FIFTY-FOUR

LISBON

9:30 PM

MALONE ROUNDED THE COUNTER AND CROUCHED WHERE McCollum was searching the dead man's pockets. He'd watched the so-called treasure hunter kill their attacker with expert precision.

"Those two are rounding back through the church and headed here," he said.

"I understand," McCollum said. "Here's a couple of spare magazines. And another gun. Any clue who they are?"

"Israeli. Have to be."

"Thought you said they were out of the picture."

"And I thought you said you were an amateur. Lot of skill you just showed."

"You do what you have to when your ass is on the line."

Malone noticed something else clipped to the dead man's waist. He unsnapped the metal unit.

A transceiver locator. He'd used one many times to follow an electronically tagged target. He activated the video screen and saw that it was tracking something in silent mode. A flashing indicator showed the target was nearby.

"We need to go," Pam said.

"That's going to be a problem," Malone said. "The only way out is through that gallery. But the other two gunmen must be near the stairs by now. We need another way down."

He pocketed the locator unit. Weapons in hand, they slipped out of the gift shop.

The two gunmen burst from an archway ninety feet away and started firing.

Sounds like popping balloons snapped through the cloister.

Malone dove to the gallery floor, taking Pam with him. The corners were not ninety degrees, but flared, making the cloister octagonal. He used the angle for cover.

"Head that way," McCollum said. "I'll keep them busy."

A continuous stone bench lined the outer perimeter, connecting the arches and forming an elaborate balustrade. Crouching down, he and Pam scampered away from the gift shop, where McCollum was firing at the two gunmen.

Bullets pinged off the stone wall ten feet to his left, some behind, others leading. He realized what was happening. Their shadows, cast from the incandescent fixtures that dimly illuminated the gallery, were betraying their presence. He grabbed Pam, stopped their advance, and hugged the floor. He aimed and, with three bullets, obliterated the lights ahead.

Darkness now sheathed them.

McCollum had stopped firing.

So had the gunmen.

He motioned and they hustled ahead, still crouched, using the arches, tracery, and stone bench for protection.

They came to the end of the gallery.

To their right, the inside wall of the next gallery stretched. No doors. At the far end was another unbroken wall. To his immediate left rose a set of glass doors, one swung open, inviting guests inside. A placard identified the room as the refectory. Perhaps there might be a way down inside?

He motioned and they entered.

Three thuds pounded the glass as bullets slammed against its exterior. None penetrated. More bulletproof material. Thank heaven for whoever selected the doors.

"Cotton, we've got a problem," Pam said.

He stared into the refectory.

Through the darkness, broken only by the scattered rays seeping in from the windows, he saw a spacious rectangle topped by a ribbed ceiling, similar to that of the church. A low stone cornice encircled the room, below which ran a colorful tile mosaic. No doors led out. The windows were ten feet overhead with no way to get to them.

He spied only two openings.

One was at the far end, and he trotted the fifty-foot length and saw that it may have once been a fireplace but was now only a decorative niche.

Sealed.

The other opening was smaller, maybe four by five feet, recessed three feet into the outer wall. The refectory was once the abbey's dining hall, so this may have been where food was prepared before serving.

Pam was right. They had a problem.

"Climb in there," he told her.

She didn't argue and wiggled her body up onto a stone shelf above an empty basin. "I must be out of my mind to be here."

"A little late to be noticing that."

He kept his eyes on the doors leading out to the upper gallery. A shadow grew in the dim light. He saw that Pam was safely inside and climbed in after her, atop the basin, pressing his spine against the shelf as far into the niche as possible.

"What are you going to do?" she asked in his ear.

"What I have to."

SABRE HAD SEEN THE MEN DIVIDE. ONE CHASED AFTER MALONE; the other slipped into the archway that led back down to the church. He decided the high ground would be better, so he carefully inched his way to the same doorway, hoping it led to the upper choir, where Malone and his ex-wife had stood earlier.

He liked the hunt, especially when the prey offered a challenge. He wondered about the identity of these men. Were they Israelis, as Malone thought? Made sense. He knew from Jonah that an assassination squad had been dispatched to London, but George Haddad had already been handled. He'd heard that encounter on the tape, confirmed by Malone. So what were Israelis doing here? After him? Unlikely. But who else?

He found the doorway and slipped inside.

To his left dropped the stairway to the church. Through the blackness he heard footsteps below.

He entered the choir, stopping where the balustrade met the outer stone wall and carefully looking below. Windows high in the church's south façade glowed with ambient light. The blackened figure of a man, gun in hand, crept down the aisle formed from the end of the pews to the church's north wall, keeping to the shadows, trying to make his way to the lower choir.

He ticked off two shots.

