by Steve Berry
Not surprisingly, no press reported that armed men had been found dead a few miles from the scene of the explosion. The Secret Service’s cleanup had been fast and thorough.
They were driving another government car, a Chevy Tahoe, supplied by Daniels. The president wanted them away from Camp David before she made the call. They were now seventy miles south, on the outskirts of northern Washington. She grabbed her cell phone and dialed Green’s mobile number.
“I’ve been waiting,” Green said when he answered. “Have you heard about Daley?”
“We had a front-row seat.” And she told him what happened at the restaurant.
“What were you doing there?”
“Having breakfast. He was buying.”
“Any reason why you’re being flippant?”
“Watching a man die has a way of jading your attitude.”
“What’s happening?” Green asked.
“The same people who killed Daley tried to kill Cassiopeia and me. But we managed to get away. They were apparently on Daley’s tail, and they moved on us right after we left the restaurant.”
“You seem to have a number of lives, Stephanie.”
“Daley told me things, Brent. There’s a lot going on. He was privy to it. He also has proof.”
“Was he the traitor?”
“Hardly. The vice president gets that crown. Daley had amassed quite a lot on the VP.”
She kept the car on the road and listened to the silence on the other end of the phone.
“Solid evidence?”
“Good enough for The Washington Post. He was terrified. That’s why he met with me. He wanted help. He gave some stuff to me.”
“Then your life is at risk, Stephanie.”
“We’ve already figured that one out. Now we need your help.”
“Of course. You’ll have it. What do you want me to do?”
“Those flash drives from Daley’s house. They relate to the evidence I have. Together they’re enough to take the VP down. Once he goes, then we’ll learn the rest, since I doubt he’ll graciously take the fall alone. Treason comes with a harsh penalty. Death is one of the options for the jury.”
More silence.
“Do you know if Cotton has checked in?” she asked.
“I haven’t been told if he has. I’ve heard from no one. How about Thorvaldsen? Has he contacted Cassiopeia?”
“Not a word.”
Her heart sank as she realized that Brent Green was part of what was happening. The pain on her face conveyed to Cassiopeia his betrayal.
“We need to meet, Brent. Privately. Just you, me, and Cassiopeia. How’s your schedule?”
“Nothing I can’t change.”
“Good. Daley has more proof. Stuff he said would conclusively show who else is involved. He’s been amassing it for a while. Those flash drives you have contain taped conversations of the VP’s chief of staff talking about succession after the president is dead. But there’s more. We need to meet at Daley’s house. Can you get there?”
“Of course. You know where the information is hidden?”
“He told me.”
“Then let’s deal with this.”
“That’s the plan. See you there in half an hour.”
She clicked off.
“I’m sorry,” Cassiopeia said.
She wasn’t going to dwell on someone else’s failure. “We have to stay sharp. Green had Daley killed. We know that now. He’s also plotting to kill the president.”
“And us,” Cassiopeia said. “Those men were working for the Saudis. The Saudis apparently think Green and the vice president are on their side. But the VP is also dealing with the Order. Which means the Saudis will never see a thing. The Order will get it all, to use however they want.”
The interstate congealed as they approached central Washington. Stephanie slowed the Tahoe and said, “Let’s hope the Arabs understand that before they decide to deal with us.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
SINAI PENINSULA
GEORGE HADDAD LED HIS EXECUTIONER INTO THE LIBRARY OF Alexandria. The brightly lit subterranean chamber could dazzle at first sight. The walls were alive with mosaics fashioned in the spirit of everyday life—a barber shaving, a chiropodist, a painter, men crafting linen. He still recalled his first visit, but his assailant did not seem impressed.
“Where’s the power come from?”
“Do you have a name?” Haddad asked.
“That’s not an answer.”
He knit his heavy eyebrows in a puzzled manner. “I’m an old man, hardly a threat to you. I’m simply curious.”
“Name’s Dominick Sabre.”
“Have you come for yourself or others?”
“Myself. I’ve decided to become a librarian.”
He smiled. “You’ll find the job a challenge.”
Sabre seemed to relax and stared around at the surroundings. The chamber was cathedral-like, with sloping walls and a barrel ceiling. The polished red granite shone like a gem. Columns rose from floor to ceiling, chiseled from the rock, each ornamented with letters, faces, plants, and animals. All of the chambers and tunnels were once the mines of pharaohs, abandoned for centuries by the time of Christ, recrafted over the ensuing centuries by men obsessed with knowledge. Light came then by torches and lamps. Only in the past hundred years had technology allowed the soot to be cleaned away and the original beauty restored.
Sabre motioned to a mosaic emblem prominent on the far wall. “What’s that?”
“The front of an Egyptian sledge, decorated with the head of a jackal, a heavy block on the sledge. The hieroglyph for wonder. Each of the library’s rooms bears a symbol, which is the room’s name. This is the Room of Wonder.”
“You still never said where the power comes from.”
