Alexandria Link (42 page)

Pressed against the face of the far mound, tucked into an angle of stupendous cliffs, arose walls and buildings that strained against one another as if they were part of the rock. Their colors—yellow, brown, and white—merged like camouflage. Watchtowers seemed to be floating. Slim green cones of cypresses added contrast to burnt-orange roof tiles. No real logic prevailed as to size and shape. The assemblage reminded Malone of the anarchic charm of a hillside Italian fishing village.

“A monastery?” Pam asked him.

“The map indicated that there are three in this region. None is a great secret.”

A path of boulder steps led the way down. The risers descended steeply, grouped three together between sloping stretches of smooth rock. At the bottom another path traversed the farsh, past a small lake nestled among the cypresses, and zigzagged up to the monastery’s entrance.

“This is the place.”

STEPHANIE WATCHED AS DALEY LEFT THE RESTAURANT. CASSIOPEIA came over, sat at the table, and asked, “Anything useful?”

“He says that Daniels knew everything he was doing.”

“What else could he say?”

“Daley never mentioned that we were at Camp David last night.”

“Nobody saw us but those agents and Daniels.”

Which was right. They’d slept in the cabin alone with two agents outside. Food had been in the oven waiting when they’d awoken. Daniels himself had called and told them to arrange the meeting with Daley. So Daley either didn’t know or refused to say.

“Why would the president want us to meet with him, knowing Daley might contradict what he’s told us?” she asked, more to herself than Cassiopeia.

“Add that question to the list.”

She watched through the front glass as Daley trudged through the gravelly parking lot toward his Land Rover. She’d never liked the man. When she’d finally confirmed that he was dirty, nothing had pleased her more.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

Daley found his car at the far side of the lot and climbed inside.

They needed to leave, too. Time to find Brent Green and see what he’d learned. Daniels had not mentioned them talking with Green, but she thought it best.

Particularly now.

An explosion rocked the building.

Her initial shock was replaced with an awareness that the restaurant was intact. Loud voices and a few screams subsided as others, too, began to realize that the building was still there.

Everything was fine.

Except outside.

She stared through the glass and saw Larry Daley’s Land Rover being consumed by flames.

SINAI PENINSULA

MALONE APPROACHED THE METAL-CLAD WOODEN GATE. SUNBAKED walls of red granite, their foundations resting on giant buttresses, sloped to a terraced foothold where cypress, orange, lemon, and olive trees stood guard. Grapevines protected the base. A warm wind kicked up sand.

No sign of anyone.

Above the gate, Malone spotted more Latin, this time Psalm 118, and he read the pronouncement.

THIS GATE OF THE LORD,

INTO WHICH THE RIGHTEOUS SHALL ENTER

“What do we do?” Pam asked. He’d noticed that the hostility of the terrain matched her rapidly deteriorating temperament.

“I assume that’s what the rope is for,” he said, motioning.

High above the gate, an iron bell rested inside an open tower. He walked over and yanked. The bell clanged several times. He was about to ring again when high up in the gate a window opened and a bearded young man sporting a straw hat leaned out.

“How may I assist you?” he asked in English.

“We’re here to visit the library,” McCollum said.

“This is but a monastery, a place of solitude. We have no library.”

Malone had wondered how the Guardians ensured that someone who appeared at the gate was an invitee. It could take a great deal of time to make the journey, and at no point in the quest had any constraints been imposed. So there must be a final challenge. One not stated in the quest.

“We’re invitees and have completed the quest,” he called out. “We seek entrance to the library.”

The door to the portal closed.

“That was rude,” Pam said.

Malone wiped the sweat from his brow. “They’re not just going to swing open the gates to anyone who shows up.”

The portal opened again and the young man asked, “Your name?”

McCollum was about to speak, but Malone grabbed his arm. “Let me,” he whispered. He stared up and said, “George Haddad.”

“Who are those with you?”

“My associates.”

The eyes that stared back were fixed, as if trying to determine if he was a man to be trusted.

“A question, if I may?”

“By all means.”

“Your route to here. Tell me.”

