Alexandria Link (11 page)

That she doubted, but she needed to know, “What’s the connection between the two dead men and the Order?”

“The man the woman described has been present at Order functions. Not a member. An employee. She didn’t hear his name, but her boyfriend once used a term I’ve heard before, too. Die Klauen der Adler.”

She silently translated. The Talons of the Eagle. “You going to tell me more?”

“How about when I’m sure?”

Back in June, when she’d first met Thorvaldsen, he hadn’t been all that forthcoming, which had only fueled the already existing friction between them. But since then she’d learned not to underestimate the Dane. “Okay. You said the Order’s main interest was the Middle East. What did you mean?”

“I appreciate you not pressing.”

“Got to start cooperating with you sometime. Besides, you weren’t going to tell me anyway.”

Thorvaldsen chuckled. “We’re a lot alike.”

“Now, that scares me.”

“It’s not all that bad. But to answer your question about the Middle East, unfortunately the Arab world only respects strength. They also know how to deal, however, and they have much to bargain with, especially oil.”

She couldn’t argue with that conclusion.

“Who’s the Arab’s number one enemy?” Thorvaldsen asked. “America? No. Israel. That’s the thorn in their side. There it sits. Right in the middle of their world. A Jewish state. Partitioned out in 1948 when nearly a million people were, if you believe the Arab line, forcibly displaced. Land Palestinians, Egyptians, Jordanians, Lebanese, and Syrians had claimed for centuries was simply surrendered by the world to the Jews. The nakba, the catastrophe, they called it. A fitting name.” Thorvaldsen paused. “For both sides.”

“And war immediately broke out,” Stephanie said. “The first of many.”

“Every one of them, thankfully, won by Israel. For the past sixty years the Israelis have clung to their land, and all because God told Abraham that it was to be so.”

She remembered the passage Brent Green had quoted. The Lord said to Abram, lift up now your eyes and look from the place where you are northward and southward and eastward and westward, for all the land which you see, to you I will give it, and to your seed forever.

“God’s promise to Abraham is one reason why Palestine was given to the Jews,” Henrik said. “Supposedly their ancestral homeland, bequeathed by God Himself. Who’s to argue with that?”

“At least one Palestinian scholar I know of.”

“Cotton told me about George Haddad and the library.”

“He shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t think he gives a damn about rules at the moment, and you’re not one of his favorite people right now, either.”

She deserved that one.

“My sources in Washington tell me that the White House wants Haddad found. I assume you know that.”

She did not answer.

“I wouldn’t imagine you’d confirm or deny that one. But there’s something happening here, Stephanie. An event of substance. Men of power don’t usually waste their time on nonsense.”

She agreed.

“You can blow people up. Terrorize them every day. Solves nothing. But when you possess what your enemy either wants, or doesn’t want anyone else to have, then you have real power. I know the Order of the Golden Fleece. Leverage. That’s what Alfred Hermann and the Order are after.”

“And what will they do with it?”

“If it strikes at the heart of Israel, as it may well, then the Arab world would deal to obtain it. Everyone in the Order stands to profit from friendly relations with the Arabs. The price of oil alone is enough to command their attention, but new markets for their goods and services—that’s an even greater prize. Who knows? The information might even call into question the Jewish state, which could soothe a multitude of open sores. America’s long-standing defense of Israel is costly. How many times has it happened? An Arab nation claims Israel should be destroyed. The United Nations weighs in. The U.S. denounces it. Everyone becomes angry. Swords are rattled. Then concessions and dollars have to be doled out to quell tempers. Imagine, if that was no longer needed, how much more accommodating the world, and America, could be.”

Which might be the legacy Larry Daley wanted for the president. But she had to say, “What could possibly be that powerful?”

“I don’t know. But you and I a few months ago read an ancient document that fundamentally changed everything. Something of equal power might be present here, too.”

He was right, but the reality was, “Cotton needs this information.”

“He’ll get it, but first we have to learn the whole story.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“The Order is convening its winter gathering this weekend. I wasn’t going, but I am now.”

