Alexandria Link (39 page)

Jerome, my friend, we must execute this task with great diligence. Our religion is but forming, and there are threats from all sides. What you are attempting is critical to our existence. To have the old text translated into Latin will allow those words to be read by many. I urge you not to alter what those who created the Septuagint started. Our Lord Christ lived in Palestine. For the message we are formulating with the newer testament, we must present one voice. I recognize what you have said: that the old text seems not a record of the Israelites in what we call Palestine. Why should that matter? Our goal is much different from that of those who created the Septuagint. Our newer testament must be a fulfillment of the old. Only in this way will the meaning of our message be elevated to a status greater than the old. To link the old with the new will demonstrate how vital our Lord Christ was and how important His message is. The errors that you note in the Septuagint need not be corrected. As you have written, the Jews who aided those translators had forgotten their past. They knew nothing of their existence from long ago, only what was happening around them at the time. So in your translations, the Palestine that we know should remain the Palestine of both testaments. This is our task, dear brother, our mission. The future of our religion, of our Lord Christ, is with us and He inspires us to do His will.

Thorvaldsen stopped reading.

Here were two church fathers, perhaps the most brilliant of all, laboring with how to manipulate the translation of the Old Testament into Latin. Jerome was clearly privy to a manuscript written in the original Hebrew and had noted errors in its previous translation into Greek. Augustine knew of Herodotus and Strabo—the former recognized as the father of history, the latter of geography. One a Greek, the other Roman. Men who lived centuries apart and fundamentally changed the world. Strabo’s Geography still existed and was regarded as one of the most precious of ancient texts, revealing much about that world and its time, but his Histories was gone.

No copy existed.

Yet Augustine had read it.

In the Library of Alexandria.

“What does all that mean?” Gary asked.

“A great deal.”

If the early church had falsified the translation of the Old Testament, adapting its words to fit its purposes, that could have catastrophic implications.

Hermann was right. The Christians would certainly join the fight.

His mind raced with what the Blue Chair was planning. He knew from conversations they’d had through the years that Hermann was not a believer. He regarded religion as a political tool and faith as a crutch for the weak. He’d take great pleasure in watching the three major religions struggle with the implications that the Old Testament they’d always known was in fact something altogether different.

The pages Thorvaldsen held were precious. They formed part of Hermann’s proof. But the Blue Chair would need more. Which was why the Library of Alexandria was so important. If it still existed, it might be the only repository that could shed light on the issue. That was Malone’s problem, however, given that he was apparently now on his way to the Sinai.

He wished his friend well.

Then there was the president of the United States. His death was planned for next Thursday.

That was Thorvaldsen’s problem.

He fished his cell phone from a pocket and dialed.

SINAI PENINSULA

MALONE ROUSED PAM. SHE SAT UP FROM THE NYLON SEAT AND removed the earplugs.

“We’re here,” he said.

She shook sleep from her brain and perked up. “We’re landing?”

“We’re here,” he said again over the engine roar.

“How long have I been out?”

“A few hours.”

She stood from the bench, her parachute still strapped to her back. The C130 bumped and ground its way through the morning air. “How long till we land?”

“We’re getting out of here shortly. Did you eat?”

She shook her head. “No way. My stomach was in my throat. But it’s finally calmed down.”

“Drink some water.” He motioned at the holder.

She opened the bottle and gulped a few swallows. “This thing is like riding in a boxcar.”

He smiled. “Good way of putting it.”

“You used to fly on these?”

“All the time.”

“Your job was tough.”

That was the first time he’d ever heard a concession about his former profession. “I asked for it.”

“I’m only beginning to understand. I’m still freaked out about that bugged watch. Stupid me actually thought the man liked me.”

“Maybe he did.”

“Right. He used me, Cotton.”

The admission seemed to hurt. “Using people is part of this business.” He paused, then added, “Not a part I ever liked.”

She drank more water. “I used you, Cotton.”

She was right. She had.

“I should have told you about Gary. But I didn’t. So who am I to judge anybody?”