“First to Belém and the Jerónimos Monastery, then to Bethlehem.org, and finally here.”

The window closed.

Malone heard bars being removed from behind the gate, then the stout wooden panels inched open and the bearded young man strolled out. He wore baggy pants, tapered at the calf, a russet-colored cloak tucked into his waistband, and a rope belt. His feet were protected by sandals.

He stopped before Malone and bowed. “Welcome, George Haddad. You have completed your quest. Would you like to visit the library?”

“I would.”

The young man smiled. “Then enter and find what you seek.”

They followed him, single-file, through the gates into a dark corridor lined with towering stone that blocked the sun. Thirty paces, then around a right angle, and they again found daylight inside the walls, a flourishing space of greenery with cypress trees, palms, grapevines, flowers—even a peacock paraded about.

What sounded like a flute cast a soothing melody. Malone spotted the source, a musician perched on one of the balconies supported by thick wooden brackets. The buildings were crowded together, each one different in size and composition. He spotted courtyards, staircases, iron railings, vaulted arches, pointed roofs, and narrow walkways. A miniature aqueduct channeled water from one end to the other. Everything seemed to have sprung up by chance. He was reminded of a medieval village.

They followed Straw Hat.

Other than the flute player, Malone had seen no one, though the complex was clean and orderly. Sunbeams battled with curtains in the windows, but he spotted no movement beyond the panes. Terraced vegetable beds loaded with tomatoes stood hearty. One thing caught his attention. Solar panels discreetly fastened to the roofs and a number of dish antennae, each hidden behind either wooden or stone awnings that seemed to be parts of the buildings—like Disney World, Malone thought, where necessities went unnoticed in plain sight.

Straw Hat stopped before a wooden door and opened its lock with an oversized brass key. They entered a refectory, the cavernous dining hall decorated with religious murals of Moses. The air smelled of sausage and sour cabbage. Ceiling boards alternated between chocolate and butter yellow, interrupted by a diamond-shaped panel of powder blue dotted with gold stars.

“Your journey was surely long,” Straw Hat said. “We have food and drink.”

On one of the tables lay a tray of sand-brown loaves and bowls of tomatoes, onions, and oil. Dates were piled in another bowl. Still another held three huge pomegranates. A kettle emitted steam and he smelled tea.

“That’s kind of you,” Malone said.

“Real kind,” McCollum added. “But we’d like to see the library.”

The bony face betrayed the young man’s testiness, but only for an instant. “We prefer you to eat and rest. Also, you may want to clean yourselves before entering.”

McCollum stepped forward. “We’ve completed your quest. We’d like to see the library.”

“Actually, Mr. Haddad has completed his quest and has earned entry. There was no invitation extended to you or the woman.” Straw Hat faced Malone. “By involving these two, your invitation would normally be voided.”

“Then why am I here?”

“An exception has been made.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“You knew the route of your quest.”

Straw Hat offered no more and left the dining hall, closing the door behind him.

They stood in silence.

Finally Pam said, “I’m hungry.”

Malone was, too. He laid his rucksack on the table. “Then let’s accept their hospitality.”

MARYLAND

STEPHANIE AND CASSIOPEIA RUSHED FROM THE RESTAURANT. Nothing could be done for Larry Daley. His vehicle was a charred mass, still burning. The explosion had been confined to the car, doing little damage to any of the other vehicles.

A targeted strike.

“We need to go,” Cassiopeia said.

She agreed.

They hustled to the Suburban and jumped in, Stephanie behind the wheel. She inserted the key, but hesitated and asked, “What do you think?”

“Unless the president wired this car with a bomb, we’re okay. No one went near it while we were in there.”

She turned the key. The engine roared to life. She drove away just as a police car rounded a corner and wheeled into the parking lot.

“What did he tell you?” Cassiopeia asked.

She summarized the conversation. “I thought he was full of crap. Conspiracies to kill Daniels. But now—”

An ambulance raced past them in the other lane.

“No need for them to be in a hurry,” she said. “He never knew what hit him.”

“A bit dramatic,” Cassiopeia said. “There are a lot quieter ways to kill him.”

