Serpent of Moses (14 page)

It had been the Israelis who had drawn Imolene to the small village, although he’d arrived when they were all but finished and he had remained out of sight as they left, disappearing into the night as quietly as they had undoubtedly descended on the place. He thought he’d been following the likely path taken by those he hunted, and seeing the lights from multiple fires over the flat terrain had validated that belief.

What bothered Imolene, however, was the possibility that his employers’ insertion of a team without telling him suggested they were less than confident that he could handle the task given him. And if that was true, there was no guarantee they would not also come for him. He had known when he accepted the job that it was not without significant risk.

In the ruins of the village he had located a survivor able to tell him that Templeton and Hawthorne had escaped the carnage in a jeep, heading north. The Egyptian had spotted them before the American—who no longer seemed to be a prisoner—had taken the P19. Imolene had trailed them to Medenine, but had kept back, allowing the increasing city traffic to form a hedge between his truck and the jeep.

He wasn’t unduly concerned about being spotted, as it would have been impossible for the men to know what sort of vehicle Imolene would be driving. Nonetheless, he also understood that the human body responded in odd ways to the feeling of eyes on it. While he stayed back, just keeping the jeep in his sight, he could avoid any chance of detection.

As they neared the city, the jeep slowed and Imolene, who had just started to close some of the distance for fear of losing them, slowed as well. Not long after that, his quarry left the P19 for a packed dirt road devoid of any other traffic.

Imolene slowed as he approached the turnoff, watching as the jeep disappeared around a curve. He drove past the dirt road but turned around a hundred meters farther down, heading back to where the jeep had left the P19 and following with only his running lights on, his way made visible by the help of the bright moon. Before long he passed the parked jeep and, nodding to himself, continued on.

Jack had been awake for a while, jolted to alertness by something he couldn’t put his finger on. As a younger man he’d been a heavy sleeper, a skill born of necessity in a field where one slept in tents or was exposed to the elements in sleeping bags under the open sky, with other members of the team who kept different hours milling about. But for the last few years he’d slept lightly, perhaps because he’d lived those years suspecting someone would eventually show up to take his life. Tonight, though, he didn’t know if the fact that he’d awakened was because of his personal circumstances or some external influence.

He lay still on the narrow bed, listening to the movements common to all houses. And he’d almost convinced himself that nothing was amiss when he heard a noise coming from beyond his door. A moment later the door opened, a form silhouetted in the doorframe.

Before Jack could cry out, he heard the distinctive click of a gun made ready. The form advanced into the room, closing the door. Even in the darkness he knew who it was.

“Why?” was all he said.

The room had no window and so, try as he might, he couldn’t put features to Templeton’s outline.

“Because I have a feeling that things are coming to an end,” the man said. “I have no idea what that end will be, but I know it will rob me of what I want.”

Jack didn’t move. He had no idea what Templeton could see but guessed that the Englishman’s vision was as limited as his own and he didn’t want any sudden move on his part to make Templeton discharge his weapon.

“If it’s a choice between me being dead or you taking the staff, believe me, you can have the staff,” Jack said.

“You don’t understand. It’s never been about the Nehushtan.” He paused, then added, “Don’t get me wrong. I do want to walk out of here with it, but I think you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

And in that moment, Jack did. Since the ordeal began, he’d questioned why Templeton had thought it necessary to kidnap him. Logistically it had made no sense. If Jack’s silence was what the man wanted, a bullet would have ensured that.

“Then tell me what it is you want, Martin.”

“Answers,” he replied.

The response brought a frown to Jack’s face. “What are you talking about? What answers?”

“I had a brother,” Templeton said. “A younger brother named Thomas. The sort of person who was never happy in one place. Always wanted to travel. So when he turned eighteen, he left home to see the world. Do you know where he went, Jack?”

“No. I have no idea where he went.”

“He went to Australia. About five years ago.”

When Jack heard that, he felt a shiver run down his spine. Although he couldn’t know exactly what Templeton was about to say, he had an idea.

