Serpent of Moses

18



“Our phones,” Templeton said.

Jack, who had spent the last thirty minutes guiding the jeep north and away from the doomed village as fast as he was able, looked over at the other man, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s how the Israelis found us,” Templeton explained. “They tracked our phones.”

Jack absorbed that and, eyes back on what was a road in name only, said, “So explain to me why Israelis attacked a Tunisian village in the middle of nowhere. And how you knew who they were.” A pause. “If that’s who they were.”

“Because that’s who hired me to recover the Nehushtan,” Templeton said.

That pronouncement came just as the right front tire of the jeep dipped into a rut that had jumped out from the darkness into the jeep’s path. The jostling sent their few possessions sliding around in the back, and Jack glanced over his shoulder to see that the staff was still secure. That done, he turned his attention back to the Englishman.

“Someone from Israel hired you to find the staff?”

Templeton shook his head. “When I said the Israelis, I meant the Israelis—as in the government. By my understanding, there are elements within their government who are engaged in a cultural mandate of sorts. I suppose you could call it a reclaiming of their history.”

“You mean they’re collecting things that speak to their past.”

“Yes. That’s my understanding,” Templeton said. “And I would say that a staff supposedly used by Moses qualifies.”

Jack turned silent for a moment. What Templeton had told him wasn’t hard to accept. After all, hadn’t the Egyptians been engaged in much the same thing over the last few decades? Reclaiming treasures plundered from them over the centuries? However, to the best of Jack’s knowledge, they hadn’t resorted to sending military units into other countries willing to slaughter people in order to get what they wanted.

“And they are trying to kill us because . . . ?” Jack asked.

“Why do the Israelis do anything they do?” Templeton said dismissively.

Jack aimed an irritated look in his direction.

“My guess is that once I took you prisoner, and once Imolene reported that to our employers, they decided I was not the sort of man they wanted on their payroll,” Templeton said.

“But Imolene is?”

Templeton shrugged. “He does what he’s asked, he does it well, and then he forgets. If I were the Israelis, I would probably choose him over me too.”

“But why would they have to use outside resources in the first place? If you want to keep something quiet, the best way to go about it is by keeping it all in-house.”

“I suspect that’s exactly what they do,” Templeton said. “At least as much as they’re able. I’m sure they’d like to handle as many of these recovery operations by themselves as they can. But there are certain places in which the presence of an Israeli attracts too much attention.”

“Like Libya.”

“Like Libya,” Templeton agreed.

“And yet they send an entire team into Tunisia.”

“The village was likely remote enough for them to feel comfortable chancing a larger scale operation,” Templeton said. “But you can be certain that none of the Israelis will have carried identification.”

There didn’t seem to be much to say after that, and both men lapsed into silence. Jack had a good deal to consider—chief among them, Martin Templeton. It seemed odd that the man who’d held him captive for days, the man who’d precipitated Jack’s flight through the desert, was now sitting next to him as if none of it had happened. In truth, Jack wanted to do little else but find what passed for a police station in Raballah and drop the man off. The reality that agents from a foreign government were after them, however, changed things. After what Jack had witnessed in the village, he had no doubt that Templeton was telling the truth, and this being the case, he suspected that having the Englishman with him was necessary if he stood any chance of extricating himself from the situation. For at least a while longer he had to keep the man with him.

“I assume you can get in touch with whoever’s paying you?” he asked.

Templeton’s eyes were closed, but Jack knew he wasn’t sleeping.

“I could. But the only good that would do would be to give away our location.”

“Just cataloguing our assets,” Jack said.

Templeton simply nodded, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts. And the longer he drove, the more he found those thoughts returning to the artifact, which had probably covered more ground in the past few days than it had for more than a thousand years. Despite everything he’d gone through, and everything he still might endure, he would not even consider the thought that it wasn’t worth it.

There was something about recovering an artifact like the Nehushtan that superseded much of his other work. For even though he’d personally supervised the digs of more than a dozen ancient tombs, pulling an impressive number of priceless objects from them, and even though his experience with biblical relics, while minimal, was such that those who had devoted their entire careers to the field would have envied him had they known, Jack was so drawn to the mystery of the object that he could not begin to regret his circumstances.

