Serpent of Moses (18 page)

The Libyan government knew who he was; they had access to all his records the moment he entered the country. Consequently, while it was possible they had his cell number, they most certainly were tapping his home phone. Accepting a call from Stephanie meant giving away his location, which was something he was not prepared to do. At least not at the moment.

It was the same reason he couldn’t immediately call Esperanza. When he’d called her from the hotel, he had turned over her number to the Libyans. And that meant not only would her calls be monitored, her arrival in Tripoli would also be tracked. Considering these issues in the light of day helped him set his agenda—a list that, as he added items to it, grew considerably.

Pulling out his wallet, he saw that he had less than one hundred dinars and three American dollars—a paltry sum considering what he had to do.

After gathering his few belongings, Duckey did a sweep of the room to make certain he wasn’t leaving anything, then walked out the door. In the lobby, he asked the man at the desk for the locations of the nearest coffee shops and banks. Once the Libyan gave him the information, Duckey asked him for a few sheets of paper, sliding a couple of dinars across the desk.

Stepping outside, he took a few moments to scan the area for the same things he’d watched for from his room. He saw nothing suspicious and so started off toward what he determined to be the second nearest coffee shop, situated across the street from the third nearest bank. The selling point of both of these establishments was that, of all the coffee shops and banks mentioned, these were the ones situated closest to each other.

It took about five minutes before he reached Ben Arous, a well-traveled street that bisected Monastir and Msah. Duckey located the coffee shop in short order. Dodging the people who filled the sidewalks, Duckey reached the establishment and followed a pair of young women inside. The line moved quickly, and after parting with a bit more of his meager resources, he had a steaming cup of coffee and a table at which to drink it.

Thus situated, he pulled a pen from his pocket and arranged the paper on the table. He retrieved his phone and pressed the power button, his eyes finding the clock on the wall and noting the time. It was 7:42 and he guessed he had less than ten minutes.

When the phone powered up, he drilled down into his contacts list and began to transfer a selection of numbers to the paper as quickly as he could. Of the more than forty entries in the phone, he transcribed five and was in the process of committing the last one to paper even as he dialed one of them.

Esperanza picked up on the second ring.

“I don’t have much time,” he said. “So I just need you to listen. Your phone has been compromised so this is the last call you’ll receive from this number. Do you understand?”

It took a moment for Espy to process what he’d said, but when the gravity of Duckey’s voice hit her, she acknowledged her understanding.

“Don’t come to Libya,” Duckey said. “They’ll have tracked your identities through your phone records and you’ll never make it through customs.”

“Who—?” Espy started to ask, but Duckey cut her off.

“You and your brother need to either stay where you are or go investigate the other place we discussed. I’ll be in contact as soon as I can.” He looked up at the clock. 7:43. “Don’t call this number again.”

He hung up and was dialing another number before the clock had ticked over again. He knew how early it was back home and that Stephanie would be sleeping, but she answered on the second ring, sounding remarkably alert.

“You’re late,” she said, and while Duckey could hear the affection in her voice, it also held a hint of worry. He thought that appropriate, however, considering the hour he was calling.

“Steph, I need you to listen to me. Before I say anything else, I want you to know that I’m okay and I’ll be home as soon as I can, alright?”

“Okay,” she said, intuiting that it was important to Duckey that she give some sort of acknowledgment.

“I don’t have much time.” He glanced at the clock—7:45. “There’s something happening over here that’s going to require me to stop using this phone. So this is the last call you’re going to get from this number.”

As he said the words, as he weighed each one against the ticking of the clock, he felt a sick feeling building in his stomach.

“I understand,” she said, and Duckey could hear a quiver in her voice.

“That’s my girl,” he assured her, but that was all the encouragement he could spare. “As soon as we hang up, I want you to call the guy I used to play tennis with. Tell him where I am and that I could use some help. Got it?”

He wouldn’t share the name of his old boss with anyone who was listening and had to trust Stephanie to make the connection. And because of the roundabout way in which Duckey had made the request, she probably also understood that their call was being monitored.

“I’ll call him,” she promised.

“I’m sorry I can’t explain, Steph,” he said as he rose from the table, gathered his papers, and headed for the door, “but I’ll fill you in when I get back. And then we’ll have a good laugh over it.”

