The 13th Tribe

by Robert Liparulo

  He turned to see Mark standing there. Half of his face was gone, and glass peppered the other side like freckles. Smoke coiled out of a hole in his skull. One shoulder drooped as though his arm started at the base of his neck. His chest was caved in, his shirt pushed in with it, clinging to broken ribs. The crater was the size and shape of a steering wheel. At the bottom, over his breastbone, blood seeped through the material. It formed the Toyota logo, then spread into an indistinguishable mass. He glared at Jagger, then rolled a lidless eye toward the drunk driver. “Do it,” he repeated.

  Jagger felt weight in his hands and realized he was holding an M240 belt-fed machine gun, the pride of the Rangers in Iraq. He looked up at the driver, who was facing him now, holding his palms up as if to say, Whatcha gonna do?

  “Shoot him,” Mark’s corpse said. “For me, for Cyndi, for Robby, for Brianna.” He nudged Jagger’s shoulder with bloody fingers.

  Jagger hefted the weapon and took aim.

  “Come on, man, you know he deserves it,” the corpse said and nudged him again and again, making it impossible for Jagger to lock onto the drunk. Over the gun’s wavering sights the guy started laughing. Then he broke up and disappeared.

  Jagger’s eyes snapped open. A spear of light cut across the ceiling over his head. He groaned and squeezed his eyes tight. Always the same nightmare . . . leaving him grieved and angry and frustrated.

  Mark’s corpse nudged him again, and he jumped, rolling in bed to face the monster come to life.

  Tyler was hunched beside the bed, shaking him. His lips formed the word Dad?

  Jagger reached to his ear and pulled out a bullet-shaped wedge of foam. The loud clanging of a woden scmantron in the monastery’s bell tower rushed in, waking him as surely as a splash of cold water. There was no need to look at the clock; the tolling sounded every morning at 4:15, calling the monks to matins, the first service of the day.

  “Tyler,” he said, “what is it?”

  “The gonging woke me.”

  Jagger craned to see Beth. She shifted and murmured quietly, but remained asleep. He rolled back and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Where are your earplugs?”

  “I can’t sleep with them. All I hear is my heartbeat, filling my head.”

  “Better than waking up this early.”

  Tyler frowned. The boy had something on his mind.

  Jagger propped himself up on an elbow. “What are you thinking, son?”

  [ 24 ]

  Although it was the dominant building within the monastery walls, the Church of the Transfiguration was small by modern standards. Built between 542 and 551, it was designed as a place of worship for the monks, not the public. Within, its marble, gold, and rare art could buy Trump Tower with a few million to spare.

  Jagger quietly pulled open one of the heavy cypress doors, which had hung at the basilica’s entrance since it was new. He held it for Tyler, who stopped to gaze up at the inscription overhead. It was too dark to see the Greek words; still, Tyler recited from memory: “This is the gate to the Lord; the righteous shall enter into it.” As rambunctious as he was, the boy accorded the monastery a deference Jagger found hard to muster. It may have come from talking to the monks, or from his mother’s awe of the place’s venerable traditions and sites, but Jagger didn’t think so. He suspected it came from someplace more primal, someplace at the heart of Christ’s admonition to “become like little children.”

  The righteous shall enter.

  He almost said, Maybe I should wait outside, but he didn’t think his son would appreciate the joke.

  Tyler smiled at him and stepped inside. Jagger followed and eased the door closed. The service had started. Across the nave’s floor of intricately patterned tiles, a monk stood at a lectern, chanting a prayer. The language was lost on Jagger—Byzantine Greek, he had learned—but its singsongy cadence and the reverence in which it was delivered instantly calmed the remnants of the nightmare’s emotions.

  Jagger followed Tyler into the dark nave. The only light came from a lantern above the praying monk. They found a wooden bench against a wall and sat. Slowly, monks in black robes lowered brass lamps suspended from the ceiling, lit them, and raised them again. The lamps turned and swung, filling the room with an undulating amber glow. The chains and chandeliers, granite columns, and ornately decorated walls seemed to pulse with life. Above the altar, mounted to a beam that spanned the room, hung a massive gold-painted crucifix—upon which Christ appeared to be gasping for breath. As the lamps settled, Christ’s breathing slowed and stopped. Jagger felt, simultaneously, a shiver along his spine and a warmth filling his chest.

  The monk at the lectern finished and backed away. Another monk stepped up and began chanting a passage from a leather-bound book the size of a gravestone. Moving as stealthily as shadows, monks roamed the church, stopping at icons to light candles and pray. A monk appeared from one of the nine tiny chapels that lined the sides and back of the church, waving a smoking lantern. The smell of lilacs and charred timber filled the room.

  The fifteen-centuries-old structure . . . the religious relics from every century since . . . the strange combination of majestic splendor and subdued humility . . . the ancient words and bowed servants: at that moment, the church felt like a bit of heaven on earth, like one of the mansions Jesus promised to prepare for his saints. It wasn’t hard to imagine God himself setting this place here, at the base of the mountain on which he spoke to Moses.

