The Alexandria Link, Page 3

  He glanced up from the computer as Thorvaldsen shuffled into the room. The older Dane had apparently taken the time to dress. His short, stooped frame, the product of a spine that long ago refused to straighten, was concealed by the folds of an oversized sweater the color of a pumpkin. His bushy silver hair lay matted to one side, his eyebrows thick and untamed. Deep lines bracketed the mouth and forehead, and his sallow skin suggested an avoidance of the sun—which Malone knew was the case, as the Dane rarely ventured out. On a continent where old money meant billions, Thorvaldsen was at the top of every wealthiest-people list.

  “What’s happening?” Thorvaldsen asked.

  “Henrik, this is Pam, my ex-wife.”

  Thorvaldsen flashed her a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” she said, ignoring their host. “We need to be seeing about Gary.”

  Thorvaldsen faced him. “You look awful, Cotton, and she looks anxious.”

  “Anxious?” Pam said. “I just climbed out of a burning building. My son is missing. I’m jet-lagged, and I haven’t eaten in two days.”

  “I’ll have some food prepared.” Thorvaldsen’s voice stayed flat, as if this kind of thing happened every night.

  “I don’t want food. I want to see about my son.”

  Malone told Thorvaldsen what happened in Copenhagen, then said, “I’m afraid the building’s gone.”

  “Which is the least of our worries.”

  He caught the choice of words and nearly smiled. He liked that about Thorvaldsen. On your side, no matter what.

  Pam was pacing like a caged lioness. Malone noticed that she’d lost a few pounds since they’d last spoken. She’d always been slender, with long reddish hair, and time had not darkened the pale tone of her freckled skin. Her clothes were as frayed as her nerves, though overall she carried the same good looks from years ago, when he’d married her soon after joining the navy JAG. That was the thing about Pam—great on the outside—the inside was the problem. Even now her blue eyes, burned red from crying, managed to convey an icy fury. She was an intelligent, sophisticated woman, but at the moment she was confused, dazed, angry, and afraid. None of which, by his estimation, was good.

  “What are you waiting for?” she spat out.

  He glanced at the computer screen. Access into the Billet server had yet to be granted. But since he was no longer active, his request was surely being forwarded directly to Stephanie for approval. He knew that once she saw who was calling she’d immediately log on.

  “Is this what you used to do?” she asked. “People trying to set you on fire. Shooting guns. This is what you did? See what it got us? See where we are?”

  “Mrs. Malone,” Henrik said.

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I should have changed that last name. Good sense told me to do it in the divorce. But no, I didn’t want my name different from Gary’s. Can’t say a damn thing about his precious father. Not a word. No, Cotton, you’re the man. A king in that boy’s eyes. Damndest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She wanted a fight, and he half wished he had the time to give her one.

  The computer dinged. The screen converted to the Billet’s access page.

  He typed in the password, and a moment later two-way communication was established. The words KNIGHTS TEMPLAR appeared. Stephanie’s coded introduction. He typed ABBEY DES FONTAINES, the place where he and Stephanie had, a few months ago, found the modern-day remnants of that medieval order. A few seconds later What is it, Cotton? appeared.

  He typed in a summary of what had happened. She answered:

  We’ve had a breach here. Two months ago. The secured files were accessed.

  Care to explain that one?

  Not at the moment. We wanted it kept secret. I need to check some things. Sit tight and I’ll be back to you shortly. Where are you?

  At your favorite Dane’s house.

  Give him my love.

  He heard Henrik snicker and knew that, like two divorced parents, Stephanie and Henrik tolerated each other simply for his sake.

  “We’re just going to sit here and wait?” Pam said. They’d both been reading over Malone’s shoulder.

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

  She stormed for the door. “You can. I’m going to do something.”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “I’m going to the police.”

  She yanked open the door. Jesper stood in the hallway, blocking the way. Pam stared at the chamberlain. “Get out of my way.”

  Jesper stood firm.