“For a long time Thomas couldn’t find work. Finally he signed on with a company near Melbourne, working in security. . . .”

He paused for a moment. By now Jack was getting used to the dark and was able to make out the sour expression on the other man’s face.

Templeton continued, “I never would have realized that corporate security was such a dangerous occupation.”

“What happened to him?” Jack asked, despite himself.

“That’s just the thing,” Templeton said. “The Australian authorities couldn’t really tell us. Just that he died in a house fire.”

The more Templeton talked, the sicker Jack felt.

“What’s interesting, Jack, is how you know a few of the other casualties of that fire.”

And just like that, everything fell into place—the reason Templeton hadn’t let him go. Of course, there was no telling the Englishman that his brother had broken into Jack’s mentor’s house and killed the older man and his wife, and that he would have killed Jack had he not defended himself. Hearing that would have no effect on Templeton. The answers the man wanted would not heal anything.

“What was in Australia that Thomas had to die for, Dr. Hawthorne?”

Even though Templeton couldn’t see the gesture, Jack responded with a slight shake of his head. “Nothing, Martin. There was nothing in Australia—not worth dying for.”

He knew that answer wouldn’t suffice; and he knew that eventually Templeton would kill him for it.

But in that moment the door opened, light streaming in. After blinking a few times to clear his vision, Jack saw Marwen, who was pressing a gun against the back of Templeton’s head.

Templeton’s gun was still pointed at Jack, however, and given what he now knew about the man’s motivation and seeing the fevered look in his eyes, Jack wondered if Templeton just might be foolish enough to pull the trigger. But then Templeton’s face fell and he lowered the hand that held the gun. Marwen reached around and took the gun and then stepped to the side, motioning for Templeton to take a chair against the wall opposite the bed. Once Templeton was seated, Marwen turned to Jack.

“I think you need to exercise better care in choosing your friends,” he said.

Jack rolled out of the bed, holding in a groan when his sore muscles protested. “He’s not my friend. In fact, up until about thirty-six hours ago he had me tied up.”

The look of confusion on Marwen’s face almost made Jack laugh, yet too much had happened within the last few days for levity to bubble to the surface.

“Thanks,” he said to the Tunisian.

Marwen nodded. “I did not know this was happening until I reached your door. I was coming to wake you for something else.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“A truck sits on the street just up the road,” Marwen said. “And in that truck sits a man who is watching this house.”

“Are you certain?” Jack asked, realizing as he said it that Marwen would not have awakened him if he had any doubt.

“He drove past once, perhaps an hour ago, with his lights out. He is back now and he is sitting, waiting, watching my home.” At Jack’s unasked follow-up, he said, “I know in the same way I knew you were here before your car stopped. Because I have eyes not my own to tell me things.”

“Imolene,” Templeton said.

Jack had almost forgotten about the man but now he found himself agreeing with him.

“Who is this Imolene?” Marwen asked.

“An Egyptian mercenary,” Jack said. “The nasty kind.”

Marwen absorbed that with another nod.

“I’m sorry, Marwen,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to put you in danger.”

The Tunisian shrugged Jack’s concern away. “I have no fear. He is one man and there are at least six guns trained on him as we speak.”

Jack smiled, but he also understood that the Egyptian’s presence presented a problem. Jack had no doubt that the man would kill him in a heartbeat and so the logical thing for him to do would be to ask Marwen’s associates to deal with him. But although Jack had killed in self-defense, arranging a man’s murder was a different matter entirely. There was also the question of Martin Templeton. After tonight—after finally learning why the man had kept Jack around—there was no way the two of them could continue traveling together. There were too many things Jack had to work out for him to deal with that sort of distraction.

He pondered the double-edged dilemma, and when the answer came, he reveled in its simplicity.

“Can you find me a car?” he asked.

Marwen answered with a slow nod. “I should be able to.”

“Anything will work,” Jack said. “As long as it doesn’t cost too much.”

He saw Templeton’s head raise, watching him.

“How about a broom?” Jack asked.

