Serpent of Moses

26



“You have no idea how much I appreciate this, Tom.”

Tom Fitzpatrick broke into a laugh, which told Duckey that, on the contrary, the man did know how much Duckey appreciated it, and that a recompense of some sort had been factored into the assistance. Once the laughter subsided, he said, “As soon as they get you in, you and I are due for a long talk. Checking someone’s records is one thing, Jim. Using the Company’s resources to smuggle you out of Libya is another thing entirely.”

“I understand,” Duckey said.

“You know I’m always willing to help out,” Fitzpatrick said. “But whatever it is you’ve got yourself mixed up in has you asking for more resources than you ever did when working for me. I can’t keep doing this without someone asking questions.”

“And I’ll have the answers to each and every one of those questions as soon as I can shake your hand,” Duckey promised.

“Fair enough.”

After Duckey ended the call, he turned his attention to the street, waiting for the signal from whomever Fitzpatrick had sent. He wore the headphones he’d picked up in the cab that had stopped at the corner early that morning, and that he’d ridden around the block in once before returning to his room.

In Duckey’s mind, the operation had already taken too long. In his day, he would have been in and out in less than sixty seconds. He was a firm believer that no amount of planning, checking and rechecking could take the place of rapid deployment and a precision extraction. Still, he knew it wasn’t his game anymore; things had changed and he could only sit back now and let younger men do what they’d been trained to do.

His hand drifted to the gun on the table—the other item left for him in the cab. It would be untraceable, the serial number filed away. Tom had broken several rules in getting it to him, and Duckey knew he owed his friend for that too.

Less than two minutes after he’d finished with Fitzpatrick, Duckey saw a white Ford Taurus roll up, parking a few buildings away in a spot near the truck with the flat tire. According to the company name and information on the door panel, the car belonged to a local flower shop. Yet he couldn’t see past the tinted windows to confirm that. That need was removed from him, though, when his phone rang.

“We’re ready” was the simple message, spoken in perfect English.

“On my way,” Duckey replied.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, Duckey rose and headed for the stairs, which he was forced to take at normal speed regardless of how much he wanted to reach the flower-shop car, as every step nearly sent him tripping over his dress. He wondered if the full Muslim wraps were now standard Company procedure or if Tom was just having fun with him. Even if the latter was true, he suspected he deserved it for what he was putting his friend through.

When he stepped outside, he saw that two of the car’s occupants had exited. They weren’t quite heading in his direction but were approaching circumspectly, a technique that allowed them to scan the area for threats while also leaving the exit point of their cargo a mystery until the last moment.

Though both men were dressed like locals, Duckey could see the telltale sign of a cord running from one of the men’s ears to somewhere inside his jacket. Shaking his head, Duckey resolved to give these two a little advice about the art of remaining invisible. Of course he would wait until they’d ferried him somewhere a bit friendlier before doing so.

Duckey started for the Taurus, navigating his way through the people passing in both directions, although he was having a hard time seeing through the small space between the top of his nose and his eyebrows. He had no idea how the women here wore these things. And to make matters worse, he was sweating badly.

The car wasn’t far away, but in the short distance he’d traveled he found that he was drawing a number of looks from the locals. He kept his head down, eyes forward, and resisted the urge to adjust his dress where it was riding up. Most passersby seemed willing to give the very large, perspiring Muslim woman a wide berth and he was at least grateful for that.

He glanced at the agents, who apparently having seen that all was going according to plan, turned and headed back to the car. Duckey frowned beneath his veil at the break in procedure.

It was when the agents reached the car that Duckey—still some distance away—first felt it. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was he was picking up on, only that it didn’t feel right. In his former career, he’d become convinced that the truly good agents were those who learned to listen to their instincts, and then to act on them. And it seemed to him that the men who’d come to collect him were not paying close enough attention to their surroundings.

