Serpent of Moses (4 page)

Peering into the darkness, he could make out a long irregular shape, like a table with several items piled on top. He was starting to walk around it when the table moved. Jack took an involuntary hop away before he registered he’d done so. Consequently he allowed plenty of room for whatever he’d bumped his shin on to resolve into a much taller shadow that looked decidedly man shaped.

A very large man.

After a few moments during which neither Jack nor the apparition made a move, the other man took a step forward. There was something about the way he advanced, the outline of the body coming into sharper focus, that tugged at the archaeologist. But it wasn’t until the other man had closed even further that Jack realized his eyes were finally becoming accustomed to the darkness, for he could now clearly see some of the man’s features.

It took a few seconds before the familiarity of that face impressed itself upon him, but when it did, Jack released a sigh that was more resignation than anything else.

“That’s just great,” he said, then braced himself as a massive fist plotted a course for his face.

He couldn’t help wondering why they hadn’t just tied his hands in the first place. It would have saved him a lot of trouble, as well as an additional accumulation of injuries. Provided all of his options were stripped from him, Jack could settle into a good wait, but when left with a chance at extricating himself from a situation he would avail himself of it. Had they bound him securely the first time he would have been content to let things play out. They’d learned their lesson; not only were his hands fastened behind him this time, they’d also wrapped the end of the line around one of the wooden beams that ran the length of the ceiling.

At least they’d not bothered with the blindfold.

The room had lightened as the sun rose, the light finding its way in through the gaps in the lone shuttered window above the cot. He guessed the window looked out on the street because he heard sounds of industry filtering in along with the light. Below the window the cot was empty, though it hadn’t been for long. Jack had watched Imolene get up some ten minutes before and exit the room without so much as a glance at his captive. Even in the dim light Jack had been able to get a better look at the man than he’d been afforded up to now. While he couldn’t tell for certain if he was Egyptian just by looking at him, as Mukhtar had said, he was definitely of a similar ethnicity. But what really stood out was his size; he seemed larger to Jack now that he’d seen him against the room’s furnishings. He was built like Romero, only this man had at least four inches on Jack’s solidly built Venezuelan friend.

When the door had opened Jack had tried to see what lay beyond it, but whatever room it opened up to was no more lit than the one he was in. He had the impression it was a thin hallway, with the faint outline of another door directly across from the one Jack’s captor had just walked through.

Now that he was alone, Jack felt a little more at ease, as he’d found it difficult to relax with the equivalent of a hungry lion sleeping in a cot mere feet away. However, his newfound solitude also brought some obvious questions to the surface, such as when would these people let him use the bathroom?

Pushing that thought away, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

Imolene only looked out of place on the street because of his boots. Expensive, and with their newness marred by only the dust of the last few days, they provided a stark contrast to the shabbier footwear of those he passed. By the standards of most African nations Libya was prosperous, much of it as modern as an American suburb. However, the nation could never divest itself entirely of a history that those of the Western world could never understand—a history extending back to the birth of civilization. In such a place, where humans had staked a claim millennia ago and had yet to relinquish it, evidence of that great history was everywhere, including villages like this one, where its residents clung to the old in the shadow of the new.

Though it was early, the streets were filled with people. Imolene drew many eyes and not solely because he was a stranger. The village was large enough to draw visitors from many places and for many reasons. Most would earn little notice. Most, however, were not as large as Imolene.

The Egyptian walked until he found an open café, which he entered and bought a cup of the strong coffee native to the region. Coffee in hand, he walked outside and took a seat at one of the tables lining the weathered brick of the long building of which the café was only one of many establishments. For a while he did nothing but drink his coffee, watching the people who passed, unconcerned that Templeton and the rest might leave without him. When he’d left the house he’d heard nothing from Templeton’s room, and in checking on the others he’d found them still sleeping. He would likely be back before they stirred.

As for Hawthorne, Imolene had tied the man’s bonds himself. The American would not move until Imolene was instructed to move him. The night before, watching Hawthorne stumble his way around the room had been a bit of amusement for the Egyptian. In retrospect, he should not have done that. Amusing though it had been, there was always a chance that something could have gone wrong, that Hawthorne might have escaped. Yet it had felt good to hit him a second time.

The Egyptian remained at the table, unmoving, until he’d finished the rest of the coffee. Only then did he retrieve his phone from a pocket and dial the number he’d been given.

Imolene brought his employer up to speed on the events of the last twenty-four hours. He gave his report while understanding there was only one detail that really mattered. “We found it” was the Egyptian’s subdued acknowledgment of their success.

