Steve Berry - The Alexandria Link

Green pointed at the copy of Hardball . “What’s so vital?”

Stephanie reached for the laptop she’d told Green to bring. She slid one of the flash drives into an empty port and typed AUNT B’S into the space for a password.

“Your girl learn that, too?” Cassiopeia asked.

She nodded. “An eatery out in Maryland. Daley goes there a lot on weekends. Country-style food. One of his favorites. Struck me as odd-I considered Daley a five-star-restaurant connoisseur.”

The screen displayed a list of files, each labeled with one-word identifiers.

“Congress,” she said.

She clicked on one.

“I learned that Daley is a master of dates and times. When he squeezes a member for a vote, he has precise information about every cash contribution ever sent that member’s way. It’s odd, because he never funnels money directly. Instead lobbyists who like the idea that they’re currying favor with the White House do the dirty work. That led me to think he keeps records. Nobody’s memory is that good.” She pointed at the screen. “Here’s an example.” She counted. “Fourteen payments to this guy totaling a hundred eighty-seven thousand dollars over a six-year period. Here’s the date, place, and time of each payment.” She shook her head. “Nothing frightens a politician more than details.”

“We’re talking bribes?” Green asked.

She nodded. “Cash payments. Pocket money. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to keep the lines of communication open. Simple and sweet, but it’s the kind of political capital Daley accumulates. The kind this White House uses. They’ve managed to pass some pretty sweet legislation.”

Green stared at the screen. “Must be a hundred or more House members.”

“He’s effective. I’ll give him that. The money is spread around. Both sides of the aisle.”

She clicked another file, which displayed a list of senators. Thirty or so. “He also has a cadre of federal judges. They get into financial trouble, just like everybody else, and he has people right there to help out. I found one in Michigan who talked. He was on the verge of bankruptcy until one of his friends appeared with money. His conscience finally got to him, especially after Daley wanted him to rule a particular way. Seems a lawyer in a case before him was a big party contributor and needed a little guarantee on victory.”

“Federal courts are a hotbed of corruption,” Green muttered. “I’ve said that for years. Give somebody a lifetime appointment and you’re asking for trouble. Too much power, too little oversight.”

She grabbed another of the flash drives. “One of these is enough to indict several of those turkey buzzards.”

“Such an eloquent description.”

“It’s the black robes. They look just like buzzards, perched on a limb, waiting to pick a carcass clean.”

“Such little respect for our judiciary,” he said with a grin.

“Respect is earned.”

“Might I interject something,” Cassiopeia said. “Why don’t we just go public? Draw attention. Not the way I usually handle things, but it seems like it would work here.”

Green shook his head. “As you noted earlier, I don’t know much about the Israelis. And you don’t understand the PR machine of this administration. It’s a master of spin. They’d cloud the issue to the point of obscurity, and we’d lose Daley and the traitor.”

“He’s right,” Stephanie said. “That won’t work. We have to do this ourselves.”

Traffic stopped the car and Green’s cell phone rang a soft chime. He reached into his suit pocket and removed the unit, studying the LCD. “This should prove interesting.” He pressed two buttons and talked into the speakerphone. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“Bet you have,” Daley said.

“Seems I might not make it to that box in Vermont after all.”

“That’s the thing about chess, Brent. Every move is an adventure. Okay, I’ll give you credit, yours was a good one.”

“You have to give Stephanie credit for that.”

“I’m sure she’s there, so well done, Stephanie.”

“Anytime, Larry.”

“This changes little,” Daley made clear. “Those elements I mentioned are still agitated.”

“You need to calm them down,” Stephanie said.

“Do you want to talk?” Daley asked.

Stephanie started to speak, but Green held up his hand. “And the benefit of that?”

“Could be great. There’s a lot at stake.”

She couldn’t resist. “More than your ass?”

“Much more.”

“You lied when you said you knew nothing about the Alexandria Link, didn’t you?” Green asked.

“ Lie is such a harsh word. More that I concealed facts in the interest of national security. That the price I’m going to have to pay?”

“I think it’s reasonable, considering.”

Stephanie knew Daley would realize they could disseminate his secrets at will. Both she and Green possessed contacts in the media, ones that would love to dirty this administration.

“All right.” Resignation filled Daley’s tone. “How do you want to do this?”

Stephanie knew the answer. “Public. Lots of people.”

“That’s not a good idea.”

“It’s the only way we’re going to do it.”

The speaker was quiet for a moment before Daley said, “Tell me where and when.”

LISBON

7:40 PM

MALONE AWOKE, SITTING PROPPED AGAINST A ROUGH STONE wall.

“It’s after seven thirty,” Pam whispered in his ear.

“How long was I out?”

“An hour.”

He could not see her face. Total darkness engulfed them. He recalled their situation. “Everything okay up there?” he said quietly to McCollum.

“Nice and quiet.”

They’d left the church just before five and hustled to the upper choir, where another doorway led out into the cloister. Visitors had been slow in leaving, taking advantage of the late-afternoon sun for a few last photos of the opulent Moorish-style decorations. The upper gallery had offered no safe refuges, but running along the church’s north wall at ground level they’d found eleven wooden doors. A placard explained that the compact spaces had once served as confessionals.

Though the doors to ten confessionals had been locked, McCollum had managed to open one thanks to a hole drilled beneath the locking bolt. Apparently the lock was faulty, and the hole was how the staff gained entrance. McCollum had used an impressive knife from his pocket to slide the bolt, relocking it after they’d entered. Malone had not known the man was armed. No way he’d carried the knife on the airplane, but McCollum had checked a small bag at the London airport, now stored in a locker at the Lisbon airport. Malone, too, had stored the satchel from Haddad’s apartment in a Lisbon locker. McCollum’s not mentioning the knife only raised Malone’s level of suspicion.

Inside the confessional, a screened iron grate opened into another dark cubbyhole. A door in the second chamber led into the church, allowing the penitent to enter. The screen separated the two so that penance could be administered.

Malone had grown up Catholic and recalled a similar arrangement, though simpler in construction, at his church. He’d never understood why he couldn’t see the priest who was absolving him of sin. When he’d asked, the nuns who’d taught him had simply said separation was required. He came to learn that the Catholic Church was big on what to do, but didn’t particularly like to explain why. Which partly explained why he no longer practiced the religion.

He glanced at the luminous dial of Pam’s TAG watch. Nearly eight PM. Early, but the site had now been closed three hours.