TWENTY-ONE
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
2:45 PM
ALFRED HERMANN'S CHaTEAU OFFERED HIM AN ATMOSPHERE reminiscent of a tomb. Only when the Order's Assembly convened, or the Chairs gathered, was his solitude interrupted.
Neither was the case today.
And he was pleased.
He was ensconced in his private apartment, a series of spacious rooms on the chateau's second floor, each room flowing naturally through the other in the French style of no corridors. The winter session of the 49th Assembly would open in less than two days' time, and he was pleased that all seventy-one members in the Order of the Golden Fleece would be attending. Even Henrik Thorvaldsen, who at first had said he would not be coming, had now confirmed. The membership hadn't talked collectively since spring, so he knew the discussions over the coming days would be arduous. As Blue Chair, his task was to ensure that the proceedings were productive. The Order's staff was already at work preparing the chateau's meeting hall-and all would be ready by the time the members arrived for the weekend-but he wasn't worried about the Assembly. Instead his thoughts were on finding the Library of Alexandria. Something he'd dreamed of accomplishing for decades.
He stepped across the room.
The model, which he'd commissioned years ago, consumed the chamber's north corner, a spectacular miniature of what the Library of Alexandria may have looked like at the time of Caesar. He slid a chair close and sat, his eyes absorbing the details, his mind wandering.
Two pillared colonnades dominated. Both, he knew, would have been filled with statues, the floors sheathed in rugs, the walls draped in tapestries. In the many seats lining the corridors, members bickered over the meaning of a word or the cadence of a verse, or engaged in some caustic controversy about a new discovery. Both roofed chambers opened into side rooms where papyri, scrolls, and later codices lay stored in bins, loosely stacked, tagged for indexing, or on shelves. In other rooms copyists labored to produce replicas, which were sold for revenue. Members enjoyed a high salary and exemption from taxes, and were provided dining and lodging. There were lecture halls, laboratories, observatories-even a zoo. Grammarians and poets received the most prestigious posts-physicians, mathematicians, and astronomers the best equipment. The architecture was decidedly Greek, the whole thing resembling an elegant temple.
What a place, he thought.
What a time.
At only two points in human history had knowledge radically expanded on a global scale. Once during the Renaissance, which continued to the present, and the other during the fourth century BCE, when Greece ruled the world.
He thought about the time three hundred years before Christ and the sudden death of Alexander the Great. His generals fought over his grand empire, and eventually the realm was divided into thirds and the Hellenistic Age, a period of worldwide Greek dominance, began. One of those thirds was claimed by a far-thinking Macedonian, Ptolemy, who declared himself king of Egypt in 304 BCE, founding the Ptolemaic dynasty, capitaled in Alexandria.
The Ptolemies were intellectuals. Ptolemy I was a historian. Ptolemy II a zoologist. Ptolemy III a patron of literature. Ptolemy IV a playwright. Each chose leading scholars and scientists as tutors for his children and encouraged great minds to live in Alexandria.
Ptolemy I founded the museum, a place where learned men could congregate and share their knowledge. To aid their endeavors, he also established the library. By the time of Ptolemy III, in 246 BCE, there were two locations-the main library near the royal palace and another, smaller one headquartered in the sanctuary of the god Serapis, known as the Serapeum.
The Ptolemies were determined book collectors, dispatching agents throughout the known world. Ptolemy II bought Aristotle's entire library. Ptolemy III ordered that all ships in the Alexandria harbor be searched. If books were found, they were copied, the copies returned to the owners, the originals stored in the library. Genres varied from poetry and history to rhetoric, philosophy, religion, medicine, science, and law. Some 43,000 scrolls were eventually housed in the Serapeum, available to the general public, and another 500,000 at the museum, restricted to scholars.
What happened to it all?
One version held that it burned when Julius Caesar fought Ptolemy XIII in 48 BCE. Caesar had ordered the 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, If what is written agrees with the Book of God, they are not required. If it disagrees, they are not desired. Destroy them. So for six months scrolls supposedly fueled the baths of Alexandria.
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 W��rzburg, 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 Baumeisterhaus stood just off the market square, within shouting distance of the ancient clock tower. An iron placard announced that the building had been erected in 1596, but for the past century the three-story structure had hosted an inn and restaurant.
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."
David Ben-Gurion realized that his political career was over. Ever since his days as a frail child in Poland he'd dreamed about the deliverance of the Jews to their biblical homeland. So he'd fathered the nation of Israel and led it through the tumultuous years of 1948 to 1963, commanding its wars and delivering statesmanship.
Tough duty for a man who'd actually wanted to be an intellectual.
He'd devoured philosophy books, studied the Bible, flirted with Buddhism, even taught himself ancient Greek in order to read Plato in the original. He possessed a relentless curiosity about the natural sciences and detested fiction. Verbal battle, not crafted dialogue, was his preferred mode of communication.
