SEVENTY-FOUR

VIENNA

HERMANN QUICKLY LEARNED THAT THORVALDSEN HAD walked to the schmetterlinghaus. His chief of the guard, a burly man with deep olive skin and an eager personality, followed him as he headed that way, too. He did not want to attract attention, so he kept his gait measured, smiling and casually greeting members who milled about in the rose garden near the house.

He liked where Thorvaldsen had gone. The building was far enough away that he could deal with his problem in privacy.

And that was exactly what he needed.

THROUGH THE PLANTS AND GLASS WALLS, THORVALDSEN SAW his host coming. He noticed the determined stride and purposeful manner. He also recognized the chief of the guard.

"Gary, Mr. Hermann is on his way. I want you to retreat to the far side and stay among the plants. He'll likely be in an ill humor and I have to deal with him. I don't want you involved until I call for you. Can you do that for me?"

The boy nodded.

"Off with you, and stay quiet."

The boy scampered down a path that cleaved a trail through the transplanted rain forest and disappeared into the foliage.

HERMANN STOPPED OUTSIDE. "WAIT HERE," HE SAID TO THE chief of the guard. "I don't want to be disturbed. Make sure."

He then swung open the wooden door and pushed through the leather curtain. Butterflies flew in silent zigzags across the warm air. Their musical accompaniment had not, as yet, been switched on. Thorvaldsen sat in one of the chairs he and Sabre had occupied a couple of days ago. He immediately saw the letters and removed the gun from his pocket.

"You have my property," he said in a firm tone.

"That I do. And you apparently want it back."

"This is no longer amusing, Henrik."

"I have your daughter."

"I've decided I can live without her."

"I'm sure you can. I wonder if she realizes."

"At least I still possess an heir."

The jab cut deep. "You feel better saying that?"

"Much. But as you aptly noted, Margarete will likely be the ruin of this family once I'm gone."

"Perhaps she takes after her mother? As I recall, she was an emotional woman, too."

"In many ways. But I will not have Margarete standing in the way of our success. If you intend to harm her, do it. I want my property back."

Thorvaldsen motioned with the letters. "I assume you've read these?"

"Many times."

"You've always spoken decisively when it comes to the Bible. Your criticisms were pointed and, I have to say, well reasoned." Thorvaldsen paused. "I've been thinking. There are two billion Christians, a little more than a billion Muslims, and about fifteen million Jews. And the words on these pages will anger them all."

"That's the flaw of religion. No respect for truth. None of them cares what's real, only what they can pass off as reality."

Thorvaldsen shrugged. "The Christians will have to face the fact that their Bible, both New and Old, is manufactured. The Jews will learn that the Old Testament is a record of their ancestors from a place other than Palestine. And Muslims will come to know that their sacred ground, the holiest of places, was originally a Jewish homeland."

"I don't have time for this, Henrik. Give me the letters, then my chief of the guard will escort you from the estate."

"And how will that be explained to the members?"

"You've been called back to Denmark. Business emergency." He glanced around. "Where's Malone's son?"

Thorvaldsen shrugged. "Entertaining himself somewhere on the estate. I told him to stay out of trouble."

"You should have taken that advice yourself. I know of your ties to Israel, and I assume you've already informed them of what we're planning. But as I'm sure you've been told, they know we're after the Library of Alexandria, just as they are. They've tried to stop us but have so far been unsuccessful. By now it's too late."

"You have a lot of faith in your employee. He might disappoint you."

Hermann could not voice his own uncertainty. Instead he boldly declared, "Never."

MALONE STOOD FROM THE TABLE AND WITHDREW HIS GUN from the rucksack.

"I was wondering how long you were going to sit here," Pam said.

"Long enough to know that our friend isn't coming back."

He shouldered the pack and opened the outside door. No hum of voices. No click of hooves. No flute. The compound seemed at once sacred and eerie.

Bells pealed, signaling three PM.

He led the way through a variety of buildings, each with the tint and texture of dead leaves. A tower, the color of putty, stood solemnly, topped by a convex roof. The street's unevenness revealed its age. The only sign of habitation came from clothes-underwear, socks, trousers-hanging to dry from a balcony.

Around a corner he spotted McCollum and Straw Hat, a hundred feet away, traversing a small square with a fountain. The monastery obviously had access to a well, as water didn't seem a problem. Neither did power, considering the number of solar panels and satellite dishes.

McCollum held a gun to Straw Hat's head.

"Good to know we were right about our partner," he whispered.

"Guess he wants a first look."

"Now, that is downright rude. Shall we?"

SABRE KEPT HIS GUN LEVELED AT THE BACK OF THE GUARDIAN'S head. They passed more buildings and headed deeper into the complex, near a point where the human-made met the natural.

He loathed the unholy calm.

