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 preparationua 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 than 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 filesuone 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. Becauseu 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 Oresund.

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 causesua 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 homeyulots of sienna, taupe, pale greens, and shades of maroon and orangeua 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 Helsingdegr, the busy port town that stood adjacent to the slot. Malone had visited both Kronborg and Helsingdegr, wandering the nearby beaches in search of amberua 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 clothes 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, mapsuyou 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.

For what?

Green shook his head. Makes little sense. There's a hint, though, as to what might be at stake. She was listening.

In one of the reports I saw, written in the margin was Genesis 13:14-17. You know it?

I'm not that good with my Bible.

The Lord said to Abram, lift up now your eyes and look from the place where you are northward and southward and eastward and westward, for all the land which you see, to you I will give it, and to your seed forever.

That she knew. A covenant that, for eons, had been the Jews' biblical claim to the Holy Land. Abram removed his tent and lived on the plain of Mamre and built there an altar to the Lord, Green said. Mamre is Hebronutoday the West Bankuthe land God gave to the Jews. Abram became Abraham. And that single biblical passage goes to the core of all Mideast disagreements.

That she knew, too. The conflict in the Middle East, between Jews and Arabs, was not a political battle, as many perceived. Instead it was a never-ending contest over the Word of God. And there's one other interesting fact, Green said. Shortly after Malone hid Haddad away, the Saudis sent bulldozers into west Arabia and obliterated whole towns. The destruction went on for three weeks. People were relocated. Buildings leveled. Not a remnant remained of those towns. Of course that's a closed part of the country, so there was no press coverage, no attention drawn to it.

Why would they do that? Seems extreme, even for the Saudis.

No one ever came up with a good explanation. But they went about it quite deliberately. We need to know more, Brent. Cotton needs to know. He has a decision to make.

I checked with the national security adviser an hour ago. Amazingly, he knows less about this than I do. He's heard of the link, but suggested I talk with someone else.

She knew. Larry Daley.

Lawrence Daley served as the deputy national security adviser, close to the president and vice president. Daley never appeared on the Sunday-morning talk-show circuit. Nor was he seen on CNN or Fox News. He was a behind-the-scenes power broker. A conduit between the upper echelons of the White House and the rest of the political world.

But there was a problem.

I don't trust that man, she said.

Green seemed to catch what else her tone suggested but said nothing, staring at her with penetrating gray eyes.

We have no control over Malone, she made clear. He's going to do what he has to. And right now he's running on anger.

Cotton's a pro.

It's different when it's one of your own at risk. She spoke from experience, having recently wrestled with ghosts of her own past.

He's the only one who knows where George Haddad is, Green said. He holds all the cards. Which is precisely why they're squeezing him.

Green kept his gaze locked on her.

She knew her quandary was certainly being transmitted through suspicion she could not remove from her eyes.

Tell me, Stephanie, why don't you trust me?