After telling her he loved her, Duckey ended the call. He left the coffee shop and crossed the street on his way to the bank. Reaching the ATM outside the bank, he pulled two credit cards from his wallet and took a cash advance on each. When he was finished, he felt a lot better about the condition of his wallet.

He looked at the clock on his phone—7:49.

Turning away from the ATM, he watched the cars passing by on Ben Arous. Seeing nothing promising, he started off again, heading toward Msah and continuing to scan the traffic as he walked. He held the phone in his hand, his thumb on the power button. Before long, he spotted what he was looking for.

As the pickup drew closer, Duckey moved his thumb away from the button, leaving the power on. Then, as the pickup drove past, its speed hindered by the traffic, Duckey tossed the phone into the back of the truck, where it landed among a stack of cement bags. He watched long enough to make sure the driver hadn’t seen the disposal, and then he went on his way.

Esperanza pounded on Romero’s door, knowing that her brother slept deeply. And with all the walking they’d done since arriving in Milan, it might take a thunderclap delivered by the Almighty himself to awaken him. It was almost noon and she had been up for hours, even getting in a workout in the hotel gym. Although their flight to Tripoli wasn’t scheduled for departure until almost four in the afternoon, she knew Romero was liable to awaken with just enough time to shower and get to the airport.

She pounded again, this time calling his name through the door, and was soon rewarded by sounds from the other side: a fumbling with the lock, the door opening. Romero looked as if she’d awakened him while it was still dark and not with the sun nearing its zenith.

Seeing the stern look on his sister’s face, he shook off the vestiges of sleep, moved aside, and allowed her to enter. As he closed the door behind them, Espy related her call from Duckey, her words coming so quickly that they clipped each other on the way out. As the phone call had been brief, it didn’t take her long to complete the telling.

His initial response was a wide yawn, despite the gravity of the news, but when he was done he adopted the expression that told her he was giving the news its due consideration.

“So we head to Cyme,” he said with a shrug.

At that, Espy’s eyes widened.

“You’re talking about abandoning Duckey,” she said.

“Not at all. I’m talking about doing what a former operative for the CIA has suggested we do.” Before Espy could reply he went on. “What do you propose? That we fly into Tripoli and find ourselves detained, as he said? Or perhaps engage in a surreptitious border crossing? What then? If he’s no longer using his phone, how do we contact him?”

Of course, Espy knew all of that, but sometimes she needed someone like Romero to push her in the right direction. She understood that, while they shared the same blood, she ran hotter. Given some time to think things through, however, she generally avoided making choices based solely on her level of passion. That alone had been what had kept her from killing Jack when he’d walked back into her life three years ago. That and the fervent religious belief she had accepted not long before Jack’s coming. That was why she needed her brother now—to help her make the right decision instead of the passionate one.

“You’re right,” she admitted. “I just don’t like leaving him to fend for himself.”

“Of the three of us, Jim Duckett is best suited to be put in such a position,” Romero reminded her. “In fact, my guess is that he will call on some of the same resources that made him an asset to you and Jack in the past.”

Espy was forced to admit that Romero was right. But she didn’t have to like it.

“Alright,” she said. “Change of plans. We go to Cyme.”

“Wherever that is,” Romero remarked, and Espy knew that he was considering how many more appointments he would have to cancel the longer their adventure continued.

As he placed the phone back in its cradle, Boufayed found himself wondering if he had done something that would occasion his continued rise within the organization or if the information he had provided to the undersecretary would bring about the end of his career. What he decided was that great things were not accomplished without equally great risk.

Rising from his desk in the office he’d taken upon his arrival in Al Bayda, he walked to the window and looked down on the street below. The view paled in comparison to the one from his own office window, but he also knew that somewhere on those streets, there was a man who stood to make up for what he’d lost with the death of the German historian. Because, in Boufayed’s mind, there was no way these two events could not be connected.

Admittedly the information they’d gleaned from the American’s phone call had been minimal and the incompetence of those who had planted the bug had tipped the man to the fact that he was under surveillance. Because of that, the prospects of uncovering additional information about the artifact were slim, especially now that he had gone to ground.

That was the reason for Boufayed’s call to the undersecretary—to inform him that an American agent was wandering the streets of one of Libya’s largest cities, that he had switched to paper currency and cut off all contact. In his decades playing the game, Boufayed knew what James Duckett would do. He would not run; rather, he would find a hole and settle in until the pressure eased. Only then would he attempt to leave. And Boufayed knew that an agent of the CIA could dig in deep, and could wait a very long time.

