Behind the counter, an old man tended to something sizzling in what appeared to be a household FryDaddy. A cigarette with three inches of ash dangled from his lips. Two other old guys sat in the back, coffee mugs and a tall sheesha water pipe on the table between them. Tubes ran from the sheesha to the corner of each of their mouths, and they sat there puffing as they watched Jagger and Owen.
Owen unslung the pack at his waist and dropped it on a heavy wooden table. The table was weathered and beaten; it looked like it might have been something else once, part of a ship or a door. Jagger sat, and Owen greeted the old man behind the counter in Arabic, then turned to Jagger. “Coffee? Sugar, cream?”
“Black.”
Owen held up two fingers to the old man. “Kahwascitto.” He pulled back a chair and dropped into it with a loud sigh. He studied Jagger’s face for a good ten seconds, then said, “I spoke to the doctor. He said the surgery went well.”
Jagger shrugged. “Tyler’s not in the clear yet.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened at all.”
The old man shuffled over and placed mismatched mugs on the table. He grumbled something to Owen, who asked Jagger, “Breakfast? He’s got t’aamiyya, kind of like falafel: ground fava beans, coriander leaves, sesame seed paste . . .”
Jagger was shaking his head. “I can’t eat.”
Owen said something, and the old man went back to his post. They sat in silence for a minute, Owen sipping his coffee, Jagger staring at his bloody knuckles. He tasted the brew, winced at the bitterness, and set down the mug. “Who was the guy they were after,” he said, “the one you were coming to see?”
Thinking, Owen used a palm to flatten his beard, first one cheek and jawline, then the other side. He said, “He called himself Creed. He was part of a group, but he was trying to get away.”
“So they killed him? Is it a cult, a Charles Manson thing?”
Owen shook his head. “Nothing like that. There’s no charismatic leader brainwashing the others. They’re all in it together, voluntarily. They think of themselves as a tribe, but really they’re a family. Not blood related, but they’ve been together a long time, and they genuinely care for one another.”
“Yeah,” Jagger said. “We killed my brother when he wanted to leave home too.”
Owen squinted at Jagger, a slight smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “The Tribe adheres to a fierce set of principles, the most important being Protect the Tribe. If Creed had wanted only to leave, they would have let him. He took something they needed, something that would not only stop them from what they believe they must do but could also destroy the Tribe.”
Where’s the boy? the woman had said. He has something of ours.
“What?” Jagger said, leaning forward. “What did Creed have they wanted so badly?”
“A computer microchip.”
“With information? Data that would expose them, get them all busted?”
“I don’t think so.” Owen took a swig of coffee. “Creed said it would prevent them from completing their mission, and just having it would open doors, get people to listen and act to stop them.”
“Mission? What is their mission?”
“Creed used a code word, Agag. It comes from the Bible, I Samuel. Agag was the king of the Amalekites. God ordered the Israelites to destroy the city of Amalek, every man, woman, and child. The code word meant something big was going down.”
“Something big, like blowing-up-a-train big . . . or 9/11 big?”
The muscles of Owen’s face tightened. “Like Hiroshima big.”
Numbed to the cares of the world by the crisis with Tyler, Jagger was surprised to feel a pang of panic jitter through his stomach and into his heart. The thought of thousands—tens of thousands—of innocents like Tyler suffering, dying in fear and pain, was enough to cut through the fog of his own misery. “You think that chip controls a nuclear bomb?”
“Nuclear, or something just as destructive.”
“Wait a minute.” Jagger looked around the room, his eyes stopping on the old men in back, so dark in the shadows their eyes stood out like an animal’s catching the moonlight. He said, “I figured these guys were pros, the way they attacked the monastery in a coordinated effort, the way they fought. Those invisibility suits, they aren’t off the rack, not even issued to top-shelf black ops boys. They’re DARPA or some foreign equivalent or maybe an off-the-charts elite private organization. Now you’re telling me they’ve got nukes . . . or ‘something just as destructive.’ You’re talking heavy backing, government backing.”
“Just the Tribe,” Owen said.
“How many?”
“I don’t know for sure. Ten, fifteen maybe. Used to be more.” He shifted in his chair, leaned back, and dropped a booted heel on the corner of the table, settling into the conversation. “But they’re well connected. The favors I called in to get the military chopper? Nothing to them. For years, they’ve helped important people become important. Everybody owes them. They’re privy to the most secret information—classified umbra in the U.S., Streng Geheim in Germany, Sirriy lil-Gayah here in Egypt.” He waved a hand: whatever. “And once they know about something, all they have to do is ask. I’m sure that’s how they got hold of that invisibility technology.”
“What do they give in return?”