  Jagger felt like a trespasser. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God; he had spent too many years studying the Word, praying with Beth, attending church to completely reject the idea of the Almighty. He just wasn’t so sure he liked God, wasn’t so sure God liked him . . . or any of his creations. Intellectually, he understood what C. S. Lewis called the “problem of pain” as it related to reconciling human suffering with a loving God. He grasped the concept of Isaiah 55:8: For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways. That is, humans don’t establish the standards of what is right. And Jagger would have argued God’s position—until it had leapt off the pages of theological and Christian-living books and gouged out his heart. He felt bloodied and beaten, left for dead in a ditch, the glassy eyes of the Bransfords glaring at him.

  Still, Jagger hoped that it was he who had the problem, not God. If it were God’s problem, all was lost; life was meaningless. But if he, Jagger, just wasn’t getting it, then there was a chance of finding peace once more, of reclaiming the comfort he’d known back when he believed God was good and caring.

  It was this hope, small as it was, that had driven him to take his present job. If he couldn’t bring his spirit to God, he could at least put his body someplace where God’s presence was everywhere: in the work being done, the conversations being shared, even the mountains being climbed.

  Beth, smart gal that she was, had agreed. Last night he’d almost told her he was coming around. He was happier—with her, with Tyler, with life in general. God was more on his mind than he’d been in the States. How could he not be, here? But Jagger wasn’t sure he felt any closer to him or that his attitude about the Big Man’s disposition toward mankind had improved.

  A monk floated past them, the hem of his robe whispering along the floor. Jagger leaned into Tyler’s shoulder to tell him it was time to go. He glanced over to see the boy’s head bowed, hands clasped in his lap. His son was praying. Jagger wondered what he was bringing before God. He thought he knew, and his heart ached. He wanted to give Tyler something—hope, maybe—so he mimicked his son’s body language, interlacing his fingers and closing his eyes. He vowed to stay that way until he knew Tyler saw him, but then a strange thing happened. He forgot about Tyler and found himself tentatively, even reluctantly talking to his Creator.

  [ 25 ]

  Elias stared out of the charter jet’s cabin window, absently rubbing through his shirt the nearly healed bullet wound over his heart. Only a few lights dotted the Hungarian terrain below Elias’s jet, like
a small handful of diamonds scattered over black velvet. Behind him, pinpricks of light illuminated the otherwise empty cabin, so his bearded reflection in the Plexiglas window appeared to be a ghost among the stars.

  He turned back to the thick book on the table in front of him. It was a modern printing of the Septuagint Bible, in the original Greek. As much as he enjoyed talking comic books with Jordan, sports cars with Toby, and firearms with Phin, he loved dissecting theological issues with Ben. Usually he’d let Ben rant and expound ad infinitum, then he’d drop a bomb on the man’s logic, correcting a misinterpreted Hebrew phrase or reminding him of a cultural context that flipped Ben’s opinion on its head. And always he’d do so in fewer words than a Chinese fortune cookie: a word to the wise really was sufficient, and he had no patience for fools.

  He cracked open the Bible. On every page lines glowed under yellow, orange, and green highlighting. The margins were packed with his scribbled notes. He’d taken to squeezing memos between the printed lines. The ink or pencil he’d used at the time and the handwriting itself helped him remember what he was thinking when he wrote it, even years later. It was one reason he ignored Ben’s encouragement to switch to an e-book reader. Lugging the heavy book—or any of his other favorite reads—was a small sacrifice for the history of his thoughts.

  He found himself reading the same passage a third time before realizing his mind wasn’t in it tonight. He closed the book and leaned back into the seat. From his shirt pocket he pulled a thin box of rolling papers and a bag of tobacco. He rolled himself a cigarette and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. He found his Zippo and sat there flipping open the top, lighting the wick, and closing it again, over and over. He wondered if Creed would really go as far as the Trongsa Dzong. It was easier to climb Everest with a Sherpa on your back, or so it seemed to Elias: the twelve-hour flight to Paro, which hosted Bhutan’s only airport, followed by a painfully slow drive on coiling roads to Trongsa. He doubted Creed would undertake the journey if he was seriously wounded. Then again, he’d want to get as far away as possible, and Trongsa was both distant and a Haven.

  He shook his head at Creed’s defection. The man had been with them so long. Why now? It was the Amalek Project that bugged him. But there’d been others in which Creed had participated. Okay, none so . . . ambitious. Still, to leave and sabotage the whole thing was beyond Elias’s comprehension. Fool.

  He eyed the duffel bag in the ridiculously luxurious chair across the aisle from his seat. Protruding from the duffel was the handle of a falcata, a brutally powerful sword. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but there it was, just in case.

  X I I I

  Jordan’s chartered flight arrived at London Luton Airport’s private jet terminal well before sunrise. After checking through customs and finding the chauffeured car Sebastian had arranged for him, he instructed the driver to take him to the corner of Fleet Street and Inner Temple Lane.

  “Your dad told me,” the driver said, adjusting the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Jordan in the backseat. “He a barrister, your dad? Or solicitor?” They were heading for the heart of London’s judicial district.

  “My dad? Yeah, something like that.”

  “What are you, eleven? Pretty young to be traveling alone.”

