Alexandria Link (10 page)

She’d been waiting for the past twenty minutes, and when the phone on the desk finally rang, she smiled. One thing about Thorvaldsen, he was punctual. She lifted the receiver. “Yes, Henrik.”

“So sure it was me?”

“Right on time.”

“Lateness is rude.”

“I couldn’t agree more. What did you learn?”

“Enough to know we have a problem.”

Yesterday Thorvaldsen had dispatched a squadron of investigators to back track the movements of the two men Malone had shot. Since one of them had killed a federal agent, she was also able to muster Europol’s help.

“Ever heard of der Orden des Goldenen Vliesses? The Order of the Golden Fleece?”

“It’s a European economic cartel. I’m aware of it.”

“I need an Internet connection to your laptop.”

“That’s classified,” she said lightheartedly.

“I assure you, with what I know, I have all the clearances I need.”

She told him the routing address. A minute later five photographs materialized on her screen. Three were head shots—two, full-body. The five men were well into their seventies, faces like caricatures, full of dull angles, cold and expressionless, each casting a veneer of sophistication—the aristocratic bearing of men accustomed to having their way.

“The Order of the Golden Fleece was re-formed in the late forties, just after the communist socialization of Austrian industry. It was organized in Vienna, the initial membership restricted to a select group of industrialists and financiers. In the fifties it diversified, adding manufacturing and mining magnates, along with more financiers.”

She slid a notepad closer and clicked open a ballpoint pen. “What do you mean, re-formed?”

“The name comes from a French medieval order that Philip, the duke of Burgundy, created in 1430. But that group of knights lasted only a few decades. Through the centuries reincarnations appeared, and a social Order of the Golden Fleece still exists in Austria. But it’s the economic cartel of the same name that poses a threat.”

Her eyes were locked on the screen, her memory absorbing the stern faces.

“An interesting group,” Thorvaldsen said. “A strict code of statutes governs the Order’s business. Membership is restricted to seventy-one. A Circle of five chairs governs. What’s called the Blue Chair heads both the Circle and the Order. These people wear crimson robes and dangle gold medallions around their necks. Each medallion is forged with fire steels and flints emitting tongues of flame encircling a golden fleece. Quite dramatic.”

She agreed.

“You need to understand about the five on your screen. The face at the top left is an Austrian industrialist, Alfred Hermann. He presently occupies the Blue Chair. A billionaire several times over, he’s the owner of European steel factories, African mines, Far East rubber plantations, and banking concerns worldwide.”

Thorvaldsen explained about the other four. One owned a controlling interest in the VRN Bank that was nationwide in Austria, Germany, Switzerland, and Holland, along with pharmaceutical and automobile companies. Another dominated the European securities markets with investment firms that handled portfolios for many European Union nations. A third wholly owned two French companies and one Belgian that, outside the United States, were the world’s leading aircraft producers. The last was the self-designated “king of concrete,” his companies the leading producers throughout Europe, Africa, and the Middle East.

“That’s a formidable group,” she said.

“To say the least. A distinctive Aryan flavor permeates the Chairs, and always has—German, Swiss, and Austrian members dominating. The Chairs are elected from the membership and serve for life. A Shadow is simultaneously chosen who can immediately step in and succeed at death. The Blue Chair is elected by the Chairs and likewise serves for life.”

“Efficient devils.”

“They pride themselves on it. The entire membership meets twice a year in a formal Assembly, once in late spring, the other just before winter, on a four-hundred-acre estate owned by Alfred Hermann outside Vienna. The rest of the year business is conducted by the Chairs or through standing committees. There’s a chancellor, treasurer, and secretary, along with a support staff that work out of Hermann’s château. Organization is intentionally streamlined. No unnecessary parliamentary delays.”

She jotted notes on the pad.

“The Blue Chair is not allowed a vote, either in the Circle or at Assembly, unless there’s a tie. The odd numbers of seventy-one members and five Chairs create the possibility.”

She had to admire Thorvaldsen’s investigative efforts. “Tell me about the membership.”