“Knowledge, for one thing. They’re intelligent, freakishly so. Mostly about human nature, and no knowledge is more powerful than that. As a species, we’re fickle, counterintuitive, vacillating between altruism and selfishness. We’re influenced by loved ones, friends, enemies, colleagues, rivals, culture, movies, literature, who we hope to be, wish we were, our health and personalities and personal histories—more factors shape our decisions than shape our flesh. Anyone who can read those calculations with even a modicum of accuracy wields more power than a nuclear arsenal.”
“Then why are they in the trenches, shooting people, planning another Hiroshima?”
“Because they’re also people of action. They balance brain and brawn. Wars are won through strategy and tactics driving a physical force. That desire for action suits the other service they occasionally provide to powerful people, the elimination of opposition, embarrassments, trouble. They’re highly efficient black operatives, killers. Best in the world, best in history.”
“They didn’t seem that way last night.” A ribbon of smoke from the old men’s sheesha drifted between Jagger and Owen, rippling and coiling like a snake.
“You mean the way they blasted in there?” He made a face. “Stealth is for James Bond movies. They do that too, but not every operation fits that approach. They used what worked for Genghis Khan, called the Chen—shock and thunder. The Germans called it blitzkrieg, lightning war. Fast, loud, powerful. It takes their enemies off guard, forces them to act impulsively instead of prudently. As far as I can tell, it worked.”
Jagger remembered the woman taking something from Tyler’s hand. “If their objectives were to kill Creed and get back what he stole, then I guess it did.”
Owen lowered his boot and leaned forward. “You know they got the microchip?”
“The woman said Tyler took something of theirs. After she . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to even say it, the images it conjured. “Later, she took something from his hand.”
Owen frowned, stood up, and carried his mug to the counter.
They shot my son, Jagger forced himself to think, handing the blame now to this mysterious group Owen described rather than merely to the woman. He recalled the crack of the gun that changed everything, starting with the way Tyler’s face instantly went from joy to stunned pain.
Owen came back, blowing steam off the surface of his coffee. He sat and took a sip.
“I saw a tattoo,” Jagger said, “right here.” He touched the inside of his prosthetic forearm.
Owen nodded. “They all have it. Liquid gold ink, impossible to remove. As far as they’re concerned, you really can’t leave the Tribe, even if you’re no
t physically with it anymore.”
“They got you forever,” Jagger said. “Sounds like a cult to me.” He couldn’t get the idea out of his head.
“Think of it as a birthmark.”
“So, what . . . these people, the Tribe, they’re just a bunch of brainy killers for hire?”
“It’s not about money. They have plenty of wealth, accumulated over the years. They’d rather rack up favors; reciprocity from the right people is invaluable. I said they occasionally provide black op favors for powerful people. Typically, they’re doing it on their own. When they do it for others, regardless of the other person’s motive, the target has to meet their criterion.”
“Which is?”
Owen squinted at him and tilted his head, as though Jagger should already have known. He said, “They have to be bad guys.”
[ 58 ]
“Bad guys?” Jagger said, waving his hand through the smoke hovering over the table between them. “What does that mean?”
“People who’ve committed crimes and for one reason or another have escaped justice,” Owen said. “For the most part, murderers, rapists, child molesters, but also kidnappers, white collar criminals, men who’ve severely and repeatedly battered their wives or children and just haven’t killed them yet.”
“They’re vigilantes?” Jagger said.
“That puts a different spin on things, doesn’t it?”
Jagger shook his head. “No.”
“But you understand the feeling, wanting to take the law into your own hands? Especially when the system breaks down and bad guys get away.”
“What are you getting at?”
“They’ve killed people who’ve used vehicles to murder innocents. Habitual drunk drivers.”
Jagger reached across the table and grabbed Owen’s wrist. “You’ve investigated me?”
“I did a little research.”
“Why?”
“I’m getting to that,” Owen said. “Right now I just want to know how you feel about vigilantes.”
Jagger released Owen’s wrist, leaned back. “Of course I understand vengeance. Who doesn’t? Yes, I wish that drunk was dead, and there’s a part of me that’s angry with myself for not doing something about it. Maybe if it weren’t for my family, I would.”
“A lot of people think that way,” Owen said. “Something stops them from acting. Their family, going to jail, lack of the knowledge of how to do it or lack of courage, their belief that God will sort it out. Nothing wrong with any of that.” He picked up his mug and seemed to speak into it. “Do you want to kill the woman who shot your son?”
Jagger’s jaw stiffened, his teeth ground together, sounding like ropes pulling tight. He closed his eyes and said, “Yes. But I would settle for her being caught, going to trial, spending the rest of her life in jail.”
“Justice.”
“Yes.” He opened his eyes. “I said I understood vengeance, but I don’t understand what this . . . this tribe is doing.”
