THIRTY-TWO
WASHINGTON, DC
9:00 PM
STEPHANIE LED CASSIOPEIA THROUGH THE QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD. For the past few hours they'd stayed hidden in the suburbs. She'd made one call to Billet headquarters from a pay phone at a Cracker Barrel restaurant and learned that there had been no contact from Malone. Not so from the White House. Larry Daley's office had called three times. She'd told her staff to say that she'd get back to him at her first opportunity. Aggravating, she knew. But let Daley wonder if the next time he saw her jovial face, it would be live on CNN. That fear should be enough, for now, to keep the deputy national security adviser in check. Heather Dixon and the Israelis, though, were another matter.
"Where are we going?" Cassiopeia asked.
"To deal with a problem."
The neighborhood was heavy with beaux arts architecture that had been fashionable, she realized, with the nineteenth-century industrialists who'd first populated the tree-lined avenues. Colonial row houses and cobblestoned walks only added to the wealthy mien in the night air.
"I'm not one of your agents," Cassiopeia said. "I like to know what I'm getting into."
"You can leave whenever you want."
"Nice try. You're not getting rid of me that easy."
"Then stop asking questions. You quiz Thorvaldsen like this?"
"Why don't you like him? In France you stayed at his throat."
"Look where I am, Cassiopeia. Cotton's in a mess. My own people want me dead. The Israelis and Saudis are both after me. You think it's wise I like anyone?"
"That's not an answer to my question."
No, it wasn't. But she couldn't voice the truth. That through his association with her late husband, Thorvaldsen had come to know her strengths and weaknesses, and near him she felt vulnerable.
"Let's just say that he and I are far too well acquainted with each other."
"Henrik's worried about you. That's why he asked me to come. He sensed trouble."
"And I appreciate that. But it doesn't mean I have to like him."
She spotted the house, another of the many symmetrical brick residences with carvings, a portico, and a mansard roof. Lights burned only in the downstairs windows. She scanned the street.
Still quiet.
"Follow me."
ALFRED HERMANN RARELY SLEPT. HE'D CONDITIONED HIS mind long ago to operate on less than three hours' rest.
He was not old enough to have personally experienced World War II, though he harbored vivid childhood memories of Nazis parading through the streets of Vienna. In the decades after, he'd actively battled the Soviets and challenged their puppet regimes that had dominated Austria. Hermann money dated from the Hapsburgs and had managed to survive two centuries of volatile politics. During the past fifty years the family fortune had grown tenfold, and much of that success could be traced to the Order of the Golden Fleece. To be intimately associated with such a select group from around the world came with advantages that his father and grandfather had never enjoyed. But to be in charge-that provided even greater benefits.
His tenure, though, was coming to an end.
At his death, his daughter would inherit everything. And the thought was not comforting. True, she was like him in some ways. Bold and determined, and she appreciated the past and coveted, with an enthusiasm similar to his own, that most precious of human commodities-knowledge. But she remained unpolished. A work in progress. One he feared might never be completed.
He stared at his daughter who, like him, slept little. He'd named her Margarete, after his mother. She was admiring the model of the Library of Alexandria.
"Can we find it?" she quietly asked.
He stepped close. "I believe Dominick is near."
She appraised him with keen gray eyes. "Sabre is not to be trusted. No American should be."
They'd had this discussion before. "I trust no one."
"Not even me?"
He grinned. They'd had this discussion before, too. "Not even you."
"Sabre has too much freedom."
"Why begrudge him? We give him difficult tasks. You can't do that and expect him to work as we see fit."
"He's a problem-American ingenuity and all that-you just don't know it."
"He's a willful man. He needs purpose. We provide that to him. In return he furthers our goals."
"I've sensed more from him lately. He tries hard to mask his ambition, but it's there. You just have to pay attention."
He thought he'd taunt her. "Perhaps you're attracted to him?"
She scoffed at his question. "That'll never happen. In fact, I'll fire him once you're gone."
He wondered about her assumption that she would inherit all that he owned. "There's no guarantee you'll be Blue Chair. That selection is made among the Chairs."
