Elisha’s Bones (22 page)
What keeps me from rushing off to Egypt, though, is the irrationality of thinking the bones are in that tomb. Even if they’d been there when we were excavating—unlikely, considering that KV65 was sealed when the research has the bones passing to Fraternidad de la Tierra—they would have been removed after the accident.
What hovers just out of range of these considerations is the hypothetical secret organization for which we seem to have found evidence. As much as Reese and Manheim must occupy my attention, I wish I had the time and resources needed to research this third entity, this group that might precede the birth of the Christian church. I take another sip of coffee and chuckle to myself. I still haven’t attached Victor Manheim to any vested party; for all I know, he’s a representative of this ancient society.
I have to push those thoughts away. What’s important now is our destination. There are two men who have tried to kill me, both in different parts of the world. Heading for Dallas will move me only toward vengeance, while going to Australia might lead me closer to the bones. If I want this to end, I have to do what Reese doesn’t want me to do: I have to find the bones before he can get to them. And with Victor Manheim as my only connection to the bones, vengeance might make a showing after all.
Watching out the window, I catch sight of Al crossing the Trinity courtyard. I’ve wondered what role Alem’nesh’s church has in this whole thing. It would seem to be a significant one, even if their recent historical origin, relatively speaking, precludes them from being the original organization. I don’t think he will tell me anything more, not after the events his last intel spawned. But I have to try, so that I can be as prepared as possible for what might await Espy and me when we touch down in Sydney.
Al recommended this coffee shop. He said he stops here every day on his way to the church. He reaches the street, and I see him looking this way, maybe searching for us through the shop’s dirty window. Al steps from the curb between two parked cars and starts to cross. I offer a small wave, and he sees it. He waves back.
Then the world outside the window disintegrates in a mix of light and deafening sound. Before Espy and I can react, the window ruptures, spraying us with glass. Instinct kicks in and I turn my head to avoid the worst of the shower as I throw myself to the floor. Espy does the same, coming down hard a few feet away from me. I’m at her side almost before the last bits of glass land.
“I’m fine,” she says, rising on one arm.
I ignore her words and do a battlefield check, but she’s right; I can’t see that she has been injured. I spare a few seconds to determine that I have fared almost as well, save a single, albeit large, piece of glass stuck in my left shoulder. I pull the glass from my skin and toss it to the floor. The shopkeeper chooses that moment to rise from behind the counter, his eyes wide. He looks at Espy and me, and I give him a wave to assure him we’re all right. His eyes move to take in the scene outside.
With the same idea, I pull myself up, using the table for support, then to steady myself as I take in what has happened. It looks like one of those war zones one sees when watching CNN. Smoke fills the air, with debris scattered about in the street. People are running to and fro, and there’s a car—one of the cars that Al was walking by—that’s in flames. Only a crater remains of the other vehicle. I don’t understand why, but the sounds break through only after the images have made their mark. The first noise that cuts through is that of distant sirens. I hear people crying, screaming; the crackle of flames.
I don’t see a body but I have no doubt that Al is dead.
Smoke is drifting into the coffee shop and I begin to cough. Tears start to form, and I can blame these on the smoke, too. I take Espy’s hand, and together we head outside.
On the street, an atmosphere of chaos reigns. I watch as a young man, dazed, wanders toward the flame-engulfed car. I run to him and guide him in the other direction and get him to sit down on the other side of the street.
Then I force myself to stop. There’s a hollow feeling in my stomach, as well as a larger portion of guilt than Alem’nesh carried. Even this close to the event, I have no doubt that Al was targeted, for the detonation was too well timed, too precise, to have been anything but a hit. Which means that whoever detonated the bomb might be watching me right now, and that means Espy and I must leave immediately.
T
he smells of salt and fish ride the wind that spills through the cab’s open window. The wind passes over the harbor to collect the sea, to deposit it in odor and moisture on a city of almost four million, as reminders of the industry by which it was built. Tourism has long usurped fishing as Sydney’s chief domestic product, but to me the place’s chief identity is that of a sea town. A very large sea town. At almost sixteen hundred square kilometers, Sydney’s sprawl matches that of London, covering twice as much territory as New York City.
