The 13 th tribe if-1

by Robert Liparulo

  Jagger reached behind him for his binoculars. As he thumbed off the lens caps, Hanif jogged up to him.

  “The helicopter and now this,” Hanif said, panting. “You think coincidence?”

  “No,” Jagger said and glassed the figure. The 150x zoom put him twenty feet in front of the man. No, not man… “It’s a boy,” he said. “A teenager, fifteen or sixteen. I think the one from the copter.”

  The boy’s hair whipped around his face. It was cut stylishly short around the ears, longer on top. He wore safari clothes: khaki pants and shirt, both sporting more pockets than anyone would ever use. He glared down, seeming to stare directly at Jagger. The boy lifted a pair of binocs to his eyes, and the sun flashed off the lenses. He lowered them, scowling, then dropped out of Jagger’s view. Jagger gazed over the top of his binocs. The boy was gone.

  “I’m going up there,” he said.

  “But a boy,” Hanif said. “Just a boy.”

  “There’s been a rash of violence against archaeological digs lately. Tanis got hit last month. A couple weeks before that, it was Qift.” He scoped the outcropping again, saw no one. He panned over the rocky contours. “I saw this in Afghanistan,” he said, without lowering the binocs. “Al-Qaeda used woman and children as lookouts and spies, eyes and ears. Less suspicious, and it freed the men to plan, train, recruit, raid.” He looked at Hanif. “Plus they’re expendable.”

  “That was Afghanistan,” Hanif said. “This isn’t Cairo, no war here. Tanis, Qift-that was locals angry they didn’t get jobs at the dig or crazies who don’t want any digging in Egypt. The most they have are those-” He waggled his hands, grasping for the word. “Those… petrol bottles.”

  “Molotov cocktails,” Jagger said. He raised his eyebrows. “You want to get hit by one?”

  “I just mean… I mean…”

  Jagger clasped the binoculars with RoboHand and used the other to pat Hanif on the back. “I know,” he said, smiling. “Don’t worry, I’m not seeing terrorists under every rock. I just believe in erring on the side of caution. If you think every kitten might be a tiger, you won’t get eaten.”

  “You won’t have any pets either. It is no way to live.”

  “Just gotta learn to turn it off.” He started toward a hut on the other side of the footpath up the mountain. He had contracted with the Bedouin who manned it to provide camels for his guards. A month ago they had begun a weekly inspection circuit that took them farther out from the excavation and monastery than they could perform on foot. He looked at his watch. “If I’m not back by-”

  That sound again: thump-thump-thump-thump…

  When he looked over the Plain of el-Raha, the helicopter was already closer than the earlier one had been when he’d first spotted it. But this one was harder to see; it was white. “Different copter,” he said. He turned toward the mountain and saw that the boy had returned. He scoped him. The teen was leaning forward and using his own binocs to follow the new helicopter’s approach. He took a step, lost his balance, steadied himself-all without moving the binocs away from his eyes. If Jagger knew anything about body language, the kid was excited to see the newcomer.

  Jagger shoved his binoculars into Hanif’s chest. “Keep your eye on the boy,” he said and ran toward the monastery. The copter came in fast, then stopped over the gardens on the far side and descended out of sight.

  At least it’s landing outside the monastery, Jagger thought. He knew right where it would come down. Unlike the raw terrain on the monastery’s east side, where Ollie dug for artifacts, the west side had been built up, improved. It consisted of three tiers of flat ground, most of it paved with stone. The lowest level was at the front, where it was even with the ground. Ten yards in from the front wall, it stepped up eight feet to the next level, and again at the rear of the monastery. On the middle level, a wide court separated two parts of the gardens. That was the only place a helicopter could land.

  Traversing the length of the front wall, Jagger weaved through tourists. He rounded the corner to the garden side and saw the copter on the next level up, where he had expected it would be. He jumped against the wall between the tiers and hooked his arms over it. By the time he pulled himself up, the copter was lifting off again. Jagger rushed toward it, waving his arms. The pilot made no indication he saw him. Its downdraft whipped the branches of the trees, blowing leaves off them and pelting Jagger with sand and debris.

