Steve Berry - The Alexandria Link

“I watched your hands,” she said. “Both empty. You were too busy trying to figure out what stung you.”

Green’s face stiffened, and he stared at Cassiopeia. “You shot me?”

She gave him a gracious bow. “At your service.”

“What’s the chemical?”

“Fast-acting agent I found in Morocco. Quick, painless, short-term.”

“I can attest to all those.” Green turned back toward Stephanie. “This must be Cassiopeia Vitt. She knew your husband, Lars, before he killed himself.”

“How in the world do you know that?” She hadn’t mentioned what happened to anyone on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Only Cassiopeia, Henrik Thorvaldsen, and Malone knew.

“Ask me what you came to ask me,” Green said with a quiet resolve.

“Why’d you call off my security detail? You left me bare-ass for the Israelis. Tell me you did it.”

“I did.”

The admission surprised her. She was too accustomed to lies. “Knowing that the Saudis would try to kill me?”

“I knew that, too.”

Anger swelled inside her and she fought the urge to lash out, saying only, “I’m waiting.”

“Ms. Vitt,” Green said. “Are you available to keep an eye on this woman until this is over?”

“Why do you give a damn?” Stephanie blurted out. “You’re not my keeper.”

“Somebody has to be. Calling Heather Dixon wasn’t smart. You’re not thinking.”

“Like I need you to tell me that.”

“Look at yourself. Here you are, assaulting the chief law enforcement officer of the United States with little or no information. Your enemies, on the other hand, have access to an abundance of intelligence, which they are using to full advantage.”

“What in the hell are you babbling about? And you never did answer the question.”

“That’s true. I didn’t. You wanted to know why I called off your security detail. The answer is simple. I was asked to, so I did.”

“Who asked you?”

Green’s eyes surveyed her with the unruffled look of a Buddha.

“Henrik Thorvaldsen.”

BAINBRIDGE HALL, ENGLAND

5:20 AM

MALONE ADMIRED THE MARBLE ARBOR IN THE GARDEN. THEY’D taken a train twelve miles north from London, then a taxi from the nearby town station to Bainbridge Hall. He’d read all of Haddad’s notes stashed in the satchel and skimmed through the novel, trying to make sense of what was happening, remembering everything he and Haddad had discussed through the years. But he’d come to the conclusion that his old friend had taken the most important things with him to his grave.

Above stretched a velvet sky. A cool draft of night air chilled him. Manicured grass stretched out from the garden in a pewter sea, the bushes and shrubs islands of shadow. Water danced in a nearby fountain. He’d decided on a predawn visit as the best way to learn anything, and had obtained a flashlight from the hotel concierge.

The grounds were unfenced and, as far as he could see, not alarmed. The house itself, he assumed, would be another matter. From what he’d read in Haddad’s notes, the estate was a minor museum, one of hundreds owned by the British Crown. Several of the mansion’s ground-floor rooms were lit, and he spotted, through uncurtained panes, what appeared to be a cleaning crew.

He turned his attention back to the arbor.

The wind rustled the trees then rose to sweep the clouds. Moonlight vanished, but his eyes were fully accustomed to the eerie pall.

“You plan to tell me what this thing is?” Pam asked. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet on the trip.

He directed the light onto the image etched into the marble. “That’s from a painting called The Shepherds of Arcadia Two. Thomas Bainbridge went to a lot of trouble to have it carved.” He told her what Haddad had written concerning the image, then used the beam to trace the letters beneath.

D O.V.O.S.V.A.V.V. M

“What did he say about those?” Pam asked.

“Not a word. Only that this was a message and that there are more inside the house.”

“Which certainly explains why we’re here at five o’clock in the morning.”

He caught her irritation. “I don’t like crowds.”

Pam brought her eyes close to the arbor. “Wonder why he separated the D and the M like that?”

He had no idea. But there was one thing he did comprehend. The pastoral scene of The Shepherds of Arcadia II depicted a woman watching as three shepherds gathered around a stone tomb, each pointing at engraved letters. ET IN ARCADIA EGO. He knew the translation.

And in Arcadia I.

An enigmatic inscription that made little sense. But he’d seen those words before. In France. Contained within a sixteenth-century codex describing what the Knights Templar had secretly accomplished in the months before their mass arrest in October 1307.

Et in arcadia ego .

An anagram for I tego arcana dei.

I conceal the secrets of God.

He told Pam about the phrase.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

He shrugged. “Just telling you what I know.”

They needed to explore the house. From a safe distance in the garden, among belts of towering cedars, he studied the ground floor. Lights flicked on and off as the cleaners went about their work. Doors to the rear terrace were propped open with chairs. He watched as a man stepped outside carrying two garbage bags, which he tossed into a pile, then disappeared back inside.

He glanced at his watch: 5:40 AM.

“They’re going to have to finish soon,” he said. “Once they’re gone, we should have a couple of hours before anyone arrives for work. This place doesn’t open till ten.” He’d learned that from a sign near the main gate.

“No need to say how foolish this is.”

“You always wanted to know what I did for a living, and I never could tell you. Top secret, and all that crap. Time to find out.”

“I liked it better when I didn’t know.”

“I don’t believe that. I remember how aggravated you’d get.”

“At least I didn’t have any bullet wounds.”

He smiled. “Your rite of passage.” Then he motioned her forward. “After you.”

SABRE WATCHED AS THE SHADOWY FORMS OF COTTON MALONE and his ex-wife merged with the trees behind Bainbridge Hall. Malone had come straight to Oxfordshire. Good. Everything hinged on his curiosity. His operative had also done her job. She’d hired the three extra men he’d requested and delivered him a weapon.

He drew a few long breaths and welcomed the brisk night air, then removed the Sig Sauer from his jacket pocket.

Time to meet Cotton Malone.

MALONE APPROACHED THE OPEN REAR DOOR, STAYING TO ONE side, embracing the shadows, and peered inside.

The room beyond was an elaborate parlor. Shimmering light cascaded from the vaulted ceiling, illuminating gilded furniture and paneled walls livened by tapestries and paintings. No one was in sight, but he heard the whine of a floor polisher and the blare of a radio from beyond the archways.

He motioned and they entered.

He knew nothing of the house’s geography, but a placard told him he was in the Apollo Room. He recalled what Haddad had written. In the drawing room of Bainbridge Hall is more of Bainbridge’s arrogance. Its title is particularly reflective. The Epiphany of St. Jerome. Fascinating and fitting, as great quests often begin with an epiphany.

So they needed to find the drawing room.

He led Pam to one of the exits that opened into a foyer possessing the majestic lines of a cathedral transept, arches eloquently stacked atop one another. Interesting, the abrupt change in style and architecture. Less light softened the outlines of the furniture into gray shadows. Within one of the arches he spotted a bust.