Elisha's Bones Part 13

I start at the top, careful to line the staff true with each notch. We spot a few letters right away; others take more time and often we're forced to stop the work as people file through. I grow more uneasy the longer it takes, but Espy works with calm efficiency. The process takes less than half an hour. When finished, we have a series of twenty-five or so letters written down on the notepad.

There is mutual agreement between us to get out of here and go somewhere halfway private before we begin the work of decoding. We're both breathing heavy as we leave, and it has little to do with exertion. I return the prayer staff to its rightful owner as Espy finds our shoes.

We're now sitting in a small cafe in the busiest part of Lalibela, our bags near our feet. I've chosen a table in the shadows, which allows me to keep an eye on the traffic pa.s.sing by the open door. Prudence dictated a discreet checkout from the hotel, followed by the rush to find a place where we could give the painting's Teutonic letters a serious look.

Espy has her pencil in hand, ready to form the characters into different groupings and orders-a lengthy, medieval anagram. Except that the pencil hovers over the page as a frown creases her forehead. She looks up to make sure I'm watching and then, with careful deliberation, draws a vertical line between two characters, then a second line farther to the right. That done, she slides the notepad across the table.

"Couldn't you at least make it look difficult?" I ask.

"Do you remember the first patronymic in Reese's research?"

"Chevrier."

"And we wondered how Reese got the bones from the cemetery to there?"

"You wondered. I just nodded and hoped you wouldn't hit me again."

She taps the notepad, indicating the group of characters on the left. "Chevrier."

"What about the others?"

"This one on the right," she says, pointing on the page. "It doesn't translate as well but it's also a name. Vuk Stefanovic."

"Son of Stephen." I shake my head. It can get tricky trying to trace names earlier than the thirteenth century.

"This is going backward, Jack. Vuk Stefanovic transferred the bones to Chevrier. That's where Reese's record picks up. And if we keep following it backward, it will become nearly impossible to track them. Relying on patronymics makes it sketchy enough as it is."

I can feel the frustration building up inside me, yet I refuse to believe the clue we fought so hard to attain is simply a name to add to the list-and one going in the wrong direction. Then I see Espy's smile, which makes me realize she's not experiencing the same irritation as me. When I follow her eyes down, her finger has moved to rest on the group of characters connecting the two she's rendered.

"The best translation is broker broker," she says.

"Broker? As in to trade to trade?" It makes sense, and it's further evidence that a transfer of something valuable took place between these two families. Still, I'm not sure how helpful it is to have the action defined for us.

"It's a noun."

Those three words are the aural equivalent of a lightning strike. I hear them, and understand their individual meanings, but don't discern their thunder until seconds later. When I tear my eyes away from the page and back to Espy, she wears an expression that's unadulterated satisfaction.

"Here's your organization," she says, leaning in. "Arranging the transfer."

Her body language is all earnestness but, while I'm near dizzy at the possibility, I need time to think. It's as I'm fumbling for the right words to express both excitement and caution that I see Brown walk past the cafe door.

"Put it away," I say to Espy. After a brief, puzzled hesitation, she flips the notepad closed and hides it in her jacket pocket, then fights the urge to turn around to see what has my attention. I continue watching the entrance but do not see my former protege backtrack. Still, if he's looking for us, it means Hardy can't be far away. I motion for Espy to grab her bag just as Brown comes into view. I see him glance into the cafe, but the only light in the place comes from the open doorway and a single window. From his spot in the afternoon sun, I wonder if he can see anything at all in here. As if to validate that thought, he looks away, seeming ready to start off again, when, perhaps in some act of submission to his subconscious, he changes direction and takes a single step through the doorway. When he sees us, I lock eyes with him for several seconds until, with an expression I can't read, he disappears back onto the street.

"Let's go," I say. Without waiting for Espy's reply, I toss money on the table to cover our untouched coffee, then head for the door. After what Sarah told us, I have no doubt that Brown has gone to find Hardy, and although the odds are slim that he would try anything in front of so many witnesses, there's nothing to be gained by us sitting in the open.

