The Alexandria Link

He opened a few files and scrolled through.

Haddad had researched the Library of Alexandria in great detail. But interestingly he’d also studied the Guardians. Alfred Hermann had told Sabre about them. Jonah had filled in some of the blanks. But one of Haddad’s files offered even more.

…their origins are unknown, lost due to the absurdity of ancient men who, without impunity, erased human memory.

By the time of the second century, man had mastered the arts of war and torture. In many parts of the world empires had been formed, which provided laws and a measure of security. But neither of those concepts protected people from their own rulers. Religion formed, and priests became the willing ally of despots. Egypt was one place where this travesty occurred. But sometime around the second century, an Egyptian religious order emerged that worshiped not power but the preservation of knowledge.

A crude form of monastery had then begun where men of like mind and purpose congregated. These places were intentionally isolated and notoriously avoided. This one group was fortunate. Its members actually staffed both libraries at Alexandria as clerks and stewards. From these service posts access to everything was possible, and as the human race prospered and learned more how to annihilate one another, this group withdrew into itself.

Originally they merely copied texts, but eventually they pilfered. The sheer volume of the library (several hundred thousand manuscripts) forced decisions, but over the next three hundred years, as the library fell farther out of favor, stealing texts became easier, particularly since no accurate inventories existed. By the time of the Muslim invasion in the seventh century, the Guardians owned a great deal of the library at Alexandria. That was when they disappeared, reemerging from time to time, offering invitations to come and learn.

Sabre kept reading, wondering how George Haddad had managed to obtain such detailed information. This Palestinian seemed full of surprises.

Movement at the corner of his eye brought his senses alert. Shadows came alive. A dark form crept closer.

His hands left the keyboard. Unfortunately he carried no weapon. He whirled, ready for a fight.

A woman materialized into the glow of the computer screen.

His operative.

“That sort of foolishness can get you hurt,” he said.

“I’m not in the mood.”

He regularly employed her to help all over Britain. She was slender-boned and fine-featured. Today her black hair was brushed tight and caught into a heavy plait.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“Following Malone. They’re in a hotel near Hyde Park.”

“What about Haddad?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know. I stayed with Malone. He took a chance coming back up here-the police were on the way-and he left with that satchel.”

He admired her instincts. “We still need to find the Palestinian.”

“He’ll come back, if he’s not dead already. You look different.”

Gone were his gleaming dark locks and shaggy clothes. Instead his hair was short, windblown, and sandy brown. He was neatly dressed in jeans and a canvas shirt beneath a cloth jacket. Before leaving Germany he’d first reported what he’d learned to the Blue Chair, then made the physical change-all part of his carefully conceived plan, most of which Alfred Hermann knew little about.

“You approve?” he asked.

“I liked the other look.”

He shrugged. “Maybe next time. What’s happening?”

“I have somebody watching the hotel. They’ll call if Malone moves.”

“Nothing more from the Israelis?”

“Their man tore off from here.”

He looked around. Maybe he’d just wait for Haddad to return. That seemed the easiest course. He definitely needed everything off Haddad’s computer, but he didn’t want to take the machine. Too cumbersome. A copy would be better, and he noticed a flash drive lying among the clutter. He grabbed the gadget and snapped it into an empty USB port.

He checked the drive. Empty.

A few clicks of the mouse and he’d copied all the files from the hard drive.

Then he noticed something else, beyond the monitor.

A tiny red light.

He stared closer through the mess of paper and spotted a pocket tape recorder lying on the table. He lifted the unit and noticed no difference in the coating of dust that frosted the desktop. Which meant the unit had been laid there recently. The tape was spent, but the power remained on.

He flicked REWIND.

His operative stood silent.

He engaged PLAY.

The entire encounter between Malone, Haddad, and eventually the Israelis had been recorded. He listened in amazement to Haddad’s murder. The last thing he heard was Cotton Malone’s declaration that he intended to kill the son of a bitch.

He switched off the machine.

“Haddad’s dead?” the woman said. “Killed here? Why isn’t this a crime scene?”

“I assume the Israelis cleaned up before the police arrived.”

“Now what?”

“We have Malone. Let’s see where he leads.”

THIRTY-ONE

MALONE LEFT THE ROOM AND WALKED DOWN THE HALL. HE’D earlier noticed an ice machine, which was surprising. More and more American conveniences seemed to be invading European hotels.

He was angry at himself for placing Pam in danger. But at the time, what choice had there been? He couldn’t have left her at Heathrow with a man following. And who was he? Perhaps involved with those who’d taken Gary? That seemed logical. But he still knew precious little.

The Israelis had reacted promptly to Haddad’s signal that he was alive. Yet Pam was right. With Haddad dead, their interests were protected, their problem solved. Still, Pam had been the one followed. Not him.

Why?

He found the ice machine and discovered that it wasn’t working. Though the compressor churned, no ice filled the bin. Much like America, too, he thought.

He pushed through the stairway door and descended one floor.

There the machine was brimming with ice. He stood in a cubicle off the hall and filled his bucket.

He heard a door to one of the rooms slam shut, then voices. He was still scooping ice when two men passed the alcove, talking excitedly. He turned to leave and caught the facial profile of one of the men, along with his lanky frame and sunburned skin.

String Bean. From Heathrow.

Here, one floor down from where they were staying.

He retreated into the alcove and peered around the doorway, watching as the men entered the elevator.

Heading up.

He bolted for the stairwell door and leaped up the risers. He eased open the door just as the elevator dinged and the two men strolled from the car.

He slipped out the door and carefully peered down the corridor. He watched as one of the men scooped a used room-service tray from the carpet and balanced it on one hand. The other man withdrew a short-barreled revolver.