LONDON

1:20 PM

MALONE CLIMBED FROM THE TAXI AND STUDIED THE QUIET street. Lots of gabled façades, fluted side posts, and flowery sills. Each of the picturesque Georgian houses seemed a serene abode of antiquity, a place that would naturally harbor bookworms and academics. George Haddad should be right at home.

“This where he lives?” Pam asked.

“I hope so. I haven’t heard from him in nearly a year. But this is the address I was given three years ago.”

The afternoon was cool and dry. Earlier, he’d read in The Times how England was still in the midst of an unusual autumn drought. String Bean had not followed them from Heathrow, but perhaps someone else had taken up the task since the man was clearly in communication with others. Yet no other taxis were in sight. Strange still having Pam with him, but he deserved the feeling of awkwardness. He’d asked for it by insisting she come.

They climbed the stoop and entered the building. He lingered in the foyer, out of sight, watching the street.

But no cars or people appeared.

The bell for the flat on the third floor gave a discreet tinkle. The olive-skinned man who answered the door was short and doughy, with ash-white hair and a square face. Brown eyes came alive when he saw his guest, and Malone noticed an instant of repressed excitement in the broad grin of welcome.

“Cotton. What a surprise. I was just thinking of you the other day.”

They warmly shook hands and Malone introduced Pam. Haddad invited them in. Daylight was dimmed by thick lace curtains and Malone quickly absorbed the décor, which seemed an intentional mismatch—there was a piano, several sideboards, armchairs, lamps adorned with pleated silk shades, and an oak table where a computer was engulfed by books and papers.

Haddad waved his arm as if to embrace the clutter. “My world, Cotton.”

The walls were dotted with maps, so many that the sage-green wall covering was barely visible. Malone’s gaze raked them, and he noted that they depicted the Holy Land, Arabia, and the Sinai, their time line varying from modern to ancient. Some were photocopies, others originals, all interesting.

“More of my obsession,” Haddad said.

After a genial exchange of small talk, Malone decided to get to the point. “Things have changed. That’s why I’m here.” He explained what had happened the day before.

“Your son is okay?” Haddad asked.

“He’s fine. But five years ago I asked no questions because that was part of my job. It’s not anymore, so I want to know what’s going on.”

“You saved my life.”

“Which ought to buy me the truth.”

Haddad led them into the kitchen, where they sat at an oval table. The tepid air hung heavy with a lingering scent of wine and tobacco. “It’s complicated, Cotton. I’ve only in the past few years understood it myself.”

“George, I need to know it all.”

An uneasy understanding passed between them. Old friendships could atrophy. People changed. What was once appreciated between two people became uncomfortable. But Malone knew Haddad trusted him, and he wanted to reciprocate. Finally the older man spoke. Malone listened as Haddad told them about 1948 when, as a nineteen-year-old, he’d fought with the Palestinian resistance, trying to stop the Zionist invasion.

“I shot many men,” Haddad said. “But there was one I never forgot. He came to see my father. Unfortunately that blessed soul had already killed himself. We captured this man, thinking him a Zionist. I was young, full of hate, no patience, and he spoke nonsense. So I shot him.” Haddad’s eyes moistened. “He was a Guardian and I killed him, never learning anything.” The Palestinian paused. “Then, fifty-some years later, incredibly, another Guardian visited me.”

Malone wondered about the significance.

“He appeared at my home, standing in the dark, saying the same thing that the first man said in 1948.”

“I’m a Guardian.”

Had Haddad heard right? The question formed immediately in his mind. “From the library? Am I to be offered an invitation?”

“How do you know that?”

He told the man what had happened long ago. As he spoke, Haddad tried to assess his guest. He was wiry with coal-black hair, a thick mustache, and sun burned skin that bore the texture of tawny leather. Neat and quietly dressed, with a manner to match. Not unlike the first emissary.

The younger man sat silent and Haddad decided this time he, too, would be patient. Finally the Guardian said, “We’ve studied your writings and your published research. Your knowledge of the Bible’s ancient text is impressive, as is your ability to interpret the original Hebrew. And your arguments on the accepted translations are persuasive.”

