The Alexandria Link

FORTY

LONDON

8:15 AM

MALONE LOVED THE SAVOY. HE’D STAYED THERE A FEW TIMES on the U.S. and British governments’ dimes. One thing about the Magellan Billet-the perks had been as plentiful as the risks. He hadn’t visited in several years, but he was glad to see that the late-Victorian hotel still projected its grand mixture of opulence and naughtiness. A night in a room facing the Thames, he knew, cost more than most people in the world earned in a year. Which meant their savior apparently liked to travel in style.

They’d quickly departed Bainbridge Hall, stealing the cleaning crew’s van, which he’d parked a few miles from the train station. There they’d caught the 6:30 train back to London. All had been quiet at Paddington Station, and he’d avoided taxis, taking the Tube to the Savoy.

Pam’s shoulder seemed okay. The bleeding from Bainbridge Hall had stopped. Inside the hotel he found a house phone and asked to be connected to room 453.

“You move fast,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“What do you want?”

“At the moment, I’m hungry. So breakfast is my main priority.”

Malone caught the message. “Come on down.”

“How about the café in ten minutes? They have a lovely buffet.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

The man who appeared at their table was the same one from two hours ago, only now sporting olive chinos and a tan twill shirt. His clean-shaven, handsome face brimmed with goodwill and civility.

“Name’s McCollum. James McCollum. People call me Jimmy.”

Malone was too tired and suspicious to be friendly, but he stood. The handshake was firm and confident. The other man’s eyes, the color of jade, stared back, eager. Pam stayed seated. Malone introduced himself and her, then came straight to the point. “What were you doing at Bainbridge Hall?”

“You could at least thank me for saving your life. I didn’t have to do that.”

“Just happen to be in the neighborhood?”

The man’s thin lips curled into a grin. “You always like this? No foreplay, just right to it?”

“You’re dodging my question.”

McCollum slid out a chair and sat. “I’m starving. How about we get some food and I’ll tell you all about it?”

Malone did not move. “How about you answer my question.”

“Okay, in the interest of goodwill. I’m a treasure hunter on the trail of the Library of Alexandria. I’ve been searching for whatever remains of it for more than a decade. I was at Bainbridge Hall because of those three men. They killed a woman four days ago, a damn good source, so I stayed on their trail hoping to learn who they’re working for. Instead they led me to you.”

“You said back at the estate you have information I don’t. What makes you think that?”

McCollum shoved back his chair and stood. “I said I might have some information you don’t. Look, I don’t have the time or patience for this. I’ve been at that estate before. You’re not the first to go there. Each one of you amateurs knows a kernel of truth mixed with a lot of fantasy. I’m willing to bargain with some of what I know to learn the tiny shred that you may know. That’s all, Malone. Nothing more sinister.”

“So you shot two men in the head to prove your point?” Pam asked, and Malone spotted the look of a skeptical lawyer.

McCollum locked his gaze on Pam. “I shot those men to save your life.” Then he glanced around at their surroundings. “I love this place. Did you know that the first martini was actually poured in the American Bar at the Savoy? Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Gershwin-they all drank there. Lots of history.”

“You like history?” Pam asked.

“An occupational necessity.”

“You going somewhere?” Malone asked.

McCollum stood rigid, his manner calm and unruffled, though Malone had deliberately tried to shake him. “You’re way too suspicious for me. Go ahead. Take the hero’s quest. Hope you succeed.”

This man was knowledgeable. “How do you know about that?”

“Like I said, I’ve been on this trail awhile. How long have you been at it? My guess? You’re a rookie. Worse, you’re a rookie with an attitude. I’ve met a ton of people just like you. They think they know it all. Truth is, they don’t know spit. That library has stayed hidden for fifteen hundred years for a reason.” McCollum paused. “You know, Malone, you’re like the jackass standing in some wonderful knee-high grass with his head cocked over the fence eating weeds. Nice to meet you. I’m going to go sit at that table over there and have breakfast.”

McCollum negotiated his way across the half-empty café.

“What do you think?” he asked Pam.

“Arrogant. But you can’t hold that against him.”

He smiled. “He knows something, and we’re not going to find out a thing sitting here.”

She stood. “I agree. So let’s go eat with our new friend.”

SABRE SAT AT THE TABLE AND WAITED. IF HE’D CALCULATED correctly, they would be coming over shortly. There’s no way Malone could resist. His knowledge had to be limited to what George Haddad had managed to tell him-which, from the tape he’d heard, wasn’t much. What Malone retrieved from Haddad’s apartment before fleeing may have filled in gaps, but he was betting that the most vital questions remained unanswered.

Which was also a problem for him.

He was forcing himself to interact. Something different. He was accustomed to the silence of his own thoughts-intimate company came rarely, confined to the occasional woman who provided sex. He hired most. Professionals, like him, doing their job, saying at night what he wanted to hear, then leaving in the morning. The harsh realities of physical danger and intellectual tension, at least for him, neutered rather than stimulated sex. Grave consequences sapped the brain. Occasionally he slept with the hired help. But as with the Brit he’d shot earlier, that sometimes came with annoying side effects. Instead of romance, he craved solitude.

He’d played this particular role before, with others, when he’d needed to secure their confidence. The words and actions, the way he walked and carried himself, the swaggering voice all came from one of his mother’s many boyfriends. This one had been a beat cop in Chicago, where they’d lived when he was twelve. He remembered how the man had tried to impress her with unabashed confidence. He recalled a White Sox game and a trip to the lakefront. He later learned that, like most of his mother’s lovers, the cop had shown only enough interest to impress his mother. Once they got what they really wanted, which usually was measured in nights in his mother’s bed, the attention stopped. He came to hate all her suitors. Not one of them was there when he buried her. She died alone and broke.

And he wasn’t going to repeat her fate.

He stood and headed for the buffet line.

He loved the Savoy, rooms furnished with expensive antiques and serviced by Old World valets. The kind of luxury Alfred Hermann and the rest of the Order of the Golden Fleece routinely enjoyed. He wanted that privilege, too. On his terms. Not theirs. But to alter reality he needed Cotton Malone, and he wondered if some of what he sought lay inside the leather satchel Malone toted. So far he’d managed to stay one step ahead of his adversary, and out of the corner of his eye he was pleased to see that he still retained that advantage.

Malone and his ex-wife were making their way through the rapidly filling tables.

“All right, McCollum,” Malone said as he approached. “We’re here.”

“You buying?”

“Sure. The least I can do.”

He forced a chuckle. “I just hope that’s not the most you can do.”