  She turned and glared at Henrik. “Tell your manservant to move or I’ll move him.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Thorvaldsen said.

  Malone was glad Henrik had anticipated her foolishness. “Pam. My guts are ripped up, just like yours. But there’s zero the police can do. We’re dealing with a pro who’s at least two days ahead of us. To do the best thing for Gary, I need information.”

  “You haven’t shed a tear. Not a hint of surprise, nothing from you at all. Like always.”

  He resented that, particularly coming from a woman who just two months ago calmly informed him that he was not their son’s father. He’d come to the conclusion that the revelation meant nothing when it came to how he felt about Gary—the boy was his son and would always be his son—but the lie made a huge difference in what he thought about his ex-wife. Anger surged up his neck. “You’ve already messed this up. You should have called me the second it happened. You’re so damn smart, you should have found a way to get in touch with me or with Stephanie. She’s right there in Atlanta. Instead you gave these guys two days. I don’t have the time or the energy to fight you and them. Sit your ass down and shut up.”

  She stood rock-still with a brooding silence. Finally she surrendered and sank limply onto a leather couch.

  Jesper gently closed the door and remained outside.

  “Tell me one thing,” Pam said, eyes fixed on the floor, her face stiff as marble.

  He knew what she wanted to know. “Why can’t I give him what he wants? It’s not that simple.”

  “A boy’s life is at stake.”

  “Not a boy, Pam. Our son.”

  She did not reply. Maybe she’d finally realized he was right. Before acting, they needed information. He was stalled. Like the day after law school exams, or when he requested a transfer from the navy to the Magellan Billet, or when he strode into Stephanie Nelle’s office and quit.

  Waiting, wishing, wanting, all combined with not knowing.

  So he, too, wondered what Stephanie was doing.

  SIX

  WASHINGTON, DC

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 3

  10:30 PM

  STEPHANIE NELLE WAS GLAD TO BE ALONE. WORRY CLOUDED her face, and she did not like anyone, particularly superiors, seeing her concerned. Rarely did she allow herself to be affected by what happened in the field, but the kidnapping of Gary Malone had hit her hard. She was in the capital on business and had just finished a late dinner meeting with the national security adviser. Changes were being proposed by an increasingly moderate Congress to several post-9/11 laws. Support was growing to allow sunset provisions to lapse, so the administration was gearing up for a fight. Yesterday several high-ranking officials had made the Sunday talk-show rounds to denounce the critics, and the morning papers had likewise carried stories fed to them by the administration’s publicity machine. She’d been summoned from Atlanta to help tomorrow with lobbying key senators. Tonight’s gathering had been preparation—a way, she knew, for everyone to learn exactly what she intended to say.

  She hated politics.

  She’d served three presidents during her tenure with Justice. But the current administration had been, without question, the most difficult to placate. Decidedly right of center and drifting farther to that extreme every day, the president had already won his second term, three years left in office, so he was thinking legacy, and what better epitaph tha
n the man who crushed terrorism?

  All of that meant nothing to her.

  Presidents came and went.

  And since the particular anti-terrorism provisions in jeopardy had actually proven useful, she’d assured the national security adviser that she’d be a good girl in the morning and say all the right things on Capitol Hill.

  But that was before Cotton Malone’s son had been taken.

  THE PHONE IN THORVALDSEN’S STUDY RANG WITH A SHRILLNESS that rattled Malone’s nerves.

  Henrik answered the call. “Good to hear from you, Stephanie. And I send my love, too.” The Dane smiled at his own facetiousness. “Yes. Cotton’s here.”

  Malone gripped the phone. “Talk to me.”

  “Around Labor Day we noticed a breach in the system that had occurred much earlier. Someone managed a look-see through the secured files—one in particular.”

  He knew its identity. “Do you understand that by withholding that information you’ve put my son at risk?”

  The other end of the phone was silent.

  “Answer me, dammit.”

