“Hello?” he called. “I just want to talk.” He repeated the phrase in Arabic, which Hanif had told him. Jagger arced out into the clearing, eyeing the cave for a glimpse of a body part. When he was looking straight into it, he realized shadows cloaked its deepest reaches. He moved out of its line of sight-or, more accurately, a shooter’s line of fire-and approached from the side. He pressed himself against the cliff beside the cave’s mouth, took a deep breath, and moved fast: he spun into the cave, dropping onto his knees to accommodate its low ceiling, and scampered toward the rear with the baton thrust out like a lance. First the baton, then his arm disappeared into blackness. The tip of the baton struck the rear wall.
Nothing. No one.
He realized that the rock at his knees was in fact a rolled sleeping bag, and he caught the glint of two eyes in the darkness, their moisture reflecting the light behind Jagger.
“Hello?” he whispered.
He shifted to sit back on his heels. As he pulled back on the baton, something seized it. A hand, gripping the baton, slipped out of the shadow and into the light.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Jagger said. “I-”
He froze. The boy’s face leaned into the light. He was a young teen. Fourteen? And he didn’t appear frightened. A pistol came into view. Its large muzzle stared at him.
“Don’t move,” the teen said.
Jagger let go of the baton and rammed his forearm into the boy’s wrist under the gun’s grip. At the same time, RoboHand grabbed the barrel and twisted it up and around, counter to the direction Jagger was forcing the teen’s wrist. It was a standard disarming technique, which-fortunately because of the confines of the cave-didn’t require feet and body movement. He wrenched the gun out of the boy’s hand. Jagger switched the pistol into his right hand and pointed it into the darkness.
Less than three seconds after first seeing the gun, Jagger possessed it. Under normal circumstances, in the open, Jagger would have quickly stepped back, out of the assailant’s reach. It was a luxury he didn’t have here, and the boy immediately took advantage of that.
The teen swung his forearm into Jagger’s wrist, grabbed the barrel, and took the firearm back. It wasn’t a matter of mimicking Jagger’s tactic; the kid’s movements were fast and sure. He had been taught and had practiced the maneuver.
Jagger acted before the teen could either fire, pull the gun away, or position himself more strategically. In a flash, he repeated the steps: slap and push the wrist… grab and twist the barrel. This time, when he had possession he swung his arm back and pitched the gun out of the cave, into the clearing. It had taken maybe eight seconds for them to exchange the weapon three times. He didn’t want to make it four.
With his right arm crossing his chest and dropping away from the teen’s wrist and RoboHand returning from its mission to rid the cave of the gun, Jagger was in no position to protect himself. So when the baton came off the ground and flashed toward his head, all he could do in that nanosecond of recognition was flinch. The hard molded-plastic grip struck his right temple, and he pitched left, slamming the other side of his head into the cave wall. He went down as the shadows engulfed him.
He was vaguely aware of the boy pummeling his body, kicking and punching it, but he couldn’t keep an eyelid open, let alone fend off the attack. Light cut into the shadows in dancing, jittering flashes, and Jagger realized that the boy had scrambled over him. Jagger rolled to see him scurry from the cave on all fours.
“Wait,” Jagger called, but the word came out on the weak breath of a whisper.
The boy grabbed the gun, and his black-khakied legs sprinted away.
[33]
Jagger remained in the cave until the exploding balls of green and purple light diminished from his vision. He rubbed his temple where the baton had made contact, feeling a big goose egg there. His brain pounded, and he laid his palm over his right eye, waiting for the drummer in his head to take a break. He found the baton, tossed it out of the cave, and backed out on all fours, dragging with him the sleeping bag and a backpack he’d found under it.
He wasn’t worried about the intruder coming back to hurt him. If that were his intention, he would have shot Jagger from the safety of the clearing while Jagger was incapacitated in the cave. He suspected the boy might have used the gun when they were playing hot potato with it, but he’d been cornered; the kid merely wanted his freedom and nothing to do with Jagger. Fair enough.
But everything about this boy bothered him: his brash helicopter entrance, his gun, his knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, his surveiling St. Cath’s at the precise moment the monks mysteriously took in a wounded stranger. It all pointed to trouble at the monastery, and there was nothing he could do but wait for it to play itself out and hope no one got hurt.
Crouching in front of the cave, he opened the backpack and rummaged through it. Clothes, energy bars, beef jerky, a small first-aid kit, a candle and lighter, a flashlight and spare batteries. He removed a tattered X-Men comic book and thumbed it open: Dobbiamo ottenerli da qui prima che Logan trovi che fuori e ancora viva. Looked Italian, but he wasn’t sure. The boy had spoken English-only two words, but Jagger hadn’t detected an accent.
He unrolled the sleeping bag and patted it down. If the boy had identification or a phone, it must be in those multipocketed pants. He pushed the unrolled bag and the backpack into the back of the cave-no sense denying the kid his food or a warm place to sleep. As he backed out, something in the sand glinted. He picked it up, exited the cave, and sat back on his heels to examine the object. It was a medallion or coin stamped with a human skull. Clutched between its teeth was a banner bearing an engraved word, almost worn away, nicked in spots. He thought the word could have been Choroutte. It appeared to be old, but what did Jagger know? Probably something an Egyptian fast-food chain handed out with its kid meals. He slipped it into his shirt pocket.