“I’m cold.” Esperanza shivers and pulls her sweater tighter around her shoulders.
Actually, the weather’s perfect. When we got off the plane, the display at the airport said 23º Celsius, which translates to around 73º Fahrenheit. It’s the sort of temperature that would have one walking into any public place and spotting people wearing light sweaters, right next to others in shorts and T-shirts.
I put the window up.
“Thanks.”
I watch out the window as the driver navigates Cumberland Street, heading toward the Cahill Expressway and the Sydney Opera House. Traffic is thick and our slow progress gives me a chance to absorb the people and the atmosphere. A man on a unicycle passes us, going the opposite direction down a sidewalk that slopes several scary degrees in a direction I would not think someone on a single-wheeled conveyance would attempt.
“That’s something you don’t see every day,” Espy says.
“Then you’re not looking in the right places.”
She doesn’t respond. Under the circumstances, casual conversation seems forced. Both of us are still reeling over Al’s death, made more difficult by it happening so soon after the murders in Lalibela—although Espy was a godsend during the first few hours after it happened. She kept me from disengaging, kept me in the here and now. She kept me from placing the blame for Al’s death on my own shoulders. Now her own emotional reserves lowered, she needs time to think these things through and in her own way.
“Where are we meeting your friend?” Espy asks.
“The beach.”
Our destination is Station Beach, northeast of Sydney. I’d wanted to meet at her hotel—the Observatory, a five star in the Rocks District—but Angie was insistent that, if I was going to crash her vacation, I would have to work around her schedule. When she got my call from Ethiopia, she wouldn’t believe me when I told her I was paying her a visit. I had to put Espy on the phone to prove to her it wasn’t a joke meant to ruin the tail end of her vacation. When I got my phone back, all Angie wanted to talk about was the woman traveling with me.
Seeking out Angie penciled its own way into our plans when I discovered that my Reese Industries credit card had been canceled. The ATM in the airport swallowed it and wouldn’t let go. I could deal with that. What really threw a wrench in the works was when the nice young man at the airline ticket counter gave me an apologetic smile and proceeded to cut my personal credit card in half. Had Espy not had a card of her own, and sufficient available credit, I don’t know what we would have done.
Espy accused me of another bad debt, and my track record has not left me in a good spot from which to defend myself. But although it’s true I have occasionally allowed a debt to remain unpaid, I have never played anything but nice with Visa. This has to be Reese’s doing. Or Manheim’s. I know Reese has the connections to turn off a poor archaeologist’s credit spigot. I have to assume Manheim does, too.
So I’m hitting Angie up for money. She doesn’t know that yet. I left the reason for our visit a mystery so that she wouldn’t go into hiding.
But I’m irritated that I had to revert to my old phone to reach her. I called half a dozen times with the new phone and couldn’t get through, and her voice mailbox was full. The only thing I could think to do was to call with my old phone and hope she recognized the number, which she did. Now if anyone has been eavesdropping on my calls, they know my short-term itinerary.
As our driver takes the taxi up the 14, I see signs for Palm Beach and the city’s congestion gives way to green and sand and the bluest water in the world. According to the driver, Station Beach is on the opposite side of Barrenjoey Head from Palm Beach. It’s quiet and the water of Pittswater Bay is calm enough to keep surfers and their like away. It’s warmer in the car now, so I lower the window. Espy doesn’t complain. Like me, I think she’s coming out of her mild funk. It’s too pretty here to hold on to anything negative. We ride in silence the rest of the way until the driver pulls into a small parking area, beyond which I can make out the pristine white sand and lapping surf. I give some thought to asking the driver to stay to take us back, but then change my mind. There’s only one other car in the lot and I’ll bet it belongs to Angie. I’m hoping to talk my way into a ride to a car-rental agency.
I’d been wondering how easy it would be to locate Angie once we arrived and now I see I needn’t have worried. As we step out onto the sand, I can see only one person from my vantage point. She’s stretched out on a towel and turns her head to watch us approach. As we get closer, I see her sit up and raise her sunglasses.