  “I can’t, Cotton. And you know why. Just tell me what you’re going to do.”

  He knew what the inquiry really meant. Was he going to give the voice on the cell phone the Alexandria Link? “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “You’re the only one who can answer that question.”

  “What’s worth risking my son’s life? I need to understand the whole story. What I wasn’t told five years ago.”

  “I need to know that, too,” Stephanie said. “I wasn’t briefed, either.”

  He’d heard that line before. “Don’t screw with me. I’m not in the mood.”

  “On this one I’m shooting straight. They told me nothing. You asked to go in, and I was given the okay to do it. I’ve contacted the attorney general, so I’ll get answers.”

  “How did anyone even know about the link? That whole thing was classified at levels way above you. That was the deal.”

  “An excellent question.”

  “And you still haven’t said why you didn’t tell me about the breach.”

  “No, Cotton. I haven’t.”

  “The thought that I was the only person on earth who knows about that link didn’t occur to you? You couldn’t connect the dots?”

  “How could I have anticipated all this?”

  “Because you have twenty years of experience. Because you’re not a dumb-ass. Because we’re friends. Because—” His worry was spilling out in a stream. “Your stupidity may cost my son his life.”

  He saw how his words had jarred Pam, and he hoped she didn’t explode.

  “I realize that, Cotton.”

  He wasn’t going to cut her any slack. “Gee, I feel better now.”

  “I’m going to deal with this here. But I can offer you something. I have an agent in Sweden who can be in Denmark by midmorning. He’ll tell you everything.”

  “Where and when.”

  “He suggested Kronborg Slot. Eleven AM.”

  He knew the place. Not far away, perched on a spit of bare land overlooking the Øresund. Shakespeare had immortalized the monstrous fortress when he set Hamlet there. Now it was the most popular tourist attraction in Scandinavia.

  “He suggested the ballroom. I assume you know where all that is?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Cotton. I’m going to do all I can to help.”

  “Which is the least you can do, considering.”

  And he hung up.

  SEVEN

  WASHINGTON, DC

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4

  4:00 AM

  STEPHANIE ENTERED THE HOME OF O. BRENT GREEN, THE ATTORNEY general of the United States. A car had just delivered her to Georgetown. She’d telephoned Green before midnight and asked for the face-to-face, briefly telling him what had happened. He’d wanted a little time to investigate, which she’d had no choice but to accept.

  Green waited in his study.

  He’d served the president for the entire first term and had been one of only a handful of cabinet members who’d agreed to stay for the second. He was a popular advocate of Christian and conservative causes—a New England bachelor with not a hint of scandal attached to his name, who even at this early hour projected a serious vigor. His hair and goatee were precisely groomed and smoothly combed, his spare frame sheathed in a trademark pin-striped suit. He’d served six terms in Congress and was the governor of Vermont when tapped by the president for the Justice Department. His frank words and direct approach made him popular with both sides of the political aisle, but his distant personality seemed to prevent him from rising any higher nationally than attorney general.

  She’d never been inside Green’s house and had expected a sullen, unimaginative look, something akin to the man himself. But instead the rooms were warm and homey—lots of sienna, taupe, pale greens, and shades of maroon and orange—a Hemingway effect, as one furniture chain in Atlanta advertised similar ensembles.

  “This matter is unusual, even for you, Stephanie,” Green said as he greeted her. “Anything further from Malone?”

  “He was resting before heading to Kronborg. With the time difference, he should be on his way there now.”

  He offered her a seat. “This problem seems to be escalating.”

  “Brent, we’ve had this talk before. Somebody high on the food chain accessed the secured database. We know files on the Alexandria Link were copied.”

  “The FBI is investigating.”

  “That’s a joke. The director is so far up the president’s ass, there’s no danger of anyone at the White House being implicated.”

  “Colorful, as always, but accurate. Unfortunately it’s the only procedure available to us.”

  “We could look into it.”

  “That would bring nothing but trouble.”