“It’s worth it,” he said, not realizing he’d spoken the words aloud until Templeton responded.

“It’s the story behind it,” Templeton said. “Most of us heard the story when we were children. We could almost see Moses drive the staff into the ground, the Israelites crawling toward it in hopes of being healed.” He paused and looked off into space, as if imagining the events he described. “It’s such a visceral image. The dying pulling themselves across the ground or being carried by their loved ones, hoping to look upon a totem created at the instruction of God.”

He glanced back at the artifact and let out a sigh.

“That’s what separates this from just about anything else you could dig up,” he went on. “When we went to Sunday school, we were fed stories of great deeds performed by people who were larger than life. This was already in our collective consciousness.”

Jack nodded. It was as valid a summation as he could have come up with, and suddenly all he wanted was to hold it in his hands, to study the thing Templeton spoke of. Jack turned and looked at the bundle in the jeep’s back.

Recognizing Jack’s longing, the Englishman reached back to collect the staff. He unwrapped it and held it out, admiring it with an appreciation that might have equaled Jack’s own. Glancing over while driving, Jack could look directly into the eyes of the serpent, aware of the fact that he was looking into the same jeweled eyes that, if the story was true, countless men and women had looked into in order to live.

Even as he thought it, he chided himself for his doubt. If past events had done nothing else, they had given him a unique perspective on the veracity of biblical claims—a perspective he suspected few people in the world could share. And as expected, he felt the twinge of guilt that often reared its head when he considered the gift he’d been given. Because while there had been no way to avoid accepting the faith his parents had taught him, since that time he and God had settled into an uneasy détente. And the things that kept him from considering the reason for the détente were the very things he feared losing in the process. His detachment, his irresponsibility, his beloved flippancy—they had defined him for so long that he didn’t know what he’d do if he lost them. And he was convinced that’s what would happen if he decided to practice what Espy called spiritual maturity.

“You believe it,” Templeton said, breaking into Jack’s thoughts.

“Believe what?” Jack asked.

“You can’t look into the serpent’s eyes like that and not believe the staff did what the Bible says it did.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted his eyes back to the staff, taking in the snake’s body, the detail of each scale, following the coil around the staff. The longer he looked at it—a luxury afforded by flat terrain and no traffic—the more something about it bothered him, although that realization did not come to him right away. He simply found that his eyes kept returning to the serpent’s tail.

“Yes, I believe it,” Jack said, the response requiring no further elaboration.

Templeton carefully rewrapped the artifact and returned it to the back seat.

For some reason, Jack was irritated that Templeton had secured the staff, yet he didn’t say anything. Still, he felt he’d been on the verge of figuring out something important and now whatever it was had suddenly fled.

He glanced down at the jeep’s center console, at the cellphone sitting in the cup holder. He wondered if they were close enough to Raballah to get a signal.

“Remember, you’re dealing with a government that is among the best in the world at clandestine operations,” Templeton said, his eyes still closed. “They know your name. Which means they know your friends’ names. And their phone numbers.”

Jack knew Templeton was right and it bothered him that he hadn’t thought of it—that he’d come close to making a huge mistake. If the Israelis were listening, then even using a public phone in Raballah would be a risk. They’d be monitoring Espy’s calls, regardless of the incoming number. He was running out of options.

However, there was one thing Jack had in abundance: friends in odd places.

The farther north Jack drove, the more the road began to look like a road, with the requisite signs denoting routes and destinations, and when Jack hit the P19 he took it, removing Raballah from the playbook. If Templeton noticed the change, he didn’t comment.

Two hours later, with Templeton legitimately asleep, they entered Medenine.

It had been years—prior to Jack beginning his teaching career at Evanston—since he’d been in the area, and on those previous occasions he remembered Medenine as a wonderfully eclectic place. He’d enjoyed touring the ghorfas, admiring the honeycomb structure of the ancient stone buildings that had served the people of the area for thousands of years. He hadn’t the time to revisit those tourist spots, but in his present circumstances the town offered him something of significantly greater value.

