Threatcon Delta (20 page)

T
here were at least four potential outsiders in St. Catherine’s Monastery. At least, that was what Lieutenant Adjo had decided after three hours of careful observation and census-taking.

Sitting on the mountainside, hidden from view by rocks and scrub, Adjo had identified the possible outsiders not by their robes, which were identical to those of the monks, but by their movements. All walked with speed and purpose that was not to be found in the others. They came and went from St. Stephen’s chapel, which, according to his tourist map, was also the home of the archives. He noticed a satellite dish on the side of the building. Even monks needed Internet access, and he surmised that was how they communicated with the outside world.

Or God,
he thought with a grin.

There didn’t seem to be any pattern to the comings and goings. The four he was focused on communicated only with themselves, not with the other monks. What’s more, the rest of the clergy were acting as though these people were invisible. That was uncommon. When Adjo was down there, the monks had busied themselves in and around the structures but always kept a protective eye on them.

Adjo decided the best way to do that was to talk to one of the men who at least acted like a monk. If the others were unwelcome guests, perhaps one of the clergy would tell him. Adjo didn’t want to wait until the tour reopened. Whatever these people were doing, they had obviously planned events so that they’d be ready when the MFO pulled out and the buses were allowed back in.

He studied the wall below and saw a spot where he could use a tree to move over onto one of the slate rooftops. Adjo was unconcerned about the sniper; he had accomplished his mission and was probably long gone. Moreover, a gunshot now would cause the place to be shut down indefinitely. He didn’t think they wanted that. What’s more, if he
had
been the target, he had different clothes now. For all the organizers knew, he was a different man.

I am the same,
he thought,
only more.

If there was a plot afoot and Egypt was the target, he intended to stop it. Adjo’s biggest fear was that someone wanted to undermine the new, vulnerable sovereignty of a secular Egypt. After poverty, that was the government’s biggest concern and it was the primary focus of 777.

If this situation with the Staff of Moses got out of hand, Egypt could not necessarily rely on help from the United Nations. That could be an advantage, as the United Nations sometimes concerned itself with policing international borders to an extent that blocked the efforts of a nation trying to cauterize the reach of an international threat. But it could also be a disadvantage. When Egypt’s army in 2013 put down the oppressive Muslim Brotherhood regime that had taken its democratic election as a license to install a nondemocratic system, some divisions of the army had shown signs of power madness. The results were bloodier than they should have been. The persons responsible in those divisions were weeded out, but perhaps if Egypt’s army had to deal with an internal threat again so soon, more of its officers would go mad. That would be a scenario where assistance from the United Nations could be stabilizing and supportive.

Adjo decided not to inform Lieutenant General Samra of his plan. The lieutenant general would probably order him to stand down. The monastery was not Egyptian property, and the matter was too volatile for anyone to go poking around.

Both of those reasons suggested why the plotters might feel immune and would not expect him. Making sure his phone, water, and a pouch of food were secure deep in his pockets, Adjo started down.

The descent was not as easy as he’d expected. Gravity worked against him, pulling him along slopes of broken, unsecured stone. More often than not their steepness prevented him from walking. He had to crawl down backward, stiff-legged, his head craned toward the foot of the mountain.

The north face of the monastery wall was lined with fruit trees, part of the large exterior garden that helped feed the monks. These were set back behind the smaller, intervening wall that Adjo could use to reach a large branch that came close enough to make the crossover. Whether he could do it without being seen or heard was the question. If Adjo were caught, he could always claim to be a pilgrim who was eager to see the prophet. Even Bedouins had cell phones these days.

Heights in the darkness were misleading. Climbing the meter-high outer wall, Adjo still had to reach the lowest branch from a standing jump. His hands raw from the descent, he found it difficult to grab and hold the limb. He made several attempts and on the last, the cell phone hopped from his pocket and clattered loudly on the ancient granite cobbles. Adjo scurried back down. Though the phone was undamaged, the noise attracted the attention of someone on the inside. The young lieutenant heard the gate squeal on its large, iron hinges.