“The majority are European, but four Americans, two Canadians, three Asians, a Brazilian, and an Australian are among the current seventy-one. Men and women. They went coed decades ago. Turnover is only occasional, but a waiting list ensures that seventy-one will always be maintained.”

She was curious. “Why be headquartered in Austria?”

“For the same reason many of us have money there. An express provision in the national constitution forbids violations of bank secrecy. Money is difficult to trace. The Order is well financed. Members are assessed equally based on a projected budget. Last year’s topped one hundred fifty million euros.”

“And what do they spend that kind of revenue on?”

“What people have sought for centuries—political influence, mainly toward the European Community’s efforts to centralize currency and reduce trade barriers. The emergence of Eastern Europe also interests them. Rebuilding the infrastructure of the Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, and Poland is big business. Through some carefully placed contributions, members have obtained more than their fair share of contracts.”

“Still, Henrik, a hundred fifty million euros couldn’t be spent on simply securing contracts and bribing politicians.”

“You’re right. There’s a greater purpose to what the group does.”

She was getting impatient. “I’m waiting.”

“The Middle East. That’s their highest priority.”

“How in the world do you know all this?”

Silence came from the other end of the phone.

She waited.

“I’m a member.”

LONDON

12:30 PM

MALONE WALKED WITH PAM DOWN THE RAMP AS THEY DEPLANED from their British Airways flight. They’d spent the night at Christiangade, then flown together from Copenhagen to England, Pam on a layover as she made her way back to Georgia, Malone as a final destination. Gary was left with Thorvaldsen. His son knew the Dane from the past two summers he’d spent in Denmark. Until he could determine exactly what was happening, Malone believed Christiangade the safest place for Gary. For added measure, Thorvaldsen hired a cadre of private security to patrol the estate. Pam had not been happy with the decision, and they’d argued. Eventually she understood the wisdom, especially considering what had happened in Atlanta. With the crisis ended, she needed to get back to work. She’d departed quickly with no notice to her firm. Leaving Gary was not what she’d wanted, but finally she conceded that Malone could protect him better than she ever could.

“Hope I still have a job,” she said.

“I imagine your billable hours are enough to garner forgiveness. You going to tell them what happened?”

“I’ll have to.”

“It’s okay. Tell them what you need to.”

“Why are you keeping on with this?” she said. “Why not let it alone?”

He noticed that she seemed to have slept much of her gloom away. She’d repeatedly apologized for yesterday and he’d brushed it aside. He actually didn’t want to talk with her and, thanks to their late booking, they hadn’t sat together on the flight. Which was good. There were still things that needed to be said about Gary. Unpleasant things. But now was not the time.

“It’s the only way to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he said. “If I’m not the only one who knows about the link, then I’m not a target anymore. And by the way, neither are you or Gary.”

“What do you plan to do?” Pam asked.

He truly didn’t know, so he said, “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

They wove a path through the crowded concourse toward the terminal, their silence and thoughtful steps salient signals that they were better off apart. Dormant senses, tuned from twelve years as a Justice Department agent, were once again alert. He’d noticed something on the plane. A man. Sitting three rows ahead on the opposite side of the cabin. A string-bean body, brown as a berry, his cheeks dark with stubble. He’d boarded in Copenhagen, and something about him had grabbed Malone’s attention. Nothing during the flight had been a problem. But even though the man had deplaned ahead of them, he was now positioned at their rear.

And that seemed a problem.

“You shot that man yesterday without a hint of remorse,” Pam said. “That’s scary, Cotton.”

“Gary’s safety was at stake.”

“That what you used to do?”

“All the time.”

“I’ve seen all the death I want to see.”

So had he.

They kept walking. He could tell she was thinking. He’d always known when her brain was churning.

“I didn’t mention it yesterday,” she said, “with all that happened, but I have a new man in my life.”

He was glad, but wondered why she was telling him. “Been a long time since we were concerned with each other’s business.”

