Alexandria Link by Steve Berry Page B

PM
    SABRE BRAKED AT THE GATE AND WOUND DOWN THE DRIVER’S-SIDE window. He displayed no identification, but the guard immediately waved him through. The sprawling château stood thirty miles southwest of downtown among forests known as the Vienna Woods. Three centuries old and built by aristocracy, its mustard-colored walls of baroque splendor encased seventy-five spacious rooms, all topped by steep gables of Alpine slate.
    A bright sun poured past the Audi’s hazy windshield, and Sabre noted that the asphalt drive and side parking lots were all empty. Only the guards at the front gate and a few groundskeepers tending the walkways disturbed the otherwise tranquil scene.
    Apparently this was to be a private discussion.
    He parked beneath a porte cochere and climbed out into a balmy afternoon. Immediately he buttoned his Burberry jacket and followed a pebbled path to the schmetterlinghaus, an iron-and-glass enclave a hundred yards south of the main château. Painted an unadorned green, its walls lined with hundreds of panels of Hungarian glass, the imposing nineteenth-century structure easily blended into the forested surroundings. Inside, its fortified indigenous soil supported a variety of exotic plants, but the building took its name—schmetterling—from the thousands of butterflies roaming free.
    He jerked open a rickety wooden door and stepped into a dirt foyer. A leather curtain kept hot, humid air inside.
    He pushed through.
    Butterflies danced through the air to the accompaniment of soft instrumental music. Bach, if he wasn’t mistaken. Many of the plants were in bloom, the tranquil scene a stunning contrast with the stark images of autumn outlined through the moisture-dotted glass.
    The building’s owner, the Blue Chair, sat among the foliage. He possessed the face of a man who’d worked too much, slept too little, and cared nothing about nutrition. The old man wore a tweed suit atop a cardigan sweater. Which had to be uncomfortable, Sabre thought. Yet, he silently noted, cold-blooded creatures needed lots of warmth.
    He slipped off his jacket and approached an empty wooden chair.
    “Guten morgen, Herr Sabre.”
    He sat and acknowledged the greeting. Apparently German would be their language of the day.
    “Plants, Dominick. I’ve never asked, but how much do you know about them?”
    “Only that they produce oxygen from carbon dioxide.”
    The old man smiled. “Wouldn’t you say they do so much more? What about color, warmth, beauty?”
    He glanced at the transplanted rain forest, watched the butterflies, and listened to the peaceful music. He cared nothing about soothing aesthetics but knew better than to express that opinion, so he simply said, “They have their place.”
    “You know much about butterflies?”
    A china plate smeared with blackened banana rested in the old man’s lap. Insects sporting wings of sapphire, crimson, and ivory were eagerly devouring the offering.
    “The odor attracts them.” The old man gently stroked the wings of one. “Truly beautiful creatures. Flying gems, exploding into the world in a burst of color. Sadly, they live only a few weeks before rejoining the food chain.”
    Four greenish gold butterflies arrived at the banquet.
    “This species is quite rare. Papilio dardanus. The mocker swallowtail. I import their chrysalides specially from Africa.”
    Sabre hated bugs, but he tried to appear interested and waited.
    Finally the old man asked, “All went well in Copenhagen?”
    “Malone is on his way to find the link.”
    “Just as you predicted. How did you know?”
    “He has no choice. To protect his son, he needs to expose the link so he’s no longer vulnerable. A man like that is easy to read.”
    “He may realize that he was manipulated.”
    “I’m sure he does, but he genuinely thinks, in the end, he managed to get the upper hand. I doubt he assumes I wanted those men to die.”
    A crease of amusement invaded the old man’s face. “You enjoy this game,