We join the flow of people beneath the blinding sun, and I pause to get my bearings. There's a taxi depot down the hill about four blocks away. With any luck, we will avoid any more run-ins with Brown and company and be on a plane within the hour.

I tell Espy our destination and she starts off first. As I follow her, my knee testifies to the steepness of the hill. I promise myself that if I ever make it back to Evanston, I will s.n.a.t.c.h up the first unit available on the ground level of my apartment building.

We've covered two blocks and the slope begins leveling out. I can see the taxi sign ahead and am gratified to see a car parked in front. The crowd is thicker here and I come near to losing Espy in the crush of pilgrims. Once, I feel a hand slide along the shoulder strap of my laptop but send the pickpocket-a child of nine or ten-scurrying with a look. I quickly move my wallet from my back pocket to the front. Meanwhile, Espy is getting farther ahead as the crowd grows even denser. Someone b.u.mps into me and I feel my knee give; it's all I can do to keep from falling. By the time I regain my balance, Espy is out of sight. A mild oath finds its way past my lips, and I pick up speed, hoping to catch sight of her through all the people.

A narrow alley opens up to my left and, as I hurry by, a flash of movement catches my attention. There's a moment of disconnect between my brain and my body, with the latter stopping before the former can commit to action. I stumble and catch myself on the shoulder of a gentleman carrying two large boxes of onions, both of which tumble from his arms and send their contents cascading down the sloped concourse. Ignoring the man's protest, I retrace my steps back to the alley, and anger sucker-punches me in the same part of my midsection that Espy worked over in Caracas. I push my way through the crowd and step between the buildings, because I know that's what the man with the gun expects of me.

Esperanza's eyes are large but free of panic, even though Hardy has the muzzle of a sleek pistol pressed just below her ear. I can see Brown standing behind him, but I can't spare him more than a pa.s.sing thought except to wonder at the strangeness of a world that can chart such a path for a man with his potential: an esteemed archaeologist serving as patsy and betrayer. More important is the man who stands between Espy and me-a local who is pointing the business end of a WWII-era machine gun in my direction. Behind me the street rings loud and bright, and no one pays any attention to what's happening in this alley mere feet away.

"h.e.l.lo, Dr. Hawthorne," Hardy says.

"Why?" It's the only question that means anything.

He shrugs, and I flinch as the gun moves over Espy's skin.

"Because he doesn't need you anymore."

"And a pink slip wasn't sufficient?" The weak attempt at levity sounds out of place even to me as the anger still pulses in my ears.

"Mr. Reese ties up loose ends."

I have to believe it, because Reese's puppet is here, and my continued existence is very much in question. Yet it's difficult to jell my present knowledge of Gordon Reese with the genteel man I met in Dallas.

"Why doesn't he need me anymore?" It's a play at buying time. There's only one reason why Reese would no longer need my services.

"He knows where they are, Dr. Hawthorne. That makes you a liability."

I half process Brown's reaction to that p.r.o.nouncement.

"Then why not fire me and let me get back to teaching? How could I possibly be a threat to Mr. Reese?"

At this, Hardy laughs, and I am again watching the gun move.

"I'm sure you've realized by now that there are forces at work larger than one man-even if that man happens to be Mr. Reese."

The man with the machine gun glances toward the street, then at his boss, and I can read the question in his eyes. He wants to know why this is taking so long.

So someone else is directing Gordon's paces? But Hardy will not be baited, and I'm getting the impression that he's on the verge of giving the nod to his hired hand. My mind frantically searches for something that will prolong this vignette, and it seizes on the first thing that promises to throw an unknown into the mix.

"How many teams does Reese have working on this?" I ask. "And are you supposed to kill all of them, too?"

This time I'm watching for Brown's reaction and am rewarded with something resembling realization. Hardy can feel it, even with Brown behind him; his eyes become slivers. But Brown's response is more muted than I'd hoped, meaning my gambit has crossed the line meant to a.s.sure self-preservation without a satisfactory payoff. I'm left scrambling for something that can halt what seems inevitable, and hoping it will be painless, when all eyes s.h.i.+ft to a point over my left shoulder.