  Jagger spotted a man climbing to the third level, which was also the roof of a building the monks used to store garden tools and supplies. The guy rolled onto it and lay there a moment. He got to his feet and staggered. He didn’t look well: the giveaway, besides his wobbly gait, was white gauze wrapped around the crown of his head. He moved toward the rear of the monastery, and Jagger took after him. “Hey!” Jagger yelled. “Stop!”

  The man glanced back and redoubled his efforts to reach the back wall. Then he made a mistake: he stopped at a three-foot-square iron door, fuzzy brown with rust, set into the wall. He dropped to his knees and began pounding on it. During Jagger’s initial risk-assessment tour of the monastery, Gheronda had told him that the old door once acted as an emergency exit in case of fire or siege. It had never been used, and decades earlier had been welded shut on the outside and bricked up on the inside.

  Pound away, Jagger thought as he lifted himself onto the top level. He wondered how close he’d get before the man gave up on the door and resumed running. When he was twenty feet away-sure now that he could overtake the guy if he ran-Jagger stopped to catch his breath. He stooped to put hand and hook on his knees and chugged in air like a locomotive. The man kept pounding, and Jagger noticed that blood had soaked through the bandages, drying into a brownish-maroon patch the shape of Texas. He shook his head and said, “Don’t bother, buddy. Look, man, I only want to ask you-”

  The door opened, screeching like a tortured spirit. It swung inward, and the man collapsed onto his hands to crawl in. He threw a frightened gaze back at Jagger and disappeared.

  Jagger sprinted to reach the door before it closed. “Wait!” he said. He dived for the door, reaching… The spirit screamed again as the door swung shut. At the last second, Jagger jammed his hook between the jamb and the door. The metal clanged into it, opened a few inches, slammed again.

  “Wait,” he repeated. “It’s me, Jagger. I just have a few questions.” He got his knees under him and positioned himself to shoulder his way in. Something struck his hook-a metal bat or pipe. The hook twisted and flattened against the floor. Shock waves blasted up his arm, from stump to shoulder, and he instinctively pulled what he still thought of as his hand away from the source of pain. The door slammed and rattled as bolts and locks engaged on the other side.

  [28]

  Jagger held RoboHand against his chest, hoping the electric-shock feeling in his elbow, biceps, and shoulder would fade quickly. He beat against the door with his fist. “Open up!”

  Yeah, that would happen after they hit him with a bat to get the thing closed. Oh, I’m sorry, sir, didn’t see you there.

  He ran to the edge of the tier and dropped down, crossed the court, and swung himself down to the lowest level. Tourists crowded at the corner. They gawked, pointed, snapped pictures. He pushed through them, heading for the main entrance, mentally working through the logistics of where he needed to go. The small door was near the monastery’s back wall. It would have to lead into the Southwest Range Building, on the side that housed the monks’ quarters.

  Inside, he passed in front of the basilica on his way to the stairs near his apartment, which would take him to the Southwest Range Building second floor and main entrance. He turned right around the mosque and spotted Father Leo heading for him. The monk’s worried expression quickly turned charming.

  “What just happened?” Jagger said, closing the ground between them. “Who was that? Why was I told that door had been bricked up?”

  When he angled himself to walk by without stopping, Leo sidestepped to block him. Jagg
er pulled up inches from him, encroaching on what the average person considered his personal space. He’d found the tactic rattled people, just enough to give him a slight advantage in a verbal confrontation. Leo didn’t seem to notice. Close to the same age, the two men couldn’t have been more different. Where Jagger’s inner being was a raging river, Leo gave the impression that his was a peaceful lake. It was a quality Jagger admired and hoped to attain someday. He just wasn’t sure it was a disposition that could survive outside a monastery.

  “What’s going on?” Jagger said.

  “Monastery business.” Leo’s irises flicked back and forth, searching Jagger’s eyes for… what? His temperament? Signs of his intentions?

  “I’m head of security and-”

  “Of the excavation,” Leo clarified.