He never heard the car coming. One moment there was nothing and in the next a dark sedan had passed him and come to a stop in front of the Taurus, startling the agents who were about to get inside the car. The doors of the sedan flew open and Libyan agents piled out—three of them, their guns drawn. As Duckey watched, it became clear that at least one part of the training the younger generation hadn’t missed was the part about setting down their weapons when faced with a stronger opposing force.

The Libyans hadn’t spotted him. He’d frozen on the sidewalk, but that alone didn’t give him away. Most of the people who had been passing by when the sedan came racing up had also stopped to watch what was happening.

Duckey continued to watch as the men Tom had sent were thrown against the Taurus and roughly frisked, and he knew he was watching his best chance of getting out of the city—out of the country—disappear. And that made him angry.

Gathering up the folds of his dress, Duckey stalked forward. The crowd of bystanders across the street began to notice him. When he reached the center of the action, one of the Libyans looked over and, seeing a woman in full robes, looked away again. Then, a moment later, something must have registered because he looked back—just in time to meet Duckey’s fist with his nose. He went down like a bag of cement, and when the other Libyans saw what had happened—seeing a Muslim woman with a clenched fist standing over their downed colleague—they hesitated. That was all that Duckey needed.

He bull-rushed the nearest one, releasing a decidedly unfeminine roar as he drove him into the side panel of the sedan. Before the Libyan could slip to the ground, Duckey released him and turned his attention to the remaining Libyan agent. Duckey hadn’t been quite quick enough; the Libyan had his gun out and trained on him. But his hand was trembling.

Duckey reached out and wrapped his strong fingers around the man’s hand, pushing the gun down and to the side and then using his other hand to bring the Libyan in close, until the man’s nose was an inch away from Duckey’s own. He looked into the man’s eyes and saw nothing but raw fear. Then the gun fell to the street and the Libyan pulled himself loose, turned and ran away.

When it was over, the people gathered along the sidewalk began clapping. Breathless, Duckey acknowledged the crowd’s applause with a nod of his head, his smile hidden by the veil. He went to the men who’d been sent to take him someplace safe. They both looked dumbfounded.

Duckey clapped one on the shoulder. “That’s how it’s done, boys,” he said, then slipped into the car, making sure to gather up his dress before shutting the door.



When Boufayed reflected back on the events of the last week, he could see various points at which he could have made different choices. With so many avenues that might have benefited from his focus, there was no need for him to show more than a passing interest in a German historian, or decide to dive into the presence of a retired CIA operative in Al Bayda. He could have selected from an almost endless supply of cases and worked any of them to satisfactory results. But he’d selected the cases he had—or perhaps they had selected him—and now he had to either benefit or suffer from them.

He’d reassigned the agents who had failed in their attempt to bring Duckett in. While Boufayed was alive, they would see nothing but desk duty. What made things worse was that the failure had sent two other agents into the wind; all of them were either at the embassy or had found another means of flight from the country. All that was left for him was to report his failure to the undersecretary, who was unlikely to punish Boufayed but who would realign his ever-changing hierarchy of senior agents.

He had almost resolved to dial the phone when one of the agents who still remained in his favor entered the office. Boufayed made a motion for the man to sit.

“What do you have?” he asked, nodding at the paper the man held.

“Information about the place Jim Duckett mentioned on his phone call to his associate in Milan,” the man said. “Cyme. It is the ruins of a Greek city in Turkey. We have reviewed the available literature and there is no reason to think that it holds anything of value.”

Boufayed processed that information while the agent sat in silence. Boufayed knew the man well, knew that he would have performed his due diligence. However, what Boufayed understood was something that one could seldom gain through research. Rather, a man needed to see a number of years spreading out behind him in order to see that there were things one could not prove in order to believe.

“We are going to Turkey,” he said in his usual abbreviated style.

He could see the order take his man by surprise, but he recovered quickly. Rather than ask questions, he rose and exited the room, on his way to carry out Boufayed’s directive.

After he was gone, Boufayed wondered why it was that men, even when they knew what they were doing was a foolish thing, continued to do that thing. He, of course, knew the answer to that. It was because all that a man needed was a single occasion when the performance of his action did not produce a foolish result. A single such instance could carry a man for a long while. Great accomplishment was not without great risk.

