Five years ago Haddad had reported a visit from someone known as a Guardian. Israel’s spies had conveyed that information to Tel Aviv. The Jews had overreacted, as always, and immediately tried to kill Haddad. Thankfully the Americans had intervened, and Haddad was still among the living. Hermann was equally thankful that his American political sources were now negotiable, recently confirming those facts and adding more, which was why Sabre had moved on Cotton Malone.

But who knew anything? Perhaps Sabre would learn more from the corrupt Israeli waiting in Germany?

The only certainty was George Haddad.

He had to be found.

ROTHENBURG, GERMANY

3:30 PM

SABRE STROLLED DOWN THE COBBLESTONED LANE. ROTHENBURG lay a hundred kilometers south of Würzburg, a walled city encircled by stone ramparts and watchtowers straight out of the Middle Ages. Inside, narrow streets wound tight paths between half-timbered brick-and-stone buildings. Sabre searched for one in particular.

The Baumeisterhaus stood just off the market square, within shouting distance of the ancient clock tower. An iron placard announced that the building had been erected in 1596, but for the past century the three-story structure had hosted an inn and restaurant.

He pushed through the front door and was greeted by the sweet smell of yeast bread and apple-cinnamon. A narrow ground-floor dining hall emptied into a two-story inner courtyard, the whitewashed walls dotted with antlers.

One of the Order’s contacts waited in an oak booth, a thin puny figure known only as Jonah. Sabre walked over and slid into the booth. The table was draped in a dainty pink cloth. A china cup filled with black coffee rested in front of Jonah, a half-eaten Danish on a nearby plate.

“Strange things are happening,” Jonah said in English.

“That’s the way of the Middle East.”

“Stranger than normal.”

This man was attached to the Israeli Home Office, part of the German mission.

“You asked me to watch for anything on George Haddad. Seems he’s risen from the dead. Our people are in an uproar.”

He feigned ignorance. “What’s the source of that revelation?”

“He actually called Palestine in the last few days. He wants to tell them something.”

Sabre had met with Jonah three times before. Men like him, who placed euros ahead of loyalty, were useful, but at the same time they demanded caution. Cheaters always cheated. “How about we stop hedging and you tell me what it is you want me to know.”

The man savored a sip of his coffee. “Before he disappeared five years ago, Haddad received a visit from someone called the Guardian.”

Sabre already knew that, but said nothing.

“He was given some kind of information. A little strange, but it gets even stranger.”

He’d never appreciated the sense of drama Jonah liked to invoke.

“Haddad’s not the first to have had that experience. I saw a file. There have been three others since 1948 who received similar visits from someone called the Guardian. Israel knew about each, but all those men died within days or weeks of the visit.” Jonah paused. “If you recall, Haddad almost died, too.”

He began to understand. “Your people are keeping something to themselves?”

“Apparently so.”

“Over what period of time have these visits occurred?”

“About every twenty years for the past sixty or so. All were academics, one Israeli and three Arabs, including Haddad. The murders were all conducted by the Mossad.”

He needed to know, “And how did you manage to learn that?”

“As I said, the files.” Jonah went silent. “A communiqué came a few hours ago. Haddad is living in London.”

“I need an address.”

Jonah provided it, then said, “Men have been sent. From the assassination squad.”

“Why kill Haddad?”

“I asked the ambassador the same question. He’s former Mossad and he told me an interesting tale.”

“I assume that’s why I’m here?”

Jonah tossed him a smile. “I knew you were a smart man.”

David Ben-Gurion realized that his political career was over. Ever since his days as a frail child in Poland he’d dreamed about the deliverance of the Jews to their biblical homeland. So he’d fathered the nation of Israel and led it through the tumultuous years of 1948 to 1963, commanding its wars and delivering statesmanship.

Tough duty for a man who’d actually wanted to be an intellectual.

He’d devoured philosophy books, studied the Bible, flirted with Buddhism, even taught himself ancient Greek in order to read Plato in the original. He possessed a relentless curiosity about the natural sciences and detested fiction. Verbal battle, not crafted dialogue, was his preferred mode of communication.

Yet he was no abstract thinker.

Instead he was a tight, craggy man with a halo of silvery hair, a jawbone that projected willpower, and a volcanic temper.

He’d proclaimed Israel’s independence in May 1948, ignoring last-minute admonitions from Washington and overruling doomsday predictions by his closest associates. He recalled how, within hours of his declaration, the military forces of five Arab nations invaded Israel, joining Palestinian militias in an open attempt to destroy the Jews. He’d personally led the army and 1 percent of the Jewish population had ultimately died, as well as thousands of Arabs. More than half a million Palestinians lost their homes. In the end the Jews prevailed, and many had labeled him a combination of Moses, King David, Garibaldi, and God Almighty.

For fifteen more years he led his nation. But now it was 1965, and he was nearly eighty and tired.

Even worse, he’d been wrong.

He stared at the impressive library. So much knowledge. The man who’d called himself a Guardian had said the quest would be a challenge, but if he managed to succeed, the rewards would be incalculable.

And the envoy had been right.

He’d read once that the measure of an idea was how relative it was not only to its time, but beyond.

His time had produced the modern nation of Israel, but in the process thousands had died-and he feared that many more would perish in the decades ahead. Jews and Arabs seemed destined to fight. He’d thought his goal righteous, his cause just, but no longer.

He’d been wrong.

About everything.

Carefully he again paged through the weighty volume open on the table. Three such tomes had been waiting when he’d arrived. The Guardian who’d visited him six months back had been standing at the entrance, a broad grin on his chapped face.

Never had Ben-Gurion dreamed that such a place of learning existed, and he was grateful that his curiosity had allowed him to amass the courage for the quest.

“Where did all this come from?” he’d asked on entering.

“The hearts and minds of men and women.”

A riddle but also a truth, and the philosopher within him understood.

“Ben-Gurion told that story in 1973, days before he died,” Jonah said. “Some say he was delirious. Others that his mind had wandered. But whatever he may have actually learned at that library, he kept to himself. One fact is clear, though. Ben-Gurion’s politics and philosophy changed dramatically after 1965. He was less militant, more conciliatory. He called for concessions to the Arabs. Most attributed that to advancing age, but the Mossad thought there was more. So much that Ben-Gurion actually became suspect. That’s why he was never allowed a political comeback. Can you imagine? The father of Israel kept at bay.”

“Who’s this Guardian?”

Jonah shrugged. “The files are quiet. But for those four who received visits-somehow the Mossad learned about each one and acted swiftly. Whoever it is, Israel doesn’t want anyone talking to them.”