Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  It was not so far away nor so long ago. Not in his mind. She was close, so close that he could hear her voice. Smell her perfume . . .

  Car lights swung onto the beach. Blinded and unable to see, Ben lay motionless with the others, huddled and shivering in the predawn hour. Rocks and sand beneath his fingers told him they’d made it. But the hurried footfalls of those who’d come from the vehicle warned he might have made it . . . to the end. Fear clawed at him, prickling his skin. Syrian Jews were imprisoned if caught.

  But then he heard it—the beautiful sound he’d missed: the tongue of his people. It had been so long. It was good, was it not, that these strangers spoke Hebrew?

  “We can trust no one,” Abba warned, sliding his arms into his suit jacket. It was dry, unlike most of their other clothes, because Abba had held it above his head as they waded in from the boat. Abba caught Ben’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “Shalom,” he whispered to a man as they embraced.

  Words darted back and forth, the conversations quick and hushed, competing with the water slapping the shore.

  “Come, Benyamin,” his abba said, pulling him up the embankment where two cars waited. The door creaked open with a loud groan, as if protesting their presence as Germans had done. As some Syrians had.

  “Quickly,” the man said, pushing Abba, Benyamin, his sisters, and Ima.

  From the moment he first saw her, he vowed to never forget the angel sitting in the car. Hair the color of barley fields and eyes like a cool patch of earth, she motioned him inside with a smile of welcome and friendship.

  Crowded into the small car, Benyamin sat with one of his sisters on his lap, his mother’s bosom pressed against his shoulder and the beautiful girl on his left. With Rachel leaning against their mother, sniffling and crying, he found his head turned in the angel’s direction. His pride knocked hard on the door of his heart that he must sit with his sister on his lap.

  “You are brave,” the girl whispered as their abbas chatted in the front seats, the car creaking and groaning over cobbled roads.

  “Not so much,” he managed. At ten years old, he was not brave. Not at all. Especially not brave enough to look at her. But his gaze wandered there anyway. And he tripped into those eyes that seemed to reach his very soul.

  “If you were caught—” She shook her head, her golden hair glowing in the darkness. Her fear tasted as palpable as the sea water that still clung to his clothes.

  “But we were not,” he muttered, relieved. He had never liked boats, but it’d been the only route. The only way to Israel. “Did you come on a boat?”

  She shook her head.

  “How did you not?”

  She glanced down, a frown tugging her once-smiling lips.

  Had he asked something wrong? It seemed right and normal to ask, but he could see he’d somehow made her sad. “Slicha,” he whispered, an apology.

  Her mouth curved upward again, looking at something she nudged toward him. A wrapped bundle. “You are hungry?”

  It was a peace offering. Whatever mistake he had made—she had forgiven him. When Benyamin took the bundle, his fingers brushed against hers, small and cold. His gaze flipped to hers. And locked into place, like the double lock in the synagogue where they had guarded the Codex.

  But he shouldn’t think of that. Or of the beautiful girl helping them start their lives over in this new state.

  Dawn crouched along the walls of the great city, allowing Benyamin a peek at this new home for his people. As they wound their way through the narrow streets, safety felt near. Hope . . . closer.

  Warm hands closed around his. “You should eat it”—a bird squawked overhead—“Benyamin.”

  He started and stared into brown eyes. “How do you know my name?” How had the sun risen so quickly, when they were still in the car? “It is so bright.” Darkness faded like a curtain pulled back on a stage production.

  “It’s morning light, Sabba. Eat, then we’ll head back home.”

  Sabba? He blinked. Yes, light—and the present. Awareness flooded him as the same eyes—yet not the same—gazed back. “Alison.”

  “Yes.” His nehda smiled, lifting a foil-wrapped hot dog. “It’s very good.” She wrinkled her small nose. “Though not very healthy. We won’t mention this to your nurse. Eat, Sabba.”

  In his hand, he held not the linen-wrapped bundle from the beauty, from his Gratzia, but a hot dog from his granddaughter. Kosher hot dogs, no less. He chuckled, partially at himself, but also at the irony. Of the food and secret he held.