"I'll be in the Circle. I assure you. It's a simple step from there to where you are."
But he wasn't so sure. He knew of her contacts with the other four Chairs. He'd actually encouraged them as a test. His wealth far surpassed that of the others in age, volume, and scope. Financial institutions he controlled were heavily entangled with many members, including three of the Chairs. Never would any of them want others to know of that vulnerability, and the price of his silence had always been their loyalty. He'd manipulated their weaknesses for decades, but his daughter's attempts had been feeble. So a word of caution was in order. "Once I'm gone, it's true, Dominick will have to deal with you, as you will with him. But don't be so quick. Men like him, with little emotion? No morals? A daring heart? You might find them valuable."
He hoped she was listening but feared, as always, that her ears remained filtered. Her mother had died when she was eight and, in her youth, she'd seemed a product of him-of the rib, she liked to say-yet age had not matured that early promise. Her education had started in France, continued in England, and was completed in Austria, her business experience honed in the boardrooms of his many corporations.
But the reports from there had not been encouraging.
"What would you do if you found the library?" she asked.
He concealed his amusement. She apparently did not want to discuss Sabre or herself anymore. "It's beyond imagining what great thoughts are there."
"I heard you speaking yesterday about those. Tell me more."
"Ah, the Piri Reis Map, from 1513, found in Istanbul. I was running on about that. I didn't know you were listening."
"I always listen."
He grinned at the observation. They both knew it wasn't so.
"I was telling the chancellor of how the map had been drawn on a gazelle hide by a Turkish admiral who was once a pirate. Full of incredible detail. The South American coastline is there, though European navigators hadn't yet charted that region. The Antarctic continent is also shown, long before being coated with ice. Only recently, using ground radar, have we been able to determine that shoreline's contour. Yet the 1513 representation is as good as ours. On the face of the map, the cartographer noted that he used charts drawn in the days of Alexander, Lord of the Two Horns. Can you imagine? Perhaps ancient navigators visited Antarctica thousands of years ago, before the ice accumulated, and recorded what they saw."
Hermann's mind swirled with what else may have been lost from the fields of mathematics, astronomy, geometry, meteorology, and medicine.
"Unrecorded knowledge is either forgotten or muddled beyond recognition. Do you know of Democritus? He conceived the notion that all things were made of a finite number of discrete particles. Today we call them atoms, but he was the first to acknowledge their existence and formulate the atomic theory. He wrote seventy books-we know that from other references-yet not one has survived. And centuries passed before other men, in other times, thought of the same thing.
"Almost nothing Pythagoras wrote remains. Manetho recorded Egypt's history. Gone. Galen, the great Roman healer? He wrote five hundred treatises on medicine. Only fragments remain. Aristarchus thought that the sun, not the earth, was the center of the universe. But Copernicus, who lived seventeen centuries later, is the man history credits with that revelation."
He thought of more. Erathosthenes and Strabo, geographers. Archimedes, the physicist and mathematician. Zenodotus and his grammar. Callimachus the poet. Thales, the first philosopher.
All their ideas gone.
"It's always been the same," he said. "Knowledge is the first thing eradicated once power is attained. History has proven that over and over."
"So what is it Israel fears?" she asked.
He knew she'd eventually work him around to that subject.
"Perhaps it's more fear than reality," she noted. "Changing the world is difficult."
"But it can be done. Men-" He paused. "-and women have done it for centuries. And violence has not always brought about the most monumental changes. Often it's been mere words. The Bible fundamentally changed mankind. The Koran likewise. The Magna Carta. The American Constitution. Billions of people govern their lives by those words. Society has been altered by them. It's not so much the wars as the treaties that follow that truly alter the course of history. The Marshall Plan changed the world more expressly than World War II itself. Words are indeed the true weapons of mass destruction."
"You dodged my question," she said in a playful tone, one that reminded him of his long-dead wife.
"What is it Israel fears?" he repeated.
"Why won't you tell me?"
"Perhaps I don't know."
"I doubt it."
He considered telling her everything. But he hadn't survived by being foolish. Loose talk had been the downfall of more than one successful man.
