Serpent of Moses

Serpent of Moses - By Don Hoesel



1



The jeep slowed and pulled off the highway, the suspension struggling to settle the vehicle onto the narrower road that wound a barely discernible path through the hills. The night-vision binoculars in the hands of the Libyan rendered the details of the jeep with perfect clarity despite the fact that it was running with lights out. The absence of headlights suggested the man driving—the only one of the group Boufayed’s team had not been able to identify—was a local who knew the terrain surrounding Tripoli well enough to navigate in the dark.

The Libyan watched as the jeep worked its way up a steep hill and then as it disappeared over the edge. Only then did he lower the binoculars and bring a phone to his ear. He said a single word before turning his eyes back down the highway, waiting for the dark SUV that had trailed the jeep from afar. It took almost half a minute before the truck came into sight and, on reaching the turnoff, pulled onto the dirt road and made the same climb as the vehicle that had preceded it. When it too disappeared, Boufayed again raised the phone.

“They are no good to us dead. Remember that,” he said to the man who answered, a man who acknowledged the directive and communicated it to the others with him.

As Boufayed ended the call he looked up into the evening sky, searching for any sign of the helicopter, but he could not find it nor hear any sound of its presence.

After he slipped the phone into a pocket he remained at the top of the ridge for another moment, regarding the spot where he had lost sight of the jeep, before turning away and walking down to the waiting car. He slipped into the back of the dark sedan, and the driver started off as soon as the door was closed.

“Do we have any information on the driver yet?” Boufayed asked.

“It just came in,” the other man said. “He is a local courier. No apparent foreign connections.” The man looked up and caught Boufayed’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “It is doubtful he knows anything about his passengers.”

Boufayed grunted. “Which means he will be dead as soon as he has taken them where they want to go.”

The driver did not answer but returned his eyes to the road, leaving Boufayed to again ponder the presence of the Mossad so near the capital. He thought the Israelis had been foolish to try to send them in by plane—even a small one. They had been spotted before they were ten miles past the border. It spoke of sloppiness and Boufayed was not accustomed to such from the Israelis. Nor was he used to foreign agents ferrying lettered German historians into the country.

When the car reached the highway the driver pulled onto it and aimed for the same road down which their quarry and the tail had disappeared. Boufayed looked at his watch and saw that the current time was within the acceptable engagement window, which meant that things would likely be concluded by the time he arrived.

It took the driver some time to force the sedan onto a road not meant for a vehicle of its type, but soon it was bouncing up the hill, Boufayed bracing himself with a hand on the roof in order to keep from leaving his seat. When they reached the top of the hill, all the Libyan could see was sky until the car shifted to level and then into a decline. And what Boufayed saw with that change in perspective brought a vehement curse uttered quietly enough that it was doubtful the driver heard it pass his lips.

The helicopter he had not been able to spot from the ridge was on the ground, its rotors still spinning. It had come down in the jeep’s path, and the SUV had pulled in behind, pinning the Israelis and their passenger between two groups of heavily armed men. Boufayed saw the problem immediately: the helicopter had landed too close. The lack of a buffer zone did all but ensure a fight.

By the time the driver had brought the sedan to a stop within yards of the SUV, the firefight was in full force. Boufayed exited the car in time to see one of the men in the jeep slump forward. It was the driver, who likely only realized that his passengers were anything other than his standard low-profile fares when a military helicopter landed on the road in front of him.

One of the others had jumped from the jeep, strafing the soldiers pouring out of the helicopter. But he was cut down before he’d traveled more than a few feet. That left the two men who occupied the back seat of the jeep, and Boufayed knew that despite the orders he shouted into the phone, those men would be dead in moments. A lone man stood no chance of stopping what had been loosed.

Even so, Boufayed began to move toward the jeep, his black shoes kicking up dust as he scrambled down the incline and into the line of fire. They had to take the German alive, and he considered that directive important enough to ignore the bullets that filled the air around him. As he ran Boufayed reached beneath his coat and pulled his gun.

It seemed to take a long while for him to cross the empty space between the vehicles, and with each step he waited for the inevitable, for a handful of the many rounds to find the two men who still remained in the back of the jeep. But with each step that saw the foreigners still alive, and with the growing realization among his men that Boufayed had entered the kill zone, the Libyan was beginning to hope that he might secure his prize after all.

He was within steps of the jeep, the reports of gunfire dying off, when he saw the remaining Mossad agent lurch back against the seat. It seemed to happen in slow motion with the blood beginning to flow from the man’s chest. Still, the Israeli had not dropped his gun, and even as the Libyan rounds faded, Boufayed held his weapon steady on the foreign soldier. The blood came more quickly now, welling from the man’s chest—too much for the wound to be anything but mortal.

With the Israeli dying, Boufayed turned his eyes to the only other survivor: the German, who wore a look that Boufayed could only identify as incredulity. The man’s focus appeared to move everywhere yet seemed unable to focus on anything—until Boufayed drew near, and then the German’s eyes fell on him. It was only in that moment that the Libyan allowed himself to believe he had captured his prize. He would handle the man’s interrogation himself. The German would give up his secrets; he would divulge all that he knew. Boufayed would see to it.

The night air had dropped several degrees since Boufayed stood on the ridgetop watching the jeep pull off the highway, and he felt it for the first time, the crispness on his skin. It improved a mood already enhanced by the success of the mission. As he started across the last few feet separating him from Dr. Felix Hoffstratter, he found himself wearing a smile likely unsuited to the moment.

He did not register the movement right away—a shifting of position by the dying Israeli, a last flailing against the finality of what awaited him. The German himself did not seem to notice, as the man’s eyes remained fixed on the approaching Libyan. A second series of movements, though, pulled Boufayed’s focus away from his prize. The Mossad agent had pushed himself upright. His shirt was soaked through with blood. Boufayed could see his chest heaving as he fought to draw breath. His face, however, had taken on a look of resolve.

The Israeli looked at Boufayed, and the Libyan thought he saw a hint of a smile touch the man’s lips. Then Boufayed saw the gun hand come up. Before he could react, the Israeli twisted in his seat and placed the gun against the German’s temple. An instant later, a single shot scattered whatever secrets the man held.