Part of his lack of emotion, despite the completion of such a difficult quest, was due to the fact that there was something in Imolene that disliked working for the Israelis. While their money was as good as that of others, it would come with a feeling of having betrayed his own. Still, he would do the job he’d been hired to do; he refused to see the reputation he’d taken great pains to cultivate ruined because of ideological differences.

He could hear the pleasure in the other man’s voice, and that told Imolene it was the appropriate time to tell him about the part of the expedition that had not gone as planned. When he imparted the news of the captured American the other man fell silent.

“Where have I heard that name?” the Israeli asked, his Arabic passable but heavily accented.

“I am told the man is a well-known archaeologist,” Imolene said. “Templeton seems reluctant to deal with him.”

Again there was a moment of silence, during which Imolene knew the other was examining options. The Egyptian understood how much a witness of any kind changed things; how much more so when that witness had a recognizable face. What Imolene suspected would not factor into the decision was the morality of any choice. If the man who had hired him was affiliated with the organization within the Israeli government that Imolene thought he was, then moral equivocation was the norm.

When the silence had stretched to the point at which Imolene was tempted to speak again, he finally received his instructions, delivered in the nonspecific way Imolene had come to expect from this man.

“We cannot afford any complications.”

After ending the call he rose and started back to the safe house. The day was already growing hot by the time he reached the house. When he entered he heard nothing. It always amazed him that westerners habitually slept through the best part of the day, missing out on the cool morning breeze, to be replaced before long by hot desert winds. He almost felt bad that none of them would have the opportunity to experience a sunrise again.

Benton and Phillips had pitched their bedrolls in the only other room of the small house, beyond the ones Templeton and Imolene had claimed. It was the living area, where a local family would have gathered for meals and to receive guests. Unlike the two sleeping chambers, no door separated this larger room from the dark hallway. Imolene took a single step into the room and stopped, studying both sleeping men. When he moved again his steps were swift and quiet, and the large knife made no sound when it slid from its sheath.

He opened Benton’s throat to the air while the man still dreamed, and was kneeling beside Phillips before the gurgling behind him had ceased. Moments later, Phillips too was dead. Imolene wiped his knife clean on a blanket and then went to finish the rest of his work.

He paused by the two doors that would take him into the remaining sleeping chambers, pondering which to enter first. The only logical choice, though, was Templeton. Hawthorne was bound; he could see Imolene coming yet it wouldn’t matter.

The door opened without a sound and the Egyptian spotted the Englishman’s rumpled form on the cot, the man so still he looked to be barely breathing. Before he moved, he cast his eyes about for the artifact, spotting it on the floor at the foot of the cot, which seemed to Imolene a slight to the seeming importance of it.

Imolene crossed the room, gratified for the dirt floor that rendered his steps soundless. When he reached the cot he could not see beneath the blanket pulled up over the man’s head. He raised the knife, and when he brought it down he did so with sufficient strength to ensure he would not have to strike twice.

He understood that something was amiss before the blade stopped moving. Lightning quick he pulled the knife back and wrenched the blanket away, revealing Templeton’s long canvas travel bag. He had but a moment to process that before he saw a hint of movement behind him. Before he could straighten and turn, he felt something strike his head. Then he was falling.

Martin stood looking down on Imolene, who had fallen to his knees, his upper body resting on the cot. The Englishman still held the wine bottle in his hand, instinctively cocked for another blow. But Imolene did not budge. In that respect he was like Martin, who stood rooted to the spot, his heart racing. He knew he needed to get moving, but like the arm frozen with the bottle poised to strike, his legs remained fixed. On some level he knew his fight or flight response was malfunctioning, that he was caught somewhere between the two choices, and this knowledge enabled him to concentrate on slowing his intake of breath.

Seconds later he sprang into action, the bottle dropped onto the cot next to the man who would have killed him. He leaned over Imolene and removed the knife from his hand. For a moment he thought of finishing it; it would make things easier. He moved his hand toward the Egyptian’s throat but hesitated, which was enough to tell him he couldn’t do it. Pulling the knife back he scooped up his travel bag and then moved to the foot of the bed, where he retrieved the artifact. He straightened and, after a last look at Imolene, left the room.

One of the things Jack had learned over the years was that certain situations served to strip one’s needs down to the most basic level. It was a lesson that had served him well at times, helped him to focus on what was truly important. On other occasions, however, it was a much more empirical philosophy, because at the moment the only thing occupying his mind was how much he needed to find a bathroom.

He’d toyed with the idea of calling out, but the thought of causing the large angry man to return and hit him over the head again wasn’t appealing. But if no one came back soon he would be left between that and another unenviable choice.