Serpent of Moses

23



Esperanza pounded on Romero’s door, knowing that her brother slept deeply. And with all the walking they’d done since arriving in Milan, it might take a thunderclap delivered by the Almighty himself to awaken him. It was almost noon and she had been up for hours, even getting in a workout in the hotel gym. Although their flight to Tripoli wasn’t scheduled for departure until almost four in the afternoon, she knew Romero was liable to awaken with just enough time to shower and get to the airport.

She pounded again, this time calling his name through the door, and was soon rewarded by sounds from the other side: a fumbling with the lock, the door opening. Romero looked as if she’d awakened him while it was still dark and not with the sun nearing its zenith.

Seeing the stern look on his sister’s face, he shook off the vestiges of sleep, moved aside, and allowed her to enter. As he closed the door behind them, Espy related her call from Duckey, her words coming so quickly that they clipped each other on the way out. As the phone call had been brief, it didn’t take her long to complete the telling.

His initial response was a wide yawn, despite the gravity of the news, but when he was done he adopted the expression that told her he was giving the news its due consideration.

“So we head to Cyme,” he said with a shrug.

At that, Espy’s eyes widened.

“You’re talking about abandoning Duckey,” she said.

“Not at all. I’m talking about doing what a former operative for the CIA has suggested we do.” Before Espy could reply he went on. “What do you propose? That we fly into Tripoli and find ourselves detained, as he said? Or perhaps engage in a surreptitious border crossing? What then? If he’s no longer using his phone, how do we contact him?”

Of course, Espy knew all of that, but sometimes she needed someone like Romero to push her in the right direction. She understood that, while they shared the same blood, she ran hotter. Given some time to think things through, however, she generally avoided making choices based solely on her level of passion. That alone had been what had kept her from killing Jack when he’d walked back into her life three years ago. That and the fervent religious belief she had accepted not long before Jack’s coming. That was why she needed her brother now—to help her make the right decision instead of the passionate one.

“You’re right,” she admitted. “I just don’t like leaving him to fend for himself.”

“Of the three of us, Jim Duckett is best suited to be put in such a position,” Romero reminded her. “In fact, my guess is that he will call on some of the same resources that made him an asset to you and Jack in the past.”

Espy was forced to admit that Romero was right. But she didn’t have to like it.

“Alright,” she said. “Change of plans. We go to Cyme.”

“Wherever that is,” Romero remarked, and Espy knew that he was considering how many more appointments he would have to cancel the longer their adventure continued.



As he placed the phone back in its cradle, Boufayed found himself wondering if he had done something that would occasion his continued rise within the organization or if the information he had provided to the undersecretary would bring about the end of his career. What he decided was that great things were not accomplished without equally great risk.

Rising from his desk in the office he’d taken upon his arrival in Al Bayda, he walked to the window and looked down on the street below. The view paled in comparison to the one from his own office window, but he also knew that somewhere on those streets, there was a man who stood to make up for what he’d lost with the death of the German historian. Because, in Boufayed’s mind, there was no way these two events could not be connected.

Admittedly the information they’d gleaned from the American’s phone call had been minimal and the incompetence of those who had planted the bug had tipped the man to the fact that he was under surveillance. Because of that, the prospects of uncovering additional information about the artifact were slim, especially now that he had gone to ground.

That was the reason for Boufayed’s call to the undersecretary—to inform him that an American agent was wandering the streets of one of Libya’s largest cities, that he had switched to paper currency and cut off all contact. In his decades playing the game, Boufayed knew what James Duckett would do. He would not run; rather, he would find a hole and settle in until the pressure eased. Only then would he attempt to leave. And Boufayed knew that an agent of the CIA could dig in deep, and could wait a very long time.

There were only two courses of action available to him. First, he would spread a net, hoping the American would make a mistake. And then he would watch the borders with greater care. Duckett would eventually require help, and that help would come from outside.

