Serpent of Moses

24



As Imolene drove, he all but ignored the man in the seat next to him—a man who hadn’t spoken a word for several hours, not even to complain about the mild injuries the Egyptian had inflicted upon him. Not long after leaving the Medenine suburbs in pursuit of Templeton, the Englishman had surprised him by pulling the jeep to the side of the road, exiting, and then standing there until Imolene pulled in behind him. At that point, as Imolene watched in amazement, Templeton had reached into the back seat, picked up the staff, and removed the wrappings, revealing a broom handle. That done, Templeton had tossed the thing to the ground and strode to Imolene’s truck, opening the passenger door and sliding in. The only thing that had kept the Egyptian from killing him in that moment had been the utter absurdity of it all. That hadn’t stopped him, though, from making sure the other man was keenly aware of his displeasure.

Templeton had told him about the danger that would present itself if he returned to where Hawthorne had holed up, and so Imolene had been forced to choose a different course of action. Templeton, meanwhile, hoped to buy his life by helping to retrieve the artifact from the American. As Imolene headed north toward Gfat, he pondered what sort of help that might be. Still, Templeton had spent a good deal of time with the American and could have insights Imolene did not have.

He pondered his circumstances. Not every job turned out precisely as he’d planned it; it was the outcome that mattered, rather than the process by which one achieved that outcome. If he succeeded in recovering the staff, and if he was able to dispatch Templeton and Hawthorne to the Israelis’ satisfaction, perhaps then he would see his current business arrangement come to an amicable end. He wouldn’t fool himself into thinking he would ever work for them again, but if he could end the relationship with his skin intact, he would count it a win.

His musing was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. Recognizing the number, his first thought was that some higher power had orchestrated it. He answered.

“There has been a change in plans” came the familiar voice.

Imolene kept his silence, waiting for the man to continue.

“You will catch the next flight to Istanbul,” the Israeli said. “Once you arrive, I will contact you again.”

Imolene understood that acceptance of any directives given him was the best choice. However, leaving northern Africa for Turkey was a significant enough change in the parameters of his employ that he felt the need to ask, “While I’m pleased to do as you ask, would you tell me why my presence in Turkey is needed?”

“It’s needed because you have lost what we are paying you to recover, and because there is the potential that you may yet redeem yourself.”

There was nothing in the Israeli’s tone to indicate the words were personal or were a threat of any kind. Rather, the statement told Imolene that this was nothing more than an expedient business arrangement—one the Israelis could end when, and in whatever manner, they chose. It was one of the reasons he didn’t mention his knowledge of their foray into Tunisia. Admitting to that sort of information would have made his position even less tenable.

With that in mind, he decided to tell them of the recent turn of events, with Templeton expressing special interest at the mention of his name. When Imolene had finished, there was a calculating silence on the other end of the line.

“Bring him to Istanbul,” the man said.

Imolene pondered that—how he would get through the airport a man who would have no desire to do so.

“Tell Mr. Templeton that accompanying you to Turkey is the only hope he has of living once this mess you’ve caused is over.”

Imolene acknowledged his understanding. After ending the call, he turned to Templeton and gave the man a smile, although it was absent of any kindness.



Duckey removed the gloves, now covered in black dye, and tossed them into the trash can next to the sink, then turned his attention back to the mirror. He tried to review his work, despite the crack that ran through the center of it. He thought the black hair made him look younger, especially with the touch-up of the thin beard that had begun to show the gray spots. The difference between the man who looked back at him in the mirror and the picture in his passport was significant enough now that few people would make the connection at first glance. When one threw in the added effects of sleep deprivation and stress, which had caused dark circles to form under his eyes, the transformation was even more remarkable.

He grabbed a handful of paper towels and dabbed at a few spots on his temple and next to his ears, where ash-colored water was gathering to form a run down to his neck. He watched for a while longer, towels at the ready, but didn’t see any additional runs.

Sending the towels after the gloves, Duckey removed his clothes and changed into a pair of old jeans and a long, flowing white shirt—both of which he’d purchased at a thrift store. As Duckey had walked the streets of Al Bayda over the last few days, he’d noticed that more than half the people he saw wore jeans. The long and baggy shirts were common as well. Duckey had marveled at the variety of colors and patterns of the shirts, though he’d opted for white so as to draw as little attention as possible.