  “Which I’m accustomed to.”

  Green smiled. “That you are.” He paused. “I’m wondering, how much do you actually know about that link?”

  “When I sent Cotton into the fray five years ago it was with the understanding that I didn’t need to know. Not unusual. I deal with a lot of that sort of thing, so I didn’t worry about it. But now I need to know.”

  Green’s face cast a measure of concern. “I’m probably about to violate myriad federal laws, but, I agree, it’s time you know.”

  MALONE STARED ACROSS THE ROCKY ELEVATION AT KRONBORG Slot. Once its cannons were aimed at foreign ships that traversed the narrow straits to and from the Baltic, the collected tolls swelling the Danish treasury. Now the creamy beige walls stood somber against a clear azure sky. Not a fortress any longer, merely a Nordic renaissance building alive with octagonal towers, pointed spires, and green copper roofs more reminiscent of Holland than Denmark. Which was understandable, Malone knew, since a sixteenth-century Dutchman had been instrumental in the castle’s design. He liked the location. Public locales could be the best spots in which to be invisible. He’d used many during his years with the Billet.

  The drive north from Christiangade had taken only fifteen minutes. Thorvaldsen’s estate sat halfway between Copenhagen and Helsingør, the busy port town that stood adjacent to the slot. Malone had visited both Kronborg and Helsingør, wandering the nearby beaches in search of amber—a relaxing way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Today’s visit was different. He was on edge. Ready for a fight.

  “What are we waiting for?” Pam asked, her face set like a mask.

  He’d been forced to bring her. She’d absolutely insisted, threatening to make more trouble if he left her behind. He could certainly understand her unwillingness to simply wait with Thorvaldsen. Tension and monotony made for a volatile mixture.

  “Our man said eleven,” he noted.

  “We’ve wasted enough time.”

  “Nothing we’ve done has been a waste of time.”

  After hanging up with Stephanie, he’d managed a few hours’ sleep. He would do Gary no good half awake. He’d also changed c
lothes with the spares from his rucksack, Pam’s cleaned by Jesper. They’d eaten a little breakfast.

  So he was ready.

  He checked his watch: 10:20 AM.

  Cars were starting to fill the parking lots. Soon buses would arrive. Everyone wanted to see Hamlet’s castle.

  He couldn’t have cared less.

  “Let’s go.”

  “THE LINK IS A PERSON,” GREEN SAID. “HIS NAME IS GEORGE HADDAD. A Palestinian biblical scholar.”

  Stephanie knew the name. Haddad was personally acquainted with Malone and, five years ago, had specifically asked for Malone’s assistance.

  “What’s worth the life of Gary Malone?”

  “The lost Library of Alexandria.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Green nodded. “Haddad thought he’d located it.”

  “How could that have any relevance today?”

  “Actually, it could be quite relevant. That library was the greatest concentration of knowledge on the planet. It stood for six hundred years until the middle of the seventh century, when the Muslims finally took control of Alexandria and purged everything contrary to Islam. Half a million scrolls, codices, maps—you name it, the library stored a copy. And to this day? No one has ever found a single shred of it.”

  “But Haddad did?”

  “So he implied. He was working on a biblical theory. What that was, I don’t know, but the proof of his theory was supposedly contained within the lost library.”

  “How would he know that?”

  “Again, I don’t know, Stephanie. But five years ago, when our people in the West Bank, the Sinai, and Jerusalem made some innocent requests for visas, access to archives, archaeological digging, the Israelis went berserk. That’s when Haddad asked Malone to help.”

  “On a blind mission, which I didn’t like.”

  Blind meaning that Malone was told to protect Haddad, but not to ask any questions. She recalled that Malone hadn’t liked the condition, either.

  “Haddad,” Green said, “only trusted Malone. Which was why Cotton eventually hid him away and is the only one today who knows Haddad’s whereabouts. Apparently the administration didn’t seem to mind hiding Haddad, so long as they controlled the route to him.”