The Alexandria Link

She considered the next move.

Breaking into the house was certainly an option. Cassiopeia possessed the requisite skills. But simply knocking on the door would work, too. She actually liked that approach. Their course, though, was instantly set when the rear door opened and a black form strolled out among the slender pillars supporting a shallow colonnade. The tall man was wearing a bathrobe tied at the waist, his feet sheathed in slippers that scraped off the terrace.

She motioned to the gun, then at the form.

Cassiopeia aimed and fired.

A soft pop, then a swish accompanied the dart’s flight.

Its tip found the man, who cried out as his hand reached for his shoulder. He seemed to fiddle with the dart, then gasped as he collapsed.

Stephanie raced over. “Stuff works fast.”

“That’s the idea. Who is this?”

They stared down at the man.

“Congratulations. You just shot the attorney general of the United States. Now help me drag him into the house.”

THIRTY-THREE

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 6

LONDON

3:15 AM

SABRE STUDIED HIS LAPTOP. FOR THE PAST THREE HOURS HE’D been scanning what he’d downloaded off George Haddad’s computer.

And he was astounded.

The information was certainly as much as he would have gleaned from the Palestinian himself, and without the aggravation of forcing the Arab to talk. Haddad had apparently spent years researching the Library of Alexandria, along with the mythical Guardians, assimilating an impressive array of data.

A whole series of files concerned an English earl named Thomas Bainbridge, of whom he’d heard Alfred Hermann speak. According to Haddad, in the latter part of the eighteenth century Bainbridge visited the Library of Alexandria, then wrote a novel about his experience that, according to the notes, contained clues to the library’s location.

Had Haddad found a copy?

Was that what Malone had retrieved?

Then there was Bainbridge’s ancestral estate west of London. Haddad had apparently visited several times and believed more clues lay there, especially concerning a marble arbor and something called The Epiphany of St. Jerome. But no details were offered to explain the significance of either.

Then there was the hero’s quest.

An hour ago he’d found a narrative account of what had happened five years back in Haddad’s West Bank home. He’d read the notes with interest and now reassembled the events in his mind, his excitement piqued.

“You’re saying that the library still exists?” Haddad asked the Guardian.

“We’ve protected it for centuries. Saved what would have been lost through ignorance and greed.”

Haddad motioned with the envelope that his guest had handed him. “This hero’s quest shows the way?”

The man nodded. “To those who understand, the path will be obvious.”

“And if I don’t understand?”

“Then we’ll never see each other again.”

He considered the possibilities and said, “I fear that what I want to learn is better left hidden.”

“Why would you say that? Knowledge should never be feared. I’m familiar with your work. I study the Old Testament, too. That’s why I was chosen as your Guardian.” The younger man’s face brightened. “We have sources you can’t even imagine. Original texts. Correspondence. Analyses. From men long ago, who knew far more than you or me. My mastery of Old Hebrew is not on your level. You see, for a Guardian, there are levels of achievement, and the only way to ascend is through accomplishment. Like you, I’m fascinated by Christianity’s interpretation of the Old Testament, how it was manipulated. I want to learn more, and you, sir, can teach me.”

“And learning will help you ascend?”

“Proving your theory would be a great accomplishment for us both.”

So he opened the envelope.

Sabre scrolled down to what that envelope contained. Haddad had apparently scanned the document into the computer. The words were penned in a sharply angled masculine script, all in Latin. Luckily Haddad had translated the message. Sabre read the hero’s quest, the supposed path to the Library of Alexandria.

How strange are the manuscripts, great traveler of the unknown. They appear separately, but seem as one to those who know that the colors of the rainbow be come a single white light. How to find that single ray? It is a mystery, but visit the chapel beside the Tejo, in Bethlehem, dedicated to our patron saint. Begin the journey in the shadows and complete it in the light, where a retreating star finds a rose, pierces a wooden cross, and converts silver to gold. Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place. Then, like the shepherds of the painter Poussin, puzzled by the enigma, you will be flooded with the light of inspiration. Reassemble the fourteen stones, then work with square and compass to find the path. At noon, sense the presence of the red light, see the endless coil of the serpent red with anger. But heed the letters. Danger threatens one who arrives with great speed. If your course remains true, the route will be sure.

Sabre shook his head. Riddles. Not his strong point. And he had not the time to wrestle with them. He’d reviewed every file from the computer, but Haddad had not deciphered the message.

And that was a problem.

He was not a historian, a linguist, or a biblical scholar. Alfred Hermann was the supposed expert, but Sabre wondered how much the Austrian actually knew. Both of them were opportunists, trying to make the most of a unique situation.

Just for differing reasons.

Hermann was trying to forge a legacy, to stamp his mark on the Order of the Golden Fleece. Perhaps even to smooth Margarete’s ascendency to power. God knew she needed help. He knew she’d eliminate him once Hermann was gone. But if he could preempt her, stay a step ahead, just beyond her grasp, he just might succeed. He wanted an all-expenses-paid pass straight to the top. A seat at the table. Bargaining power to become a full-fledged member of the Order of the Golden Fleece. If the lost Library of Alexandria contained what Alfred Hermann had told him it might, then possessing it was worth more than any family fortune.

His cell phone rang.

The LCD display indicated that it was his operative. About time. He answered.

“Malone’s on the move,” she said. “Bloody early. What do you want me to do?”

“Where did he go?”

“Took a bus to Paddington Station, then a train west.”

“Is Oxfordshire on that route?”

“Straight through it.”

Apparently Malone was curious, too. “Did you arrange that extra help, like I asked?”

“They’re here.”

“Wait at Paddington Station. I’m on my way.”

He clicked off the phone.

Time to start the next phase.