There were only two courses of action available to him. First, he would spread a net, hoping the American would make a mistake. And then he would watch the borders with greater care. Duckett would eventually require help, and that help would come from outside.

Boufayed returned to his desk, but rather than turning his attention to the report he’d been reading, he reached for the Christian Bible he’d had one of his aides bring him that morning. He was not a religious man but did appreciate much of the philosophy espoused in the book, as well as in the Koran more widely read among his countrymen. Too, in the culture in which he lived, it was beneficial—even necessary—to have more than a passing familiarity with the Scriptures. He opened it to the portion he’d bookmarked and reread the story in its entirety. An abbreviated account, it did not provide much detail, yet enough was there to paint a vivid picture in Boufayed’s mind.

It was the sort of account that lent credence to the possibility that the event had happened, if not in the book’s final form, then in some fashion—before the mysticism espoused by a primitive people had added to it the fantastic elements that made for good fiction.

Despite his failure to believe in the account as it was written, Boufayed saw no reason to discount the possibility that the staff itself existed. The presence of a CIA agent in his country, and the hint that an archaeologist had gone missing in the hunt for the object convinced him that ignoring the prospect of its reality was not an option.

To recover an object of antiquity in his own country, regardless of the religion to which the item belonged, would provide Boufayed with a groundswell of support that, if he were to move in the right manner and at the right time, would greatly increase his political capital.

Then there were the Israelis, who apparently wanted the artifact badly enough that they’d risked sending in Mossad agents to recover it. The thought of claiming the staff before they could succeed in what could only be an alliance with the Americans was something Boufayed could not pass up.

Something like the staff was a rare opportunity to achieve something extraordinary. So as far as he was concerned, the American could stay in his hole for as long as he wanted. Because Boufayed would be there waiting for him whenever he chose to emerge.

The car worked its way through the thick traffic that clogged the streets of Milan, a mass of disparate parts made up of cars, buses, mopeds, and anything else with wheels, combining to form a single organism. The car became part of that organism and then, after a few miles, separated from it, pulling up in front of the cathedral. A man emerged from the car and walked quickly toward the massive church, entering the duomo without so much as a glance at the architecture. Once he was inside, another man joined him. They greeted each other in Hebrew before switching to Italian.

“Where are they?” the first man asked.

“They’re staying at the Carlton Baglioni and have not yet left.”

The first man nodded and then turned his attention to the altar area.

“It’s this way,” said the other, gesturing for him to follow.

When they reached the dais, the first man gave it a quick perusal but did not stop. Instead, he allowed the other to lead him to the sarcophagus.

“You are certain they discovered something here?” He reached out and felt the smooth stone of the tomb, sending his fingers over the lines cut into the lid and the interment chamber.

“I sent pictures to our experts and they believe they may have discovered something, although they are not certain.”

This was received with a nod.

“I took the liberty of conducting a background check once they checked in to their hotel,” the second man said. “The woman is Dr. Esperanza Habilla. A foreign language expert with the University of Caracas. The man with her is Romero Habilla, an antiquities dealer.”

The first man raised an eyebrow. “Habilla . . . are they married?”

“Brother and sister.”

“Interesting.”

After regarding the tomb for a few moments longer, he pulled his hand back, smiling at an elderly couple who had approached, camera at the ready. As he stepped out of their way, the other man gestured him aside.

“Why are we interested in them?” he asked.

“Because Jack Hawthorne used to teach with a man named James Duckett, who also happens to be a former CIA agent. And as Duckett is now in Libya, and as he called this Esperanza Habilla last night, we can only assume that the circle of this enterprise has grown to include them.”

The other absorbed that and gave a nod.

“There is something else,” he continued. “It seems that Hawthorne was also in Milan recently. In fact, his flight to Tripoli originated here.”

The first man frowned.

“The involvement of the Americans complicates things,” he said after a time.

“It always does.” A pause. “Perhaps we should have hired Dr. Hawthorne to begin with.”

“Ours is not to make such decisions.”

“So, what now?”

“We wait to see what the analysts say. And we wait to see what the Habillas do next.” He cast his eyes over the sarcophagus again, as if searching for something, then turned on his heel and left.