Deciding to play his part, Adjo shook the tree hard, hoping to dislodge an apple. One fell just as a monk came around the corner, his robe swirling angrily behind him. Though the monk bunched up his robe quickly as he approached, Adjo saw what he never expected to see.

Unless the order had undergone a radical change, Adjo did not think the monks carried firearms in shoulder holsters.

T
he houses in the Alto Hatillo were angular three-and four-story structures, well kept and discreetly hidden behind trees and large shrubs. The curving residential street seemed out of place in the gleaming city, which was no doubt what made it desirable to the rich and titled. Phair imagined that the home had been in the family of Guardia Nacional Comandante General Montilla for many, many years.

Just like in Iraq,
Phair thought unhappily. The homes there were one or two rooms, made of stone or bare wood and corrugated tin. The families simply couldn’t afford to go anywhere else. He found it unsettling that his frame of reference was that, and not the Philadelphia suburb where he grew up.

The men exited the taxi down the street and walked over.

“I assume we got off here to make sure we weren’t followed,” Phair said.

“I’m sure we’re being followed,” Kealey said. “The idea is to be followed only by Ramirez’s employees and not the police. Also, car doors slamming have an injurious effect on the psyche. People assume it’s the police or bad news and are automatically on guard.”

“But everyone answers a doorbell,” Phair said.

“They may keep the chain on, but they’ll see who it is,” Kealey replied.

The men walked along a sidewalk and came to the white-painted iron gate of the house Ned Hull had cited. There was an intercom system, a small camera, and a locking mechanism on the gate at which Kealey peered. To Phair’s surprise, Kealey simply pushed the gate—and it opened. Either someone living there was absentminded, or the assistance Kealey had negotiated for had come up with one hell of a beautiful lie. Kealey did not look grateful. He looked stern, almost angry. Now at the front door of the house, Kealey pressed the bell. Phair heard it buzz inside. He heard a woman talking in Spanish, probably on the telephone. The voice came nearer, still talking.

“Is your wallet handy?” Kealey asked.

“Yes.”

“Get it out, keep it hidden in your hand.”

Phair obeyed. He wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t had a driver’s license in years.

“If it’s the granddaughter and not a housekeeper, I want you to ask to see her grandfather,” Kealey said.

“Tell her you have a theological question.”

“How will I know if it’s her—”

“The shoes,” Kealey said. “Housekeepers wear simple, inexpensive brands. When you ask, tell the truth except who we work for. You’re a seminarian and I’m the librarian.”

“No, you’re crazy!”

“Improvise!” Kealey snapped. “Uneasiness is disarming.”

In that case she’ll be putty,
Phair thought. Kealey had planned it this way. He was a formidable man, damn him.

The door opened and a young, wary, very pretty face looked through the screen door.

“
¿Sí?”

“I am Father James Phair,” he said, swallowing hard as his voice cracked. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes. What do you want?” Her eyes shifted suspiciously from Phair to Kealey. “How did you get past the gate?”

“The gate was open.”

She pursed her lips in irritation.

“We’re seeking help, ma’am. On a religious matter.”

The woman’s eyes returned to Phair. Her expression was still guarded. “Are you sure you have the right house?”

“We are—we do,” he said. “This is a little awkward—”

“Say it,” she said impatiently.

“Someone claims to have found the Staff of the prophet Moses,” Phair said, forcing out his words on the back of a big, deep breath. “We do not believe this to be the case.”

He stopped. She said nothing. That was a good sign. At least she wasn’t denying that there was someone there who might be able to help.

“We have files in our library, of which my companion is the curator, which suggest a gentleman named Lukas Durst, at this address, may have information which can help,” Phair said.

The young woman’s eyes shifted to Kealey. “
You’re
a librarian,” she said.

“Senior librarian,” he corrected in his softest voice, with a disarming little bow.

“Where is this library?” the woman asked.

“In the United States. Philadelphia,” Kealey answered.

“Do you have identification?” she asked.