“What in the world happened to you?” she asks.
“It’s a long story.”
I know how I look. While I’m wearing new clothes, and most of my injuries are not visible, I imagine that my overall weariness has become obvious. That, and I haven’t shaved in several days.
Espy leans toward me and says, “She’s pretty.” She doesn’t sound pleased about it.
Angie rises to greet us. She looks many shades darker than when I saw her last, and she wears relaxation like a second skin.
“Hi, Jack.”
“Hi, Angie.” I glance around at the empty beach. “I wouldn’t have pictured you here. Isn’t Bondi more your style?”
“Let’s just say I’m spending the last few days of my vacation recovering from my vacation,” she says with a wink. “What about you? This is a far cry from being holed up in your apartment.”
“Aren’t you the one who told me I need to get out more?”
She chuckles and turns to Espy. “Hello, I’m Angie.”
“Nice to meet you, Angie. I’m Esperanza.”
“So what brings the two of you here?”
Angie is still taking in my condition, and there is genuine concern in her question, alongside the curiosity about my traveling companion.
“Angie, I need a favor.” I offer my most charming smile, but Angie knows me too well.
She looks back and forth between Espy and me and I see her fixate on my shoulder.
“You’re bleeding,” she says. “Jack, what’s going on?”
Blood from the wound in my shoulder has seeped though the bandage and is staining my new shirt. I sigh. It’s just another minor complication in a growing list, and it’s not one I’m going to worry about right now.
“Let’s take a walk,” I say.
The three of us walk up the beach, angling for the thick tree line and rising ground of Barrenjoey Head. I tell Angie about the last few weeks, giving her the highlights only. The more I share, the more her eyes widen. I remind myself that of all the friends I have called on since this job began, Angie knows less about my past than any of them. To her, I’m just a typical archaeology professor with no social life. Picturing me in the field, much less engaging in something this dangerous, must be difficult for her. What’s more, many of the details I leave unsaid are ones that would likely send her to the unbelieving camp. What I give her is enough for her to see that we’re in trouble without making it sound like some James Bond adventure. When I’ve finished and we turn to head back toward the parking area, leaving the rough terrain and treacherous cliffs behind, Angie is silent. She is walking next to me, her eyes on the sand.
“So what do you need?” she asks when we have neared the parking area.
I half register that Angie’s car is not the only one there. I don’t see anyone else on the beach, but it’s just a short walk to the other shoreline, where the ocean meets Palm Beach.
“We need money, Angie. Otherwise, we won’t be able to finish this.”
She nods, giving my words consideration before saying, “And would that be such a bad thing? Not being able to finish? Teaching archaeology seldom causes blood loss.”
I think that even as she asks the question, she knows the answer. In the short time we’ve talked, my guess is that she’s picked up on the fact that I’m not the same person who walked out of her apartment two weeks ago.
“How much do you need?” she asks with a resigned sigh.
“You’re my girl, Angie. I’ll make good, I promise.”
With a laugh, Angie wraps her arm around mine and leans in close.
“You’d better. And I think you have yourself a new girl now.” She delivers this last in a stage whisper, meant to be heard by Espy.
As Angie gathers up her belongings, she makes certain I know how irritated she is that I’m taking her away from the beach. What redirects her is when Espy asks about her hair, and the two of them enjoy a conversation about current styles as we walk to Angie’s car.
The other car is still there, parked two spaces away from Angie’s. It’s a new Lexus—beautiful lines. The windows are tinted so that an observer can see nothing of the interior. It’s a car I can appreciate even if it’s something I’d never buy for myself.
It’s as Angie is popping the trunk of the rental to stow her belongings that the driver’s door of the Lexus opens and my heart is shocked nearly to stopping to see Hardy step out. Even through my disbelief I start to move before Hardy is all the way out of the car. But he raises a gun before I can gain more than two feet. He’s wearing the ever-present dark suit, only this time it’s accessorized with sunglasses.