When he stood, the pounding in his head turned into something fast and loud: Deep Purple or Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. He closed his eyes, and after a few deep breaths felt a little better. He retrieved the baton, collapsed it, and returned it to the scabbard. He walked a dozen yards along each of the other paths leading away from the clearing and didn’t spot any sign of the boy, or anything else interesting. He returned to the camel-mostly sliding over the scree on his butt-and headed back to the monastery, all the way wondering if the boy was just a boy or an omen of more bad times ahead.
Toby pulled the sleeping bag out of the cave and shook it, watching for anything that fell out of its folds. He got the backpack and dumped the contents on the clearing’s stone ground. He brushed his fingers over the objects, spreading them out. He crawled into the cave and sifted through the sand. The obol was gone. He’d kept it in his pants pocket with the Glock. When he’d drawn the gun, it must have fallen out, and the security guard must have taken it.
Should have killed him, he thought, sitting in the cave, feeling as gloomy as his surroundings. He’d had the obol for years and really liked it; it was both a lucky charm and sentimental memento. Nevaeh had tried all sorts of ways to get it from him, to add to her collection of death memorabilia, but he’d always resisted her wagers and appealed to Ben when she tried to claim the obol as his punishment for some misdeed or another.
The satphone in his pocket vibrated. “Yeah?” he said into it.
“No trouble with the man?” It was Ben.
“No.”
“He’s alive?”
“You said not to kill him, didn’t you?”
“Since when have you listened to me?”
“Since forever,” Toby said. “When are you getting here?”
“We’re en route. We’ll meet you at Deir Rahab. You know it?”
“Yeah.” Toby pulled a map and compass out of a pocket. Deir Rahab was an oasis-probably with a single farm-where the mountain met the plains about two miles north of his position.
“Sebastian’s arranged for someone to drop off a Jeep and suppl
ies,” Ben said. “Can you be there by eight?”
“Tonight? I can crawl there by then.”
“As long as you’re there. We’ll arrive an hour or two later.”
After they disconnected, Toby wondered if Nev and Ben would let him participate in the night’s activities, and if he’d have a chance to get the obol back. He didn’t get a good look at the man who’d taken it-he was just a dark shape silhouetted by the light coming through the mouth of the cave-but how many security guards could St. Catherine’s have?
Guess they’d find out soon enough.
[34]
Three iron-clad doors-layered against each other like sliced bread-blocked the monastery’s main entrance. Inside the compound, Jagger pounded his fist on the one facing him. Solid as the stone walls around it. A single lamp bathed the courtyard in an amber glow. He turned in a circle, noting the few still-lighted windows scattered among the buildings. Most of the monastery’s twenty monks had gone to bed, and tonight only five other people called the place home: Jagger, Beth, and Tyler; Ollie, whose habit was to read in bed until about ten; and the stranger.
The stranger.
Jagger shook his head and tried not to think of him.
He let his eyes rise above the Southwest Range Building’s central dome to Mount Sinai, a looming presence, darker than the sky. Last night, sitting with Beth, it had been magical and holy; tonight it seemed like a dark being maliciously lording over a colony of caged insects.
He shifted his attention to the third floor of the guest quarters. A light burned in their apartment. He imagined Tyler asleep in his bedroom, Beth in the living room-which also served as dining room and kitchenette-studying C. S. Lewis or Thomas a Kempis with a Bible in her lap and a pen in her hand. The image made him want to get his rounds finished faster.
He turned and stepped into the deeper shadows near the mosque and switched on a flashlight. A white beam cut down an alley, exposing two startled cats. They darted away, and he followed slowly, swinging the beam between the walls.
After the teen had handed his butt to him on a platter, he’d cornered Gheronda and told him about it, gun and all. The old monk expressed concern, but in the end patted him on the shoulder and told him he was sure the boy and the arrival of the man were coincidental. He’d proven as closed-mouthed about the stranger as Leo. Jagger had then visited the little police station in St. Catherine’s Village. Predictably, the two cops inside had nodded, mumbled assurances, and continued playing cards.
Jagger tried not to let his frustration turn to anger, tried to convince himself he was being as paranoid as everyone else apparently thought he was.
A noise startled him. He spun around in the ally, flashing the light back toward the main gate. No huge figure with twin machine guns. No monster loping toward him. Nothing at all.
“Hello?” His voice echoed and faded.
He willed his heart to calm down, but he couldn’t quite release his grip on the baton, still resting in its quick-release scabbard. He continued down the alley, keeping the beam away from the windows.
The noise came rushing up behind him, reverberating off the walls. Loud, jangling, insistent. Jagger swung around, yanking out the baton, snapping it open. A wobbling light blinded him for a moment, until he ducked away. It was sailing down the alley at him. Then in the moment before his own flashlight beam landed on his attacker, he knew who it was.