Once dressed, he donned the Yankees cap he’d received in trade from a teenager in exchange for his lighter. Duckey had tried to offer the kid money, but the boy had held out for the lighter. When he finished, he gave himself one more review and found himself chuckling—wondering if even his wife would recognize him if he came up to her in a crowd and stood at her side.

Satisfied, he gathered his clothes, stuffed them into the thrift-store bag, hoisted the bag that had made the trip from the States with him, and exited the restroom. As he walked past the counter, the man who had allowed Duckey the use of the café bathroom did a double take at the man who’d gone in as an American and come out as some indistinguishable ethnicity. Duckey kept his eyes forward and exited onto the street, where he entered the flow of foot traffic and remained there until he reached his next objective.

Entering the cellular store—the same one through which he’d negotiated his escape the previous evening—he purchased two disposable phones, paid to add extra minutes, and paid the added fee to have them activated at the point of sale. Minutes later, he walked out, almost a hundred dinars lighter.

He walked for fifteen minutes, surrounding himself with people whenever possible and keeping his head down when he didn’t have the assistance of a crowd. As he’d given thought to where he should go, he decided that his first order of business was to get out of Khansaa. He thought the Libyans would concentrate their search in that neighborhood, which created an incentive for him to find a hole somewhere they wouldn’t expect—which was why he was headed toward Andulus. As the heart of Al Bayda’s legislative district, with homes that rivaled a decent suburb back in the States, Andulus would have seemed to harbor few places in which an unsavory element such as he could have disappeared. But Duckey had reviewed his map carefully, comparing it against what he remembered from his cab ride into the city, and had decided that it would do just fine.

When he entered the neighborhood, he adjusted his posture, straightening his back and raising his head. If someone belonged in a good neighborhood such as this one, they acted like it. Using the same techniques in Andulus that he’d used in Khansaa to maintain his anonymity wasn’t an option.

Picking a road that took him along the eastern edge of the district, Duckey walked with purpose but still avoided eye contact with anyone he passed. After several minutes, he entered a part of the neighborhood that looked a lot like the section of Khansaa where he’d run into trouble, and he began to search for a place into which he could disappear. He found it two blocks farther down, in the form of a hotel that looked much like the one Duckey had occupied the night before. Entering, he paid for a room for one night, appreciating that the man who took his money and gave him the key didn’t look up, not even once.

His room was on the second floor. Duckey ascended the stairs, slipped the key into the lock, and retreated into his temporary sanctuary. After he closed the door and threw the dead bolt, he gave the room a once-over. While it left a lot to be desired, he thought it would do.

He tossed his bags onto the bed, then went to the window and looked down on the street but didn’t spot anything worrisome. Leaving the window, he checked the entire room as a precaution, despite that there was no way anyone would have known he’d selected this hotel.

Satisfied, Duckey pulled one of the phones from his pocket and dialed one of the numbers he’d copied from the phone he discarded. Tom kept the number unlisted, which meant he would answer even if he didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?”

“Tom, it’s Jim,” Duckey said.

“Where are you and what do you need?” Tom asked.

“I take it you heard from Stephanie?”

“Probably thirty seconds after she hung up with you.”

“How is she?”

“How do you think she is? She’s scared and angry. And for your sake, I hope she focuses on the scared part when she sees you.”

Despite the circumstances, Duckey couldn’t help but smile, the short conversation already making him feel better about his prospects.

“Tell me what’s going on,” his old boss said, who was still the CIA unit chief.

After a long sigh, Duckey did just that, filling in as many of the details as he could. Throughout the telling, Tom Fitzpatrick remained silent, listening. When Duckey finished, the other man allowed the silence to stretch out as he considered what his former agent had told him. When he broke that silence, he did so with the familiar manner Duckey remembered from the old days.

“I assume you’ve found a spot where you can hole up?” Fitzpatrick asked.

“I have,” Duckey affirmed. “Cash only. Disposable phone. Regional clothing.”

Fitzpatrick grunted his approval. “I don’t have anyone in the area. Maybe one local guy, but no one I’d trust with an extraction. How long do you think you’re good for?”