Now was not the time to have this discussion. But he saw that she was bothered by all that had happened. “Don’t sweat it. Let’s finish this. Then we’ll talk about it.”

“I’m not sweating it. Just wanted you to know how I felt.”

That was a first, too.

At the rear of the plane, an annoying whining accompanied the rear ramp opening. A gust of air rushed into the cargo area.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“They have some chores. Remember, we’re just along for the ride. Walk back that way and stop where the loadmaster is standing.”

“Why?”

“Because they asked us to. I’m coming with you.”

“How’s our friend?” she asked.

“Nosy. We both need to keep an eye on him.”

He watched as she headed aft. He then crossed to the opposite bulkhead and said to McCollum, “Time to go.”

He’d noticed McCollum had watched their talk.

“She know?”

“Not yet.”

“A bit cruel, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not if you knew her.”

McCollum shook his head. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Actually, that’s real good advice.”

He saw that his message had struck home. “Sure thing, Malone. I’m just the guy who saved your hide.”

“Which is why you’re here.”

“So generous of you, considering I have the quest.”

He gathered up the rigger sack in which he’d stuffed what George Haddad had left for him and the book on St. Jerome. They’d retrieved them from the airport before leaving Lisbon. He clipped the bundle to his chest. “And here’s what I’ve got. So we’re even.”

McCollum clipped a pack to his chest, too. Supplies they might need. Water, rations, GPS locator. According to the map, a village lay about three miles from where they were headed. If nothing was found they could walk there and find a way twenty miles south to where there was an airport, near Moses Mountain and the St. Catherine’s monastery, both popular tourist attractions.

They donned goggles and helmets, then walked aft.

“What are they doing?” Pam asked as he came close.

He had to admit, she looked good in fatigues. “They have a parachute operation to perform.”

“With this cargo? They dropping it out somewhere?”

The plane’s airspeed slowed to 120 knots, if he remembered correctly, and the nose tipped upward.

He slid a Kevlar helmet onto Pam’s head and quickly snapped the neck strap.

“What are you doing?” Confusion flooded her voice.

He adjusted a pair of goggles over her eyes and said, “The rear ramp is down. We all have to do this. Safety precaution.”

He checked her harnesses and made sure all four straps were buckled into the quick-release clamp. He’d already made sure his were fine. He hooked both him and Pam to the static line.

He saw that McCollum was already connected.

“How can we land with that ramp open,” she yelled.

He faced her. “We’re not.”

He saw the instant of comprehension. “You can’t be serious. You don’t expect me to—”

“It’ll open automatically. Just hang on and enjoy the ride. This chute is a slow one. Designed for first-timers. When you hit the ground it’ll be like a three- or four-foot fall.”

“Cotton, you’re frickin‘ insane. My shoulder still hurts. There’s no way—”

The loadmaster signaled that they’d arrived near the GPS coordinates he’d provided. No time to argue. He simply lifted her from behind and shoved her forward.

She tried to wrestle free. “Cotton, please. I can’t. Please.”

He tossed her off the ramp.

Her scream faded fast.

He knew what she was experiencing. The first fifteen feet were pure free fall, like being weightless, as the static line played itself out. Her heart would feel like it was pounding at the back of her throat. Actually, quite a rush. Then she’d feel a tug as the static line released the parachute from the pack, and he watched as Pam’s streamed out into the morning sky.

Her body jerked as the chute grabbed air.

Less than five seconds and she was floating to the ground.

“She’s going to be pissed,” McCollum said in his ear.

He kept his eyes on her descent.

“Yeah. But I always wanted to do that.”

SABRE HELD ON TO THE RISERS AND ENJOYED THE DRIFT toward the ground. The morning air and the newfangled parachute were making for a slow descent. Malone had told him about the canopies, far different from the ones he recalled from back when you fell like a stone and hoped you didn’t break a leg.

He and Malone had followed Pam out of the transport, which had quickly disappeared into the eastern sky. Whether they made it to ground safely was not the crew’s concern. Their job was done.