"You didn't answer the question, Mr. Hardy," Sarah says, walking into the alley a few steps past where I stand. "Once you're done with Jack and Dr. Habilla, are you going to kill us, too?"

She stops near the man with the machine gun, and I almost feel pity for him as he wonders what he should do in response to this woman who is standing close enough to reach out and put her hand on the weapon.

Hardy forces a laugh, perhaps realizing he's allowed things to go off the rails. It's never wise to foster suspicion in your allies when one of said allies is standing behind you. I see that Brown has taken a step forward with Sarah's arrival, and that his nearness makes Hardy uncomfortable.

"You'll get the standard pink slip, Ms. Ward," Hardy answers, but his tone is unconvincing.

"That doesn't rea.s.sure me as much as you might think," Sarah says.

From my angle, I can't see her face when she looks over at machine-gun guy, but his response is a sheepish smile-and the lowering of the gun by the smallest of increments.

It takes me by surprise when she lunges for him, wrapping both hands around the gun barrel and forcing it to the side. But she gives up a hundred pounds to the Ethiopian mercenary, and the man yanks the gun toward his body, bringing Sarah with it. He quickly releases a hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders, then brings his forehead down on her nose and there's the sick sound of popping cartilage.

I will my own feet to move and join the one-sided fight, forcing the gun aside now that he has only one hand on it, and popping him in the face as hard as I can with my free hand. In my peripheral vision I see Espy struggling in Hardy's grip. With a snarl, the Ethiopian releases Sarah and she falls to the dirt. The man then shoves me away. He outweighs me too, and it doesn't take him long to clear enough s.p.a.ce to get his hands back on the gun. I use all of my strength to keep him from bringing the weapon back around.

From deeper in the alley I hear a gun discharge, the sound deafening in the confined s.p.a.ce, and I feel white-hot fear. I throw my shoulder into my opponent's sternum and I feel his grip loosen on the machine gun. As he doubles over, I swipe at his temple with an elbow, connecting with a loud thud. He drops to his knees and, as he slides from view, I see what's playing out beyond. Brown is lying facedown, blood pooling around his head. I watch as Hardy turns back toward Esperanza, and is met with a solid kick to the crotch, which sends him to the ground.

The man I'm dancing with, although dazed, is still holding the gun. With one final pull I wrench it away from him and toss it toward the far wall. He hasn't yet caught his breath so I leave him and run to Espy, grabbing her hand.

"Let's go!" I yell. I help Sarah to her feet, grab her elbow, and lead both women out of the alley.

"That was stupid," I say to Sarah.

She offers a tired smile. "It worked, didn't it?"

I give her arm a squeeze at the same instant I hear a loud peal of thunder. It happens in slow motion. A spray of red erupts from Sarah's temple, and before I know what's happening, she is falling. I know she's gone even before I lose my grip on her arm. The sound of the gunshot echoes in my ears as Sarah comes to rest on the ground, her hair covering her face.

As I stand there, numbly looking down on Sarah's lifeless body, Espy pulls on my arm, shouting in my ear, "Jack! C'mon, we have to go!"

She doesn't wait for a reply but digs her nails in and keeps pulling until I follow. Before we hurry out onto the street, I look over my shoulder and see Hardy struggling to his feet, trying to steady himself so he can squeeze off another shot. The Ethiopian has reclaimed his gun, and he meets my eyes just before Espy gives a final tug that jerks me around the wall.

The street is near to empty now. The smattering of people I see-the ones watching the alley from which Espy and I emerge-look like Europeans. The locals have all fled, gone somewhere to hide, probably waiting it out until the violence is over. I'm still only half there, even with the urgency caused by knowing what's behind us. I see the taxi station ahead, a straight shot.