“I’m not a member of the clergy, but Father Phair has his ordination card—if that will do.”

Phair opened his wallet and took out a white card with black type and a gold seal showing a church spire against the sun. The card was laminated; despite that, it looked every year of its two decades. It caused the woman to relax. The fact that he had his wallet out, ready for her inspection, showed that he had anticipated—and respected—her caution.

The woman studied them a moment longer. “
Azor miyad,
” she said.

The men looked at her blankly.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and closed the door.

“Hebrew,” Kealey said from the side of his mouth.

“What was she doing, testing us?”

“Exactly,” Kealey said. He looked casually up and down the street. “An Israeli agent looking for Durst might have slipped up and answered, or at least indicated that he understood.”

“You know, I don’t appreciate how you handled this,” Phair said. “You used me.”

“It went fine.”

“It might not have.”

“You spent years doing this in Iraq,” Kealey told him. “I knew you’d be fine.”

Kealey’s eyes lingered on the north side of the street for a moment. Then he turned back to the door.

“I don’t know how much time we’re going to have,” Kealey said. “There’s a car parked across the street with two people inside, just sitting. They weren’t there when we arrived.”

“Couldn’t they be ours? Or Ramir—”

Kealey cut off the name. “Not in the open like that. Given the old money on this street, I’d guess that marked and unmarked police patrols are fairly regular. Not all the residents here are under our friend’s protection and they would want some vigilance on the part of the city.”

“And if these are not the regular patrol?”

“We won’t have a lot of time to get what we came for,” he replied vaguely.

“What about the translator?” Phair would have looked himself but was afraid to turn from the door. He didn’t want the occupants of the car to see the fear in his expression.

“She arrived on her bicycle shortly after we did,” he said. “She’s sitting on the curb drinking water and checking cell phone messages.”

Carla Montilla returned. “My grandfather is on the patio in back,” she said through the screen. “Go around the side. I will meet you there.”

Kealey and Phair turned to the right, following the slate path.

“I wasn’t expecting open arms,” Phair said.

“Men in hiding tend to be bored as hell here.”

“Her reaction surprises me more than his.”

“Did it ever occur to you that she may believe us?”

Phair looked at the clean, sandy red bricks of the house and the ivy-covered lattice fence to their right. The house and grounds were extremely well kept.

“Also, I never pictured these expatriates living in luxury,” Phair said with a hint of distaste. “Whenever I read about them in the press, I imagined remote farms or huts in a jungle somewhere.”

“The Eichmanns and Mengeles had to live like that,” Kealey told him, “the ones who had to go deep undercover to avoid justice. The others, the functionaries, simply went here because that’s where the wealth of the crumbling Reich was smuggled for them to draw on while they waited to be called to action. Of course, our host apparently found additional income.”

The thought gave Phair a chill as they rounded the corner.

A tall, white-haired man was stretched on a chaise lounge. He had on tan shorts and his legs and bare feet were bronzed from decades of sun. He wore a white T-shirt and an amber visor. He rose as the guests came over.

“Welcome,” he said, his English thickly accented with his native German inflection. “I so seldom have visitors.”

“You speak English, sir,” Kealey observed.

“My late wife has taught me,” he said, extending his hands to Kealey and to Phair simultaneously. “She was a journalist.” His grip was surprisingly strong. He released their hands and gestured toward a group of folded wooden chairs leaning against the wall of the house. “I am told by my granddaughter you have a matter involving the Staff of Moses.”

“Yes, sir,” Phair said.

“Records of some manner suggested to you that I can be of assistance?”

The men opened chairs and arranged them near Durst. “Declassified documents indicate that during the war you were part of a group that traveled the globe in search of religious relics,” Kealey said.

“
Ja,
that is so,” Durst replied as he eased back onto the lounge. He looked from one man to the other. “Who is the superior? You seem the elder,” he indicated Phair.

“We’re a team,” Phair said thinly.

“Teamwork is everything,” Durst said.