  “When Gheronda allowed my family to stay here, it was my understanding that he would appreciate my assistance in monastery security as well.”

  “You’re here at Gheronda’s pleasure,” Leo said, maintaining that infuriating little smile of his, “and right now his pleasure is to keep monastery business private. I’m afraid this is a need-to-know matter, and you don’t need to know.”

  “Look, within three hours, two helicopters violated restrictions governing their use around St. Catherine’s, and some guy is up on that mountain keeping an eye on this place with binoculars. I think-”

  “What guy?” Leo blinked several times, the only indication that something had disturbed the surface of his lake.

  “A teenager, the same one who buzzed the compound this morning. He seemed particularly interested in that last copter.”

  “Where was he, exactly?”

  Jagger took a step back. Maybe he was getting somewhere. “Where he could scope out the excavation and the monastery. He was watching.. all of it, as far as I could tell.”

  “You didn’t see anyone else?”

  “Not with the boy. You know him?”

  “I didn’t see him.” His gaze drifted away. Then it returned, and he put his hand on Jagger’s shoulder to guide him back toward the gate.

  Jagger didn’t resist. He didn’t like it, but Leo was right: he was out of his jurisdiction. If push came to shove, the monastery could shove him and the entire archeological team out of the valley, probably out of the country.

  Leo said, “We appreciate your concern, Jagger, we really do. But I can assure you, this has nothing to do with the excavation, and we have everything within these walls under control. Please trust me about this.”

  “Just tell me who he is, the man who entered through the small door.”

  Leo shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Is he all right?” Jagger said, fishing now. Often, a little information led to more. “He was injured.”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  Jagger stopped. “How can you know that? As soon as the guy got in, you must have run to cut me off.”

  “He made it this far.”

  “From where? Why here?”

  The monk’s face was inscrutable.

  Jagger nodded. “I can find my own way out.” He smiled. “I’ve been thrown out of nicer places than this.”

  Leo’s smile grew into a grin. He nodded, then turned and walked away.

  On his way to the gate, Jagger considered the conversation and came to a conclusion about it: whether by Leo’s charisma or his steely resolve, Jagger was pretty sure he’d just been played.

  [29]

  With Creed’s arms draped over their shoulders, two monks half carried, half dragged him down a dark corridor. Gheronda followed, praying loudly. They approached another monk, who ushered them into a small room: water-stained plaster walls, the smell of candle wax, spartan in every way. They lowered him onto a bed-no more than a raised board covered with blankets-and immediately forced his head around so they could inspect the bloody bandages.

  “I’m all right,” he said, weakly pushing at them.

  Brother Ramon tugged the bandage up and off, taking with it a profusion of hair.

  “Ahhh!” Creed complained, grabbing the back of his head and glaring at the monk.

  Brother Ramon unclipped the strap from the duffel bag and pulled at it.

  Creed yanked it back. “This stays with me!”

  Ramon leaned in, grabbed Creed’s chin, and turned his head.

  Creed said, “All right, all right,” and shifted to face the wall. Ramon pushed away clumps of bloody hair.

  Leaning around Ramon, Gheronda saw the wound, and it wasn’t what he’d expected. It was several inches long, as though the bullet had struck at an angle, gouging up the flesh. Scar tissue appeared to be already forming along the edges, making it look like a mouth with leprous lips. Ramon touched the hair just below it; blood welled up and spilled out. Ramon snatched his finger away and looked back at Gheronda.

  Gheronda smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

  “I told you,” Creed said, turning to face his audience. He rubbed the back of his head, examined his bloody palm, and returned it to the wound. “Fierce headache, though.”

  Gheronda pulled the monks away. He said, “Let’s give the man some room. Brother Ramon, I’ll leave it to you to keep the bandages fresh.”

  Ramon nodded and walked to a writing desk, where he began rummaging through a satchel.

  As if remembering an urgent task, Creek yanked the duffel up to his chest and unzipped it. He pulled out a mobile phone, ran his thumb across the screen, and squinted at it. “Oh, come on,” he said. He shook it, held it up high, then tossed it into the corner of the room, where bits of it shattered off.