  Jordan unzipped the daypack he’d brought and pushed his hand past a change of clothes and a satellite phone to the wad of cash Ben had given him. He peeled off a ten-pound note and handed it over the seat to the driver.

  “What’s this for?” the driver said.

  “Peace and quiet,” Jordan said. He smiled at the mirror, which the driver then returned to its original position. Thirty minutes later Jordan gave the mute driver another ten pounds and climbed out. At that hour, the area was nearly deserted. Only a few cars cruised the street. Jordan wore khaki slacks and a green polo shirt, hoping anyone curious about him would mistake him for a student. It was a weak disguise he didn’t want to test.

  A block away, a dark figure jangled keys in front of a storefront. Probably a restaurant or bakery, Jordan thought. Gotta get ready for a rush of breakfast customers. He knew how the people would come, like a spring rain with a few drops leading to a light sprinkle, then an all-out downpour. He had to get into position before then. He moved south on Inner Temple and within a few steps saw the portico protecting the west door of Temple Church. Lamps mounted high on the surrounding buildings left few shadows to cover his approach. No one around as far as he could tell, but still he stayed close to the walls and kept his steps quiet.

  The church’s famous round structure came into view, and Jordan stopped. Looking past the rear of the church, he spotted one side of the Master of the Temple’s big brick house. It was there that Creed would seek help. A wall and gate kept tourists from approaching.

  Jordan adjusted the daypack’s straps over his shoulders and passed the church’s west door into the front court. It was a wide-open area whose only adornment was a statue of two Knights Templar riding a horse. He had brought his soccer ball, hoping to kick it around—maybe get a few local boys to help with the ruse—while watching for Creed. But he realized now that the Master’s house was out of sight from the court. He crossed to the far side of the church, where another wall and gate stretched between the church and another building. Through the gate he could see the front of the house. Between him and the house lay a grassy lawn lined on both sides with bushes and trees.

  “Okay, then,” he said, slipping off his pack and tossing it over the brick wall. He followed and dropped onto the grass. He circled the house and didn’t find any lighted windows. If Creed had beaten him here, injured or not, at least some lights would be burning. There was a rear door, but anyone heading for it would have to cross Jordan’s sightline from where he planned on stationing himself in front. He returned to the grassy area and pushed himself behind a heavily foliated bush at the northeast corner of the church. He had a clear view of the house’s front door, its west side, and the alleyway leading to it from the east.

  He sat and pressed his back against the church, knees bent up. He pulled the pack into his lap and unzipped it. He made sure the satellite phone was set to vibrate and pushed it down the front of his shirt so he’d feel it against his chest if it rang. Then he withdraw a Carambar and slid the pack to the ground beside him. As he unwrapped the candy, he looked at each of the house’s dark front windows. He wanted to be the one to spot Creed, but he felt guilty about it. Creed was old enough to be his father, but he’d always acted more like a big brother. He took the time to play with him, and he’d always been patient about explaining things when the others wouldn’t. In the end, however, Jordan’s loyalty was to the Tribe, and anyone who threatened it was the enemy. Besides, all they wanted was the chip. Creed would be okay, and maybe someday he’d come back.

  He stuck the end of the candy in his mouth and flattened the wrapper against his thigh. He leaned sideways to put the backside of the wrapper in the glow of a lamp and read the riddle printed there in French:

  The strongest chains will not bind it,

  Ditch and rampart will not slow it down.

  A thousand soldiers cannot beat it,

  It can knock down trees with a single push.

  He worked the caramel soft with his tongue and teeth as he thought about it. “Wind,” he said, scrunching up the wrapper and shoving it into the pack. He wiggled his rump until the dirt yielded a more comfortable seat and squared his shoulders against the wall. Then he watched the sky lighten to day and waited for Creed.

  [ 26 ]

  Ollie had convinced Gheronda to let him use the apartment below Jagger’s to catalog and store the site’s discoveries. It was there Jagger was headed, with Addison and a hand-carted crate, when a noise stopped him. Faint, almost not a sound at all. If it weren’t for its repetition—tap-tap-tap, like the bass beats of a distant lowrider—he never would have noticed. From his position in front of the outside wall of the monastery he could see out of the valley, past St
. Catherine’s Village to the Plain of el-Raha stretching to the horizon. A black dot in the sky grew larger as it approached: a helicopter. The sound of its blades chopping the air rushed ahead of it and bounced off the valley walls.

  “Isn’t this restricted air space?” Jagger said.

  “This and almost every tourist site in Egypt,” Addison said. “Before the ban the things swarmed like flies, ruining the experience for everybody else.”

  Jagger pulled a small notepad and pencil from his breast pocket and checked his watch: 10:07. He recorded this, then turned in a complete circle. Tourists in front of the monastery gate either watched the helicopter with mild interest or ignored it altogether. The excavation workers displayed slightly more intrigue, but nothing that signaled expectation, excitement, or nervousness.

  The helicopter buzzed over the village a mile away. It resembled a black Plexiglas egg, what the military called Little Bird. Good for moving six people tops in and out of a hot zone fast.

  “Any idea who it is?” he said.