  On her phone, Alison turned away, talking quietly. Most likely hoping the noise around them drowned her words. They did not. She spoke with her father. His son. “I’m afraid he’s getting worse,” she mumbled. “It won’t be much longer.”

  Until his death? Benyamin touched his chest. With a steadying breath, he nodded. Let them think him a deranged, dying fool. He cared not as long as the secret was safe.

  14

  — Day 8 —

  Jebel al-Lawz

  Gunfire strafed the air. The ground shook beneath the detonation of grenades. Dirt pittered and pattered against her shoulders and helmet as Tzivia crouched over her work. They’d been attacked yesterday but held off the looters. She shouldn’t have been surprised there’d be a more coordinated attack later.

  Broken remnants of the ancient city wall dug into her knees as she hurried to hide the remaining censer behind the loose rock where she’d discovered the codex leaf. Thank goodness Dr. Cathey had taken it and the fourth censer to Israel to authenticate. With a sigh, she ignored the sealed-off area beyond grid C23.

  As she hurried back to the sorting tent, her flashlight flickered, the beam shaken by the rattling chaos aboveground. At shouts from the sorting tent, she quickened her pace.

  The meaty sound of a fist colliding with flesh thudded through the air. Metal clanged. A shape fell into view, a dark form splayed across the tunnel entrance. Tzivia sucked in a breath and pinned herself to the tunnel wall. The plastic barrier fluttered, giving her a view into the sorting area. Dr. Ellison lay on the ground, a red knot rising on his temple. His gaze met hers for a second, shoving fear down Tzivia’s throat that he’d betray her location. Betray the entire site. He’d made it clear his priority was medical, not archaeological.

  “You did good, but not good enough, doctor,” an authoritative voice said as a blurry form drifted into view. “What are you looking at?”

  The plastic thwapped back, exposing Tzivia.

  “Out! Out!”

  She needed them to underestimate her, give her the upper hand. Making her hands tremble, she peered up with widened eyes so she looked terrified. “Please,” she whined. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  The muzzle of his AK-47 wagged. “Out.”

  “No, no,” Noel said, his voice both placating and warning. “You don’t want to do that. The tunnel has the contagion. If she was in there, she’s probably infected!”

  The man stared at her. Then glanced to the side, where Noel stood out of sight. The soldier clearly didn’t believe him. And the questions forming in his dark eyes were enough warning that he’d figure something was up. Someone behind him spoke in Arabic, saying the tunnel would be sealed off if the disease was a threat.

  “It was sealed,” Tzivia said in Arabic, motioning to the plastic, as she emerged from the tunnel with her hands up. She took in the scene—three armed men, Noel on a stool to the side, his hands up, and Ellison at her feet.

  Surprise marred the soldier’s face. “Then why were you in there?”

  “I’m immune.” Tzivia nodded to the doctor, slowly bending to help him to his feet. She deliberately leaned in closer. “You betrayed us.”

  “It’s bigger than you.” There wasn’t an ounce of regret in his words.

  A blur of movement spiked dread through Tzivia. She shifted. Her arm came up, blocking the man’s punch. Rolled it away as she threw her own left hook into his jaw. He fell backward.

  A second gunman lu
nged. Tzivia nailed his face with a round kick. It snapped his head back. His legs tangled. He flipped onto the ground.

  A gunshot cracked the air.

  Tzivia flinched.

  The man in charge gave a cockeyed nod. “Are we done?”

  Breath heaving, Tzivia waited, ready. Behind the leader, his men came to their feet, proverbial tails between their legs.

  Scar tissue folded his ear in half and gave the leader a terrifying demeanor. He jerked her forward, hooked nose against her cheek. “Where is Aaron’s censer?” he hissed.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Then two. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Cold steel bit into her temple as he pushed his weapon against it. He fisted her hair and jerked backward. Fire lit down her neck as he ripped her gaze to the ceiling. “You are lying!”

  She caught his hand, whimpering as if he was killing her but silently preparing a good enough grip and angle to break his hold. When he came around, she saw a tattoo on his forearm before he shoved her aside.

  “Th–there’s no reason to do that,” Noel stammered. “Those censers are connected to the plague.” His face shone with urgency. “You don’t want the artifacts, or you’ll end up like them, so just . . . leave her alone!”