Yet he was no abstract thinker.
Instead he was a tight, craggy man with a halo of silvery hair, a jawbone that projected willpower, and a volcanic temper.
He'd proclaimed Israel's independence in May 1948, ignoring last-minute admonitions from Washington and overruling doomsday predictions by his closest associates. He recalled how, within hours of his declaration, the military forces of five Arab nations invaded Israel, joining Palestinian militias in an open attempt to destroy the Jews. He'd personally led the army and 1 percent of the Jewish population had ultimately died, as well as thousands of Arabs. More than half a million Palestinians lost their homes. In the end the Jews prevailed, and many had labeled him a combination of Moses, King David, Garibaldi, and God Almighty.
For fifteen more years he led his nation. But now it was 1965, and he was nearly eighty and tired.
Even worse, he'd been wrong.
He stared at the impressive library. So much knowledge. The man who'd called himself a Guardian had said the quest would be a challenge, but if he managed to succeed, the rewards would be incalculable.
And the envoy had been right.
He'd read once that the measure of an idea was how relative it was not only to its time, but beyond.
His time had produced the modern nation of Israel, but in the process thousands had died-and he feared that many more would perish in the decades ahead. Jews and Arabs seemed destined to fight. He'd thought his goal righteous, his cause just, but no longer.
He'd been wrong.
About everything.
Carefully he again paged through the weighty volume open on the table. Three such tomes had been waiting when he'd arrived. The Guardian who'd visited him six months back had been standing at the entrance, a broad grin on his chapped face.
Never had Ben-Gurion dreamed that such a place of learning existed, and he was grateful that his curiosity had allowed him to amass the courage for the quest.
"Where did all this come from?" he'd asked on entering.
"The hearts and minds of men and women."
A riddle but also a truth, and the philosopher within him understood.
"Ben-Gurion told that story in 1973, days before he died," Jonah said. "Some say he was delirious. Others that his mind had wandered. But whatever he may have actually learned at that library, he kept to himself. One fact is clear, though. Ben-Gurion's politics and philosophy changed dramatically after 1965. He was less militant, more conciliatory. He called for concessions to the Arabs. Most attributed that to advancing age, but the Mossad thought there was more. So much that Ben-Gurion actually became suspect. That's why he was never allowed a political comeback. Can you imagine? The father of Israel kept at bay."
"Who's this Guardian?"
Jonah shrugged. "The files are quiet. But for those four who received visits-somehow the Mossad learned about each one and acted swiftly. Whoever it is, Israel doesn't want anyone talking to them."
"So your colleagues plan to eliminate Haddad?"
Jonah nodded. "As we speak."
He'd heard enough, so he slid from the booth.
"What of my payment?" Jonah quickly asked.
He slipped an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on the table. "That should bring our account current. Let us know when there's more to tell."
Jonah pocketed the bribe. "You'll be the first."
He watched as his contact stood and headed not for the front door, but toward an alcove where restrooms were located. He decided this was as good an opportunity as any, so he followed.
At the bathroom door, he hesitated.
The restaurant was half filled, ill lit, and noisy, the table occupants self-absorbed, buzzing with talk in several languages.
He entered, locked the door, and quickly surveyed the scene. Two stalls, a sink, and a mirror, amber light from incandescent fixtures. Jonah occupied the first stall, the other was empty. Sabre grabbed a handful of paper towels and waited for the toilet to flush, then withdrew a knife from his pocket.
Jonah stepped from the stall, zipping his pants.
Sabre whirled and plunged the knife into the man's chest, twisting upward, then with his other hand clamped paper towels over the wound. He watched as the Israeli's eyes first filled with shock, then went blank. He kept the towels in place as he withdrew the blade.
Jonah sank to the floor.
He retrieved the envelope from the man's pocket, then swiped the metal on Jonah's trousers. Quickly he grasped the dead man's arms and dragged the bleeding body into the stall, propping the corpse on the toilet.
He then closed the stall door and left.
Outside, Sabre followed a guide who was steering a walking tour to the town's rathaus. The older woman pointed to the ancient city hall and spoke about Rothenburg's long history.
He hesitated and listened. Bells clanged for four PM.
"If you'll look up at the clock, watch the two bull's-eye windows to the right and left of the face."
Everyone turned as the panels swung open. A surmounted mechanical man appeared and drained a tankard of wine while another figure looked on. The guide droned about the historical significance. Cameras clicked. Camcorders whined. The event lasted about two minutes. As Sabre strolled away, he caught a glimpse of one tourist, a man, who deftly angled a lens away from the clock tower and focused on his retreat.
He smiled.
Exposure was always a risk when betrayal became a way of life. Luckily, he'd learned all he needed to know from Jonah, which explained why that liability had been permanently suppressed. But the Israelis were now aware of Jonah's contact. The Blue Chair seemed not to care and had specifically instructed him to provide a "good show."
