The Alexandria Link

The pale gray iris of the rose window stared back at him, no longer alive with the sun.

McCollum seemed to have anticipated what he’d need and appeared beside him holding a candle and matches. “Offering rack, back near the baptismal font. I saw it earlier.”

He grabbed the candle and McCollum lit the wick. He brought the dim glow close to the sacrarium and studied the image molded into the door.

Mary sat with the infant in her lap, Joseph behind her, all three crowned by halos. Three bearded men, one kneeling before the child, paid homage. Three other men-one strangely wearing what appeared to be a military helmet-gazed on. Above the scene, with clouds parted, a five-pointed star shone down.

“It’s the Nativity,” Pam said from behind him.

He agreed. “Sure looks like it. The three Magi following the star, coming to praise the newborn king.”

He recalled the quest and what they should be looking for here, where silver turned to gold. Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place.

A challenging riddle.

“We need to get out of here, but we also need a picture of this. Since none of us has a camera, any ideas?”

“After I bought the tickets,” McCollum said, “I walked upstairs. There’s a gift shop. Full of books and postcards. Bound to be a picture there.”

“Good thought,” he said. “Lead the way.”

SABRE CLIMBED THE STAIRS TO THE UPPER GALLERY, PLEASED that he’d made the right choice. When Alfred Herma

Herma

If it were even possible.

But it just might be.

He would never have deciphered the hero’s quest alone, and involving anyone other than Malone would have done nothing except escalate his chances of exposure. Making Malone his supposed ally was the only viable course.

Risky, but the move had proven productive. Half the quest seemed solved.

He crested the stairs and entered the upper gallery, turning left and walking straight for a set of glass doors, out of place in this medieval setting. His cell phone, stuffed inside his trouser pocket, had already silently recorded four calls from Alfred Herma

Above all, the members were dealers.

And before the Israelis or the Saudis or the Americans could be squeezed, the Order of the Golden Fleece was going to have to deal with him.

And he would not come cheap.

MALONE FOLLOWED PAM AND MCCOLLUM INTO THE RIB-VAULTED upper gallery, admiring the workmanship. From the bits and pieces he’d heard from the tour guides earlier, the Jeronymite Order, which took possession of the monastery in 1500, was a closed group devoted to prayer, contemplation, and reformist thinking. They’d possessed no direct evangelical or pastoral mission. Instead they’d focused on living an exemplary Christian life through divine worship-much like their patron saint, Jerome himself, whom he’d read about in the book from Bainbridge Hall.

They stopped before glass doors custom-fit into one of the elaborate arches. Beyond was the gift shop.

“Couldn’t be alarmed,” McCollum said. “What’s to steal? Souvenirs?”

The doors were thick sheets of glass adorned with black metal hinges and chrome handles.

“They open outward,” Malone said. “We can’t kick ‘ em in. That glass is half an inch thick.”

“Why don’t you see if they’re locked?” Pam said.

He grasped one of the handles and pulled.

The door swung open.

“I can see why your clients value your opinion.”

“Why would they lock them?” she said. “This place is a fortress. And he’s right, what is there to steal? The doors themselves are worth more than the merchandise.”

He smiled at her logic. Some of her surly attitude had returned, but he was glad. Kept him sharp.

They stepped inside. The dark, musty space reminded him of the confessional. So he swung the door out ninety degrees and locked it into position, as it would be when visitors milled in and out all day.

A quick survey told him that the shop was about twenty feet square, with three tall display cases abutting one wall, book racks on the other two, and a counter and a cash register lining the fourth. A freestanding counter loaded with books filled the center.

“We need light,” he said.

McCollum approached another pair of glass doors that led out to a blackened stairway. A set of three switches poked from the wall.

“We’re inside the monastery,” Malone said. “The light’s not going to be visible outside the walls. Still, on and off quick and let’s see what happens.”

McCollum flicked one of the switches. Four tiny halogen floods that illuminated the glass cases sprang to life. Their light was directed in tight beams downward. More than enough illumination.

“That’ll do,” he said. “Now let’s find something with pictures.”

Atop the center counter lay a stack of hardcover volumes in Portuguese and English, all titled Jerónimos Abbey of Santa Maria. Glossy pages, lots of text. Photos, too. Two thi

He walked the book over to the light. The photograph was close-up and detailed. “This is it.”

He read more about the sacrarium, trying to see if any of the information would be useful, and learned that it was crafted of wood sheathed in silver. Its placement in the chancel required that the central painting of the lower row be removed, which subsequently disappeared. The image of that lost painting had been carved on the sacrarium’s door, completing the iconographic cycle of the paintings-all of which dealt with the Epiphany. The door showed Gaspar, one of the wise men, worshiping the newborn child. The book noted that the Epiphany was regarded as the submission of the secular to the divine, the three wise men symbolic of the world as it was then known-Europe, Asia, Africa.

Then he found an interesting passage.

A strange phenomenon is reported to occur at certain times of the year, when the sun’s rays penetrate the church in an extraordinary way. For twenty days before the spring equinox, and for thirty days after the autumnal equinox, the sun’s golden rays, from the hour of Vespers until sunset, entering from the west and covering a distance of 450 paces, pass in a straight line through the choir and the church to the sacrarium, turning its silver into gold. One of Belém’s parish priests, a devoted student of the history, observed long ago that, “The sun seems to be asking its Creator for leave of absence from such an illustrious duty for a few hours of the night, promising to return again and shine at dawn.”

He read them the paragraph, then said, “The Guardians are apparently well versed.”

“And have good timing,” Pam said. “It’s two weeks since the autumnal equinox.”

He tore the picture from the book and thought about the remainder of the clue. “Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found an other place. That’s next. And tougher.”

“Cotton, surely you’ve already seen the co