As they headed north, hitting the first of the foothills that hinted at mountains farther on, the air had cooled. Before reaching the city proper, he pulled off the P19 and onto a narrower unmarked road that took them up a gradual rise, following the curve of the road until a cluster of buildings came into view—small homes set in loose confederation against the sprawl of the city only fifty feet below.

Templeton was awake now and regarded the place without speaking. When Jack pulled to a stop in front of a nondescript home amidst other nondescript homes, the Englishman exited with him. Jack, staff in hand, started up the incline to the front door, which opened before he reached it. A man in a worn jalabiya stood in the threshold, eyes that looked as tired as Jack’s felt taking in the visitors. They touched Jack and moved off, but then returned and fixed on him. Jack offered a smile as recognition came to the Tunisian.

Being a wanderer by nature had bestowed on Jack a large and diverse collection of friends and acquaintances all over the world. Many of them he’d met only once. Yet he’d never met a man from whom he couldn’t ask a favor, and Marwen Saidani was one such man.

In truth, Marwen was more Romero’s friend than Jack’s, though the last time he was there Jack had stayed up late with both men, telling tall tales and smoking good cigars.

Marwen seemed pleased to see him, yet his smile was tempered by the lateness of the hour and because Jack and Templeton appeared to have been dragged through the desert by a rampaging camel. Once inside, Jack assuaged the man’s fears with broad strokes, telling him that all they needed was a place to spend the night—a request with which the Tunisian readily agreed.

After the exchange of a few more words, Jack was ushered into the back of the house, a dwelling larger and more modern than the last Tunisian home in which he’d stayed. A door on the left opened into a plain but clean room that Jack claimed as his own, closing the door behind him and leaving Templeton in his friend’s care. The room had its own bathroom, and Jack spent a long while scrubbing away the grime of the last few days with water as hot as he could stand. When he’d finished, he collapsed onto the bed. Less than a minute later he was asleep, stretched out on a mattress about as giving as a boulder. In his present state, though, he could have been sleeping in a five-star hotel and would not have noticed the difference.



It had been the Israelis who had drawn Imolene to the small village, although he’d arrived when they were all but finished and he had remained out of sight as they left, disappearing into the night as quietly as they had undoubtedly descended on the place. He thought he’d been following the likely path taken by those he hunted, and seeing the lights from multiple fires over the flat terrain had validated that belief.

What bothered Imolene, however, was the possibility that his employers’ insertion of a team without telling him suggested they were less than confident that he could handle the task given him. And if that was true, there was no guarantee they would not also come for him. He had known when he accepted the job that it was not without significant risk.

In the ruins of the village he had located a survivor able to tell him that Templeton and Hawthorne had escaped the carnage in a jeep, heading north. The Egyptian had spotted them before the American—who no longer seemed to be a prisoner—had taken the P19. Imolene had trailed them to Medenine, but had kept back, allowing the increasing city traffic to form a hedge between his truck and the jeep.

He wasn’t unduly concerned about being spotted, as it would have been impossible for the men to know what sort of vehicle Imolene would be driving. Nonetheless, he also understood that the human body responded in odd ways to the feeling of eyes on it. While he stayed back, just keeping the jeep in his sight, he could avoid any chance of detection.

As they neared the city, the jeep slowed and Imolene, who had just started to close some of the distance for fear of losing them, slowed as well. Not long after that, his quarry left the P19 for a packed dirt road devoid of any other traffic.

Imolene slowed as he approached the turnoff, watching as the jeep disappeared around a curve. He drove past the dirt road but turned around a hundred meters farther down, heading back to where the jeep had left the P19 and following with only his running lights on, his way made visible by the help of the bright moon. Before long he passed the parked jeep and, nodding to himself, continued on.



