by Don Hoesel
“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.
23
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.
24
As Imolene drove, he all but ignored the man in the seat next to him—a man who hadn’t spoken a word for several hours, not even to complain about the mild injuries the Egyptian had inflicted upon him. Not long after leaving the Medenine suburbs in pursuit of Templeton, the Englishman had surprised him by pulling the jeep to the side of the road, exiting, and then standing there until Imolene pulled in behind him. At that point, as Imolene watched in amazement, Templeton had reached into the back seat, picked up the staff, and removed the wrappings, revealing a broom handle. That done, Templeton had tossed the thing to the ground and strode to Imolene’s truck, opening the passenger door and sliding in. The only thing that had kept the Egyptian from killing him in that moment had been the utter absurdity of it all. That hadn’t stopped him, though, from making sure the other man was keenly aware of his displeasure.
Templeton had told him about the danger that would present itself if he returned to where Hawthorne had holed up, and so Imolene had been forced to choose a different course of action. Templeton, meanwhile, hoped to buy his life by helping to retrieve the artifact from the American. As Imolene headed north toward Gfat, he pondered what sort of help that might be. Still, Templeton had spent a good deal of time with the American and could have insights Imolene did not have.
He pondered his circumstances. Not every job turned out precisely as he’d planned it; it was the outcome that mattered, rather than the process by which one achieved that outcome. If he succeeded in recovering the staff, and if he was able to dispatch Templeton and Hawthorne to the Israelis’ satisfaction, perhaps then he would see his current business arrangement come to an amicable end. He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking he would ever work for them again, but if he could end the relationship with his skin intact, he would count it a win.
His musing was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. Recognizing the number, his first thought was that some higher power had orchestrated it. He answered.
“There has been a change in plans” came the familiar voice.
Imolene kept his silence, waiting for the man to continue.
“You will catch the next flight to Istanbul,” the Israeli said. “Once you arrive, I will contact you again.”
Imolene understood that acceptance of any directives given him was the best choice. However, leaving northern Africa for Turkey was a significant enough change in the parameters of his employ that he felt the need to ask, “While I’m pleased to do as you ask, would you tell me why my presence in Turkey is needed?”
“It’s needed because you have lost what we are paying you to recover, and because there is the potential that you may yet redeem yourself.”
There was nothing in the Israeli’s tone to indicate the words were personal or were a threat of any kind. Rather, the statement told Imolene that this was nothing more than an expedient business arrangement—one the Israelis could end when, and in whatever manner, they chose. It was one of the reasons he didn’t mention his knowledge of their foray into Tunisia. Admitting to that sort of information would have made his position even less tenable.
With that in mind, he decided to tell them of the recent turn of events, with Templeton expressing special interest at the mention of his name. When Imolene had finished, there was a calculating silence on the other end of the line.
“Bring him to Istanbul,” the man said.
Imolene pondered that—how he would get through the airport a man who would have no desire to do so.
“Tell Mr. Templeton that accompanying you to Turkey is the only hope he has of living once this mess you’ve caused is over.”
Imole
ne acknowledged his understanding. After ending the call, he turned to Templeton and gave the man a smile, although it was absent of any kindness.
Duckey removed the gloves, now covered in black dye, and tossed them into the trash can next to the sink, then turned his attention back to the mirror. He tried to review his work, despite the crack that ran through the center of it. He thought the black hair made him look younger, especially with the touch-up of the thin beard that had begun to show the gray spots. The difference between the man who looked back at him in the mirror and the picture in his passport was significant enough now that few people would make the connection at first glance. When one threw in the added effects of sleep deprivation and stress, which had caused dark circles to form under his eyes, the transformation was even more remarkable.
He grabbed a handful of paper towels and dabbed at a few spots on his temple and next to his ears, where ash-colored water was gathering to form a run down to his neck. He watched for a while longer, towels at the ready, but didn’t see any additional runs.
Sending the towels after the gloves, Duckey removed his clothes and changed into a pair of old jeans and a long, flowing white shirt—both of which he’d purchased at a thrift store. As Duckey had walked the streets of Al Bayda over the last few days, he’d noticed that more than half the people he saw wore jeans. The long and baggy shirts were common as well. Duckey had marveled at the variety of colors and patterns of the shirts, though he’d opted for white so as to draw as little attention as possible.
Once dressed, he donned the Yankees cap he’d received in trade from a teenager in exchange for his lighter. Duckey had tried to offer the kid money, but the boy had held out for the lighter. When he finished, he gave himself one more review and found himself chuckling—wondering if even his wife would recognize him if he came up to her in a crowd and stood at her side.