He stared down at the unsparing environment.

A vast, flat plain of sand and stone stretched in all directions. He’d heard Alfred Hermann speak of the southern Sinai. Supposedly the holiest desert on the planet. A harbinger of civilization. The link between Africa and Asia. But battle-scarred. The most besieged territory in the world. Syrians, Hittites, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Crusaders, Turks, the French, the English, Egyptians, and the Israelis had all invaded. He’d listened many times as Hermann rambled on about the region’s importance. Now he was about to experience it firsthand.

He was maybe a thousand feet from the ground. Pam Malone floated below him, Malone above. The quiet rang in his ears—a stark contrast with the plane’s unabated noise. He remembered the silence from other times he’d jumped. Engine roar fading to a deep nothing. Only the wind could disturb the tranquility, but none stirred today.

A quarter mile east the barren landscape gave way to bleak granite mounds, each with no character, just a heedless jumble of peaks and crags. Was the Library of Alexandria out there? Certainly all signs pointed to that being the case.

He continued to float downward.

Near the base of one of the jagged mounds, maybe a quarter mile away, he spotted the squat of a building. He adjusted the steering lines, angling his trajectory closer to where Pam Malone was about to land. A clear stretch of desert floor. No boulders. Good.

He glanced up and saw Malone follow his lead.

That one might prove more difficult to kill than he’d first thought. But at least he was armed. He’d kept the gun from the monastery, as had Malone, along with spare magazines. When he’d awoken in the church, after being knocked unconscious, his gun was still there. Which he’d found curious.

What had been the point of that attack?

Who cared?

At least he was ready.

MALONE YANKED THE LINES AND DIRECTED HIS DESCENT. THE jumpmaster at the air base in Lisbon had told him that the new chutes were different, and he was right. Slow, smooth ride. They hadn’t been wild about Pam—a novice who wasn’t even going to know she was jumping until it was too late—but since the command to cooperate had come straight from the Pentagon, no one argued.

“Damn you, Cotton,” he heard Pam scream. “Damn you to hell.”

He glanced below.

She was five hundred feet from the ground.

“Just let your legs buckle when you hit,” he called out. “You’re doing fine. The chute will do the work.”

“Screw you,” she yelled back.

“We used to do that. Didn’t work out. Get ready.”

He watched as she hit and skidded into the earth, the chute collapsing behind her. He saw McCollum release his rigger sack, which unraveled before him, then find the ground, staying on his feet.

Malone tightened his steering lines and slowed his descent to nearly a stall. He released his rigger sack and felt his boots scrape the sand.

He, too, finished standing up.

Been awhile since he’d last jumped, but he was glad to know that he could still do it. He released his harness and wiggled free of the straps.

McCollum was doing the same.

Pam still lay on the ground. He walked over, knowing what was coming.

She sprang to her feet. “You sorry son of a bitch. You threw me out of that damn plane.” She was trying to lunge for him but she hadn’t released her harness, the billowing chute acting like an anchor, restricting her movements.

He stayed just out of reach.

“Are you out of your mind?” she yelled. “You never said a frickin‘ word about jumping out of a plane.”

“How did you think we were going to get here?” he calmly asked.

“Ever heard of landing?”

“This is Egyptian territory. Bad enough we had to jump in daylight. But even I thought a night jump cruel.”

Rage filled her blue eyes, an intensity he’d actually never seen before.

“We had to get here so the Israelis didn’t know. Landing would have been impossible. I’m hoping they’re still following that watch of yours, which leads nowhere.”

“You’re a moron, Cotton. An absolute frickin‘ moron. You threw me out of that plane.”

“I did, didn’t I.”

She started to fumble with her harness, trying to release her body from the chute’s hold.

“Pam, are you going to calm down?”

She continued to search for the release clamp, then stopped.

“We had to get here,” he said. “That transport was perfect. We just jumped out along the way; nobody’s the wiser. This is pretty barren territory, less than three people per square mile. It’s doubtful we were seen. Like I said before. You always wanted to know what I did. Okay. Here it is.”