torching of the royal fleet, but the fire spread throughout the city and may have consumed the library. Another version blamed Christians, who supposedly destroyed the main library in 272 CE and the Serapeum in 391, part of their effort to rid the city of all pagan influences. A final account credited Arabs with the library’s destruction after they conquered Alexandria in 642. The caliph Omar, when asked about books in the imperial treasury, was quoted as saying,
Hermann always winced at that thought-how one of humanity’s greatest attempts to collect knowledge might simply have burned.
But what really happened?
Certainly, as Egypt was confronted with growing unrest and foreign aggression, the library became victim to persecution, mob violence, and military occupation, no longer enjoying special privileges.
When had it finally disappeared?
No one knew.
And was the legend true? A group of enthusiasts, it was said, had managed to extract scroll after scroll, copying some, stealing others, methodically preserving knowledge. Chroniclers had hinted at their existence for centuries.
The Guardians.
He liked to imagine what those dedicated enthusiasts may have preserved. Unknown works from Euclid? Plato? Aristotle? Augustine? Along with countless other men who would later be regarded as fathers of their respective fields.
No telling.
And that’s what made the search so enticing.
Not to mention George Haddad’s theories, which offered Hermann a way to further the Order’s purposes. The Political Committee had already determined how the destabilization of Israel could be manipulated for profit. The business plan was both ambitious and feasible. Provided Haddad’s research could be proven.
Five years ago Haddad had reported a visit from someone known as a Guardian. Israel’s spies had conveyed that information to Tel Aviv. The Jews had overreacted, as always, and immediately tried to kill Haddad. Thankfully the Americans had intervened, and Haddad was still among the living. Hermann was equally thankful that his American political sources were now negotiable, recently confirming those facts and adding more, which was why Sabre had moved on Cotton Malone.
But who knew anything? Perhaps Sabre would learn more from the corrupt Israeli waiting in Germany?
The only certainty was George Haddad.
He had to be found.
TWENTY-TWO
ROTHENBURG, GERMANY
3:30 PM
SABRE STROLLED DOWN THE COBBLESTONED LANE. ROTHENBURG lay a hundred kilometers south of Wurzburg, a walled city encircled by stone ramparts and watchtowers straight out of the Middle Ages. Inside, narrow streets wound tight paths between half-timbered brick-and-stone buildings. Sabre searched for one in particular.
The
He pushed through the front door and was greeted by the sweet smell of yeast bread and apple-cinnamon. A narrow ground-floor dining hall emptied into a two-story inner courtyard, the whitewashed walls dotted with antlers.
One of the Order’s contacts waited in an oak booth, a thin puny figure known only as Jonah. Sabre walked over and slid into the booth. The table was draped in a dainty pink cloth. A china cup filled with black coffee rested in front of Jonah, a half-eaten Danish on a nearby plate.
“Strange things are happening,” Jonah said in English.
“That’s the way of the Middle East.”
“Stranger than normal.”
This man was attached to the Israeli Home Office, part of the German mission.
“You asked me to watch for anything on George Haddad. Seems he’s risen from the dead. Our people are in an uproar.”
He feigned ignorance. “What’s the source of that revelation?”
“He actually called Palestine in the last few days. He wants to tell them something.”
Sabre had met with Jonah three times before. Men like him, who placed euros ahead of loyalty, were useful, but at the same time they demanded caution. Cheaters always cheated. “How about we stop hedging and you tell me what it is you want me to know.”
The man savored a sip of his coffee. “Before he disappeared five years ago, Haddad received a visit from someone called the Guardian.”
Sabre already knew that, but said nothing.
“He was given some kind of information. A little strange, but it gets even stranger.”
He’d never appreciated the sense of drama Jonah liked to invoke.
“Haddad’s not the first to have had that experience. I saw a file. There have been three others since 1948 who received similar visits from someone called the Guardian. Israel knew about each, but all those men died within days or weeks of the visit.” Jonah paused. “If you recall, Haddad almost died, too.”
He began to understand. “Your people are keeping something to themselves?”
“Apparently so.”
“Over what period of time have these visits occurred?”
“About every twenty years for the past sixty or so. All were academics, one Israeli and three Arabs, including Haddad. The murders were all conducted by the Mossad.”
He needed to know, “And how did you manage to learn that?”
“As I said, the files.” Jonah went silent. “A communique came a few hours ago. Haddad is living in London.”
“I need an address.”
Jonah provided it, then said, “Men have been sent. From the assassination squad.”
“Why kill Haddad?”
“I asked the ambassador the same question. He’s former Mossad and he told me an interesting tale.”
“I assume that’s why I’m here?”
Jonah tossed him a smile. “I knew you were a smart man.”
