Steve Berry - The Alexandria Link

Not an answer to her question. “I want all of you.”

“That’s not possible. For once, would you listen? You can smack on a log all day long with a hatchet and you might cut through. But slam a wedge down its center and the thing splits every time.”

“You’re just trying to save your hide.”

“Tell her,” Daley said to Dixon.

“There’s a division in your government. You’re still our friend, but there are some who want to change that.”

Stephanie wasn’t impressed. “That’s always the case. Two sides to everything.”

“This is different,” Dixon said. “More is happening. And Malone is in Portugal.”

That grabbed her attention.

“The Mossad plans to deal with him there.”

Daley ran a hand through his hair. “Stephanie, two factions are at work. One Arab, one Jew. They both want the same thing and, for once, they want it for the same reason. The vice president is linked to the Arabs-”

An alarm echoed through the cavernous museum, then a flat voice announced through a public address system that the building must be immediately cleared.

Stephanie grabbed Daley.

“It’s not me,” he quickly said.

SABRE STOOD ROCK-STILL. HE NEEDED THE MAN WITH THE GUN to enter the gift shop.

He would.

He’d have to.

Sabre wondered where the other two had gone. His answer came with movement beyond the set of locked glass doors.

Interesting.

These three obviously knew the geography, and they also knew that the gift shop was their destination.

Had they seen the lights?

The two gunmen to his left tested the doors and found they were locked. The forms then backed away and fired at the glass.

No retorts. Just thumps. Like a hammer to a nail. Metal smacked into the glass, thudded, but did not shatter it.

Bulletproof.

The third gunman in the upper gallery rushed inside the open doorway, his gun leading the way. Sabre waited for the instant of indecision, when his target had to assess his situation, then lunged forward, slamming the man’s gun with his foot as he brought the knife around and slashed the man’s throat. He gave the man no time to realize his fate, plunging the blade into the nape of his neck.

A few gargled gasps and the man collapsed to the floor.

More thuds dotted the locked glass doors. A couple of kicks loosened nothing. Then he heard footsteps as the two attackers retreated down the stairway.

He grabbed the dead man’s gun.

THE ALARM CONTINUED TO BLARE. HUNDREDS OF PATRONS rushed toward the museum entrances. Daley was still in Stephanie’s grasp.

“The vice president has allies,” he said. “He can’t do this alone.”

She was listening.

“Stephanie. Brent Green is working with him. He’s not your friend.” Her eyes locked on Heather Dixon, who said, “He’s telling the truth. Who else knew you were coming here? If we wanted you dead, this would not have been the meeting place.”

She’d thought herself in control, but now she wasn’t so sure. Green was indeed the only other person who knew they were there-if Dixon and Daley were telling the truth.

She released Daley, who said, “Green’s in league with the VP. Has been for a while. He’s been promised the second seat on the ticket. Brent could never hope to win an election. This is his one shot at moving up.”

An announcement again ordered that the building must be cleared. A security guard exited the cafeteria and told them they’d have to leave.

“What’s happening?” Daley asked him.

“Just a precaution. We need to clear the building.”

Through the far glass walls, Stephanie saw people streaming away from the road and trees that separated the museum from the grassy mall.

Some precaution.

They hustled back toward the main entrances. People continued to flood out the doors. Lots of chatter and concerned faces. Most of them were teenagers and families, the talk about what could possibly be happening.

“Let’s find another way,” Cassiopeia said. “At least be a little unpredictable.”

She agreed. They walked off. Daley and Dixon stood rigid, as if trying to make them believe.

“Stephanie,” Daley called out.

She turned.

“I’m the only friend you’ve got. Find me when you realize that.”

She did not seize on his words, though she hated the feeling of uncertainty that coursed through her.

“We have to go,” Cassiopeia said.

They rushed through more galleries brimming with shiny aircraft, past a gift shop rapidly losing patrons. Cassiopeia seemed intent on using one of the emergency exits-a good play, since the alarms were already activated.

Ahead, from behind a display case loaded with miniature planes, a man appeared. Tall, dressed in a dark business suit. He raised his right palm. Stephanie spotted a thin wire corkscrewing from his left ear.

She and Cassiopeia stopped and turned. Two more men, similarly dressed and equipped, stood behind them. She registered their look and manner.

Secret Service.

The first man spoke into a lapel mike, and the building’s alarm went silent.

“Can we do this easy, Ms. Nelle?”

“Why should I?”

The man stepped closer. “Because the president of the United States wants to talk to you.”

LISBON

9:30 PM

MALONE ROUNDED THE COUNTER AND CROUCHED WHERE McCollum was searching the dead man’s pockets. He’d watched the so-called treasure hunter kill their attacker with expert precision.

“Those two are rounding back through the church and headed here,” he said.

“I understand,” McCollum said. “Here’s a couple of spare magazines. And another gun. Any clue who they are?”

“Israeli. Have to be.”

“Thought you said they were out of the picture.”

“And I thought you said you were an amateur. Lot of skill you just showed.”

“You do what you have to when your ass is on the line.”

Malone noticed something else clipped to the dead man’s waist. He unsnapped the metal unit.

A transceiver locator. He’d used one many times to follow an electronically tagged target. He activated the video screen and saw that it was tracking something in silent mode. A flashing indicator showed the target was nearby.

“We need to go,” Pam said.

“That’s going to be a problem,” Malone said. “The only way out is through that gallery. But the other two gunmen must be near the stairs by now. We need another way down.”

He pocketed the locator unit. Weapons in hand, they slipped out of the gift shop.

The two gunmen burst from an archway ninety feet away and started firing.

Sounds like popping balloons snapped through the cloister.

Malone dove to the gallery floor, taking Pam with him. The corners were not ninety degrees, but flared, making the cloister octagonal. He used the angle for cover.

“Head that way,” McCollum said. “I’ll keep them busy.”

A continuous stone bench lined the outer perimeter, connecting the arches and forming an elaborate balustrade. Crouching down, he and Pam scampered away from the gift shop, where McCollum was firing at the two gunmen.

Bullets pinged off the stone wall ten feet to his left, some behind, others leading. He realized what was happening. Their shadows, cast from the incandescent fixtures that dimly illuminated the gallery, were betraying their presence. He grabbed Pam, stopped their advance, and hugged the floor. He aimed and, with three bullets, obliterated the lights ahead.

Darkness now sheathed them.

McCollum had stopped firing.

So had the gunmen.

He motioned and they hustled ahead, still crouched, using the arches, tracery, and stone bench for protection.