Which he'd done.
For the Israelis and for Alfred Hermann.
TWENTY-THREE
LONDON
2:30 PM
MALONE WAITED FOR GEORGE HADDAD TO FINISH EXPLAINING. His old friend was hedging.
"I wrote a paper six years ago," Haddad said. "It dealt with a theory I had been working on, one that concerns how the Old Testament was originally translated from Old Hebrew."
Haddad told them about the Septuagint, crafted from the third to the first centuries BCE, the oldest and most complete rendition of the Old Testament into Greek, translated at the Library of Alexandria. Then he described the Codex Sinaiticus, a fourth-century CE manuscript of the Old and New Testaments used by later scholars to confirm other biblical texts, even though no one knew whether it was correct. And the Vulgate, completed about the same time by St. Jerome, the first translation from Hebrew directly to Latin, major revisions to which occurred in the sixteenth, eighteenth, and twentieth centuries.
"Even Martin Luther," Haddad said, "tinkered with the Vulgate, removing parts for his Lutheran faith. The whole meaning of that translation is muddled. A great many minds have altered its message.
"The King James Bible. Many think it presents original words, but it was created in the seventeenth century from a translation of the Vulgate into English. Those translators never saw the original Hebrew, and if they had, it's unlikely they could have understood it. Cotton, the Bible as we know it today is five linguistic removes from the first one ever written. The King James Bible proclaims itself authorized and original. But that does not mean genuine, authentic, or even true."
"Are there any Hebrew Bibles?" Pam asked.
Haddad nodded. "The oldest surviving one is the Aleppo Codex, saved from destruction in Syria in 1948. But that's a tenth-century CE manuscript, produced nearly two thousand years after the original text from who-knows-what."
Malone had seen that manuscript's crisp, cream-colored parchment, with faded brown ink, in Jerusalem's Jewish National Library.
"In my article," Haddad said, "I hypothesized how certain manuscripts could help resolve these questions. We know that the Old Testament was studied by ancient philosophers at the Library of Alexandria. Men who actually understood Old Hebrew. We also know they wrote about their thoughts. There are references to these works, quotations and passages, in surviving manuscripts, but unfortunately the original texts are gone. Further, there may well be ancient Jewish texts-we know the library accumulated many of those. Mass destruction of Jewish writings became common later in history, especially Old Testaments in Hebrew. The Inquisition alone burned twelve thousand copies of the Talmud. Studying just one of those could prove decisive to resolving any doubts."
"What does it matter?" Pam asked.
"It matters a great deal," Haddad said. "Especially if it's wrong."
"In what way?" Malone asked, becoming impatient.
"Moses parting the Red Sea. The Exodus. Genesis. David and Solomon. Since the eighteenth century archaeologists have dug in the Holy Land with a vengeance-all to prove that the Bible is historical fact. Yet not one shred of physical evidence has been unearthed that confirms anything in the Old Testament. Exodus is a good example. Supposedly thousands of Israelites trekked across the Sinai Peninsula. They camped at locations specifically identified in the Bible, locations that can still be found today. But not a shard of pottery, not a bracelet, not anything has ever been found from that time period to confirm Exodus. This same evidentiary void is present when archaeology has tried to corroborate other biblical events. Don't you think that odd? Wouldn't there be some remnant of at least one incident depicted in the Old Testament still lying in the earth somewhere?"
Malone knew that Haddad, like many people, bought into the Bible only so much as history. That school of thought believed there was some truth there, but not much. Malone, too, possessed doubts. From his own reading he'd come to the conclusion that those who defended the narrative as history formed their conclusions far more from theological than from scientific considerations.
But still, so what?
"George, you've said all this before, and I agree with you. I need to know what's so important that your life is at stake?"
Haddad rose from the table and led them to where the maps adorned the walls. "I've spent the past five years collecting these. It hasn't been easy. I'm ashamed to say, I actually had to steal a few."
"From where?" Pam asked.
"Libraries, mainly. Most don't allow photocopying of rare books. And besides, you lose details in a copy, and it's the details that matter."
Haddad stepped to a map that depicted the modern state of Israel. "When the land was carved out in 1948 and the Zionists given their supposed portion, there was much talk about the Abrahamic covenant. God's word that this region-" Haddad pressed his finger onto the map. "-this precise land, was supposedly Abraham's."
Malone noted the boundaries.
"Being able to understand Old Hebrew has given me some insight. Maybe too much. About thirty years ago I noticed something interesting. But to appreciate that revelation, it's important to appreciate Abraham."
Malone was familiar with the story.
"Genesis," Haddad said, "records an event that profoundly affected world history. It may well be the most important day in all human history."