I have the presence of mind to start running with Espy toward the first car I see, a beat-up Peugeot. It's downhill, and every step threatens to upend me, but I keep the pedal down as I hear a volley of gunfire behind us and see puffs of dirt explode far too close to our feet. As Espy and I narrow the distance to the car, it occurs to me that there's no driver in sight. I'm just about to turn to Espy and tell her we need a new plan when I see a man in long shorts and a knee-length s.h.i.+rt exit the taxi station and rush toward the Peugeot. He enters through the pa.s.senger-side door and scrambles behind the wheel, beckoning with frantic hand gestures. Espy is there first and she yanks on the door and dives across the seat, and I perform the same maneuver, albeit with less grace. Before I can reach to shut the door, the driver puts the car in gear and pulls everything he can from the engine. Racing away, I hear a rapid series of impacts as bullets pepper the car, and then I'm wearing the shattered remains of a window.

As the car fishtails around a corner, taking us out of Lalibela, our savior looks up into the rearview mirror, flas.h.i.+ng brilliant white teeth.

"I save your life. You pay double the fare now, yes?"

It's been just three days but it feels as if I'm returning to Addis Ababa in a different season than when I left. Winter has replaced summer, even if the change is reflected in nothing beyond my mood. I've been quiet for the last few hours, since we boarded the plane in Lalibela, and Espy has allowed me this. I know I'm doing her a disservice by retreating, but she's strong enough to get by while I try to figure out everything that's happened-not just recently but since this whole business began back in Dallas. And it's not just Sarah's death, even though that's something I'm grappling with; she signed on to this thing on her own, and my gut tells me that Hardy would have killed her team regardless of my involvement. But what I'm trying to figure out is how this job has come to define my life. This quest has dragged me from retirement and forced me to engage elements of my personal history that I was quite happy ignoring. It has unearthed people, events, and connections I once kept in separate compartments. Now I'm coming to realize that these things are all linked, and it's a bit more than I'm prepared to process.

We are near Trinity Cathedral, in a coffee shop off Arat Kilo Square. From where I'm sitting, I can see the front entrance of Trinity. I reach for my new cell phone. We bought it in the airport terminal, working under the a.s.sumption that the people involved in this drama possess the resources necessary to monitor my old phone. I have no delusions that we will remain untracked for long, which is why I'll try my Reese Industries card one last time for a hefty cash advance. The advance will tell Reese that we made it here, but if Espy and I are careful we may escape Addis Ababa before anyone can lock on.

I'd used a pay phone at the airport to facilitate this meeting. Alem'nesh picks up on the first ring.

"We're here," I say.

He hangs up without saying anything. I put the phone down and reach for my coffee cup.

"Do you know how bad he probably feels right now?" Espy says after I've taken a sip.

"I have an idea."

In our earlier call, I gave Al the highlights of our trip and I could almost smell the incredulity coming through the phone. As Espy said, there also has to be guilt there-from two fronts. On one hand, he provided information and furthered something that almost got us killed; on the other, he violated an oath to his religion by divulging their secrets.

"I don't think he has them," I say.

Espy gives me a questioning look.

"The bones. I don't think Reese has them. If he did, he would just stop paying us."

Espy frowns, and I see her parsing my logic.

"He'd cut the money, not answer my calls. Basically he'd wait for me to give up and go back to my real job." I shake my head. "No, the reason he's trying to execute his teams is because he knows where they are-"

"And he doesn't want anyone else to get to them first," Espy finishes. I see her working through that revelation until a thought hits her. "He meant to kill you all along. Even if everything went according to his original plan, and you found the bones for him . . ."

I look out the window, watching the sun drop behind Trinity, the church casting a lengthening shadow that will soon encompa.s.s Espy and me.

I've been trying to make sense of all the players. There's Reese, whose role and motivations seem obvious. And Victor Manheim has stepped from the shadows, but he's a cipher. I have no idea how he fits into this, beyond the knowledge of his involvement at KV65. What I feel confident about is my belief that Manheim and Reese are not on the same team-even if they employ similar methods. I've considered the possibility that Manheim is tied to someone like Reese, who wants the bones found, but every time I give that more than a pa.s.sing thought I go back to the Valley of the Kings. Manheim didn't have the air of someone searching for something; he acted like a man trying to keep others from finding it.