“Solar. The electricity is low-voltage, but enough to power lights, computers, and communications equipment. Did you know that the concept for solar power was born more than two thousand years ago? Converting light into energy. But the idea was forgotten until the past fifty years, when someone once again thought of it.”
Sabre motioned with his gun. “Where’s that doorway lead?”
“The other four chambers. The Rooms of Province, Eternity, and Life, and the Reading Room. Each contains scrolls, as you can see. Approximately ten thousand are in this room.”
Haddad casually moved to the center. Diamond-shaped stone bins, turned on edge, spanning long rows, held scrolls stacked loosely. “Many of these can no longer be read. Age has taken its toll. But there is much here. Works by Euclid the mathematician. Herophiles on medicine. The Histories of Manetho, about the early pharaohs. Callimachus the poet and grammarian.”
“You talk a lot.”
“I only thought that, since you intend to become the Librarian, you should begin to learn your charge.”
“How did all these survive?”
“The original Guardians chose this location well. The mountain is dry. Moisture is rare in the Sinai, and water is the printed word’s greatest enemy—other than, of course, fire.” He motioned at extinguishers that rested at regular intervals around the room. “We’re prepared for that.”
“Let’s see the other rooms.”
“Of course. You should see it all.”
He led Sabre toward the doorway, pleased.
Apparently his attacker had no idea who he was.
That should at least even the odds.
HERMANN OPENED HIS EYES. THREE BUTTERFLIES SAT PERCHED on his sleeve, his arm stretched out across the schmetterlinghaus’s putty-colored earth. His head ached and he recalled the blow from Thorvaldsen. He hadn’t known the Dane was capable of such violence.
He pushed himself to his feet and spotted his chief of the guard lying prone twenty feet away.
His gun was gone.
He staggered to his employee, grateful no one was around. He glanced at his watch. He’d been down twenty minutes. His left temple throbbed and he gently traced the outline of a knot
.
Thorvaldsen would pay for that assault.
The world was still unstable, but he caught hold of himself and brushed the dirt from his clothes. He bent down and shook the chief of the guard awake.
“We need to go,” he said.
The other man rubbed his forehead and stood.
He steadied himself and commanded, “Not a word of this to anyone.”
His minion nodded.
He walked over to the telephone box and lifted the receiver. “Please find Henrik Thorvaldsen.”
He was surprised when the voice on the other end said he already knew the man’s whereabouts.
“Out front. Preparing to leave.”
SEVENTY-NINE
SINAI PENINSULA
SABRE COULD NOT BELIEVE HIS GOOD FORTUNE. HE’D FOUND the Library of Alexandria. All around him were scrolls, papyri, parchments, and what the old man called codices—small, compact books, the pages brittle and brown, each one lying flat on the shelves beside the next, like bodies.
“Why is the air so fresh?” he wanted to know.
“Ventilation fans move the dry air from outside into here, where it’s cooled by the mountain. Another innovation added in recent decades. The Guardians before me were ingenious. They took their charge seriously. Will you?”
They stood in the third room, named Eternity, another mosaic hieroglyph—a squatting man, his arms raised like a referee signaling a touchdown—high on the wall. More shelved codices spanned its length, with narrow aisles in between. The Librarian had explained that these were books from the seventh century, just before the original Library at Alexandria was sacked for the final time by Muslims.
“Much was retrieved in the months leading up to that change in political rule,” the Librarian said. “These words exist nowhere else on this planet. Facts and events, what the world regards as history, would change if these were studied.”
He liked what he was hearing. It all translated into one thing—power. He needed to know more, and quickly. Malone may well have forced another Guardian to show him through the maze. But his adversary could also just wait until he came out. That seemed more logical. Sabre had marked each of the doors they’d taken with an X scratched into the stone. Finding his way out would be easy. Then he’d deal with Malone.
But first he needed to know what Alfred Hermann would have asked.
“Are there manuscripts here about the Old Testament?”
HADDAD WAS PLEASED THAT HIS GUEST HAD FINALLY COME TO the point of his visit. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to make this happen. After his faked death in London, he’d waited, the apartment wired for sound and video, and watched to see if anyone else came. Sure enough, the man holding a gun on him had found the information left on the computer and the audiotape.
At Bainbridge Hall, Haddad had then waited for Malone, since the material he’d stashed beneath his bed had pointed straight there. Sabre’s coming had been a bit of a surprise. His killing of the two men whom he’d sent into the mansion in the first place only confirmed the man’s ill intentions.
One of the Guardians had managed to follow Malone to the Savoy Hotel and witnessed a breakfast with Sabre. Then those same eyes had watched as the two, plus Malone’s ex-wife, boarded a flight to Lisbon. Since Haddad himself had fashioned the quest Malone was taking, he’d known exactly where the three were headed.
Which was why Adam and Eve were sent to Lisbon. To make sure that nothing prevented Malone and his new ally from making their way to the Sinai.
Haddad had thought the threat would be from governments—Israeli, Saudi, or American. But now he realized the greatest danger was from the man standing two meters away. He hoped Sabre was working for himself. And watching the expectancy in the other man’s words and actions, he was now sure that the threat was containable.