"Let's simply say that the truth is always difficult to accept. For people, for cultures, even for nations."
STEPHANIE LED THE WAY INTO THE REAR YARD AND WAS STARTLED by its manicured appearance. Flowers abounded. Colorful asters, waxbells, goldenrod, pansies, and mums. A terrace formed a peninsula, its flagstones dotted with wrought-iron furniture, more blooms sprouting from decorative pots.
She guided Cassiopeia to the thick trunk of a tall maple, one of three stately trees shading the garden.
She checked her watch: 9:43 PM.
She'd brought them this far through a combination of anger and curiosity, but the next step was where she irrefutably crossed the line.
"Get that air pistol ready," she whispered.
Her cohort slid a dart down the barrel. "I hope you note my blind obedience to this foolishness."
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.
STEPHANIE TOSSED A TUMBLER OF WATER IN BRENT GREEN'S face. They'd dragged his limp body into the kitchen and fastened him to a chair with packing tape Cassiopeia found in a drawer. The attorney general stirred himself out of unconsciousness, shaking the moisture from his eyes.
"Sleep well?" she asked.
Green was still coming around, so she helped him with another splash.
"That's enough," Green said, lids wide open, his face and bathrobe soaked. "I assume there's a good reason why you've decided to violate so many federal laws." The words came with the speed of molasses and in the tone of a funeral director, both normal for Green. Never had she heard him talk fast or loud.
"You tell me, Brent. Who you working for?"
Green glanced at the bindings that held his wrists and ankles. "And I thought we were making progress in our relationship."
"We were until you betrayed me."
"Stephanie, I've been told for years that you're a loose cannon, but I always admired those traits in you. I'm beginning, though, to see the other side's complaint."
She came close. "I didn't trust you, but you faced off against Daley and I thought maybe, just maybe, I was wrong."
"Do you have any idea what would happen if my security detail came to check on me? Which, by the way, they do each night."
"Nice try. You waved them off months ago. Said it wasn't necessary unless the threat level was elevated, and it's not at the moment."
"And how do you know that I didn't press my panic button before I fell to the terrace?"
She removed the transmitter she carried from her pocket. "I pressed mine, Brent, back on the mall, and you know what happened? Not a damn thing."
"Might be different here."
She knew that Green, like all senior administrative staff, carried a panic button. It instantly relayed trouble to either a nearby security detail or the Secret Service command center. It could also act as a tracking device.
"I watched your hands," she said. "Both empty. You were too busy trying to figure out what stung you."
Green's face stiffened, and he stared at Cassiopeia. "You shot me?"
She gave him a gracious bow. "At your service."
"What's the chemical?"
"Fast-acting agent I found in Morocco. Quick, painless, short-term."
"I can attest to all those." Green turned back toward Stephanie. "This must be Cassiopeia Vitt. She knew your husband, Lars, before he killed himself."
"How in the world do you know that?" She hadn't mentioned what happened to anyone on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Only Cassiopeia, Henrik Thorvaldsen, and Malone knew.
"Ask me what you came to ask me," Green said with a quiet resolve.
"Why'd you call off my security detail? You left me bare-ass for the Israelis. Tell me you did it."
"I did."
The admission surprised her. She was too accustomed to lies. "Knowing that the Saudis would try to kill me?"
"I knew that, too."
Anger swelled inside her and she fought the urge to lash out, saying only, "I'm waiting."
"Ms. Vitt," Green said. "Are you available to keep an eye on this woman until this is over?"
"Why do you give a damn?" Stephanie blurted out. "You're not my keeper."
"Somebody has to be. Calling Heather Dixon wasn't smart. You're not thinking."
"Like I need you to tell me that."
"Look at yourself. Here you are, assaulting the chief law enforcement officer of the United States with little or no information. Your enemies, on the other hand, have access to an abundance of intelligence, which they are using to full advantage."
"What in the hell are you babbling about? And you never did answer the question."
"That's true. I didn't. You wanted to know why I called off your security detail. The answer is simple. I was asked to, so I did."
"Who asked you?"
Green's eyes surveyed her with the unruffled look of a Buddha.
"Henrik Thorvaldsen."