Boufayed returned to his desk, but rather than turning his attention to the report he’d been reading, he reached for the Christian Bible he’d had one of his aides bring him that morning. He was not a religious man but did appreciate much of the philosophy espoused in the book, as well as in the Koran more widely read among his countrymen. Too, in the culture in which he lived, it was beneficial—even necessary—to have more than a passing familiarity with the Scriptures. He opened it to the portion he’d bookmarked and reread the story in its entirety. An abbreviated account, it did not provide much detail, yet enough was there to paint a vivid picture in Boufayed’s mind.

It was the sort of account that lent credence to the possibility that the event had happened, if not in the book’s final form, then in some fashion—before the mysticism espoused by a primitive people had added to it the fantastic elements that made for good fiction.

Despite his failure to believe in the account as it was written, Boufayed saw no reason to discount the possibility that the staff itself existed. The presence of a CIA agent in his country, and the hint that an archaeologist had gone missing in the hunt for the object convinced him that ignoring the prospect of its reality was not an option.

To recover an object of antiquity in his own country, regardless of the religion to which the item belonged, would provide Boufayed with a groundswell of support that, if he were to move in the right manner and at the right time, would greatly increase his political capital.

Then there were the Israelis, who apparently wanted the artifact badly enough that they’d risked sending in Mossad agents to recover it. The thought of claiming the staff before they could succeed in what could only be an alliance with the Americans was something Boufayed could not pass up.

Something like the staff was a rare opportunity to achieve something extraordinary. So as far as he was concerned, the American could stay in his hole for as long as he wanted. Because Boufayed would be there waiting for him whenever he chose to emerge.



The car worked its way through the thick traffic that clogged the streets of Milan, a mass of disparate parts made up of cars, buses, mopeds, and anything else with wheels, combining to form a single organism. The car became part of that organism and then, after a few miles, separated from it, pulling up in front of the cathedral. A man emerged from the car and walked quickly toward the massive church, entering the duomo without so much as a glance at the architecture. Once he was inside, another man joined him. They greeted each other in Hebrew before switching to Italian.

“Where are they?” the first man asked.

“They’re staying at the Carlton Baglioni and have not yet left.”

The first man nodded and then turned his attention to the altar area.

“It’s this way,” said the other, gesturing for him to follow.

When they reached the dais, the first man gave it a quick perusal but did not stop. Instead, he allowed the other to lead him to the sarcophagus.

“You are certain they discovered something here?” He reached out and felt the smooth stone of the tomb, sending his fingers over the lines cut into the lid and the interment chamber.

“I sent pictures to our experts and they believe they may have discovered something, although they are not certain.”

This was received with a nod.

“I took the liberty of conducting a background check once they checked in to their hotel,” the second man said. “The woman is Dr. Esperanza Habilla. A foreign language expert with the University of Caracas. The man with her is Romero Habilla, an antiquities dealer.”

The first man raised an eyebrow. “Habilla . . . are they married?”

“Brother and sister.”

“Interesting.”

After regarding the tomb for a few moments longer, he pulled his hand back, smiling at an elderly couple who had approached, camera at the ready. As he stepped out of their way, the other man gestured him aside.

“Why are we interested in them?” he asked.

“Because Jack Hawthorne used to teach with a man named James Duckett, who also happens to be a former CIA agent. And as Duckett is now in Libya, and as he called this Esperanza Habilla last night, we can only assume that the circle of this enterprise has grown to include them.”

The other absorbed that and gave a nod.

“There is something else,” he continued. “It seems that Hawthorne was also in Milan recently. In fact, his flight to Tripoli originated here.”

The first man frowned.

“The involvement of the Americans complicates things,” he said after a time.

“It always does.” A pause. “Perhaps we should have hired Dr. Hawthorne to begin with.”

“Ours is not to make such decisions.”

“So, what now?”

“We wait to see what the analysts say. And we wait to see what the Habillas do next.” He cast his eyes over the sarcophagus again, as if searching for something, then turned on his heel and left.