Jack had been awake for a while, jolted to alertness by something he couldn’t put his finger on. As a younger man he’d been a heavy sleeper, a skill born of necessity in a field where one slept in tents or was exposed to the elements in sleeping bags under the open sky, with other members of the team who kept different hours milling about. But for the last few years he’d slept lightly, perhaps because he’d lived those years suspecting someone would eventually show up to take his life. Tonight, though, he didn’t know if the fact that he’d awakened was because of his personal circumstances or some external influence.

He lay still on the narrow bed, listening to the movements common to all houses. And he’d almost convinced himself that nothing was amiss when he heard a noise coming from beyond his door. A moment later the door opened, a form silhouetted in the doorframe.

Before Jack could cry out, he heard the distinctive click of a gun made ready. The form advanced into the room, closing the door. Even in the darkness he knew who it was.

“Why?” was all he said.

The room had no window and so, try as he might, he couldn’t put features to Templeton’s outline.

“Because I have a feeling that things are coming to an end,” the man said. “I have no idea what that end will be, but I know it will rob me of what I want.”

Jack didn’t move. He had no idea what Templeton could see but guessed that the Englishman’s vision was as limited as his own and he didn’t want any sudden move on his part to make Templeton discharge his weapon.

“If it’s a choice between me being dead or you taking the staff, believe me, you can have the staff,” Jack said.

“You don’t understand. It’s never been about the Nehushtan.” He paused, then added, “Don’t get me wrong. I do want to walk out of here with it, but I think you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

And in that moment, Jack did. Since the ordeal began, he’d questioned why Templeton had thought it necessary to kidnap him. Logistically it had made no sense. If Jack’s silence was what the man wanted, a bullet would have ensured that.

“Then tell me what it is you want, Martin.”

“Answers,” he replied.

The response brought a frown to Jack’s face. “What are you talking about? What answers?”

“I had a brother,” Templeton said. “A younger brother named Thomas. The sort of person who was never happy in one place. Always wanted to travel. So when he turned eighteen, he left home to see the world. Do you know where he went, Jack?”

“No. I have no idea where he went.”

“He went to Australia. About five years ago.”

When Jack heard that, he felt a shiver run down his spine. Although he couldn’t know exactly what Templeton was about to say, he had an idea.

“For a long time Thomas couldn’t find work. Finally he signed on with a company near Melbourne, working in security. . . .”

He paused for a moment. By now Jack was getting used to the dark and was able to make out the sour expression on the other man’s face.

Templeton continued, “I never would have realized that corporate security was such a dangerous occupation.”

“What happened to him?” Jack asked, despite himself.

“That’s just the thing,” Templeton said. “The Australian authorities couldn’t really tell us. Just that he died in a house fire.”

The more Templeton talked, the sicker Jack felt.

“What’s interesting, Jack, is how you know a few of the other casualties of that fire.”

And just like that, everything fell into place—the reason Templeton hadn’t let him go. Of course, there was no telling the Englishman that his brother had broken into Jack’s mentor’s house and killed the older man and his wife, and that he would have killed Jack had he not defended himself. Hearing that would have no effect on Templeton. The answers the man wanted would not heal anything.

“What was in Australia that Thomas had to die for, Dr. Hawthorne?”

Even though Templeton couldn’t see the gesture, Jack responded with a slight shake of his head. “Nothing, Martin. There was nothing in Australia—not worth dying for.”

He knew that answer wouldn’t suffice; and he knew that eventually Templeton would kill him for it.

But in that moment the door opened, light streaming in. After blinking a few times to clear his vision, Jack saw Marwen, who was pressing a gun against the back of Templeton’s head.

Templeton’s gun was still pointed at Jack, however, and given what he now knew about the man’s motivation and seeing the fevered look in his eyes, Jack wondered if Templeton just might be foolish enough to pull the trigger. But then Templeton’s face fell and he lowered the hand that held the gun. Marwen reached around and took the gun and then stepped to the side, motioning for Templeton to take a chair against the wall opposite the bed. Once Templeton was seated, Marwen turned to Jack.

“I think you need to exercise better care in choosing your friends,” he said.

Jack rolled out of the bed, holding in a groan when his sore muscles protested. “He’s not my friend. In fact, up until about thirty-six hours ago he had me tied up.”