Malone listened as Haddad spoke of Abram, who traveled from Mesopotamia to Canaan, wandering among the population, faithfully following God's commands. His wife, Sarai, remained barren and eventually suggested that Abram couple with her favorite handmaiden, an Egyptian slave named Hagar, who'd stayed with them since the clan's expulsion from Egypt by the pharaoh.
"The birth of Ishmael," Haddad said, "Abram's first son, from Hagar, becomes critical in the seventh century CE, when a new religion formed in Arabia. Islam. The Koran calls Ishmael an apostle and a prophet. He was most acceptable in the sight of his Lord. Abram's name appears in twenty-five of the one hundred fourteen chapters of the Koran. To this day Ibrahim and Isma'il are common first names for Muslims. The Koran itself commands Muslims to follow the religion of Abraham."
"He was not a Jew nor yet a Christian; but he was true in faith and he joined not gods with God."
"Good, Cotton, I see you've studied your Koran since we last talked."
He smiled. "I gave it a reading or two. Fascinating stuff."
"The Koran makes clear that Abraham and Isma'il raised the foundation of the House."
"The Kaaba," Pam said. "Islam's holiest shrine."
Malone was impressed. "When did you learn about Islam?"
"I didn't. But I watch the History Channel."
He caught her grin.
"The Kaaba is in Mecca. Adult Muslims have to make a pilgrimage there. Problem is, when they gather each year so many people come that several hundred are trampled to death. That's in the news all the time."
"The Arabs, particularly Muslim Arabs, trace their heritage to Ishmael," Haddad said.
Malone knew what came next. Thirteen years after the birth of Ishmael, Abram was told by God that he would be father to a multitude of nations. First he was ordered to change his name to Abraham and Sarai's to Sarah. Then God announced that Sarah would give birth to a son. Neither Sarah nor Abraham believed God, but within a year Isaac was born.
"The day of that birth may well be the most important day in human history," Haddad said. "Everything changed after that. The Bible and the Koran differ on many points relative to Abram. Each recounts a separate tale. But according to the Bible, the Lord told Abraham that all the land surrounding him, the land of Canaan, would belong to Abraham and his heir, Isaac."
Malone knew the rest. God reappeared to Isaac's son Jacob and repeated the promise of the land, saying that through Jacob would come a people to whom the land of Canaan would everlastingly belong. Jacob was told to change his name to Israel. Jacob's twelve sons evolved into separate tribes, held together by the covenant between God and Abraham, and they each established their own families, becoming the twelve tribes of Israel.
"Abraham is the father of all three of the world's main religions," Haddad said. "Islam, Judaism, and Christianity trace their roots to him, though the story of his life differs in each. The entire conflict in the Middle East, which has endured for thousands of years, is simply a debate over which account is correct, which religion has the divine right to the land. The Arabs through Ishmael. The Jews from Isaac. The Christians by Christ."
Malone recalled the Bible and said, "The Lord had said to Abram: Leave your country, your people and your father's household and go to the land I will show you. I will make you into a great nation and I will bless you. I will make your name great and you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and whoever curses you I will curse; and all peoples on earth will be blessed through you."
"You say the words with conviction," Pam said.
"They have meaning," Haddad said. "Jews believe they are what grant them exclusive ownership of Palestine. I've spent most of my adult life studying the Bible. It's an amazing book. And what separates it from all other epic tales is simple. Nothing mystical or magical. Instead, human responsibility is its focus."
"Do you believe?" Pam asked.
Haddad shook his head. "In religion? No. I've seen its manipulation too clearly. In God? That's another matter. But I've seen His neglect. I was born a Muslim. My father was Muslim, as was his. After the war in 1948, though, something overtook me. That's when the Bible became my passion. I wanted to read it in its original form. To know what it truly meant."
"Why do the Israelis want you dead?" Malone asked.
"They are the descendants of Abraham. The ones God said He would bless-their enemies the ones He would curse. Millions have died through the centuries, thousands over the past fifty years, simply to prove those words. Recently, Cotton, I was embroiled in a debate. A particularly arrogant man in a local pub told me that Israel possessed the absolute right to exist. He gave me six reasons, which hinged separately on archaeology, history, practicality, humanity, defense, and, to him the most important, entitlement." Haddad paused. "Entitlement, Cotton. Biblical entitlement. The Abrahamic covenant. God's land given to the people of Israel, proclaimed in all its glory in the words of Genesis."
Malone waited.
"What if we have it all wrong?" Haddad glared at the map of Israel alongside another map of Saudi Arabia.
"Do go on," a new voice said.
They all turned.
Standing in the front doorway was a short man with glasses and a fading hairline. Beside him was a woman, midthirties, small and compact, dark complexion. Both held sound-suppressed weapons. Malone immediately registered the make and model of the guns and knew who these two worked for.
Israel.