Ten minutes later, Marwen and Jack had marched Templeton to the front door. In the Englishman’s hand was a broom, minus the sweeping end, wrapped in the fabric that had up until that point surrounded the staff.

“Just to show I’m not entirely without a heart,” Jack said.

He gave the gun Templeton had taken from a dead villager back to him, Marwen keeping his own gun pointed on the man until he pocketed the weapon.

Templeton might have protested, but Jack made sure the man understood that he had no choice in the matter. So, without a word, the Englishman stepped out into the night.

A half hour passed while he kept his eyes on the house. In that time he saw no movement of any kind, no lights to indicate anyone was inside, although he couldn’t see the dwelling well enough in the darkness to know if his inability to see any lights merely indicated the absence of windows on the side facing him.

While he waited, not a single car passed him. After another fifteen minutes, Imolene reached to the passenger seat for his knife, slipping it from its sheath. Lifting it to his eyes, he studied the Egyptian-made weapon in the moonlight. The falcon-shaped brass handle felt good in his hand, the curved blade polished so that it reflected what little light there was. He slid the knife back into the sheath and reached for the door handle.

As if on cue, the front door of the house he was watching opened. Imolene froze. While morning was not far off, the darkness was still almost total, which meant the man would not see him. Nor would he likely question the presence of another vehicle on the road. Imolene watched as the man who looked to be Templeton exited the house and walked toward the street, the artifact in his hand. The Egyptian waited for Hawthorne to walk out too, but no one else followed and the door closed. After placing the staff in the back seat, Templeton got in and drove off.

Perplexed, his hand still on the door handle, Imolene watched as the jeep disappeared down the road. He asked himself why Martin Templeton would drive off alone. And what had happened to Hawthorne? Imolene suspected that the Englishman had finally killed the American, though he couldn’t be certain. What he was certain of was that he had a decision to make, and even as he realized that, he understood it was a simple one. The Israelis had hired Templeton and they wanted him dead. And Templeton had the artifact, which they also wanted.

Making his decision, Imolene set the knife back on the seat and drove off after Martin Templeton.

“Why else would he need a book that describes the construction of the cathedral?” Espy asked.

She’d hardly touched her breakfast. Seeing Romero close to finishing his plate, she caught him eyeing her own.

“Why indeed?” he asked, earning a glare from his sister.

“My guess is that Jack didn’t have whatever it was he was going to sell to Sturdivant,” Espy said. “I’m also betting that the book he borrowed had something in it that he was hoping would lead him to whatever he was looking for.”

As she spoke, she watched Romero work on his sausage. She waited for his response. Romero seemed to be taking his time, chewed thoughtfully. After swallowing the last of the meat, he used his fork to gesture at her plate.

“Are you going to eat that?” he asked.

Despite knowing her longer than anyone alive, Romero consistently demonstrated an inability to anticipate when something he might say would push her buttons to the point that she would lash out. She felt one such eruption bubbling beneath the surface, but she headed it off by taking a deep breath. Even so, she would not give him the satisfaction of consuming even a morsel of her breakfast.

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly.

Romero nodded. “Anyway, I think it is obvious that Jack was hoping to use the book in order to uncover a clue to something,” he said, his deep baritone projecting a calm over the table, as if realizing what he’d almost loosed. “I also think it is unlikely that we will be able to uncover what he was looking for unless we receive help from another source.”

“You almost sound as if you think the book is a dead end.”

“On the contrary,” Romero said. “The book narrows our search down to one cathedral in a very large city. The problem is that the one cathedral is an exceptionally large structure, and without an additional clue, we might as well be canvassing all of Milan.”

Esperanza considered that as she picked up her fork and poked around her plate, coming back with a small bite of crepe.

“You’re right,” she agreed as she chewed. “We have a very large cathedral. But that’s not all we have.” At Romero’s questioning look she continued, “Whatever was in that cathedral led Jack to Libya. All we have to do is figure out the connection, and with each piece of information we get, we take another step toward finding Jack.”

“So what do you suggest we do next?”

“The first thing we need to do is check in with Duckey. For all we know, he’s found something that could help us on our end.”