The suppressed bangs popped through the cavernous nave. One found the mark and the man cried out, reeled, then staggered against a pew. He readjusted his aim, made only moderately difficult by the dimness, and with two more shots sank the man to the floor.

Not bad.

He released the gun's magazine and replaced it with a fresh one from his pocket.

He turned to leave. Time to find Malone.

A gun appeared in his face.

"Drop the weapon," the voice said in English.

He hesitated and tried to find a face to the voice, but the blackness revealed only a shadow. Then he realized the man wore a hood. The chilly prick of another gun barrel nipped his neck.

Two problems.

"One more time," the first man said. "Drop the weapon."

No choice. The gun clattered to the floor.

The pistol in his face lowered. Then something whirled through the air and slammed into the side of his skull. Before any semblance of pain registered in his brain, the world around him went silent.

FIFTY-FIVE

MALONE GRIPPED THE AUTOMATIC AND WAITED. HE RISKED one glance around the niche where he and Pam were hiding.

The shadow continued to expand as the gunman drew closer.

He wondered if his attacker knew there was no exit. He assumed the man did not. Why else would he be advancing? Simply wait out in the gallery. But he'd learned long ago that many people who killed for a living were plagued with impatience. Do the job and get out. Waiting only increased the chances of failure.

Pam was breathing hard and he couldn't blame her. He, too, was fighting a quick heart. He told himself to calm down. Think. Be ready.

The shadow now stretched across the refectory's wall.

The man burst inside, gun pointed.

His initial view would be of a dark, empty chamber devoid of furnishings. The niche at the far end should immediately grab his attention, then the second break in the wall. But Malone did not wait for all that comprehension to register. He rolled out of his hiding place and fired.

The bullet whizzed past his target and ricocheted off the wall. The gunman seemed stunned for an instant, but quickly recovered and swung his gun toward Malone, then apparently realized that he was exposed.

This was going to be a duel.

Malone fired again and his bullet found the man's thigh.

A cry of agony, but the attacker did not go down.

Malone planted a third bullet in the gunman's chest. He teetered, then dropped spine-first to the floor.

"You're a tough man to kill, Malone," a male voice said from beyond the doorway.

He registered the voice. Adam, from Haddad's apartment. Now he knew. Israelis. But how had they found him?

He heard footsteps. Running away.

He hesitated, then rushed to the doorway, intent on finishing what he'd started in London.

He stopped and peered out.

"Over here, Malone," Adam called out.

He stared across the open cloister, diagonally to the far side where Adam stood beneath one of the arches. The face was unmistakable.

"You're a good shot, but not this good. It's just you and me now."

He saw Adam disappear into the doorway that led down to the church.

"Pam, stay put," he said. "Defy me this time and you can deal with the gunmen yourself."

He bolted from the refectory and raced down the gallery. Where was McCollum? Two gunmen were definitely down. He'd seen only three earlier. Had Adam killed McCollum? Just you and me. That's what the Israeli had said.

He decided that following Adam down into the church would be foolish. Do the unexpected. So he hopped onto one of the benches that lined the outer edge of the gallery and stared below. The ornamentation and tracery decorating the cloister were both impressive and substantial. He stuffed the gun in his belt and swung his body out, gripping the top of the stone bench and allowing his feet to find a projecting gargoyle disguising a drain. Balancing, he bent down, gripped the stone, and pivoted himself to a ledge that extended from one of the arch supports. From there it was six feet to the grass of the cloister garden.

Adam suddenly appeared from the church, in the far gallery, running down its length.

Malone gripped the gun and fired, the bullet missing but definitely attracting his quarry's attention.

Adam disappeared downward, using for cover the same waist-high benches that Malone had.

The Israeli appeared and clicked off a shot.

Malone dove between two tracery supports into the lower gallery and hit the floor tiles hard. The breath left him. His forty-eight-year-old body could only take so much, regardless of what he'd once done on a daily basis. He scampered back to the bench and carefully stared across the cloister.

Adam was running again.

He sprang to his feet and bolted left, rounding a corner and heading straight toward Adam. His target disappeared into another set of glass doors, custom-fit within two elaborate arches and framed by statues.

He made his way to them and stopped outside.

A sign identified the dark space beyond as the chapter house where the monks had once congregated for meetings. Opening the glass door would be foolish. Not enough light to see much on the other side; only windows, two, their definition clear.

He decided to use what he knew.

So he swung open one glass door and kept his body behind the other, which should protect him from any shots.

None came.

A huge tomb filled the center of the towering rectangle.

He searched with his gaze. Nothing. His eyes were drawn to the windows. The right set were shattered, glass strewn across the floor, a rope disappearing upward, being pulled from the outside.

Adam was gone.

