Steve Berry - The Alexandria Link

“What about his security detail?” Cassiopeia asked. “I have the feeling he’s not bluffing on that one.”

“Check the front and keep an eye on the street,” she said, making clear through her gaze that she wanted a moment alone with Green.

Cassiopeia left the kitchen.

“Okay, Brent. What do you have to say that you couldn’t say in front of her?”

“What are you, Stephanie, sixty-one years old?”

“I don’t talk about my age.”

“Your husband has been dead a dozen years. That has to be tough. I never married, so I wouldn’t know what it’s like to lose a spouse.”

“It’s not easy. What does that have to do with anything?”

“I know you and Lars were estranged when he died. It’s time you start trusting somebody.”

“Gee, tell you what. I’ll schedule interviews and everyone, including those trying to kill me, will get a chance to convince me of their trustworthiness.”

“Henrik’s not trying to kill you. Cassiopeia isn’t. Cotton Malone’s not.” He paused. “I’m not.”

“You called off my backup, knowing I was in trouble.”

“And what would have happened if I hadn’t? Your two agents would have burst onto the scene, gunfire would have ensued, and what would have been solved?”

“I’d have Heather Dixon in custody.”

“And by morning she would have been released, after surely the secretary of state and probably the president himself intervened. Then you would have been fired and the Saudis would kill you at their leisure. And you know why? Because nobody would have cared.”

His words made sense. Damn him.

“You moved too fast and you didn’t think it through.” Green’s eyes had softened, and she saw something else she’d never seen before.

Concern.

“Earlier I offered my help. You refused. Now I’m going to tell you what you don’t know. What I didn’t tell you then.”

She waited.

“I allowed the file on the Alexandria Link to be compromised.”

MALONE OPENED THE BOOK ABOUT ST. JEROME, A THIN VOLUME, only seventy-three yellowed leaves, with an 1845 printing date. He paged through and absorbed a few details.

Jerome lived from 342 to 420 CE. He was fluent in Latin and Greek and, as a young man, made little effort to check his pleasure-loving instincts. Baptized by the pope in 360, he dedicated himself to God. For the next sixty years he traveled, wrote treatises, defended the faith, and became a recognized father of the Christian religion. He first translated the New Testament then, toward the end of his life, translated the Old directly from Hebrew into Latin, creating the Vulgate, which the Council of Trent eleven hundred years later proclaimed the authoritative text of the Catholic Church.

Three words caught Malone’s eye.

Eusebius Hieronymus Sophronius.

Jerome’s birth name.

He thought of the novel from the leather satchel. A Hero’s Journey by Eusebius Hieronymus Sophronius.

Apparently Thomas Bainbridge had chosen his pen name with great care.

“Anything?” Pam asked.

“Everything.” But his excitement faded, replaced by the chill of an unpleasant realization. “We need to get out of here.”

He rushed to the doors, switched off the lights, and eased them open. The marble hall loomed, quiet. The radio continued to play in some far-off room, now a sporting event of some sort, the crowd and commentator loud. The floor polisher was silent.

He led Pam to the top of the stairs.

Three men burst into the hall below, weapons in hand.

One raised and fired.

He shoved Pam to the floor.

The bullet pinged off the stone. He quickly rolled them both behind one of the columns and saw Pam grimace in pain.

“My shoulder,” she said.

Three more bullets tried to find them through marble. He palmed Haddad’s automatic and readied himself. None of the shots so far had been accompanied by a loud retort-only pops, like pillows fluffing. Sound suppressors. At least he possessed the high ground. From his vantage point he spotted two shooters advancing toward the right side of the lower floor while the other remained to the left. He could not allow the two to take up that position-they’d be able to shoot around the column-so he fired.

The bullet missed but its proximity caused the attackers to hesitate, enough for Malone to adjust his aim and fire a slug into the lead man, who cried out, then thudded to the floor. The other man leaped for cover, but Malone managed one more shot that sent the pursuer scurrying back toward the hall entrance. Blood streamed from the downed man, pooling into a bright red lake on the white marble.

More shots came their way. The air reeked of gunfire.

Five bullets remained in Haddad’s gun, but Malone still carried the one he’d taken from String Bean, too. Maybe five more shots. He registered fear in Pam’s eyes, but she was remaining calm, considering.

He thought about retreating into the drawing room. The double doors, if barricaded with furniture, might buy them a few minutes to escape through one of the windows. But they were on the second floor, which would surely pose additional obstacles. Regardless, that might be their only play unless the men below wanted to expose themselves and give him a clear shot.

Which wasn’t likely.

One of the men scampered to the base of the stairs. The other covered his advance with four shots that snapped off the wall behind them. Malone had to conserve ammunition and could not fire until it really counted.

Then he realized what they were doing.

For him to fire at one, he’d have to expose himself at the column’s edge to the other. So he did the unexpected, ignoring the left side and curling himself around the right, sending a bullet into the red carpet runner ahead of the advancing attacker.

The man leaped from the stairway and sought cover.

Pam reached for her shoulder and he spotted blood. Her wound had reopened. Too much jostling. Her blue eyes stared back, full of fear.

Two shots banged through the hall.

Not sound-suppressed. High-caliber.

Then, silence.

“Hello,” a male voice called out.

He peered around the column. Standing below was a tall man with grizzled sandy blond hair. He had a broad brow, a short nose, and a round chin. He was squarely built and dressed in jeans and a canvas shirt beneath a leather jacket.

“It looked like you needed help,” the man said, gun at his right side.

The two attackers lay on the floor, blood oozing onto the marble. This man was apparently a good shot, too.

Malone retreated back behind the column. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”

“Wouldn’t blame you. So stay there and wait for the police. You can explain about these three dead bodies.” He heard footsteps, receding. “And by the way, you’re welcome.”

Something occurred to him. “What about the cleaning crew? Why aren’t they rushing in here?”

The footsteps stopped. “They’re unconscious, upstairs.”

“Your doing?”

“Not mine.”

“What’s your interest?”

“The same as many who’ve come here in the middle of the night. I’m looking for the Library of Alexandria.”

Malone said nothing.

“Tell you what. I’m staying at the Savoy, room 453. I have some information that I doubt you possess, and you might have some I don’t know about. If you’d like to talk, come find me. If not, we’ll probably see each other again along the way. Your choice. But together we might be able to speed up the process. It’s up to you.”

Heels clacked the floor with a solid tread, fading away into the house.

“What the hell was that?” Pam asked.

“His way of introducing himself.”