Kich-kich-kich-kich-kich…
Tyler’s grinning face glowed in the light, bouncing up and down as he ran-his hair bounding a second out of sync. “I scared you!” he said and laughed. He grabbed Jagger’s waistband as he ran past, snapping to a stop like a dog reaching the end of a chain and nearly tugging Jagger off his feet. They spun toward each, and Tyler doubled over with laughter, his face turned up to show Jagger slits of eyes and a mouth stretched wide.
It took all of a quarter second of that face, that laughter to rid Jagger of worry and anger over the noise his son was making in this preeminently quiet place.
“You!” he said and threw a couple soft punches at his son’s belly and chest.
Tyler slapped Jagger’s fists away. “You… you… shoulda..” Tyler sucked in a deep breath. “Shoulda seen your face.” He laughed harder.
“Okay, shhh.” But Jagger himself had to laugh. He grabbed Tyler’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug.
“I thought you didn’t get scared,” Tyler said.
“I never said that. A lot of things scare me.”
“You never jump,” Tyler said. “Not when I wake you up or jump out at you… not normally.” He laughed again.
“I guess you caught me in a scareable mood.” Jagger released him. “What are you doing up anyway?”
“Mom said I could come find you. She said you need help patrolling.”
“She did?” He looked around. Amazingly, none of the windows facing the alley showed fresh lights. “Not a good time tonight, sport.”
“Why? You hardly ever patrol the monastery… and never at night.” He said it as though it was the coolest thing ever.
“There’s a reason I’m on guard tonight,” Jagger said.
“ Danger? ” Tyler’s eyes flashed big.
“Maybe.”
“Just for a little bit? Please?” He looked up the dark alley to where it ended in the jaundiced glow of another light. “Just to the burning bush?”
Jagger ran his fingers through Tyler’s hair. “All right, but then I’ll walk you home, and you go to bed.”
“Deal.” Tyler raised his hand and Jagger slapped it.
“And no more scaring me,” Jagger said.
His son’s grin stretched wide. He said, “I’ll try to restrain myself.”
“And can you not rattle? Didn’t you see the sign that read ‘Hush, monks asleep’?”
Tyler put his hand on the utility case. “It only rattles when I run.”
“Don’t run.”
Tyler agreed, and the two of them continued on down the ally, flashlight beams bobbing and weaving. Tyler shifted around to Jagger’s right side so they could hold hands.
After a few steps he said, “Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“What would you do if you found a bad guy?”
“I’d arrest him.”
“What if he fought you?”
“I’d fight back, get him in handcuffs.”
“What if he was tougher than you?”
Jagger looked at Tyler and smiled, then they did what they always did when Jagger’s masculinity was questioned: they both laughed.
And Jagger tried to push aside the memory of the teenager whupping him in the cave.
[35]
The Jeep shook and rattled over what was suppose to be a dirt road, but Toby suspected the only thing that differentiated it from the desert was that the Jeep was rolling over it. Its wheels seemed to jump on their own into pits and rocks his night vision goggles had not revealed. They traveled without headlights, so only he could see the terrain, a luminous green wasteland rushing toward them. He wondered how well the roar of the engine and clattering of the suspension carried through the desert air. He strained his arm muscles to keep the vehicle from whipping side to side and rolling, and still the steering wheel pendulumed his hands back and forth as though he were helming a schooner on high seas.
A hand gripped his shoulder from behind. Ben said, “A little slower, please.”
Toby said nothing and kept his foot on the gas. Nevaeh had appointed him driver, which meant he would stay outside the compound with the engine running while the others took care of business inside. He hadn’t complained-it wouldn’t have done any good, never did, and whining just made him sound like a kid-but he didn’t have to like it.
In the passenger seat beside him, Nevaeh pulled metamaterial gloves over her hands. The neck hole of the scaly gray shirt was rolled down, exposing her throat. She reached into the footwell and came back with a gorget. The metal collar was about four inches wide with outwardly curved
edges. It hinged in the middle, which lined up with the center of the throat and clamped in the back. Nevaeh slipped it on, groaning as she did.
“Are these absolutely necessary?” she said.
“This time especially,” Ben said. “We fight a knowledgeable enemy.”
Nevaeh rolled the shirt collar up over the gorget. She reached behind her and pulled the hood over her head and face. The suit’s battery pack and computer resided in a paperback-book-sized box situated just below the shoulder blades, forcing her to sit forward in her seat. She twisted around.
“Ben,” she said, “check me.”
She switched on the suit, and when Toby glanced over she was gone, invisible even through the goggles. Only her eyes remained, hovering between him and the door pillar.
“You gotta do something about the eyes, Ben,” Toby said. “That’s really creepy.”
“And a major glitch in the suit’s effectiveness,” said Phin from the seat behind her. He stretched his eyelids open with his fingers and glared at Ben.
Toby suspected Phin’s bouncing was only partially the result of the jostling Jeep.
“So is your ‘cologne,’ ” Nev said.
“It’s psychological warfare,” Phin said. “The odor of blood freaks people out. It makes them pause, gives me an advantage, if only for a second.”
Toby caught Phin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Well, it freaks me out that you wear it like perfume on missions.”
“‘Here’s the smell of blood still,’ ” Phin quoted. “‘All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.’ ”
The 13 th tribe if-1 Page 13