Footsteps slapped off stone, and he saw Pam and McCollum running toward him. He stepped out into the gallery and asked McCollum, "What happened to you?"

"Got slammed across the head. Two of them. Up in the choir. I took one out in the church, then they got me."

"Why are you still breathing?"

"I don't know, Malone. Why don't you ask them?"

He did the math. Three down. Two more supposedly accosted McCollum. Five? Yet he'd only seen three.

He leveled the gun he was holding at McCollum. "Those guys break in here, come after us, try to kill me and Pam, but you they whack on the head and leave. A bit much, wouldn't you say?"

"What's the point, Malone?"

He fished the locator from his pocket. "They work for you. Here to take us out so you didn't have to."

"I assure you, if I wanted you dead you would be."

"They came straight upstairs to that gift shop. Circled it like buzzards. They knew the geography." He held up the locator. "And they were tracking us. I killed one upstairs and was damn close to getting the third. Then he just leaves? Strangest assassination squad I've ever seen."

He flicked on the unit and pointed it at McCollum. He changed the setting from mute and a soft pinging indicated that the receiver had found its target.

"They were tracking you. This will tell us for sure."

"Go for it, Malone. Do what you have to."

Pam had been standing to the side, silent, and he said to her, "Thought I told you to stay up there."

"I did until he came. And, Cotton, he does have a nasty bump on the side of his head."

He wasn't impressed. "He's tough enough to take a shot delivered for our benefit by his hired help."

He aimed the locator at McCollum, but the rhythmic pulse of the beep stayed constant.

"Satisfied?" McCollum asked.

He swung the unit left and right, but the beeping remained unchanged. McCollum was not the source. Pam walked past, studying the inside of the chapter house.

The beeping changed.

McCollum noticed, too.

Malone kept his gun aimed, which told McCollum to stay put. He pointed the unit Pam's way and the pulse intensified.

She heard it, too, and turned toward him.

He lowered the gun and took two steps closer, still swinging the unit. The pulse weakened, weakened again, then solidified when pointed straight at her.

A look of astonishment came to her face, and she asked, "What is it?"

"They were tracking you. That's how they found George. You." Anger surged through him. He tossed the locator down, stuffed the gun in his pocket, and started to pat her down.

"What in the hell are you doing?" she yelled.

She was clearly nervous, but he didn't spare her feelings.

"Pam, if I have to strip you naked and search every cavity, I'm going to find what's on you. So tell me where it is."

Her mind seemed to reel with incomprehension. "Where's what?"

"Whatever that locator is tracking."

"The watch," McCollum said.

He turned. The other man was pointing at Pam's wrist.

"Has to be. Has a power source and it's plenty big to accommodate a pinger."

He grabbed Pam's wrist and unclasped the watch, which he wrenched free and sent sliding across the gallery floor. He yanked up the locator and pointed. A solid beat signified that the watch was indeed the target. He pointed the unit back at Pam and the pulse subsided.

"Oh, my God," she muttered. "I got that old man killed."

FIFTY-SIX

MALONE ENTERED THE BUSINESS CENTER FOR THE RITZ FOUR Seasons. They'd left the monastery through the main entrance. Since the doors could be opened from the inside, the portal had offered the quickest way out.

They'd then rounded the building and discovered where Adam and his compatriots had entered. The chapter house's elegant windows, adorned with old stone tracery, were the only panes not barred. They stood six feet off the ground and faced a darkened side street. Two bushy trees had offered excellent cover for the break-in.

They'd then walked a few blocks east into Belem's business district and caught a trolley into Lisbon's center. From there they'd taken a cab north a few miles to the hotel. No one said anything on the trip. Malone remained in a quandary. Where he'd thought McCollum was the threat, the danger turned out to be much closer. But he'd ended any further hunting by tossing the watch into a row of box hedges that lined the cloister garden.

He needed to think.

So they entered one of the business center's conference rooms and closed the door. A phone and a computer waited on the table, along with pens and paper. He liked that about the Four Seasons. Tell 'em what you want and you get it.

"Cotton," Pam said immediately. "That watch was a gift. I told you that. From the man I've been seeing."

He did recall her saying that in London. A TAG. Expensive. He'd been impressed. "Who is he?"

"A lawyer for another firm. Senior partner."

"How long you two been an item?" It came out as if he cared, but he didn't.

"A few months. Come on. How could he have possibly known any of this would happen? He gave me that watch weeks ago."

He wanted to believe her. But wives of agents had been compromised before. He reached for the phone and dialed Atlanta and the Magellan Billet. He told the voice on the other end who he was and what he wanted. He was instructed to hold. Two minutes later a male voice said in his ear, "Cotton, this is Brent Green. Your call has been sent to me."

"I need to talk with Stephanie."

