Steve Berry - The Alexandria Link

Nothing even remotely close existed in Palestine.

The proof seemed incontrovertible.

The events of the Old Testament had not occurred in Palestine. Instead they’d all happened hundreds of miles to the south in Arabia. And Jerome and Augustine knew that, yet deliberately allowed the errors of the Septuagint not only to remain, but in fact to flourish, further altering the Old Testament so the passages would seem an indisputable prophecy for the Gospels of their New Testament. The Jews were not to enjoy a monopoly on God’s Word. For their new religion to thrive, the Christians needed a connection, too.

So they manufactured one.

Simply finding a Hebrew Bible from before the time of Christ could prove decisive, but a copy of Strabo’s Histories could likewise answer many questions. If the library still existed, he could only hope that one or both would have been preserved.

He stepped over to the glass case that he’d shown the vice president last night. The American had been unimpressed, but who cared? America’s new president would see the havoc they would wreak. Still, he hoped Thorvaldsen would be more impressed seeing them. He reached beneath and pressed the release button. He swung the case open and thought, for a moment, that his eyes were deceiving him.

Empty.

The letters and translations were gone. How? Not the vice president. Hermann had watched his motorcade leave the estate. No one else knew of the hiding place.

Only one possible explanation.

Thorvaldsen.

Anger sent him darting to his desk. He lifted the phone and called for his chief of the guard. Then he opened a desk drawer and removed his gun.

Margarete be damned.

SINAI PENINSULA

MALONE’S LEGS REMAINED WOBBLY, AND HIS CROTCH ACHED. Pam had said little since their encounter, and McCollum had wisely stayed out of the fight. But Malone couldn’t complain. He’d asked for it and she’d delivered.

He stared in every direction at the desolate serenity. The sun had risen quickly, and the air was heating like an oven. He’d retrieved the GPS unit from his pack and determined that the precise coordinates-28º 41.41N, 33º 38.44E-lay less than a mile away.

“Okay, McCollum. What now?”

The other man slipped a piece of paper from his pocket and read out loud: “Then, like the shepherds of the painter Poussin, puzzled by the enigma, you will be flooded with the light of inspiration. Reassemble the fourteen stones, then work with square and compass to find the path. At noon, sense the presence of the red light, see the endless coil of the serpent red with anger. But heed the letters. Danger threatens one who arrives with great speed. If your course remains true, the route will be sure.

“That’s all there is to the quest,” McCollum concluded.

Malone rolled the cryptic words through his mind.

Pam plopped to the ground and drank some water. “That arbor in England had a Poussin image. What was it? A tomb of some sort with writing on it? Apparently Thomas Bainbridge left a few clues, too.”

He was already thinking the same thing.

“You see that building on the way down?” Malone asked McCollum. “West, maybe a quarter mile. It’s where the coordinates point.”

“Seems the path is clear.”

He shouldered his rucksack. Pam stood. He asked her, “You done proving points?”

She shrugged. “Throw me out of another airplane and see what happens.”

“You two always like this?” McCollum asked.

He started walking. “Only when we’re together.”

Malone approached the building he’d seen from the air. Not much to it. Low, squatty, with a tattered tile roof, its foundations crumbling as if being reclaimed by the earth. The exterior walls stood equal in height and length, broken only by two windows, devoid of anything, about ten feet up. The front door was a decaying slab of thick cedar, hanging askew from black iron hinges.

He kicked it open.

Only a lizard greeted them as it sought refuge across the dirt floor.

“Cotton.”

He turned. Pam was motioning to another outcropping. He stepped toward it, each footfall crunching the parched sand.

“Looks like the tomb in that carving at Bainbridge Hall,” she said.

Good point. And he studied the four-block-high rectangle with a rounded stone top. He examined the sides for carvings, particularly the lettering Et in arcadia ego . Nothing there. Which wasn’t surprising, because the desert would have long ago erased any vestiges.

“We’re at the right coordinates and this thing does look like the same tomb from the arbor.”

He recalled the hero’s quest. Then, like the shepherds of the painter Poussin, puzzled by the enigma, you will be flooded with the light of inspiration.

He leaned against the tattered stones.

“What now, Malone?” McCollum asked.

Hillocks rose to their north, steadily climbing into barren mountains where black crags cleaved deep paths. The sky burned with a growing glow as the sun crept higher toward midday.

He rolled more of the quest over in his mind.

Reassemble the fourteen stones, then work with square and compass to find the path. At noon, sense the presence of the red light, see the endless coil of the serpent red with anger.

Everything at Belém had been fairly obvious-a mixture of history and technology, which seemed the Guardians’ trademark. After all, the idea was for the invitee to succeed. This part was a challenge.

But not impossible.

He surveyed the dilapidated building and makeshift tomb.

Then he saw them and counted.

Fourteen.

SABRE WONDERED IF HE SHOULD SIMPLY KILL THEM BOTH NOW. Was he close enough to figure the rest out himself? Malone had brought him this far and, exactly as he’d hoped, tapped into his resources to get them from England to Portugal to here.

But he told himself to be patient.

He would never have deciphered the quest himself, much less this quickly. By now the Blue Chair was surely looking for him. The Assembly was in session, so he hoped that would provide a diversion until tomorrow. But he knew how much Hermann wanted to know if this trail seemed promising. He also knew what else the old man was planning and how critical his participation would be over the next week. Three emissaries had been used to negotiate with bin Laden. He’d visit all three, killing two but preserving one.

That person and the library would be his bargaining chips.

But all that assumed there was something here to find.

If not, he’d kill Malone and his ex-wife and hope he could lie his way out of trouble.

MALONE STARED AT ONE SIDE OF THE DILAPIDATED BUILDING. Ten feet up loomed one of the bare openings. He walked around to the other side and spied the other portal at a similar height.

He came back to where McCollum and Pam stood and said, “I think I’ve figured it out. The building’s square, as are those two openings.”

“Use square and compass,” Pam said.

He pointed. “Those two openings are the key.”

“What do you mean?” McCollum said. “Going to be kind of tough to get up there.”

“Not really. Look around.” Boulders and rocks littered the sand. “Notice anything about the rocks?”

Pam stepped over to one and squatted down. He watched as she caressed the sides. “Square. About a foot even all around?”

“I’d say that’s right. Remember the clue. Reassemble the fourteen stones, then work with square and compass to find the path. There are fourteen of those things scattered about.”

Pam stood. “Obviously, this quest has a physical part. Not just anyone could reassemble these stones. I assume they’ll provide the boost up to the window?”