“Why’d you come after me at Haddad’s? You knew there’d be shooting.”

“Let’s just say it was another foolish move.”

But he knew better. Time to tell her the truth. “You can’t go home to Atlanta. A man was following you in the airport. That’s why I came back.”

Her face was fixed in a brooding stare. “You should have told me.”

“Yeah, I should have.”

“Why would someone be following me?”

“Getting ready for another opportunity. Maybe a loose end that needed tying up.”

He saw she understood his meaning.

“They want to kill me?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. That’s the problem. We’re guessing.”

She lay back down on the bed, apparently too tired, sore, and bewildered to argue. “What are you going to do? Haddad’s dead. The Israelis should go away.”

“Which gives us an open-field run to find whatever it is George was looking for. That hero’s quest. He left this stuff on purpose. He wanted us to go.”

She settled her head on the pillow. “No. He wanted you to go.”

He saw her wince in pain. “Let me get you some ice for that shoulder. It’ll help.”

“I won’t argue with you.”

He stood, grabbed the empty bucket, and headed for the door.

“I would like to know what’s worth dying for,” she said.

He stopped. “You’d be surprised how little it can be.”

“I think I’ll call Gary while you’re gone,” she said. “I want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Tell him I miss him.”

“He’s okay there?”

“Henrik will take good care of him. No worries.”

“So where are we going to start looking?”

Good question. But then, as he stared across the room at the contents of the satchel, he knew there was only one answer.

LONDON

9:00 PM

SABRE STARED OUT THE WINDOW INTO THE NIGHT. HIS OPERATIVE, who’d been waiting at Heathrow Airport for Malone to arrive, had followed the ex-agent to this apartment, which sat on a solid block of gabled buildings that surely coddled neat lives, good order, and careful privacy.

Typical British.

His operative had also heard shots from inside the building and watched a shootout ensue between Malone and another man-Malone’s ex-wife nicked by one of the bullets. The assailant had then fled, and Malone and his ex-wife had returned inside before leaving with a leather satchel.

That had been hours ago, and he hadn’t heard from his operative since. Of course he’d been on a flight from Cologne to London most of that time, but still, she should have reported something by now.

He was tired, but energized, as his goal crept ever closer.

He’d easily gained entrance to George Haddad’s apartment, wondering if Haddad would be there, but no one had been inside. Maps dotted the walls. With his penlight he’d examined the odd assortment, but the locations-the Middle East-were not surprising. Many of the books and sheaves of ill-arranged papers were likewise on the subject of the day.

The Library of Alexandria.

For the past hour he’d studied the material within the pale penumbra of his penlight. He wondered about Haddad’s fate. The man whom Cotton Malone had challenged on the street was surely Israeli. Jonah had made clear in Rothenburg that an assassination squad was headed to London. Had Malone interrupted them? Did they finish their task? Or had Haddad fled into hiding? Impossible to know, since his operative had wisely stayed with Malone.

No feeling of triumph surged through him, though he’d managed to locate Haddad exactly according to plan. He could only hope his operative had done her job equally well.

He’d saved it for last, but the computer was next. So he switched on the machine and scanned its screen.

For all his messiness in the apartment Haddad seemed to have been a meticulous electronic organizer.

He opened a few files and scrolled through.

Haddad had researched the Library of Alexandria in great detail. But interestingly he’d also studied the Guardians. Alfred Hermann had told Sabre about them. Jonah had filled in some of the blanks. But one of Haddad’s files offered even more.

…their origins are unknown, lost due to the absurdity of ancient men who, without impunity, erased human memory.

By the time of the second century, man had mastered the arts of war and torture. In many parts of the world empires had been formed, which provided laws and a measure of security. But neither of those concepts protected people from their own rulers. Religion formed, and priests became the willing ally of despots. Egypt was one place where this travesty occurred. But sometime around the second century, an Egyptian religious order emerged that worshiped not power but the preservation of knowledge.

A crude form of monastery had then begun where men of like mind and purpose congregated. These places were intentionally isolated and notoriously avoided. This one group was fortunate. Its members actually staffed both libraries at Alexandria as clerks and stewards. From these service posts access to everything was possible, and as the human race prospered and learned more how to annihilate one another, this group withdrew into itself.

Originally they merely copied texts, but eventually they pilfered. The sheer volume of the library (several hundred thousand manuscripts) forced decisions, but over the next three hundred years, as the library fell farther out of favor, stealing texts became easier, particularly since no accurate inventories existed. By the time of the Muslim invasion in the seventh century, the Guardians owned a great deal of the library at Alexandria. That was when they disappeared, reemerging from time to time, offering invitations to come and learn.

Sabre kept reading, wondering how George Haddad had managed to obtain such detailed information. This Palestinian seemed full of surprises.

Movement at the corner of his eye brought his senses alert. Shadows came alive. A dark form crept closer.

His hands left the keyboard. Unfortunately he carried no weapon. He whirled, ready for a fight.

A woman materialized into the glow of the computer screen.

His operative.

“That sort of foolishness can get you hurt,” he said.

“I’m not in the mood.”

He regularly employed her to help all over Britain. She was slender-boned and fine-featured. Today her black hair was brushed tight and caught into a heavy plait.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“Following Malone. They’re in a hotel near Hyde Park.”

“What about Haddad?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know. I stayed with Malone. He took a chance coming back up here-the police were on the way-and he left with that satchel.”

He admired her instincts. “We still need to find the Palestinian.”

“He’ll come back, if he’s not dead already. You look different.”

Gone were his gleaming dark locks and shaggy clothes. Instead his hair was short, windblown, and sandy brown. He was neatly dressed in jeans and a canvas shirt beneath a cloth jacket. Before leaving Germany he’d first reported what he’d learned to the Blue Chair, then made the physical change-all part of his carefully conceived plan, most of which Alfred Hermann knew little about.

“You approve?” he asked.

“I liked the other look.”

He shrugged. “Maybe next time. What’s happening?”

“I have somebody watching the hotel. They’ll call if Malone moves.”

“Nothing more from the Israelis?”

“Their man tore off from here.”

He looked around. Maybe he’d just wait for Haddad to return. That seemed the easiest course. He definitely needed everything off Haddad’s computer, but he didn’t want to take the machine. Too cumbersome. A copy would be better, and he noticed a flash drive lying among the clutter. He grabbed the gadget and snapped it into an empty USB port.