“In which case he would have called us,” Romero said.

“Maybe,” Espy said. “But it’s not going to do us any harm to check in. After that . . . ?” She shrugged. “I think we need to find someone around here who can help us dig up any sort of connection between Milan Cathedral and Libya.”

Romero nodded, taking on a thoughtful look. “There is a man I used to do business with years ago. He lived in Vigevano, about thirty miles southwest of Milan. His name is Carelli. Filippo Carelli. He knew a great deal about the history of the region. I had him appraise a few Lombard pieces.”

“Did Jack know him?” Espy asked.

Romero frowned. “I don’t believe so. I didn’t meet him until I was already well established in my store. And I’ve never met him in person.”

“So we’re going to drive thirty miles on the off chance a man you’ve never met may know something about a connection between Milan Cathedral and Libya?”

“It is worth a try, yes.” Romero paused and added, “If he still lives in Vigevano. And if I’m remembering his name correctly.” He gave his sister a smile and a wink.

“Well, at least it’s something,” she said.

The deep-green rolling hills through which they drove paid gradual deference to the revelation of the ancient city, which Espy watched come into view as they crested a hill in the Porsche Romero had insisted on renting for the day, despite her objections. She’d acquiesced only when she won the concession that she would handle the outbound drive.

Not long after entering the city proper, Romero pointed and she pulled off the SS494 and onto Via Podgora, on their way to Corso Argentina. Espy suspected that was the simplest portion of the directions her brother had jotted down and that once they began to head south on Corso Argentina, it was anyone’s guess if they would arrive where they were supposed to.

However, less than ten minutes later, she had, under his direction, guided the sleek sports car through a series of turns on streets with no signs, around a few sharp curves that seemed built for the Porsche, and onto a narrow street lined with small homes that had shared walls and courtyards hidden behind tall metal gates.

She found a spot to park a few houses down from the one they wanted. Soon they were walking up the sidewalk to meet Filippo Bramante—a name Romero had finally remembered after they had spent more than an hour searching for a Carelli in the phone directory. Romero had explained that Carelli was the name of an art dealer in Madrid with whom he was acquainted. Bramante answered on the second knock.

He was a short man and older than Espy was anticipating, somewhere in his early seventies. But despite his age, she could tell right away that he carried himself like a much younger man. He greeted the visitors with a warm smile.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said to Romero. Then he turned to Espy. “And you must be Dr. Esperanza Habilla. Your brother’s told me a great deal about you.” Eyes dancing, he reached for Espy’s hand. Acquiescing to the culture—and because she immediately liked the man—she leaned down so that he could greet her with a kiss on her cheek.

Stepping away from the door, he ushered them into his home, the trio passing through a short hallway and into a living room that looked larger than the size of the home would have allowed. The size of the house, though, held less interest for Espy than the fact that it was decorated in a fashion she recognized as opulent. She looked toward her brother, who was better suited to appreciate a number of items he might have sold from his own shop if given the opportunity.

Bramante saw them taking in the room and its many objects. “Appraising items for others often gives me first choice of a number of exceptional pieces,” he explained. Saying it seemed to stir a memory, because his eyes narrowed and he turned to scan a portion of the room until he found what he was looking for. “Do you see that Incan death mask on the shelf?” he asked, pointing.

To Espy, the piece looked much like the other masks she’d seen in Romero’s store. She saw her brother walk past their host, crossing to the shelf to get a better look.

“I sent this to you so that you could appraise it,” Romero said, turning to face the Italian.

“And I did,” Bramante said. “Fairly. Once I’d shipped it back to you, I had a friend in London purchase it and then she sent it on to me.” Telling them this little story seemed to tickle the old appraiser, and although what the man had done was unethical, Espy felt a smile ready to show itself. “So tell me,” he said. “What brings you to Vigevano?”

He gestured for them to sit and began to sit as well, but then jumped up again. “Where are my manners? Can I get you some tea?” He was starting off toward the kitchen when she and Romero called him back, declining the tea.

