. “Do you recall when the modern state of Israel was created?”

  No one answered his question.

  “May 14, 1948. Four thirty-two PM. David Ben-Gurion stood in the Tel Aviv Museum and said that by virtue of the natural and historic right of the Jewish people the state of Israel was established.”

  “The prophet Isaiah made clear that a nation shall be born in a day,” one of the members said. “God kept his promise. The Abrahamic covenant. The land of the Jews was returned.”

  “And how do we know of this covenant?” Hermann asked. “Only one source. The Old Testament. Many of you have today called on its text. Ben-Gurion spoke of the natural and historic right of the Jewish people. He, too, was referring to the Old Testament. It’s the only existing evidence that mentions these divine revelations—but its authenticity is seriously in doubt.”

  Thorvaldsen’s gaze swept the room.

  “If I were to have a deed to each one of your estates, documents that were decades old, translated from your respective languages by people long dead who could not even speak your language, would not each one of you question its authenticity? Would you not want more proof than an unverified and unauthenticated translation?” Hermann paused. “Yet we have accepted the Old Testament, without question, as the absolute Word of God. Its text eventually molded the New Testament. Its words still have geopolitical consequences.”

  The gathering seemed to be waiting for Hermann to make his point.

  “Seven years ago a man named George Haddad, a Palestinian biblical scholar, penned a paper published by Beirut University. In it he postulated that the Old Testament, as translated, was wrong.”

  “Quite a premise,” a member said. The heavyset woman stood. “I take the Word of God more seriously than
you.”

  Hermann seemed amused. “Really? What do you know of this Word of God? You know its history? Its author? Its translator? Those words were written thousands of years ago by unknown scribes in Old Hebrew, a language dead now for more than two thousand years. What do you know of Old Hebrew?”

  The woman said nothing.

  Hermann nodded. “Your lack of knowledge is understandable. It was a highly inflected language in which the import of words was conveyed by their context rather than their spelling. The same word could, and did, have several distinct meanings, depending on how it was used. Not until centuries after the Old Testament was first written did Jewish scholars translate those words into the Hebrew of the time, and yet those scholars could not even speak Old Hebrew. They simply guessed at the meaning or, even worse, changed the meaning. Then centuries passed, and more scholars, this time Christian, translated the words again. They, too, could not speak Old Hebrew, so they, too, guessed. With all due respect to your beliefs, we have no idea as to the Word of God.”

  “You have no faith,” the woman declared.

  “On this I do not, since it does not involve God. This is the work of man.”

  “What did Haddad argue?” another man asked, his tone suggesting that he was interested.

  “Correctly, he postulated that when the stories of the covenant made by God to Abraham were first told, Jews already inhabited their Promised Land—what is now Palestine. Of course, this was many, many centuries after the actual promise was supposedly made. According to the biblical premise, the Promised Land was said to extend from the river of Egypt to the great River Euphrates. Many place-names are given. But when Haddad matched the biblical place-names, translated back into Old Hebrew, with actual locations, he discovered something extraordinary.” Hermann paused, seemingly pleased with himself. “The Promised Land of Moses and the land of Abraham were both located in western Saudi Arabia, in the region of Asir.”

  “Where Mecca sits?” came a question from the floor.

  Hermann nodded. Thorvaldsen saw that many of the members immediately grasped the significance.