The Alexandria Link

“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.”

FIFTY-ONE

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 ru

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.

“Any movement outside?” he asked McCollum softly.

“Not a sound.”

“Let’s do it,” he whispered through the dark. “No use sitting here any longer.”

He heard McCollum’s knife again snap into place, then the scraping of metal on metal.

The confessional’s door creaked open.

He came to his feet but had to crouch against the low ceiling.

McCollum swung the door inward. They stepped out into the lower gallery, the cool night air welcome after three hours in what amounted to a closet. Across the open cloister, in the upper and lower galleries, incandescent fixtures burned softly, the elaborate tracery between the arches more shadow than detail. Malone stepped into the nearest arch and stared up at the night sky. The gloom of the shadowy cloister seemed accented by a starless night.

He headed straight for the stairway that led to the upper choir. He hoped the door that opened into the church-the one he’d earlier used to find the choir from the nave-remained unlocked.

He was glad to discover that it stood open.

The nave was cemetery-quiet.

Light from the exterior floods that bathed the outer façade backlit the stained-glass windows. A handful of weak bulbs broke the thick darkness only in the lower choir.

“This place is different at night,” Pam said.

He agreed, and his guard was up.

He headed straight for the chancel and hopped over the velvet ropes. At the high altar, he climbed five risers and stood before the sacrarium.

He turned and focused back toward the upper choir at the far end.