Steve Berry: The Alexandria Link

Malone stayed silent, but he recalled something he learned long ago. Never let the other side set the bargain. “Stick it up your ass. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You take a lot of risks with your son’s life.”

“I see Gary. I talk to him. Then, I go.”

“Take a look outside.”

He rushed to the window. Four stories down Højbro Plads was still quiet, except for two figures standing on the far side of the cobbled expanse.

Both silhouettes shouldered weapons.

Grenade launchers.

“Don’t think so,” the voice said in his ear.

Two projectiles shot through the night and obliterated the windows below him.

Both exploded.

VIENNA, AUSTRIA

2:12 AM

THE OCCUPANT OF THE BLUE CHAIR WATCHED AS ONE CAR DEPOSITED two occupants under a lighted porte cochere. Not a limousine or anything overtly pretentious, just a European sedan of muted color, a common sight on busy Austrian roads. The perfect means of transportation to avoid attention from terrorists, criminals, police, and inquisitive reporters. One more car arrived and deposited its passengers, then headed off to wait among the dark trees in a paved lot. Two more appeared a few minutes later. The Blue Chair, satisfied, left his second-floor bedchamber and descended to ground level.

The meeting convened in the usual place.

Five gilded, straight-backed armchairs rested atop a Hungarian carpet in a wide circle. The chairs were identical except for one, which sported a royal blue scarf across its cushioned back. Next to each chair stood a gilded table that supported a bronze lamp, a writing pad, and a crystal bell. To the left of the circle a fire bristled inside a stone hearth, its light dancing nervously across the ceiling murals.

A man occupied each chair.

They were designated in descending order of seniority. Two of the men still possessed their hair and health. Three were balding and frail. All were at least seventy years old and dressed in sedate suits, their dark chesterfields and gray homburgs hanging on brass racks off to one side. Behind each stood another man, younger-the Chair’s successor, present to listen and learn but not to be heard. The rules were long standing. Five Chairs, four Shadows. The Blue Chair was in charge.

“I apologize for the late hour, but some disturbing information arrived a few hours ago.” The Blue Chair’s voice was strained and wispy. “Our latest venture may be in jeopardy.”

“Exposure?” Chair Two asked.

“Perhaps.”

Chair Three sighed. “Can the problem be solved?”

“I think so. But prompt action is needed.”

“I cautioned we should not interfere in this,” Chair Two sternly reminded, shaking his head. “Things should have been allowed to run their natural course.”

Chair Three agreed, as he had at the previous meeting. “Perhaps this is a signal that we should leave well enough alone. A lot can be said about the natural order of things.”

The Blue Chair shook his head. “Our last vote was contrary to such a course. The decision has been made, so we must adhere to it.” He paused. “The situation requires attention.”

“Completion would involve tact and skill,” Chair Three said. “Undue attention would defeat the purpose. If we intend to press forward, then I recommend we grant die Klauen der Adler full authority to act.”

The Talons of the Eagle.

Two others nodded.

“I’ve already done that,” the Blue Chair said. “I called this gathering because my earlier, unilateral action required ratification.”

A motion was made, hands raised.

Four to one, the matter was approved.

The Blue Chair was pleased.

COPENHAGEN

MALONE’S BUILDING SHOOK LIKE AN EARTHQUAKE AND swelled with a rush of heat that soared up through the stairwell. He dove for Pam and together they slammed into a threadbare rug that covered the plank floor. He shielded her as another explosion rocked the foundation and more flames surged their way.

He gazed out the doorway.

Fires raged below.

Smoke billowed upward in an ever-darkening cloud.

He came to his feet and darted to the window. The two men were gone. Flames licked the night. He realized what had happened. They’d torched the lower floors. The idea wasn’t to kill them.

“What’s happening?” Pam screamed.

He ignored her and raised the window. Smoke was rapidly conquering the air inside.

“Come on,” he said, and he hustled into the bedroom.

He reached beneath the bed and yanked out the rucksack he always kept ready, even in retirement, just as he’d done for twelve years as a Magellan Billet agent. Inside was his passport, a thousand euros, spare identification, a change of clothes, and his Beretta with ammunition. His influential friend Henrik Thorvaldsen had only recently reobtained the gun from the Danish police-confiscated when Malone had become involved with the Knights Templar a few months back.

He shouldered the bag and slipped his feet into a pair of running shoes. No time to tie the laces. Smoke consumed the bedroom. He opened both windows, which helped.

“Stay here,” he said.

He held his breath and trotted through the den to the stairwell. Four stories opened up below. The ground floor housed his bookshop, the second and third floors were for storage, the fourth held his apartment. The first and third floors were ablaze. Heat scorched his face and forced him to retreat. Incendiary grenades. Had to be.

He rushed back to the bedroom.

“No way out from the stairs. They made sure of that.”

Pam was huddled next to the window gulping air and coughing. He brushed past her and poked his head out. His bedroom sat in a corner. The building next door, which housed a jeweler and a clothing store, was a story lower, the roof flat and lined with brick parapets that, he’d been told, dated from the seventeenth century. He glanced up. Above the window ran an oversized cornice that jutted outward and wrapped the front and side of his building.

Someone would surely have called the fire and rescue squads, but he wasn’t going to wait around for a ladder.

Pam started coughing harder, and he was having trouble breathing himself. He turned her head. “Look up there,” he said, pointing at the cornice. “Grab hold and move yourself to the side of the building. You can drop from there onto the roof next door.”

Her eyes went wide. “Are you nuts? We’re four floors up.”

“Pam, this building could blow. There are natural gas lines. Those grenades were designed to start a fire. They didn’t shoot one into this floor because they want us to get out.”

She didn’t seem to register what he was saying.

“We have to leave before the police and fire rescue get here.”

“They can help.”

“You want to spend the next eight hours answering questions? We only have seventy-two.”

She seemed to instantly comprehend his logic and stared up at the cornice. “I can’t, Cotton.” For the first time her voice carried no edge.

“ Gary needs us. We have to go. Watch me, then do exactly as I do.”

He shouldered the rucksack and wiggled himself out the window. He gripped the cornice, the coarse stone warm but thin enough that his fingers acquired a solid hold. He dangled by his arms and worked his way, hand over hand, toward the corner. A few more feet, around the corner, and he dropped to the flat roof next door.

He hustled back to the front of the building and peered upward. Pam was still in the window. “Come on, do it. Just like I did.”

She hesitated.

An explosion ripped through the third floor. Glass from the windows showered Højbro Plads. Flames raked the darkness. Pam recoiled back inside. A mistake. A second later her head emerged and she hacked out violent coughs.