“We have many texts concerning the Bible,” he said. “That was a subject the library took a great interest in studying.”
“The Old Testament. In Hebrew. Are there manuscripts here?”
“Three. Two supposedly copied from earlier texts. One an original.”
“Where?”
He motioned to the doorway from which they’d entered. “Two rooms back. The Room of Province. If you intend to be the Librarian, you’re going to have to learn where materials are stored.”
“What do those Bibles say?”
He feigned ignorance. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen letters. From Jerome and Augustine. They talk of the Old Testament being changed. That the translations were altered. There were other invitees, four, who studied that, too. One, a man five years ago, a Palestinian, who said that the Old Testament was a record of the Jews not in Palestine, but somewhere else in Saudi Arabia. What do you know about that?”
“A great deal. And those men are correct. The translations of the accepted Bible are wrong. The Old Testament is indeed a record of the Jews in a place other than Palestine. West Arabia, in fact. I have read many manuscripts here in the library that prove the point. I have even seen maps of ancient Arabia that indicate biblical locations.”
The gun came level and pointed straight at him. “Show me.”
“Unless you’re capable of reading Hebrew or Arabic, they will mean nothing.”
“One more time, old man. Show me or I’ll kill you and take my chances with your employees.”
He shrugged. “Simply trying to be helpful.”
SABRE HAD NO IDEA IF THE SHEETS AND CODICES SPREAD OUT before him were what Alfred Hermann sought. It didn’t matter. He intended to control everything around him.
“These are treatises written in the second century by philosophers who studied at Alexandria,” the Librarian said. “The Jews were just then beginning to become a political force in Palestine, asserting their supposed ancient presence, preaching an entitlement to the land. Sound familiar? These scholars determined that there was no ancient presence. They studied the Hebrew texts of the Old Testament, which the library maintained, and determined that the stories, as told at the time orally by the Jews, were far different in the texts, especially the oldest ones. Seems that as time progressed, the stories became more and more adapted to the Jews’ then homeland, which had become Palestine. They’d simply forgotten their past in Arabia. If not for place-names, which remained constant, and the Old Testament written in its original Hebrew, that history would have never been discovered.”
The Librarian pointed at one of the codices.
“That one is much later. Fifth century. When Christians decided they wanted the Old Testament to be included in their Bible. This treatise makes clear the translations were altered to conform the Old with the emerging New Testament. A conscious attempt to fashion a message using history, religion, and politics.”
Sabre stared at the books.
The Librarian motioned to another stack of parchments contained within a clear plastic container. “This is the oldest Bible we have. Written four hundred years before Christ. All in Hebrew. The world has nothing like this. I believe the oldest Bible, outside this room, dates from nine hundred years after Christ. Is this what you seek?”
Sabre said nothing.
“You’re an odd man,” the Librarian suddenly said.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know how many invitees have ventured here? Many thousands throughout the centuries. Our guest book is impressive. It started in the twelfth century with Averroës, the Arabic philosopher who wrote critically of Aristotle and challenged Augustine. He studied here. Those Guardians decided the time had come to share this knowledge, but selectively. Many of the names no one would recognize—just men and women of exceptional intelligence who came to the Guardians’ attention. Minds that made their own individual contributions to our knowledge. In the days before radio, television, and computers, Guardians lived in major cities, always on the watch for invitees. Thomas Aquinas, Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, Poussin, Chaucer—men like that have all stood in this room. Montaigne wrote his Essays
here. Francis Bacon conceived his famous statement I take all knowledge for my province here, in the Room of Province.”
“Is all that supposed to mean something to me?”
The old man shrugged. “I’m trying to explain your charge. You say you want to be the Librarian. If so, you will be granted quite a privilege. Those in the past who have served met Copernicus and Kepler and Descartes. Robespierre. Benjamin Franklin. Even Newton himself. All those learned souls benefited from this place, and the world benefited from their ability to comprehend and expand.”
“And none of them ever said they were here?”
“Why would they? We seek no credit. In that way they obtain the recognition. If we assisted them? That was our charge. Quite an accomplishment, it has been, to keep this alive. Can you carry on that tradition?”
Since he had no intention of allowing anyone else to see this place, he asked what he really wanted to know. “How many Guardians are there?”
“Nine. Our ranks are greatly depleted.”
“Where are they? I saw only two outside.”
“The monastery is large. They were about their duties.”
He motioned with the gun. “Let’s go back to the first room. I want to see something else.”
And the old man started walking.
He debated killing him here. But Malone should, by now, have figured out what was happening. He was either waiting at the other end of the maze or on his way through it.
Regardless, this old man would prove useful.
EIGHTY
MALONE ROUNDED THE FINAL CORNER AND SPOTTED A DOORWAY formed by two winged, human-headed lions. He knew the symbolism. The mind of a man, the strength of an animal, the ubiquity of a bird. Marble doors hung open on bronze hinges.