What keeps me from rus.h.i.+ng off to Egypt, though, is the irrationality of thinking the bones are in that tomb. Even if they'd been there when we were excavating-unlikely, considering that KV65 was sealed when the research has the bones pa.s.sing to Fraternidad de la Tierra-they would have been removed after the accident.

What hovers just out of range of these considerations is the hypothetical secret organization for which we seem to have found evidence. As much as Reese and Manheim must occupy my attention, I wish I had the time and resources needed to research this third ent.i.ty, this group that might precede the birth of the Christian church. I take another sip of coffee and chuckle to myself. I still haven't attached Victor Manheim to any vested party; for all I know, he's a representative of this ancient society.

I have to push those thoughts away. What's important now is our destination. There are two men who have tried to kill me, both in different parts of the world. Heading for Dallas will move me only toward vengeance, while going to Australia might lead me closer to the bones. If I want this to end, I have to do what Reese doesn't want me to do: I have to find the bones before he can get to them. And with Victor Manheim as my only connection to the bones, vengeance might make a showing after all.

Watching out the window, I catch sight of Al crossing the Trinity courtyard. I've wondered what role Alem'nesh's church has in this whole thing. It would seem to be a significant one, even if their recent historical origin, relatively speaking, precludes them from being the original organization. I don't think he will tell me anything more, not after the events his last intel sp.a.w.ned. But I have to try, so that I can be as prepared as possible for what might await Espy and me when we touch down in Sydney.

Al recommended this coffee shop. He said he stops here every day on his way to the church. He reaches the street, and I see him looking this way, maybe searching for us through the shop's dirty window. Al steps from the curb between two parked cars and starts to cross. I offer a small wave, and he sees it. He waves back.

Then the world outside the window disintegrates in a mix of light and deafening sound. Before Espy and I can react, the window ruptures, spraying us with gla.s.s. Instinct kicks in and I turn my head to avoid the worst of the shower as I throw myself to the floor. Espy does the same, coming down hard a few feet away from me. I'm at her side almost before the last bits of gla.s.s land.

"I'm fine," she says, rising on one arm.

I ignore her words and do a battlefield check, but she's right; I can't see that she has been injured. I spare a few seconds to determine that I have fared almost as well, save a single, albeit large, piece of gla.s.s stuck in my left shoulder. I pull the gla.s.s from my skin and toss it to the floor. The shopkeeper chooses that moment to rise from behind the counter, his eyes wide. He looks at Espy and me, and I give him a wave to a.s.sure him we're all right. His eyes move to take in the scene outside.

With the same idea, I pull myself up, using the table for support, then to steady myself as I take in what has happened. It looks like one of those war zones one sees when watching CNN. Smoke fills the air, with debris scattered about in the street. People are running to and fro, and there's a car-one of the cars that Al was walking by-that's in flames. Only a crater remains of the other vehicle. I don't understand why, but the sounds break through only after the images have made their mark. The first noise that cuts through is that of distant sirens. I hear people crying, screaming; the crackle of flames.

I don't see a body but I have no doubt that Al is dead.

Smoke is drifting into the coffee shop and I begin to cough. Tears start to form, and I can blame these on the smoke, too. I take Espy's hand, and together we head outside.

On the street, an atmosphere of chaos reigns. I watch as a young man, dazed, wanders toward the flame-engulfed car. I run to him and guide him in the other direction and get him to sit down on the other side of the street.

Then I force myself to stop. There's a hollow feeling in my stomach, as well as a larger portion of guilt than Alem'nesh carried. Even this close to the event, I have no doubt that Al was targeted, for the detonation was too well timed, too precise, to have been anything but a hit. Which means that whoever detonated the bomb might be watching me right now, and that means Espy and I must leave immediately.

CHAPTER 15