Steve Berry - The Alexandria Link

“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.”