The Alexandria Link

TWENTY

LONDON

1:20 PM

MALONE CLIMBED FROM THE TAXI AND STUDIED THE QUIET street. Lots of gabled facades, fluted side posts, and flowery sills. Each of the picturesque Georgian houses seemed a serene abode of antiquity, a place that would naturally harbor bookworms and academics. George Haddad should be right at home.

“This where he lives?” Pam asked.

“I hope so. I haven’t heard from him in nearly a year. But this is the address I was given three years ago.”

The afternoon was cool and dry. Earlier, he’d read in The Times how England was still in the midst of an unusual autumn drought. String Bean had not followed them from Heathrow, but perhaps someone else had taken up the task since the man was clearly in communication with others. Yet no other taxis were in sight. Strange still having Pam with him, but he deserved the feeling of awkwardness. He’d asked for it by insisting she come.

They climbed the stoop and entered the building. He lingered in the foyer, out of sight, watching the street.

But no cars or people appeared.

The bell for the flat on the third floor gave a discreet tinkle. The olive-skinned man who answered the door was short and doughy, with ash-white hair and a square face. Brown eyes came alive when he saw his guest, and Malone noticed an instant of repressed excitement in the broad grin of welcome.

“Cotton. What a surprise. I was just thinking of you the other day.”

They warmly shook hands and Malone introduced Pam. Haddad invited them in. Daylight was dimmed by thick lace curtains and Malone quickly absorbed the decor, which seemed an intentional mismatch-there was a piano, several sideboards, armchairs, lamps adorned with pleated silk shades, and an oak table where a computer was engulfed by books and papers.

Haddad waved his arm as if to embrace the clutter. “My world, Cotton.”

The walls were dotted with maps, so many that the sage-green wall covering was barely visible. Malone’s gaze raked them, and he noted that they depicted the Holy Land, Arabia, and the Sinai, their time line varying from modern to ancient. Some were photocopies, others originals, all interesting.

“More of my obsession,” Haddad said.

After a genial exchange of small talk, Malone decided to get to the point. “Things have changed. That’s why I’m here.” He explained what had happened the day before.

“Your son is okay?” Haddad asked.

“He’s fine. But five years ago I asked no questions because that was part of my job. It’s not anymore, so I want to know what’s going on.”

“You saved my life.”

“Which ought to buy me the truth.”

Haddad led them into the kitchen, where they sat at an oval table. The tepid air hung heavy with a lingering scent of wine and tobacco. “It’s complicated, Cotton. I’ve only in the past few years understood it myself.”

“George, I need to know it all.”

An uneasy understanding passed between them. Old friendships could atrophy. People changed. What was once appreciated between two people became uncomfortable. But Malone knew Haddad trusted him, and he wanted to reciprocate. Finally the older man spoke. Malone listened as Haddad told them about 1948 when, as a nineteen-year-old, he’d fought with the Palestinian resistance, trying to stop the Zionist invasion.

“I shot many men,” Haddad said. “But there was one I never forgot. He came to see my father. Unfortunately that blessed soul had already killed himself. We captured this man, thinking him a Zionist. I was young, full of hate, no patience, and he spoke nonsense. So I shot him.” Haddad’s eyes moistened. “He was a Guardian and I killed him, never learning anything.” The Palestinian paused. “Then, fifty-some years later, incredibly, another Guardian visited me.”

Malone wondered about the significance.

“He appeared at my home, standing in the dark, saying the same thing that the first man said in 1948.”

“I’m a Guardian.”

Had Haddad heard right? The question formed immediately in his mind. “From the library? Am I to be offered an invitation?”

“How do you know that?”

He told the man what had happened long ago. As he spoke, Haddad tried to assess his guest. He was wiry with coal-black hair, a thick mustache, and sun burned skin that bore the texture of tawny leather. Neat and quietly dressed, with a manner to match. Not unlike the first emissary.

The younger man sat silent and Haddad decided this time he, too, would be patient. Finally the Guardian said, “We’ve studied your writings and your published research. Your knowledge of the Bible’s ancient text is impressive, as is your ability to interpret the original Hebrew. And your arguments on the accepted translations are persuasive.”

He appreciated the compliment. Those came few and far between in the West Bank.

“We’re an ancient band. Long ago the first Guardians saved much of the Library of Alexandria from destruction. A great effort. From time to time-to those, like yourself, who could benefit-we’ve offered an invitation.”

Many questions formed in his mind, but he asked, “The Guardian I shot said that the war we were fighting back then wasn’t necessary. That there are things more powerful than bullets. What did he mean?”

“I wouldn’t know. Obviously your father failed to appear at the library, so he never benefited from our knowledge-and we did not benefit from his. Hopefully, you’ll not fail.”

“What do you mean failed to appear?”

“To have the right to use the library you must prove yourself through the hero’s quest.” The man produced an envelope. “Interpret these words wisely and I’ll see you at the entrance, where it will be my honor to allow you into the library.”

He accepted the packet. “I’m an old man. How could I possibly take a long journey?”

“You’ll find the strength.”

“Why should I?”

“Because in the library you will find answers.”

“My mistake,” Haddad said, “was telling the Palestinian authorities about that visit. I spoke the truth, though. I couldn’t make the journey. When I reported what happened, I thought I was speaking with friends in the West Bank. But Israel’s spies heard everything, and the next thing I knew you and I were in that cafe when it exploded.”

Malone recalled the day. One of the scariest in his life. He’d barely managed to extricate them both.

“What were you doing there?” Pam asked him, concern in her voice.

“George and I had known each other for years. We share an interest in books, especially the Bible.” He pointed. “This man is one of the world’s experts. I’ve enjoyed picking his brain.”

“I never knew you had an interest,” Pam said.

“Apparently there was a lot neither one of us knew about the other.” He saw that she registered his true meaning, so he let that truth hang and said, “When George sensed trouble and didn’t trust the Palestinians, he asked for my help. Stephanie sent me to find out what was happening. Once that bomb went off, George wanted out. Everyone assumed he died in the blast. So I made him disappear.”

“Code-named the Alexandria Link,” Pam said.

“Someone obviously found out about me,” Haddad declared.

Malone nodded. “The computer files were breached. But there’s no mention of where you live, just that I’m the only one who knows your whereabouts. That’s why they went after Gary.”