“They’re filling the gap between what victims or the families of victims want to do and what they can do.”
“I get that,” Jagger said. “But who are they targeting? Just random criminals?”
“Sinners,” Owen said. He set down the mug and pushed it away. “They target sinners.”
“Sinners? In the religious sense?”
Owen smiled. “I don’t know any other sense. A criminal breaks man’s laws. Sinners break divine law. The Tribe doesn’t have much regard for man’s laws, except where they match God’s, and that helps them find targets, because criminals, not sinners, make the news. They’re much more interested in right and wrong as God defines the terms, and then meting out justice to those who escape it. That’s the reason they exist, as far as they’re concerned.”
Jagger had called them vigilantes, but that wasn’t quite it. The religious aspect added something: “Vigilantes for God.”
“So they think.”
“On a divine mission from God.”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Owen said, “but you can put it that way.”
“I suppose their dog told them to kill for God?” Jagger grabbed his mug and took a big swig. The brew was lukewarm and even more bitter than before.
“Don’t think about their motivations, just what they’re doing: killing bad guys.”
“Then they should kill themselves, what they did to Tyler. He wasn’t their target. He’s innocent.”
“You said Tyler took the chip?”
“That’s what the woman said.”
“Then he wasn’t innocent, not in their eyes. He got in their way. That made him guilty.”
We were going to leave you alone, Phin had said. But you got in our way—you and the kid—and that gives us permission. Not just that, an obligation.
“That’s twisted logic,” Jagger said. “It makes almost anybody fair game for them.”
Owen nodded, a slow bobbing of his head. “That’s why I’ve been after them for years. Not constantly, they’re much too cunning, too covert. By the time I get to the scene of one of their killings, they’re long gone.”
“That’s how you know so much about them, by going after them when you can, trying to stop them?”
Owen smiled. “I would like nothing more than to call fire down from heaven to destroy them.”
The old man from the counter sauntered over with a carafe. He topped off Jagger’s mug and refilled Owen’s.
“I’m going to be wired,” Owen said, watching the man depart. Without lifting it, he wrapped his hands around the mug and leaned over it, getting closer to Jagger. “I’ve spoken to people who’ve left the Tribe. Most of them, like Creed, came to realize that killing is no way to please God. Sometimes it simply dawned on them. Sometimes what drove them to that realization was the death of an innocent—someone you and I would call an innocent.” He paused, seeming to study Jagger’s face again. “For Creed, it was the Agag.”
“Hiroshima?” Jagger said. “Yeah, I think that would do it.”
“But he didn’t just leave. He was going to try to stop them.”
“Of course. Anyone in their right mind—What?”
Owen was staring at him intently. “Creed can’t do it. Someone else has to.”
“You?” Jagger said. He shook his head. “This is too big, too important. You’ve got to inform someone, I don’t know, authorities.”
“Do you know how difficult it would be to get any law enforcement agency, any government, to believe there’s going to be a major attack somewhere in the world, sometime soon—let alone care or do something about it? Even if it were possible, it would take too long.”
“And you can do better? By yourself? How? You just said they’re always a step ahead of you, gone by the time you get there.”
Owen scooted his chair closer to the table and put his elbows on it. He moved his hands as if shaking a ball, excited. “While Tyler was in surgery, I tapped into the crime databases of INTERPOL, the FBI, the International Crim—”
“You can do that?” Jagger interrupted.
“Calling in more favors,” Owen said. “Now, pinpointing vigilante killings is no easy task. Of course, I first searched for murder victims. Turns out there were about three hundred thousand worldwide in the last six months. Then I ran the list through a bunch of filters: which murder victims had been charged with a crime during the previous year . . . and got off on a technicality or hung jury . . . whose crime or release was reported by the local media. Even then, criminals tend to consort with unsavory types, so their deaths could have been infighting or flirting with the wrong woman or anything. So I looked for non-firearm deaths. The Tribe favors blades.”
The door opened, letting in a warm breeze that cleared the smoke away from Jagger and Owen and caused the candle flames to flap like little pennants. Three people in their twenties entered, a woman and two men, all of them laughing. Jagger noticed the sky had brightened to the color of the baby blue paint he’d quickly
slathered on Tyler’s walls between his birth and bringing him home. The newcomers commandeered a table in the center of the café, and one of the men waved the old man over.
Owen watched the group for a few seconds before turning back to Jagger. “I’ve isolated a few cities, radiating from which are a number of possible vigilante killings, like animal bones near a predator’s lair. One place is particularly interesting.” He wiggled his finger over a spot on the table and started tapping in concentric circles around it. “The killings mostly occurred in outlying towns—only one in the city itself—which is what they would do, kill away from where they live.”
The 13th Tribe Page 22
