The Alexandria Link

SEVENTY-TWO

SINAI PENINSULA

MALONE APPROACHED THE METAL-CLAD WOODEN GATE. SUNBAKED walls of red granite, their foundations resting on giant buttresses, sloped to a terraced foothold where cypress, orange, lemon, and olive trees stood guard. Grapevines protected the base. A warm wind kicked up sand.

No sign of anyone.

Above the gate, Malone spotted more Latin, this time Psalm 118, and he read the pronouncement.

THIS GATE OF THE LORD,

INTO WHICH THE RIGHTEOUS SHALL ENTER

“What do we do?” Pam asked. He’d noticed that the hostility of the terrain matched her rapidly deteriorating temperament.

“I assume that’s what the rope is for,” he said, motioning.

High above the gate, an iron bell rested inside an open tower. He walked over and yanked. The bell clanged several times. He was about to ring again when high up in the gate a window opened and a bearded young man sporting a straw hat leaned out.

“How may I assist you?” he asked in English.

“We’re here to visit the library,” McCollum said.

“This is but a monastery, a place of solitude. We have no library.”

Malone had wondered how the Guardians ensured that someone who appeared at the gate was an invitee. It could take a great deal of time to make the journey, and at no point in the quest had any constraints been imposed. So there must be a final challenge. One not stated in the quest.

“We’re invitees and have completed the quest,” he called out. “We seek entrance to the library.”

The door to the portal closed.

“That was rude,” Pam said.

Malone wiped the sweat from his brow. “They’re not just going to swing open the gates to anyone who shows up.”

The portal opened again and the young man asked, “Your name?”

McCollum was about to speak, but Malone grabbed his arm. “Let me,” he whispered. He stared up and said, “George Haddad.”

“Who are those with you?”

“My associates.”

The eyes that stared back were fixed, as if trying to determine if he was a man to be trusted.

“A question, if I may?”

“By all means.”

“Your route to here. Tell me.”

“First to Belém and the Jerónimos Monastery, then to Bethlehem.org, and finally here.”

The window closed.

Malone heard bars being removed from behind the gate, then the stout wooden panels inched open and the bearded young man strolled out. He wore baggy pants, tapered at the calf, a russet-colored cloak tucked into his waistband, and a rope belt. His feet were protected by sandals.

He stopped before Malone and bowed. “Welcome, George Haddad. You have completed your quest. Would you like to visit the library?”

“I would.”

The young man smiled. “Then enter and find what you seek.”

They followed him, single-file, through the gates into a dark corridor lined with towering stone that blocked the sun. Thirty paces, then around a right angle, and they again found daylight inside the walls, a flourishing space of greenery with cypress trees, palms, grapevines, flowers-even a peacock paraded about.

What sounded like a flute cast a soothing melody. Malone spotted the source, a musician perched on one of the balconies supported by thick wooden brackets. The buildings were crowded together, each one different in size and composition. He spotted courtyards, staircases, iron railings, vaulted arches, pointed roofs, and narrow walkways. A miniature aqueduct cha

They followed Straw Hat.

Other than the flute player, Malone had seen no one, though the complex was clean and orderly. Sunbeams battled with curtains in the windows, but he spotted no movement beyond the panes. Terraced vegetable beds loaded with tomatoes stood hearty. One thing caught his attention. Solar panels discreetly fastened to the roofs and a number of dish ante

Straw Hat stopped before a wooden door and opened its lock with an oversized brass key. They entered a refectory, the cavernous dining hall decorated with religious murals of Moses. The air smelled of sausage and sour cabbage. Ceiling boards alternated between chocolate and butter yellow, interrupted by a diamond-shaped panel of powder blue dotted with gold stars.

“Your journey was surely long,” Straw Hat said. “We have food and drink.”

On one of the tables lay a tray of sand-brown loaves and bowls of tomatoes, onions, and oil. Dates were piled in another bowl. Still another held three huge pomegranates. A kettle emitted steam and he smelled tea.

“That’s kind of you,” Malone said.

“Real kind,” McCollum added. “But we’d like to see the library.”

The bony face betrayed the young man’s testiness, but only for an instant. “We prefer you to eat and rest. Also, you may want to clean yourselves before entering.”

McCollum stepped forward. “We’ve completed your quest. We’d like to see the library.”

“Actually, Mr. Haddad has completed his quest and has earned entry. There was no invitation extended to you or the woman.” Straw Hat faced Malone. “By involving these two, your invitation would normally be voided.”

“Then why am I here?”

“An exception has been made.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“You knew the route of your quest.”

Straw Hat offered no more and left the dining hall, closing the door behind him.

They stood in silence.

Finally Pam said, “I’m hungry.”

Malone was, too. He laid his rucksack on the table. “Then let’s accept their hospitality.”

SEVENTY-THREE

MARYLAND

STEPHANIE AND CASSIOPEIA RUSHED FROM THE RESTAURANT. Nothing could be done for Larry Daley. His vehicle was a charred mass, still burning. The explosion had been confined to the car, doing little damage to any of the other vehicles.

A targeted strike.

“We need to go,” Cassiopeia said.

She agreed.

They hustled to the Suburban and jumped in, Stephanie behind the wheel. She inserted the key, but hesitated and asked, “What do you think?”

“Unless the president wired this car with a bomb, we’re okay. No one went near it while we were in there.”

She turned the key. The engine roared to life. She drove away just as a police car rounded a corner and wheeled into the parking lot.

“What did he tell you?” Cassiopeia asked.

She summarized the conversation. “I thought he was full of crap. Conspiracies to kill Daniels. But now-”

An ambulance raced past them in the other lane.

“No need for them to be in a hurry,” she said. “He never knew what hit him.”

“A bit dramatic,” Cassiopeia said. “There are a lot quieter ways to kill him.”

“Unless you want attention drawn to the fact. The deputy national security adviser being car-bombed? It’s going to be a big deal.”

She was driving slow, keeping well below the speed limit, working her way out of town and back to the highway. She stopped at an intersection and turned south.

“Where to now?” Cassiopeia asked.

“We need to find Green.”

Five miles and a car appeared in her rearview mirror, closing fast. She expected it to pass and speed down the nearly empty two-lane highway. Instead the gray Ford coupe eased up close to the Suburban’s bumper. She spotted two figures in the front seats.

“We’ve got company.”

They were moving at sixty miles an hour, the road twisty through wooded countryside. Only a few farmhouses disturbed the fields and forest.