  “Shhh,” Gheronda said soothingly. “There’s time for everything you need to do.” He tugged a blanket up from the bottom of the bed, covering Creed, and gently pushed on his chest. “Lean back. What you need now is rest.”

  Creed grabbed a handful of the monk’s cloak and pulled him close. He gazed into Gheronda’s eyes with a mixture of insistence and pleading. “What I need now, right now, is a phone.”

  [30]

  Owen Letois rushed along the dirt road, a teenaged girl draped over his arms. Her blood soaked his shirt, splattered his bearded face. He passed rickety houses pieced together with discarded scraps of wood and sheet metal, and huts of timber and straw-most of them long abandoned.

  Gunfire behind him made him look. The heart of the village was beyond a rise in the road, out of sight. He saw no fighters, only a few civilians fleeing in his direction, ducking with each burst of gunfire. Dongo was barely a pinprick on Central Africa’s Oubangui River, but it was the current flashpoint in the hostilities between the Enyele and Munzaya tribes over farming and fishing rights. The clash had been going on for years, and Owen suspected none of the militiamen understood or cared about the reason they fought; they were in it to avenge old grudges and recent atrocities, and because man’s darkest demons were opportunistic creatures.

  The girl groaned, and Owen tried to ease the jostling she received in his arms. The blade had gone deep, cutting through the muscles of her shoulder and upper chest; it had probably broken her clavicle. He angled off the road and started up a grassy slope, aiming for the cinderblock clinic of Medecins Sans Frontieres-Doctors Without Borders.

  Roos Mertens came out of the building and ran toward him. She was the only nurse who’d remained when MSF had evacuated the other physicians and staff. Owen was glad someone had stayed, and especially that she had; she was competent, compassionate, and professional.

  “Prep a table,” Owen called out in Flemish, the colloquial Dutch of Roos’s Belgian hometown. “Fentanyl, Hespan, a subcutaneous suture kit…”

  Roos held something up, and Owen recognized his private satellite phone. “It kept ringing,” she said. “I found it in your backpack. I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head: he wasn’t worried about her invasion of his privacy or the call or anything but getting the girl stabilized.

  “A man on the line,” Roos continued. “He says he
must speak to you, an emergency.”

  “ This is an emergency,” Owen said, irritation making his words harsher than he had intended. He gave her a weak smile to convey this, but fully intended to trudge right past her if she insisted on not helping. His left foot squished against a blood-soaked sock, and he realized that his entire left side, from where the girl’s shoulder bumped against his chest on down, was drenched as well. He quickened his gait and began a mental checklist of the equipment, instruments, and supplies he’d need for her surgery, pausing on each item to curse its disrepair or shortage or absence. The escalating violence that had driven out MSF, along with its flow of supplies, also increased the need for both.

  As he approached, Roos waved the phone. “Doctor, he was very insistent. He said to tell you…” She hesitated, looked puzzled.

  Owen barreled on.

  “ Agag? ” she said.

  He stopped. “What?”

  “Agag. I don’t know if that’s his name or-”

  “Give me the phone. Put it here.” He shrugged a shoulder, then pinched the phone between it and his cheek. Still talking to her, he said, “Get the QuikClot out of my belt pack, see what you can do.” In the field, there was nothing better than QuikClot for stopping blood flow. The gauze was impregnated with kaolin, which absorbed blood and accelerated the coagulation cascade. “Got a packet of gloves in there too.”

  Switching to English, he said into the phone, “Who is this?”

  “Creed… You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “How could I ever forget? Is it true-the Agag?”

  “Do you think I’d say it if it weren’t?”

  Even through the bad connection, Owen detected exhaustion, defeat, and fear. He glanced at Roos, packing the gauze into the girl’s wound. He dipped his arms, giving her better access, then he closed his eyes. “The Agag” meant a specific catastrophe that would make the horrors in the Democratic Republic of the Congo look like a Disney cartoon.