He sat at his borrowed desk and pondered that.



Jack stepped off the plane and into what might have been the busiest airport terminal he’d ever seen. He’d never had occasion to fly into Istanbul, despite the many times he’d passed through the city. As he walked through the concourse, he took it all in, enjoying it in a way that only someone who truly loved to travel could do.

As near as Jack could tell, he was only fifty or so miles away from the second piece of the staff, which pleased him beyond measure. He wondered if the Israeli agents on the plane felt it too—the end of the quest approaching. He hadn’t noticed anyone on the plane, at least not anyone he recognized as someone assigned to keep an eye on him, but he would have bet a great deal of money that there was more than one.

He had already passed through customs, armed with the paper that told anyone who cared that he was allowed to carry the long serpent pole around with him. Once he finished there, he passed through the regular security checkpoint, and when he stepped past the part of the walkway where he could no longer turn back without facing the wrath of the security staff, Jack saw a flurry of movement and then something flew at him with enough force to cause him to nearly drop his carryon. By the time he processed what had happened, he’d already instinctively wrapped his arms around Espy. He was the first to let go, although she wasn’t quite ready and held on for a while longer. When she finally pulled back, Jack found himself pulled into another embrace, one of a more bone-crushing variety.

“It’s good to see you, my friend!” Romero said.

Jack reached over and squeezed Romero’s forearm, but his eyes didn’t leave Espy.

Neither of them spoke for a long while as Jack simply took in the sight of her. There was much he’d learned over the past few weeks, and he and Espy were due for a long talk to cover all of it. But an airport terminal in Turkey was not the proper place for that discussion.

“Thanks,” he said—a simple word but one vested with much meaning and he knew she would understand.

When he glanced at Romero, he saw the man’s eyes on the thing in Jack’s hand. As he’d been carrying the thing around with him for what seemed far too long, he extended it to his friend. Romero took it gingerly and, after glancing around, pulled the bed sheet back. He didn’t regard it long—perhaps twenty seconds—but when he had replaced the makeshift wrapping and held the item out to Jack, he wore a satisfied smile.

“Was it worth it?” Romero asked him.

Jack drew in a deep breath, his eyes moving to Esperanza.

“If you’d asked me that a few weeks ago,” he said, “I may have said yes. Now . . . I’m not so sure.”



Seeing her emerge from the terminal, Imolene’s first thought centered on her beauty. He usually insulated himself from such considerations and suspected that it was a testament to the woman that she could make him lose focus on what he had to do.

The Egyptian watched her brother—a man as large as he was—set their bags next to the rental car. With them was Hawthorne, and Imolene’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the man. The Israelis had called him only an hour ago to tell him that Hawthorne would likely join the Habillas in Tripoli. The American held the staff as casually as if it were a piece of luggage, and the man’s demeanor—and the fact that he’d eluded Imolene thus far—angered the Egyptian. He kept the anger in check, though, understanding that he would have time to work out his issues with the American once they reached the ruins. After loading their bags in the trunk, the trio got into the car and it pulled away. Imolene let it get a few car lengths ahead before he told the driver of his cab to follow.

In the seat next to him sat Templeton, who still had said very little. Indeed, the man seemed to have lost his spirit entirely, and nowhere was that more evident than in his apparent unwillingness to attempt an escape. It had been in his mind since Medenine that the only reason Templeton had given up, had thrown his lot in with the man hunting him, was because he’d had little choice. Hawthorne had thrown him to the wolves and his only hope of survival rested in turning the wolf. Once they’d reached the airport, however, there had been ample opportunity for the Englishman to simply walk away, knowing that there was little Imolene could do to him in such a crowded place. And once they’d reached Istanbul, the chances to flee had increased exponentially. It left Imolene wondering if Templeton had something in mind that was hidden from Imolene, or if perhaps the Englishman had lost his senses.

It was something he didn’t have time to consider at present, he told himself—although he had no doubt that the proper moment would come.