The look of confusion on Marwen’s face almost made Jack laugh, yet too much had happened within the last few days for levity to bubble to the surface.

“Thanks,” he said to the Tunisian.

Marwen nodded. “I did not know this was happening until I reached your door. I was coming to wake you for something else.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“A truck sits on the street just up the road,” Marwen said. “And in that truck sits a man who is watching this house.”

“Are you certain?” Jack asked, realizing as he said it that Marwen would not have awakened him if he had any doubt.

“He drove past once, perhaps an hour ago, with his lights out. He is back now and he is sitting, waiting, watching my home.” At Jack’s unasked follow-up, he said, “I know in the same way I knew you were here before your car stopped. Because I have eyes not my own to tell me things.”

“Imolene,” Templeton said.

Jack had almost forgotten about the man but now he found himself agreeing with him.

“Who is this Imolene?” Marwen asked.

“An Egyptian mercenary,” Jack said. “The nasty kind.”

Marwen absorbed that with another nod.

“I’m sorry, Marwen,” Jack said. “I didn’t mean to put you in danger.”

The Tunisian shrugged Jack’s concern away. “I have no fear. He is one man and there are at least six guns trained on him as we speak.”

Jack smiled, but he also understood that the Egyptian’s presence presented a problem. Jack had no doubt that the man would kill him in a heartbeat and so the logical thing for him to do would be to ask Marwen’s associates to deal with him. But although Jack had killed in self-defense, arranging a man’s murder was a different matter entirely. There was also the question of Martin Templeton. After tonight—after finally learning why the man had kept Jack around—there was no way the two of them could continue traveling together. There were too many things Jack had to work out for him to deal with that sort of distraction.

He pondered the double-edged dilemma, and when the answer came, he reveled in its simplicity.

“Can you find me a car?” he asked.

Marwen answered with a slow nod. “I should be able to.”

“Anything will work,” Jack said. “As long as it doesn’t cost too much.”

He saw Templeton’s head raise, watching him.

“How about a broom?” Jack asked.

Ten minutes later, Marwen and Jack had marched Templeton to the front door. In the Englishman’s hand was a broom, minus the sweeping end, wrapped in the fabric that had up until that point surrounded the staff.

“Just to show I’m not entirely without a heart,” Jack said.

He gave the gun Templeton had taken from a dead villager back to him, Marwen keeping his own gun pointed on the man until he pocketed the weapon.

Templeton might have protested, but Jack made sure the man understood that he had no choice in the matter. So, without a word, the Englishman stepped out into the night.



A half hour passed while he kept his eyes on the house. In that time he saw no movement of any kind, no lights to indicate anyone was inside, although he couldn’t see the dwelling well enough in the darkness to know if his inability to see any lights merely indicated the absence of windows on the side facing him.

While he waited, not a single car passed him. After another fifteen minutes, Imolene reached to the passenger seat for his knife, slipping it from its sheath. Lifting it to his eyes, he studied the Egyptian-made weapon in the moonlight. The falcon-shaped brass handle felt good in his hand, the curved blade polished so that it reflected what little light there was. He slid the knife back into the sheath and reached for the door handle.

As if on cue, the front door of the house he was watching opened. Imolene froze. While morning was not far off, the darkness was still almost total, which meant the man would not see him. Nor would he likely question the presence of another vehicle on the road. Imolene watched as the man who looked to be Templeton exited the house and walked toward the street, the artifact in his hand. The Egyptian waited for Hawthorne to walk out too, but no one else followed and the door closed. After placing the staff in the back seat, Templeton got in and drove off.

Perplexed, his hand still on the door handle, Imolene watched as the jeep disappeared down the road. He asked himself why Martin Templeton would drive off alone. And what had happened to Hawthorne? Imolene suspected that the Englishman had finally killed the American, though he couldn’t be certain. What he was certain of was that he had a decision to make, and even as he realized that, he understood it was a simple one. The Israelis had hired Templeton and they wanted him dead. And Templeton had the artifact, which they also wanted.

Making his decision, Imolene set the knife back on the seat and drove off after Martin Templeton.