  Crack!

  Noel flipped off the stool. Blood splattered the clear plastic wall. It took a second for what happened to register. They’d shot Noel!

  “No!” She lunged toward her friend, who writhed on the ground, then grew still, a pool of blood spilling from his side.

  Strong hands hauled her backward, off her feet.

  The leader turned to Dr. Ellison and aimed the AK-47 at his head. “Who else must die?”

  Tzivia straightened. Tightened her jaw, furious. Would he shoot the man who’d called them?

  “Aaron’s censer!”

  How did he know about it? “The censers were stolen—”

  “You think me a fool.” He smiled at her. A leer, really.

  “Yes,” she said defiantly. “Do you think we’d keep them here, something so valuable and important?”

  Recognition glinted in his dark eyes beneath that thick unibrow. Yes, they were very important to him. But why?

  She had to know. “You’re willing to kill people for artifacts?”

  “Not just artifacts—and yes, I will kill whoever I need to.” He waved the gun. “Now, the censers or the doctor dies.”

  “He’s one of yours. Do you think I care what you do to him?”

  “Yes.” He almost seemed gleeful.

  If she could just drive her heel into his stomach—

  More men milled outside the tent. Armed. Heavily. There was no way she’d make it out of here alive, even if she could take him down. What were her options?

  The leader stormed at her. Grabbed her hands. “What is this?” He shoved her dirty fingers into her own face. “You were digging!”

  Tzivia felt sick.

  “Mahmud, take her to the tunnels. Make her dig until her fingers bleed or she shows you the censers.”

  “But the plague is in there,” Tzivia muttered. She pointed at the scarred leader. “It’s a high honor to be a martyr, yes? Perhaps you should come with me.”

  He leered. “My time is not yet come.”

  Before she could object, the tall man urged her on with the business-end of his AK-47. Defeated, she folded herself into the darkness and headed, it seemed, to her death.

  “Reynaud sends his thanks, Ellison.” The man’s words chased her into the tunnel. A second later, a gun fired.

  ****

  — Two Kilometers Outside Jebel al-Lawz —

  “This is Robbie Almstedt with Special Activities Artifact Recovery and Containment,” MacIver said as the team gathered at the Muwaffaq Salti Air Base in Jordan.

  Red-haired and stocky, the woman must’ve been in town for a while, because there was no way she could’ve gotten there in the time parameters of their mission. Cortes stood beside her with her guard-dog agent and Chiji. His friend helped Tox gear up.

  “Spooks,” Ram whispered.

  Almstedt glowered. “What’s happening down there—it’s imperative you protect that site, protect the artifacts.”

  “What about the people?” Cell injected, his sarcasm thick.

  “Of course, the people,” Almstedt said, clearly used to dealing with smart-mouths like Cell. “Do not let those hostiles take anything out of there. And make sure what Ms. Khalon found isn’t tampered with.”

  The team jogged to the waiting Black Hawks and boarded, Tox more than a little relieved to have Chiji back while Cortes and Wallace were tied up in diplomatic pandering. Another diversion to make everyone look the other way while Wraith finished this.

  On the Black Hawk inbound for the archaeological site, Tox glanced at Ram. His friend bore the concern Tox expected to see about his sister. Comms piece snug in his ear, Ram stretched his neck and adjusted his HK416. Tox gave him a look that asked if he was okay, and almost immediately, Ram nodded.

  Then Tox turned to his conscience. In the full battle dress, Chiji looked impressive. Massive. “You okay?”

  “I would prefer my sticks,” Chiji said, looking at the Glock 22 they’d given him.

  “Use whatever you need to stop the enemy.”

  “Body cams hot now,” MacIver ordered.

  Tox turned his on. “Command, what is the sitrep on the ground?” Wind ripped at his feet and legs as he sat in the jump seat. Buzzing the treetops, the helo worked to stay off radar to avoid detection. They needed to insert fast and silent.

  “More than two dozen hostiles,” said a rote military voice from SAARC, who watched via satellite feed. “Heavy firepower in Blue Three.”

  Tox consulted the small map strapped to the forearm of his tactical shirt. Blue Three was the main sorting and medical tents. Was Tzivia in there?