He appreciated the compliment. Those came few and far between in the West Bank.

“We’re an ancient band. Long ago the first Guardians saved much of the Library of Alexandria from destruction. A great effort. From time to time—to those, like yourself, who could benefit—we’ve offered an invitation.”

Many questions formed in his mind, but he asked, “The Guardian I shot said that the war we were fighting back then wasn’t necessary. That there are things more powerful than bullets. What did he mean?”

“I wouldn’t know. Obviously your father failed to appear at the library, so he never benefited from our knowledge—and we did not benefit from his. Hopefully, you’ll not fail.”

“What do you mean failed to appear?”

“To have the right to use the library you must prove yourself through the hero’s quest.” The man produced an envelope. “Interpret these words wisely and I’ll see you at the entrance, where it will be my honor to allow you into the library.”

He accepted the packet. “I’m an old man. How could I possibly take a long journey?”

“You’ll find the strength.”

“Why should I?”

“Because in the library you will find answers.”

“My mistake,” Haddad said, “was telling the Palestinian authorities about that visit. I spoke the truth, though. I couldn’t make the journey. When I reported what happened, I thought I was speaking with friends in the West Bank. But Israel’s spies heard everything, and the next thing I knew you and I were in that café when it exploded.”

Malone recalled the day. One of the scariest in his life. He’d barely managed to extricate them both.

“What were you doing there?” Pam asked him, concern in her voice.

“George and I had known each other for years. We share an interest in books, especially the Bible.” He pointed. “This man is one of the world’s experts. I’ve enjoyed picking his brain.”

“I never knew you had an interest,” Pam said.

“Apparently there was a lot neither one of us knew about the other.” He saw that she registered his true meaning, so he let that truth hang and said, “When George sensed trouble and didn’t trust the Palestinians, he asked for my help. Stephanie sent me to find out what was happening. Once that bomb went off, George wanted out. Everyone assumed he died in the blast. So I made him disappear.”

“Code-named the Alexandria Link,” Pam said.

“Someone obviously found out about me,” Haddad declared.

Malone nodded. “The computer files were breached. But there’s no mention of where you live, just that I’m the only one who knows your whereabouts. That’s why they went after Gary.”

“And for that I’m truly sorry. I would never want to place your son in jeopardy.”

“Then tell me, George, why do people want you dead?”

“At the time the Guardian visited me, I was working on a theory regarding the Old Testament. I’d previously published several papers on the then-current state of that holy text, but I was formulating something more.”

The lines at the corners of Haddad’s eyes deepened, and Malone watched as his friend seemed to struggle with his thoughts.

“Christians tend to focus on the New Testament,” Haddad said. “Jews use the Old. I daresay most Christians have little understanding of the Old Testament, beyond thinking that the New is a fulfillment of the Old’s prophecies. But the Old Testament is important, and there are many contradictions in that text—ones that could readily call its message into question.”

He’d heard Haddad speak on the subject before, but this time he sensed a new urgency.

“Examples abound. Genesis gives two conflicting versions of creation. Two varying genealogies of Adam’s offspring are laid out. Then the flood. God tells Noah to bring seven pairs of clean animals and one pair of unclean. In another part of Genesis it’s just one pair of each. Noah releases a raven to search for land in one verse, but it’s a dove in another. Even the length of the flood is contradicted. Forty days and nights or three hundred seventy? Both are used. Not to mention the dozens of doublets and triplets contained within the narratives, like the differing names used to describe God. One portion cites YHWH, Yahweh, another Elohim. Wouldn’t you think at least God’s name could be consistent?”

Malone’s memory flashed back a few months to France, where he’d heard similar complaints about the four Gospels of the New Testament.

“Most now agree,” Haddad said, “that the Old Testament was composed by a host of writers over an extremely long period of time. A skillful combination of varied sources by scribal compilers. This conclusion is absolutely clear and not new. A twelfth-century Spanish philosopher was one of the first to note that Genesis 12:6—at that time the Canaanites were in the land—could not have been written by Moses. And how could Moses have been the author of the Five Books when the last book describes in detail the precise time and circumstances of his death?