An unassuming church washed primrose yellow nestled close to the rock face. Inside, the vaulted nave was naturally lit and crowded with icons, triptychs, and frescoes. A forest of silver and gold chandeliers hung above a richly detailed mosaic floor. The opulence stood in stark contrast with the simple exterior.

"This isn't a library," he said.

A man appeared at the altar. He, too, was olive-skinned, but short with ash-white hair. And older. Maybe seventies.

"Welcome," the man said. "I'm the Librarian."

"You in charge?"

"I have that honor."

"I want to see the library."

"To do that, you must release the man you're holding."

Sabre shoved the Guardian away. "All right." He leveled the gun at the Librarian. "You take me."

"Certainly."

MALONE AND PAM ENTERED THE CHURCH. TWO ROWS OF monolithic granite columns, painted white, their capitals gilded, displayed medallions of Old Testament prophets and New Testament apostles. Frescoes on the walls showed Moses receiving the Law and confronting the Burning Bush. Reliquaries, patens, chalices, and crosses rested in glass-fronted cupboards.

No sign of McCollum or Straw Hat.

To Malone's right, in an alcove, he spotted two bronzed cages. One held hundreds of sandstone-colored skulls, piled upon one another in a ghastly hillock. The other housed a hideous assortment of bones in an anatomical jumble.

"Guardians?" Pam asked.

"Has to be."

Something else about the sunlit nave caught his attention. No pews. He wondered if this was an Orthodox church. Hard to tell from the decoration, which seemed an eclectic mixture of many religions.

He crossed the mosaic floor to the opposite alcove.

Inside, perched on a stone shelf, backdropped by a bright stained-glass window, was a full skeleton dressed in embroidered purple robes and a cowl, propped in a sitting position, head slightly atilt, as if questioning. The finger bones, still clinging to bits of dried flesh and nails, clutched a staff and a rosary. Three words were chiseled into the granite below.

CVSTOS RERVM PRVDENTIA

"Prudence is the guardian of things," he said, translating, but his Greek was good enough to know that the first word could also be read as "wisdom." Either way, the message seemed clear.

What sounded like a door opening then closing echoed from beyond an iconostasis at the front of the church. Clutching the gun, he crept forward and stepped through the doorway in the center of the elaborately decorated panel.

A single door waited on the far side.

He came close.

The panels were cedar, and upon them were inscribed the words from Psalm 118. THIS GATE OF THE LORD, INTO WHICH THE RIGHTEOUS SHALL ENTER.

He grasped the rope handle and pulled. The door opened with a cacophony of moans. But he noticed something else. The ancient panel was equipped with a modern addition-an electronic deadbolt fit to the opposite side. A wire snaked a path to the hinge, then disappeared into a hole drilled into the stone.

Pam saw it, too.

"This is weird," she said.

He agreed.

Then he stared beyond the doorway and his confusion multiplied.

SEVENTY-FIVE

MARYLAND

STEPHANIE LEAPED FROM THE CHOPPER THAT HAD DEPOSITED her and Cassiopeia back at Camp David. Daniels waited for them on the landing pad. Stephanie marched straight for him as the helicopter rose back into the morning sky and disappeared across the treetops.

"You may be the president of the United States," she said in a sharp tone, "but you're a sorry son of a bitch. You sent us in there knowing we'd be attacked."

Daniels looked incredulous. "How would I have known that?"

"And a helicopter with a marksman happened to be in the neighborhood?" Cassiopeia asked.

The president motioned. "Let's take a walk."

They strolled down a wide path. Three Secret Service agents followed twenty yards behind.

"Tell me what happened," Daniels said.

Stephanie calmed down, recapped the morning, and finished by saying, "He thought somebody is plotting to kill you." Weird referring to Daley in the past tense.

"He's right."

They stopped.

"I've had enough," she said. "I don't work for you anymore, but you've got me operating in total darkness. How do you expect me to do this?"

"I'm sure you'd like your job back, wouldn't you?"

She did not immediately answer and her silence conveyed, to her annoyance, that she did. She'd conceived of and started the Magellan Billet, heading it for its entire existence. Whatever was happening had, at first, not involved her, but now men she neither liked nor admired were using her. So she answered the president honestly. "Not if I have to kiss your ass." She paused. "Or place Cassiopeia in any more danger."

Daniels seemed unfazed. "Come with me."

They walked in silence through the woods to another of the cabins. Inside, the president grabbed a portable CD player.

"Listen to this."

"Brent, I cannot explain everything, except to say that last evening I overheard a conversation between your vice president and Alfred Hermann. The Order or, more specifically, Hermann is planning to kill your president."

"You hear details?" Green asked.

"Daniels is taking an unannounced visit to Afghanistan next week. Her mann has contracted bin Laden's people and supplied the missiles needed to destroy the plane."

"This is a serious accusation, Henrik."

"Which I'm not in the habit of making. I heard it myself, as did Cotton Malone's boy. Can you inform the president? Just cancel the trip. That'll solve the immediate problem."