“I know. But he’s kind of special.” She lifted her arm and displayed her wrist. “He gave me this watch.”

She seemed proud of it, so he indulged her. “A TAG Heuer. Not bad.”

“I thought so, too. Surprised the heck out of me.”

“He treat you good?”

She nodded. “I enjoy my time with him.”

He didn’t know what to say.

“I only mention it to let you know that maybe it’s time we made peace.”

They entered the terminal, crowded with people. Time they parted ways.

“Mind if I come along with you?” she asked. “My plane to Atlanta doesn’t leave for seven hours.”

He’d actually been rehearsing his goodbye, intent on keeping it nonchalant. “Not a good idea. I need to do this alone.” He didn’t have to say what they were both thinking. Especially after yesterday.

She nodded. “I understand. I just thought it’d be a good way to pass the afternoon.”

He was curious. “Why would you want to come? Thought you wanted away from all this?”

“I almost got killed over that link, so I’m curious. And besides, what am I going to do in this airport?”

He had to admit she looked great—five years his junior, but she looked even younger. And her countenance was too much like the old Pam, at once helpless, independent, and appealing, for him to be flippant. The features on her freckled face, the blue eyes, sent a rush of memories through his brain, ones that he’d fought hard to repress, especially since August when he’d found out about Gary’s parentage.

He and Pam had been married a long time. Shared a life. Good and bad. He was forty-eight years old, divorced more than a year, separated for nearly six.

Maybe it was time he got over it. What happened happened, and he’d been no angel.

But brokering a peace would have to wait, so he simply said, “You get on back to Atlanta and stay out of trouble, okay?”

She smiled. “I could say the same to you.”

“That’s impossible for me. But I’m sure that new man in your life would like to have you home.”

“We still need to talk, Cotton. We’ve both avoided the subject.”

“We will, but after all this. How about a truce till then?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll let you know how things go, and don’t worry about Gary. Henrik will look after him. He’ll be well protected. You have the phone number, so check on him whenever.”

He threw her a cheerful wave to match his grin, then drifted toward the terminal exits and a taxi. He hadn’t brought a bag. Depending on how long he stayed, he’d buy some things later, after he found the link.

But before leaving the building he needed to check one more thing.

At the exit doors he approached an information counter and plucked a city map from its holder. He casually turned and studied it, allowing his gaze to drift from the map to the stream of people flowing through the broad terminal.

He’d expected String Bean to be waiting for him to leave, if indeed he was following.

Instead, his problem tailed Pam.

Now he was concerned.

He tossed the map on the counter and headed across the terminal. Pam entered one of the many cafés, apparently intent on passing the time with a meal or a coffee. String Bean assumed a position in a duty-free shop where he could clearly observe the café.

Interesting. Apparently Malone wasn’t the flavor-of-the-day.

He, too, entered the café.

Pam was sitting in a booth, and he walked over. Surprise flooded her face. “What are you doing here?”

“Changed my mind. Why don’t you come along?”

“I’d really like that.”

“One condition.”

“I know. My mouth stays shut.”

STEPHANIE ALLOWED THORVALDSEN’S WORDS TO AGAIN PLAY across her mind. Then she calmly asked, “You’re a member of the Order of the Golden Fleece?”

“For thirty years. I always thought it nothing more than a way for people with money and power to mingle with one another. That’s what we do most of the time—”

“When you’re not paying off politicians or bribing for contracts.”

“Come now, Stephanie. You know the way of the world. I don’t make the rules. I just play by the ones in place.”

“Tell me what you know, Henrik. And please, no bullshit.”

“My investigators traced the two dead men from yesterday to Amsterdam. One has a lady friend. She told us that her lover worked regularly for another man. Once she managed to see him, and from her description I believe I’ve seen him, too.”

She waited for more.

“Interestingly, for many years now, at Order functions, I’ve heard quite a bit about the lost Library of Alexandria. The occupant of the Blue Chair, Alfred Hermann, is obsessed with the subject.”

“You know why?”

“He believes there’s much we can learn from the ancients.”