"She's unavailable. Quite a lot is happening here. You'll have to deal with me."

"What's the attorney general doing in the middle of Billet business? You usually stay way back from that."

"It's complicated, Cotton. Stephanie has been relieved of her duties, and we're both in the midst of a battle."

He wasn't surprised. "And it all relates to what I'm doing here."

"Precisely. There are people within this administration who placed your son at risk."

"Who?"

"We're not sure. That's what Stephanie is trying to find out. Can you tell me what's happening there?"

"We're having a ball. Just one party after another. Lisbon's a blast."

"Any reason why you have to be sarcastic?"

"I can think of a ton of them. But I need you to do something. Check out a man named James McCollum. He says he was army, special forces." He gave Green a quick physical description. "I need to know if he's real, and his background." As he made the request he stared straight at McCollum, but the man never flinched. "What's happening with Stephanie?"

"That would take too long. But we need to know what you're doing. That could help her."

"I never knew you cared that much."

"I fail to see why everyone thinks I dislike the woman. Actually, she has a great many strong points. But at the moment she's in trouble. I haven't heard from her, or Ms. Vitt, in several hours."

"Cassiopeia is there?"

"With Stephanie. Your friend Henrik Thorvaldsen sent her."

Green was right. There was a lot happening there. "I also have an issue with my ex-wife. Seems the Israelis have been tracking her."

"We're aware of that. A man she was seeing in Atlanta was an Israeli sympathizer. The Mossad asked him to give her a few things. A watch, a locket, a cocktail ring. All were GPS-active. We assume the idea was that she'd wear one of them at some time or another."

"That means the Israelis knew a move was coming on my son, so they got ready to take advantage of it."

"That's a safe conclusion. Is the Alexandria Link still intact?"

"Didn't know you knew anything about that."

"I do now."

"The Israelis permanently took care of that yesterday and almost got us a little while ago." Now he really needed to think. "I have to go. You have a number where I can dial direct?" Green gave it to him. "Sit tight. I'll be back to you shortly."

"Cotton," Green said. "That lawyer your ex-wife was seeing. He's dead. Shot a few days ago. The Mossad cleaned up their trail."

He registered the message.

"I'd keep her close," Green said. "She's a loose end, too."

"Or something more."

"Either way, she's a problem."

He hung up. Pam stared at him. "Your lover's dead. Israel took care of him. He was working with them."

Shock twisted her face. He could not have cared less. That man had been part of placing Gary at risk. "It's what happens when you pet a rattlesnake. I wondered how we were tracked to the hotel in London. There's no way we were followed from Haddad's apartment."

He saw how upset she was, but there was no time for her feelings. Worrying over impossibilities could get you killed. He faced McCollum. "You heard me. I'm checking you out."

"Through with the theatrics? Remember, I still have the rest of the quest and we don't know where to go from here."

"Who says?" He found the photo from the book in the gift shop and unfolded it. "Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place. Okay, we found the place where silver is turned to gold. This. The Nativity. Bethlehem. Belem. What has an address but no place?" He pointed to the computer. "Lots of addresses and no places associated with a single one. Web addresses."

He sat before the machine.

"The Guardians had to have a way to control the clues. They don't seem the type to just throw something out there and leave it. Once an invitee, or a stranger, made it this far, they'd need a way to stop the quest if they wanted to. What better way than to have the final clues on a website they control."

He typed BETHLEHEM.COM, but was routed to a commercial site loaded with junk. He tried BETHLEHEM.NET and found more of the same. Then, on BETHLEHEM.ORG, the screen turned white and a question appeared in black letters.

WHAT IS IT YOU SEEK?

The cursor flashed below the inquiry above a black line, ready for the answer. He typed in THE LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA. The screen flickered, then changed.

NOTHING MORE?

He typed what he thought they wanted to hear.

KNOWLEDGE.

The screen changed again.

28º 41.41N

33º 38.44E

Malone knew what those numbers represented. Find the place that forms an address with no place, where is found another place. "It's the other place."

"GPS coordinates," McCollum said.

He agreed, but he needed to ground-site them, so he found a website and entered the numbers.

A few seconds later a map appeared.

He immediately recognized the shape-an inverted isosceles triangle, a wedge cleaving Africa from Asia, home to a unique combination of mountains and deserts surrounded by the narrow Gulf of Suez to the west, the even narrower Gulf of Aqaba on the east, and the Red Sea to the south.

The Sinai.

The GPS coordinates identified a site in the extreme southern region, in the mountains, near the apex of the inverted triangle.

"Looks like we found the place."

"And how do you plan to get there?" McCollum asked. "That's Egyptian territory, patrolled by the United Nations, close to Israel."

Malone reached for the phone. "I don't think it's going to be a problem."