SEVENTY-FOUR

VIENNA

HERMANN QUICKLY LEARNED THAT THORVALDSEN HAD walked to the schmetterlinghaus. His chief of the guard, a burly man with deep olive skin and an eager personality, followed him as he headed that way, too. He did not want to attract attention, so he kept his gait measured, smiling and casually greeting members who milled about in the rose garden near the house.

He liked where Thorvaldsen had gone. The building was far enough away that he could deal with his problem in privacy.

And that was exactly what he needed.

THROUGH THE PLANTS AND GLASS WALLS, THORVALDSEN SAW his host coming. He noticed the determined stride and purposeful manner. He also recognized the chief of the guard.

“Gary, Mr. Hermann is on his way. I want you to retreat to the far side and stay among the plants. He’ll likely be in an ill humor and I have to deal with him. I don’t want you involved until I call for you. Can you do that for me?”

The boy nodded.

“Off with you, and stay quiet.”

The boy scampered down a path that cleaved a trail through the transplanted rain forest and disappeared into the foliage.

HERMANN STOPPED OUTSIDE. “WAIT HERE,” HE SAID TO THE chief of the guard. “I don’t want to be disturbed. Make sure.”

He then swung open the wooden door and pushed through the leather curtain. Butterflies flew in silent zigzags across the warm air. Their musical accompaniment had not, as yet, been switched on. Thorvaldsen sat in one of the chairs he and Sabre had occupied a couple of days ago. He immediately saw the letters and removed the gun from his pocket.

“You have my property,” he said in a firm tone.

“That I do. And you apparently want it back.”

“This is no longer amusing, Henrik.”

“I have your daughter.”

“I’ve decided I can live without her.”

“I’m sure you can. I wonder if she realizes.”

“At least I still possess an heir.”

The jab cut deep. “You feel better saying that?”

“Much. But as you aptly noted, Margarete will likely be the ruin of this family once I’m gone.”

“Perhaps she takes after her mother? As I recall, she was an emotional woman, too.”

“In many ways. But I will not have Margarete standing in the way of our success. If you intend to harm her, do it. I want my property back.”

Thorvaldsen motioned with the letters. “I assume you’ve read these?”

“Many times.”

“You’ve always spoken decisively when it comes to the Bible. Your criticisms were pointed and, I have to say, well reasoned.” Thorvaldsen paused. “I’ve been thinking. There are two billion Christians, a little more than a billion Muslims, and about fifteen million Jews. And the words on these pages will anger them all.”

“That’s the flaw of religion. No respect for truth. None of them cares what’s real, only what they can pass off as reality.”

Thorvaldsen shrugged. “The Christians will have to face the fact that their Bible, both New and Old, is manufactured. The Jews will learn that the Old Testament is a record of their ancestors from a place other than Palestine. And Muslims will come to know that their sacred ground, the holiest of places, was originally a Jewish homeland.”

“I don’t have time for this, Henrik. Give me the letters, then my chief of the guard will escort you from the estate.”

“And how will that be explained to the members?”

“You’ve been called back to Denmark. Business emergency.” He glanced around. “Where’s Malone’s son?”

Thorvaldsen shrugged. “Entertaining himself somewhere on the estate. I told him to stay out of trouble.”

“You should have taken that advice yourself. I know of your ties to Israel, and I assume you’ve already informed them of what we’re planning. But as I’m sure you’ve been told, they know we’re after the Library of Alexandria, just as they are. They’ve tried to stop us but have so far been unsuccessful. By now it’s too late.”

“You have a lot of faith in your employee. He might disappoint you.”

Hermann could not voice his own uncertainty. Instead he boldly declared, “Never.”

MALONE STOOD FROM THE TABLE AND WITHDREW HIS GUN from the rucksack.

“I was wondering how long you were going to sit here,” Pam said.

“Long enough to know that our friend isn’t coming back.”

He shouldered the pack and opened the outside door. No hum of voices. No click of hooves. No flute. The compound seemed at once sacred and eerie.

Bells pealed, signaling three PM.

He led the way through a variety of buildings, each with the tint and texture of dead leaves. A tower, the color of putty, stood solemnly, topped by a convex roof. The street’s unevenness revealed its age. The only sign of habitation came from clothes-underwear, socks, trousers-hanging to dry from a balcony.

Around a corner he spotted McCollum and Straw Hat, a hundred feet away, traversing a small square with a fountain. The monastery obviously had access to a well, as water didn’t seem a problem. Neither did power, considering the number of solar panels and satellite dishes.

McCollum held a gun to Straw Hat’s head.

“Good to know we were right about our partner,” he whispered.

“Guess he wants a first look.”

“Now, that is downright rude. Shall we?”

SABRE KEPT HIS GUN LEVELED AT THE BACK OF THE GUARDIAN’S head. They passed more buildings and headed deeper into the complex, near a point where the human-made met the natural.

He loathed the unholy calm.

An unassuming church washed primrose yellow nestled close to the rock face. Inside, the vaulted nave was naturally lit and crowded with icons, triptychs, and frescoes. A forest of silver and gold chandeliers hung above a richly detailed mosaic floor. The opulence stood in stark contrast with the simple exterior.

“This isn’t a library,” he said.

A man appeared at the altar. He, too, was olive-skinned, but short with ash-white hair. And older. Maybe seventies.

“Welcome,” the man said. “I’m the Librarian.”

“You in charge?”

“I have that honor.”

“I want to see the library.”

“To do that, you must release the man you’re holding.”

Sabre shoved the Guardian away. “All right.” He leveled the gun at the Librarian. “You take me.”

“Certainly.”

MALONE AND PAM ENTERED THE CHURCH. TWO ROWS OF monolithic granite columns, painted white, their capitals gilded, displayed medallions of Old Testament prophets and New Testament apostles. Frescoes on the walls showed Moses receiving the Law and confronting the Burning Bush. Reliquaries, patens, chalices, and crosses rested in glass-fronted cupboards.

No sign of McCollum or Straw Hat.

To Malone’s right, in an alcove, he spotted two bronzed cages. One held hundreds of sandstone-colored skulls, piled upon one another in a ghastly hillock. The other housed a hideous assortment of bones in an anatomical jumble.

“Guardians?” Pam asked.

“Has to be.”

Something else about the sunlit nave caught his attention. No pews. He wondered if this was an Orthodox church. Hard to tell from the decoration, which seemed an eclectic mixture of many religions.

He crossed the mosaic floor to the opposite alcove.

Inside, perched on a stone shelf, backdropped by a bright stained-glass window, was a full skeleton dressed in embroidered purple robes and a cowl, propped in a sitting position, head slightly atilt, as if questioning. The finger bones, still clinging to bits of dried flesh and nails, clutched a staff and a rosary. Three words were chiseled into the granite below.

CVSTOS RERVM PRVDENTIA

“Prudence is the guardian of things,” he said, translating, but his Greek was good enough to know that the first word could also be read as “wisdom.” Either way, the message seemed clear.