  “Wraith Six” came the strong, commanding voice of Major General Rodriguez. “Be advised there are UN personnel onsite and the site is hot. Repeat, the site is hot.”

  UN? Tox exchanged a look with Ram. What had Tzivia discovered to draw that attention?

  The helo crested a small knoll, the ground blurring beneath his feet as they raced up on the site. He’d jump in three . . . two . . .

  Tox leapt from the chopper, rolled, and came up on a knee. He aimed his M4 at the archaeological site. Dust whipped around him, but his shatterproof glasses protected his eyes as he checked for hostiles. “Wraith Actual on the ground,” he subvocalized, knowing his mic would filter out noise and deliver his words to Command. Scanning right, he noted Maangi sprinting toward a portable building for cover, Thor on his heels. Ram and Cell hustled up to a tent on the left. Chiji hugged Tox’s six.

  A dark shape popped from behind a mud structure then vanished.

  Tox took a bead on the location. Slowed his breathing. Waited for a reappearance.

  The man stepped out. Tox identified the gun, the keffiyeh. Terrorist. Eased back the trigger. When the terrorist collapsed, he waited for another to show. “Hostiles engaged,” he reported.

  A slap to his back told him MacIver had joined him. Tox pushed to his feet and hurried straight toward the body. Tucked himself against the wall. MacI rushed up next to him. Gave a nod, then went to a knee and peered around the corner. Fired several short bursts.

  Tox swung out, took up suppressive fire as he and MacI advanced between the two tents. Approaching windows presented unique dangers, so they slowed and angled away and down as they continued on, Tox and Chiji with their backs pressed together to provide cover to the six and twelve.

  “Tango down,” Cell called. Then Maangi. Several times.

  Dirt crunched beneath his boots as he advanced, targeting the center of the site. Tox angled out and rushed up to a portable building.

  “Wraith Four in position, with advantage.” Maangi. Their sniper had high ground.

  Thwank!

  The unmistakable heat that streaked past his cheekbone told Tox he’d
nearly eaten a bullet. He yanked back, spine to the wall, M4 aimed down.

  Plaster exploded, peppering his cheek in a stinging rage. Tox rolled away from the corner, urging MacI back. “Four, we have a shooter pinning us down. You got eyes on him?”

  “Wraith Actual, be advised,” Major General Rodriguez interrupted, his voice nearly drowned by the chaos of firefights. “It looks like your target from Jurf is packing up an SUV in Blue Three.”

  Tanin. In other words, Wraith needed to get their sorry butts moving. “Copy,” Tox said, on a knee. “Four—we need this shooter neutralized.”

  “Working on it,” came Maangi’s way-too-calm voice. “Want to stick your head out again so he’ll show his mug?”

  Tox nearly smiled. “I like my head where it is.”

  “Just asking.”

  Nearby—couldn’t be more than a couple of meters—came a flurry of gunfire. Handguns. Close quarters. Who was in trouble?

  With Chiji, Tox started back the direction they’d come, MacI hot on his trail, and banked left to come up the other side of the structure. Farther from Blue Three but more cover. They snaked between the portables, sidling up the corner. Tox slid down against the wall and drew out the small mirror from his pocket. He eased it around the corner.

  Glass shattered.

  Tox bit back a curse and jerked away. The shooter had been waiting for them, knew they’d moved. Probably watched them do it.

  The thunderous crack of a sniper rifle sizzled the air. “Tango down,” Maangi said. “Thanks, Wraith Actual.”

  Heart still in his throat, Tox adjusted his brain bowl. “Anytime.” He shook off the adrenaline.

  MacIver tested the corner, this time with a rag. When nothing happened, Tox hustled out, his weapon secure against his shoulder as he sidestepped, sweeping. Scanning. Bodies and vehicles littered the open area. He advanced, rushing toward Blue Three.

  Movement snagged his attention. He whipped to the right. Ram and Cell were closing up their quadrant with speed, tightening the knot on the target.

  “Wraith Actual approaching Blue Three.” But as he homed in on the designated area, Tox couldn’t help but notice the multi-tiered tent and self-contained ventilation system.