Carla Montilla emerged from the house carrying a tray with a pitcher and glasses. She set them on a table, poured iced tea for everyone, handed a glass to her grandfather, and opened a chair for herself.

“What exactly is the situation that brings you so far from Philadelphia to discuss?” the German asked.

“Mr. Durst, someone—we don’t know who—has placed himself in a cave atop Mt. Sinai and claims to have the Staff,” Kealey said. “He apparently transformed it into a serpent, which has attracted a large following in the Middle East.”

“Stupid dogs,” Durst said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“What do you mean?” Kealey asked, simultaneously calming Phair with a glance. He knew the comment would not sit well.

“They follow a scent here, follow it there. Whatever camel smells the best. It has always been so. Do you have a picture of this supposed Staff?”

“We don’t,” Kealey said.

“Well, it is unlikely to be authentic,” Durst said.

“Why, sir?”

“Because we found it and buried it,” Durst replied with a little laugh. His hand waved again. “A useless piece of wood.”

“How do you know you found the authentic Staff?” Phair asked. The revelation had blown past his distaste.

“It was with the authentic Ark of the Covenant in Ethiopia,” Durst said, still chuckling.

“How did it get there?” Phair asked.

“It was shipped by the old Jew king—what was his name?”

“Solomon, grandfather,” Carla said.

“
Ja, ja.
He had troubles and sent it with his son by the whore of Sheba,” Durst went on. “It was hidden for centuries in a church and the Jews never knew it.”

“How did you find out about it?” Phair asked. “Were there records?”

“We interrogated the locals, everywhere we went,” he answered. “They talked to us. And when we had the objects we took them to study and do you know what we found? Science, not the supernatural! The surface of the Ark was—
goldblatt
?”

“Gold leaf,” Carla said.

“Yes, still all of it there. It was covered with a woolen blanket and carried on wooden poles. You see what that did?”

“Not really,” Kealey said.

“
Hin und her, hin und her,
” he moved his hands back and forth. “The blanket created a charge. Anyone who touched it would be killed by the
statisch.
Sixty thousand volts of electricity was created by this chest!”

Phair was dumbfounded. “That was the fire of God?”

“Not God,” Durst said. “The bearers!”

“Where did you put these artifacts?” Kealey asked.

“The chest is gone,” Durst said. “We needed gold to continue our search and so we heated it. The wood beneath it burned. We buried the other thing, the Staff, in Morocco while we searched for the true cross. We intended to recover the Staff later for tests. As far as I know, the trunk that held it is there still.”

“You burned the Ark?” Phair blurted. “It is one of the greatest treasures in the history of humankind!”

“To whom?” Durst asked.

“That gets to the problem we have now, sir,” Kealey said. “You see, we believe this new prophet is looking to use his false Staff to help start a mighty jihad in the Middle East. One that will cause trouble throughout the world.”

“Who exactly are you?” Carla asked Kealey suspiciously. “Why would seminarians care about this?”

“He is no librarian,” Durst laughed. “This one is a Catholic priest, that I can see,” he indicated Phair. “But this one has been outside. He keeps the other one at bay with his eyes and is skilled at asking direct questions. He has done this before.”

“You are correct, sir,” Kealey said. “I am no librarian. I work for the United States government in the capacity of a jihad-preventer.”

“You fight these people?”

Kealey nodded.

“You could have been honest with me,” Carla said angrily.

“I’m sorry, there wasn’t time,” Kealey said. “The situation overseas is tense, and I didn’t know how much time we would have for this interview. Our countries are not on the best of terms.”

“But we, you and I, have a common foe,” Durst said proudly. “The Jew, the Arab, the African. Christian America has never been our enemy.”

Phair was deeply silent as he glanced at Carla.

She said, if not proudly then without apology, “We have agreed that my grandfather’s ideas are his and mine are mine.”

“My unfashionable ideas,” her grandfather said, lightly baiting her.

She only shook her head at him. Her refusal to explicate further bespoke what must have been a history of arguments. Apparently they had valued their relationship more than winning their debates, for there was peace and affection here.