“Unless you want attention drawn to the fact. The deputy national security adviser being car-bombed? It’s going to be a big deal.”

She was driving slow, keeping well below the speed limit, working her way out of town and back to the highway. She stopped at an intersection and turned south.

“Where to now?” Cassiopeia asked.

“We need to find Green.”

Five miles and a car appeared in her rearview mirror, closing fast. She expected it to pass and speed down the nearly empty two-lane highway. Instead the gray Ford coupe eased up close to the Suburban’s bumper. She spotted two figures in the front seats.

“We’ve got company.”

They were moving at sixty miles an hour, the road twisty through wooded countryside. Only a few farmhouses disturbed the fields and forest.

A gun appeared out of the front passenger-side window. A pop and the bullet pinged off the rear windshield but did not shatter the glass.

“God bless the Secret Service,” she said. “Bulletproof.”

“But the tires aren’t.”

Cassiopeia was right. She increased their speed and the Ford kept pace. She yanked the wheel left and swerved into the oncoming lane, slowing, allowing the Ford to pass. As it did, the man fired into the side of the Suburban, but the shots ricocheted off.

“We’ve got armor plating, too,” Cassiopeia said.

“Gotta love a tank. Any idea who they are?”

“The one shooting chased us on the mall the other day. So I’d say the Saudis have found us.”

“They must have been on Daley and we turned up.”

“Lucky us.”

She whipped the Suburban back into the southbound lane, now tailing the Ford. Cassiopeia lowered her window and shattered the lead car’s rear window with two shots. The Ford tried a similar maneuver, changing road sides, but had to return to the southbound lane to avoid an approaching truck. Cassiopeia took advantage of the moment and sent another bullet into the rear window.

The passenger in the Ford aimed his gun out the rear, but Cassiopeia discouraged him from firing with another shot.

“We have more problems,” Stephanie said. “Behind us. Another car.”

The other vehicle sat tight on their rear bumper. Two men inside, as well. She kept speeding forward—to stop would place them at the mercy of four armed men.

Cassiopeia seemed to assess the situation and made a decision. “I’m going to take out the tires on the one ahead of us. Then we’ll see about the one behind.”

A pop came from outside, then a bang.

Stephanie felt the right rear of the SUV swerve and instantly realized what had happened. Their own tire had been shot. She pounded the brake and kept the vehicle under control.

Another pop and the left rear jolted.

She knew that ordinary rounds did not explode tires. But they were losing air and she had only a couple of minutes before they’d be riding on rims. She kept the car planing, which should buy them another mile or so.

Cassiopeia handed her a gun and changed the magazine in her weapon. They could initially use the Suburban’s defenses to shield them. After that, it would be a shootout, and the early hour and rural location offered far too much privacy to their attackers.

The rear end settled to the road and a loud clunk told her the trip was over.

She stopped the Suburban and gripped the gun.

The lead Ford skidded onto the shoulder.

The vehicle behind them did the same.

Armed men rolled from both cars.

MALONE FINISHED OFF THE POMEGRANATE, ONE OF HIS FAVORITE fruits, and swallowed another cup of the bitter tea. They’d been left alone about forty-five minutes, though he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. He spied the surroundings carefully, trying to decide if the room was wired for video. The tables all stood empty, as did a sideboard against one wall. He imagined a mild clatter of plates, the polite scraping of forks, and chatter in several languages that surely accompanied every meal. A door at the far end stood closed, one he assumed led to the kitchen. The refectory itself was cool—thanks, he reasoned, to thick stone walls.

The exterior door opened and Straw Hat entered.

Malone noticed that every action by the young man seemed conducted in the manner of a servant, as if he contemplated only one thought at a time.

“Mr. Haddad, are you ready to enter the library?”

Malone nodded. “Belly’s full and I’m all rested.”

“Then we can go.”

McCollum sprang from his chair. Malone had been waiting to see what he’d do. “Mind if we visit a bathroom first?”

Straw Hat nodded at the request. “I can take you. But then you’re to return here. Mr. Haddad is the invitee.”