"Certainly. What's happening there, Henrik?"

"More than I can explain. I'll be in touch."

"That was taped over five hours ago," Daniels explained. "No call has come from my trusted attorney general. You would think he could have at least tried. Like I'm hard to find."

She wanted to know, "Who killed Daley?"

"Larry, God rest his soul, pushed the envelope. Obviously he was a busy man. He knew something was happening and he chose to Lone Ranger it. That was his mistake. The people who have those flash drives? They're the ones who killed Larry."

She and Cassiopeia stared at each other. Finally she said, "Green."

"Looks like we've found a winner for the who's-a-traitor contest."

"Then have him arrested," she said.

Daniels shook his head. "We need more. Article Three, Section Three, of the Constitution is real clear. Treason against the United States is giving aid and comfort to the enemy. The people who want me dead are our enemy. But no one can be convicted of treason except on the testimony of two witnesses to the same overt act. We need more."

"I guess you could take that flight to Afghanistan and, after your plane is blown from the sky, we'll have our overt act. Cassiopeia and I can be the two witnesses."

"That's a good one, Stephanie. Okay. You were bait. But I had your back covered."

"So nice of you."

"You can't flush birds from the bushes without a good dog. And shooting before that happens is a waste of pellets."

She understood. She'd ordered the same thing herself, many times.

"What do you want us to do?"

The resignation in her voice rang clear.

"See Brent Green."

MALONE STARED AT A PUZZLING SIGHT. THE DOOR FROM THE church opened into what was the face of the mountain. Ahead lay a rectangular hall about fifty feet wide and that much deep. Dimly lit with silver sconces, the granite walls shone mirror-smooth, the floor another handsome mosaic, the ceiling decorated with borders and arabesques of red and brown. On the opposite side of the room stood six rows of gray-and-black-marbled pillars bound with primrose bands. Seven doorways opened between the pillars, each a dark maw. Above each portal was a Roman letter-V S O V O D A. Above the lettering was another biblical passage. From Revelation. In Latin.

He translated out loud.

"Weep not: behold the lion of the tribe of Judah hath prevailed to open the book and loosen the seven seals thereof."

He heard footsteps echoing from beyond the doorways. From which one was impossible to say.

"McCollum's in there," Pam said. "But where?"

He walked to one of the doorways and entered. Inside, a tunnel penetrated the rock, more low-wattage sconces every twenty feet. He glanced into the adjacent opening, which also led into the mountain, only through a different tunnel.

"This is interesting. Another test. Seven possible ways to go." He dropped the pack from his shoulders. "What happened to the days when you just got a library card?"

"Probably went the same place as leaving a plane only when it lands."

He grinned. "You actually did good on that jump."

"Don't remind me."

He stared at the seven doorways.

"You knew McCollum would act, didn't you? That's why you let him go with that Guardian."

"He didn't come for the intellectual experience. And he's no treasure hunter. That man's a pro."

"Just like that lawyer I dated was more than a lawyer."

"The Israelis played you. Don't feel bad. They played me, too."

"You think this was all a setup?"

He shook his head. "More manipulation. We got Gary back too easy. What if I was meant to kill those kidnappers? Then when I went after George, they'd simply follow. Of course you were there and the Israelis were tracking. So they made sure I took you with me by spooking me in the airport and in the hotel. All makes sense. That way the Israelis kill George and they're done. Whoever kidnapped Gary links up with us to find this. Which means the kidnappers have a far different agenda from the Israelis."

"You think McCollum took Gary?"

"Him, or at least whoever he works for."

"So what do we do?"

He fished the spare magazines for his gun from the pack and stuffed them into his fatigues. "Go after him."

"Which door?"

"You answered that yourself in Lisbon when you said Thomas Bainbridge left clues. I read his novel on the plane. Nothing there even remotely close to what we've experienced. His lost library is found in southern Egypt. No hero's quest. Nothing. But that arbor in his garden-that's another matter. I wondered about the last part of the quest McCollum gave us. It would make no sense to just walk in once you get here."

"Unless you've got a gun to someone's head."

"True. But something's wrong." He motioned at the doorways. "With this type of safeguard, they could easily lead an intruder astray. And where is everybody? This place is deserted."

He again read the letters above the doors. V S O V O D A.

And he knew.

"You used to get on me all the time, wondering what good an eidetic memory is."

"No. I wondered why you couldn't remember my birthday or our anniversary."

He grinned. "This time it pays to have good recall. Remember the last part of the quest. Heed the letters. The arbor. At Bainbridge Hall. The Roman letters."

He saw them perfectly in his mind.

D OVOSVAVV M.

"Remember, you asked why the D and the M were spaced apart from the other eight." He pointed at the doorways. "Now we know. One gets you in. The other, I assume, gets you out. It's the middle part I'm unsure of, but we're about to find out."