“We’re here because we need your expertise,” Esperanza said. She went on to explain the riddle they were hoping Bramante could help them solve.

The Italian didn’t interrupt as she laid out what was needed. Even after she’d stopped speaking, Bramante continued to ponder what had been shared, his eyes on the marble tile that ran through the house.

After what seemed a long time, the old man said to his guests, “You must understand, I’m no expert. Most of my work involves setting values on the usual sort of thing—things procured from places that people have studied extensively. I can give you the auction estimate or insurance replacement value. But this . . . ?” He shook his head and released a small laugh. “I don’t know,” he finished.

Esperanza leaned forward, close enough that she could have placed her hand on Bramante’s knee. And judging by the Italian’s reaction, that was precisely what he thought she would do. Instead, she gave the man one of those smiles that had failed on Sturdivant.

“My brother told me that you know more about Italian history—especially northern Italian history—than just about anyone alive,” she said, smiling. “And my brother wouldn’t lie to me.”

Espy’s vote of confidence seemed to breathe new life into the older man. He sat up straighter; then a few seconds later he nodded.

“I’m not saying I can’t help you,” he said. “It’s just that these days I don’t spend enough time in the history books for something to immediately come to mind.”

Espy remained undaunted, her warm smile assuring Bramante that he knew something of great value to them, whether he recognized it or not. And under that kind but demanding gaze, the Italian appeared ready to move heaven and earth.

“Milan Cathedral . . .” he mused. “While the cathedral itself is dated to 1386, there has been related construction on the site since the early fifth century, when the Lombards were at their most powerful.”

“From what I understand, it took almost six hundred years to finish,” Espy said.

“Right,” Bramante said. “And during that time, Milan came under a number of influences, which you can see immortalized in the cathedral. It’s a remarkable mixture of styles, although a good portion of it was constructed under a Gothic aesthetic.”

Espy considered the six hundred years during which the Milan Cathedral had come into being, attempting to process the logistics involved in completing such a monumental task. Over six centuries, she thought it improbable that succeeding architects held fast to the same vision. How many generations took their turns toiling to build the magnificent edifice, the largest church in Italy? She suspected laborers had traveled to and from Milan continuously. And with that traffic Espy hoped that a north African connection might not be difficult to find. Rather, pinpointing the right one would be the real challenge.

“Were all of the architects Italian?” Romero asked, on the same track as Esperanza.

“Not at all,” Bramante answered. “The cathedral’s Gothic beginnings were due to French influence, but at different times the project was headed by Italians, Englishmen, a German, and a Greek. And I’m certain I’m missing a few.” He chuckled, adding, “But the national influences were by no means pure. It is said that even when the French architects were laying out the plans, Chaucer was busy sketching a design for the nave, and there are some who believe that at least part of his plan was adopted.”

“Do you know of any northern Africans who were involved?”

Bramante, lips pursed, disappeared back into thought. When he emerged just moments later, he said, “To the best of my knowledge, none of the architects assigned to the project had a connection to northern Africa. I could be wrong of course, but I do not believe I am. Also . . .”

Espy nodded. “Also what . . . ?” she pressed.

“Also, the men who did the majority of the work would have come from the regions immediately surrounding Milan. There were undoubtedly some who came from longer distances, but during the period the cathedral was constructed, a number of similar projects were taking place all over Europe. One would not have had to travel far to find work at a building site. And even if laborers from northern Africa had made it this far north, these would have been people intent on trying to support their families, not building riddles into cathedrals.”

“Anything else come to mind that might help us?” Espy asked.

“Perhaps,” Bramante said. “It was my mention of Chaucer that makes me think of it. In a project of this size, one has to consider who has the potential to do something such as you’re suggesting. Because what you’ve laid out involves someone deeply involved in the construction and with the resources necessary to carry it out. Means and opportunity, as it were.”

Espy pondered that for a moment. “I think you’re onto something there. Since we’re using that language, we also need to consider motive.”

“Absolutely, Unfortunately, that’s the variable most difficult to qualify. But even without knowing a motive, we can still narrow down our suspect list.”