then turned to the laptop on which he was composing a draft of his translation. He was aware of the irony of the anachronism, using electronic transcription in a place where manuscripts had been hand-copied for centuries.
But how did these documents come to be here in Austria in the first place?
If Steinburg had to guess, a pursuit he loathed as a professor but had to embrace as an archaeologist, he would say the ancient parchment had found its way to Europe as a trophy of the Crusades, most likely the third, when Duke Leopold V had held the English king, Richard the Lionheart, for ransom at his castle at Durnstein, just a few kilometers down the Danube, where ruins of its towers could still be seen. Possibly these pages had been brought to Melk from the centuries-old castle of some former crusader for safekeeping before the Turks breached the castle walls. A number of families in this area dated their ancestry back that far.
Steinburg sighed his relief at having at least theoretically solved the mystery of the papers' origin.
How the Church-or, for that matter, the world-was going to solve the consequences of his discovery was another issue.
Two hours later, he stood and glanced around the room.
Ancient or not, the facts narrated in the documents could have very contemporary implications.
Serious implications.
Implications far beyond the halls of abstract academia or the dusty pages of history.
He could simply return the documents to oblivion in their place among the top row of books and leave Melk, hoping his translation of both Hebrew and old German would likewise be lost in obscurity. But somehow that didn't seem a satisfactory option. Part of his compensation for his work was right to publish his findings in his choice of scholarly journals. The information had value to some people if published, perhaps even more if not.
At any rate, he had no intent of shunning the acclaim his work would earn. The purpose of academia was to disseminate knowledge, like a breeze laden with the parachutes of dandelion seeds. How it was used was not his to question.
He had not noticed that a frail glow from electric sconces now illuminated the cavernous room, the sun having long set. He wondered if the abbey's lightbulbs were intentionally dim to simulate the candles that had burned here for centuries.
He stood, nodding as though reaching an agreement with himself. Reaching into his computer's traveling case, he produced a disk and copied the notes he had spent the last two days inputting. Then he e-mailed the draft of his translation to his home computer. Better backup than a disk. Tomorrow he would print out both his translations along with his notes, and send it to the abbey.
But for now…
Well, he could look forward to at least a modicum of academic recognition, perhaps even more than his cousin, the scientist.
Then he had an idea.
Documents in hand, he walked out of the library, down several halls, and across a courtyard to where by day a gift shop sold souvenirs, books, and religious medals. Behind the shop was a small office, one to which Steinburg had been given a key yesterday when he needed to send a fax. The door to the outside was closed and bolted for the day but yielded easily to his key. If he remembered correctly…
Yes, the fax machine was also a photocopier. Closing his mind to the potential damage that might be done to the documents, he carefully placed them one by one on the glass plate.
His cousin in Amsterdam had mentioned a project that might make these old writings interesting. But if he sent these, Benjamin would have them for months, perhaps a year before Steinburg could publish. Not a problem. His cousin Benjamin was also a professor, but of some sort of exotic science. Analytical chemistry, theoretical physics-Steinburg wasn't sure.
He opened the desk and extracted a bulky envelope and a roll of stamps. He quickly jotted a note requesting the copies either be destroyed of hidden until he published. He estimated the stamps required, addressed the envelope, and dropped it in the sack of mail to be picked up the next day.
He smiled. That ought to get him back for the unintelligible formula his cousin had published last year, a theoretical equation that had caused a mild stirring in scientific journals. These Hebrew scrolls were going be bigger, much bigger than Benjamin's theory.
The two had been friendly rivals since childhood, and now Steinburg would be one up.
A glance at his watch told him he would be late getting home to Vienna. Locking the office, he returned to the library, exited away from the river, crossed a courtyard, and found his ancient but immaculate Volkswagen Beetle in a gravel parking lot now deserted by the daily tour buses. He drove out the gate, away from the abbey's manicured grounds, and onto the road leading to the bridge. In his rearview mirror, Melk's twin towers and dome were fading in the growing dusk.
By the time he reached the narrow bridge high above the Danube, Steinburg had an idea which publications would be given the opportunity to see his work.
His thoughts were interrupted by a pair of lights behind him. From their height above the road it had to be a truck.
Strange. Trucks were expressly forbidden on this bridge.
And the damn thing was speeding, too.
Steinburg realized what was going to happen only an instant before the crunch of metal against metal sent the Volkswagen crashing into the side railing of the bridge.
He felt a jolt of fear. No way was that rampart going to hold, to keep his car from smashing through into the void below.
He was quite right.
TWO
The White House
Washington, D.C.
0423 EST
The ringing of the telephone beside the bed brought Phillip Hansler, the president of the United States, to groggy awareness. He groaned softly as his eyes took in the time on the digital clock next to the phone. As he fumbled the receiver to his ear, he thought the obvious: He was through with sleep for the night. Only his chief of staff had access to this line, and no one called at this hour with good news.
Rather than wake his wife beside him, he sat up without turning on a light. 'Yeah?'
'Good morning, Mr. President. The Iranian situation has gotten out of hand. The Joint Chiefs are on their way, should be in the situation room within the next ten minutes.'
The president hung up without reply before he slipped from beneath the covers, feet groping for the slippers he had left beside the bed.
'Shall I order up some coffee?' The question came from the mound in the covers beside where he had been.
There was at least a skeleton crew manning the White House kitchen twenty-four hours a day.
The president was shuffling toward the bathroom. 'No need. There'll be plenty where I'm headed.'
The very mention of the place gave him chills. Far below the White House, the situation room was actually a series of rooms, including bath and kitchen facilities, that had been constructed as an emergency bunker during the Cold War in case an imminent nuclear attack did not allow enough time for the president to evacuate Washington. Equipped with the most advanced communications, it still served as a command post in times of national emergency.
Minutes later the president stood in front of the elevator just outside his private living quarters. He could already hear a cacophony of sirens growing louder. He checked his watch. The military cavalcade and its escorts would be right on time.
As the president entered the conference room, the three commanding generals and one admiral snapped to attention. The president imagined he could hear the jangle of medals. How did these guys get all that brass and ribbon on so quick, anyway? They must have multiple sets, each already pinned to fresh uniforms.