“I’m good for however long you need me to be.”

“Alright, because I’m not sure how long it’s going to take to arrange everything.”

“Understood.” Even though Duckey’s situation was on the precarious side, he felt a sense of ease come over him.

“Jim,” Fitzpatrick said, and it was clear by the tone that he didn’t share Duckey’s feeling that this was just a walk in the park, “Just so you know, I had our side check the records. Customs in Tripoli has no record you went through.”

While the news served to dampen Duckey’s mood, he couldn’t say that it surprised him. The only reason they wouldn’t have a record of him entering the country was because they didn’t expect him to leave.

“Thanks, Tom,” he said.

“I’ll be in touch,” Fitzpatrick said and then he was gone.

Duckey held the phone to his ear for several seconds after the call ended. When he finally lowered it, he set it on the nightstand, retrieved the TV remote, and settled in to wait for his next call.



It had happened while Jack was outside, enjoying a walk through the quiet community. Marwen had left again, giving Jack the run of the place and assuring the American he could walk the grounds secure in the safety of the small hamlet. It was early afternoon and he’d walked down to the street and then across it where the sloping ground gave him a postcard-worthy view of the ancient city. How long he stood there he couldn’t have said, but he knew that at some point the tension he’d been feeling eased. He even forgot that there were eyes watching him, ostensibly for his safety. Nonetheless, it was disconcerting.

He watched the unfolding of life in the city, his vantage point giving him the metaphorical historian’s view, as if he could see its past and its future along with the present. That was one of the chief reasons he spent so much time in this part of the world, from northern Africa to the Middle East and on through some of the ancient places in Europe. It was to feel a connection to a history that eluded him, even as he uncovered many of its secrets. Looking out on a city like Medenine, he couldn’t help but wonder that civilization had run through its paces in this spot for thousands of years. When Christ walked the earth, the city below him was thriving.

Reminding himself of that helped put things in perspective. It allowed him to think about the treasures he found, the artifacts he discovered as they would have been in the times that saw them created or used. Thinking of the Nehushtan not as a mystical staff hidden in a north African cave but as an icon of hope for a beleaguered people was sobering. He could imagine the hasty crafting of it, and he admired the beauty of it more because of the attention to detail that went into it—despite the urgency of its need. And he could picture the scene of its only other biblical reference: its destruction at the hands of a king intent on appeasing God, who had turned his back on the nation.

Jack frowned, remembering that that part wasn’t true. The Nehushtan hadn’t been destroyed; he had proof of that in the house behind him. And that made for a tricky question. As a believer, he’d come to accept that large portions of the Bible he had once thought of as fables were in fact the accurate account of historical events. His own experience was sufficient to make that case. However, he didn’t know where he came down on the question of the Bible’s complete accuracy. He’d read enough of it to have his doubts about what Espy had called inerrancy, which Jack thought was just a religious label that meant the whole thing had been thoroughly fact-checked by the king of all editors.

From what little Jack had ascertained in researching the matter, he’d come to the conclusion that most theologians supported inerrancy for the principal reason that a failure to do so raised a number of difficult questions. Chief among them was that if the Bible wasn’t accurate in every detail, how could the reader be tasked with identifying what was true and what was not? It was a question well beyond Jack’s ability to answer.

To Jack, it seemed that truth was in how one looked at something—that perhaps approaching something in the Bible from a different point of view provided one with something that was true in one sense, yet perhaps not entirely accurate from a more rigid interpretation.

He had pondered all of this while city life progressed below him, and he had just decided to head back up to the house when something that had been nagging at his mind for a while suddenly swam up to the surface. When he latched onto it, he broke into as much of a run as his sore knee would allow.

Reaching the house, he burst through the door and found the Nehushtan in the main living area, once again leaning against a corner, as seemed to be its lot since Jack had liberated it from the cave. As he had used the original cloths to wrap a broomstick, he removed the bed sheet that now protected the artifact. He held it up to the light, turning it around so that the eyes faced away, so he could see the back of the serpent.

When he saw what he was looking for, he broke into a grin.

“It’s all a matter of one’s perspective,” he said to himself.

Releasing a tired but happy sigh, he set the staff back in its corner and went to gather up his belongings.