He’d expected String Bean to be waiting for him to leave, if indeed he was following.

Instead, his problem tailed Pam.

Now he was concerned.

He tossed the map on the counter and headed across the terminal. Pam entered one of the many cafés, apparently intent on passing the time with a meal or a coffee. String Bean assumed a position in a duty-free shop where he could clearly observe the café.

Interesting. Apparently Malone wasn’t the flavor-of-the-day.

He, too, entered the café.

Pam was sitting in a booth, and he walked over. Surprise flooded her face. “What are you doing here?”

“Changed my mind. Why don’t you come along?”

“I’d really like that.”

“One condition.”

“I know. My mouth stays shut.”

STEPHANIE ALLOWED THORVALDSEN’S WORDS TO AGAIN PLAY across her mind. Then she calmly asked, “You’re a member of the Order of the Golden Fleece?”

“For thirty years. I always thought it nothing more than a way for people with money and power to mingle with one another. That’s what we do most of the time-”

“When you’re not paying off politicians or bribing for contracts.”

“Come now, Stephanie. You know the way of the world. I don’t make the rules. I just play by the ones in place.”

“Tell me what you know, Henrik. And please, no bullshit.”

“My investigators traced the two dead men from yesterday to Amsterdam. One has a lady friend. She told us that her lover worked regularly for another man. Once she managed to see him, and from her description I believe I’ve seen him, too.”

She waited for more.

“Interestingly, for many years now, at Order functions, I’ve heard quite a bit about the lost Library of Alexandria. The occupant of the Blue Chair, Alfred Hermann, is obsessed with the subject.”

“You know why?”

“He believes there’s much we can learn from the ancients.”

That she doubted, but she needed to know, “What’s the connection between the two dead men and the Order?”

“The man the woman described has been present at Order functions. Not a member. An employee. She didn’t hear his name, but her boyfriend once used a term I’ve heard before, too. Die Klauen der Adler.”

She silently translated. The Talons of the Eagle. “You going to tell me more?”

“How about when I’m sure?”

Back in June, when she’d first met Thorvaldsen, he hadn’t been all that forthcoming, which had only fueled the already existing friction between them. But since then she’d learned not to underestimate the Dane. “Okay. You said the Order’s main interest was the Middle East. What did you mean?”

“I appreciate you not pressing.”

“Got to start cooperating with you sometime. Besides, you weren’t going to tell me anyway.”

Thorvaldsen chuckled. “We’re a lot alike.”

“Now, that scares me.”

“It’s not all that bad. But to answer your question about the Middle East, unfortunately the Arab world only respects strength. They also know how to deal, however, and they have much to bargain with, especially oil.”

She couldn’t argue with that conclusion.

“Who’s the Arab’s number one enemy?” Thorvaldsen asked. “America? No. Israel. That’s the thorn in their side. There it sits. Right in the middle of their world. A Jewish state. Partitioned out in 1948 when nearly a million people were, if you believe the Arab line, forcibly displaced. Land Palestinians, Egyptians, Jordanians, Lebanese, and Syrians had claimed for centuries was simply surrendered by the world to the Jews. The nakba, the catastrophe, they called it. A fitting name.” Thorvaldsen paused. “For both sides.”

“And war immediately broke out,” Stephanie said. “The first of many.”

“Every one of them, thankfully, won by Israel. For the past sixty years the Israelis have clung to their land, and all because God told Abraham that it was to be so.”

She remembered the passage Brent Green had quoted. 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.

“God’s promise to Abraham is one reason why Palestine was given to the Jews,” Henrik said. “Supposedly their ancestral homeland, bequeathed by God Himself. Who’s to argue with that?”

“At least one Palestinian scholar I know of.”

“Cotton told me about George Haddad and the library.”

“He shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t think he gives a damn about rules at the moment, and you’re not one of his favorite people right now, either.”

She deserved that one.

“My sources in Washington tell me that the White House wants Haddad found. I assume you know that.”

She did not answer.

“I wouldn’t imagine you’d confirm or deny that one. But there’s something happening here, Stephanie. An event of substance. Men of power don’t usually waste their time on nonsense.”

She agreed.

“You can blow people up. Terrorize them every day. Solves nothing. But when you possess what your enemy either wants, or doesn’t want anyone else to have, then you have real power. I know the Order of the Golden Fleece. Leverage. That’s what Alfred Hermann and the Order are after.”

“And what will they do with it?”

“If it strikes at the heart of Israel, as it may well, then the Arab world would deal to obtain it. Everyone in the Order stands to profit from friendly relations with the Arabs. The price of oil alone is enough to command their attention, but new markets for their goods and services-that’s an even greater prize. Who knows? The information might even call into question the Jewish state, which could soothe a multitude of open sores. America’s long-standing defense of Israel is costly. How many times has it happened? An Arab nation claims Israel should be destroyed. The United Nations weighs in. The U.S. denounces it. Everyone becomes angry. Swords are rattled. Then concessions and dollars have to be doled out to quell tempers. Imagine, if that was no longer needed, how much more accommodating the world, and America, could be.”

Which might be the legacy Larry Daley wanted for the president. But she had to say, “What could possibly be that powerful?”

“I don’t know. But you and I a few months ago read an ancient document that fundamentally changed everything. Something of equal power might be present here, too.”

He was right, but the reality was, “Cotton needs this information.”

“He’ll get it, but first we have to learn the whole story.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“The Order is convening its winter gathering this weekend. I wasn’t going, but I am now.”

LONDON

1:20 PM

MALONE CLIMBED FROM THE TAXI AND STUDIED THE QUIET street. Lots of gabled façades, fluted side posts, and flowery sills. Each of the picturesque Georgian houses seemed a serene abode of antiquity, a place that would naturally harbor bookworms and academics. George Haddad should be right at home.

“This where he lives?” Pam asked.

“I hope so. I haven’t heard from him in nearly a year. But this is the address I was given three years ago.”

The afternoon was cool and dry. Earlier, he’d read in The Times how England was still in the midst of an unusual autumn drought. String Bean had not followed them from Heathrow, but perhaps someone else had taken up the task since the man was clearly in communication with others. Yet no other taxis were in sight. Strange still having Pam with him, but he deserved the feeling of awkwardness. He’d asked for it by insisting she come.

They climbed the stoop and entered the building. He lingered in the foyer, out of sight, watching the street.

But no cars or people appeared.

The bell for the flat on the third floor gave a discreet tinkle. The olive-skinned man who answered the door was short and doughy, with ash-white hair and a square face. Brown eyes came alive when he saw his guest, and Malone noticed an instant of repressed excitement in the broad grin of welcome.