Serpent of Moses

7



When the plane touched down at Heathrow, Esperanza, in the aisle seat, barely noticed. It wasn’t until the one sitting next to her—a businessman who had given up trying to establish a rapport within an hour of their flight leaving Caracas—indicated a desire to slip by her that she realized they’d landed. Somewhere over the ocean the lunacy of what she was doing had struck her and she’d spent much of the flight bouncing between passion and calculation. She’d come to the conclusion that she preferred the former state, even as she understood that the best decisions generally came while in the grip of the latter.

She wasn’t sure which one had brought her from South America to Europe, but she suspected it was some combination of the two—a need to act tempered by solid reasoning behind those acts. When she and Jack had renewed their relationship, when he’d brought her on as a linguist in the treasure hunt that had almost killed them both, it was the passion that carried her through that time. Even then, though, there were hints of the burgeoning maturity that now caused her to consider things with an eye focused past the immediate. And that, to her, was the problem as far as Jack was concerned; he lived in the immediate. Despite what they had gone through together, that was something that had not changed. And the reason she was in London, pulling her carryon from the overhead bin, was she was no longer content with the status quo.

Once in the terminal, she took a few moments to get her bearings before heading for the car-rental area. Fifteen minutes later, she was traveling east on the M4. It had been years since her last visit to London, so as she drove deeper into the city she viewed everything through the eyes of a tourist, filling the time between Heathrow and Apsley House by taking in the feel of the bustling city.

When she’d deplaned, she’d intended to check into her hotel before heading to the museum, but somewhere between baggage claim and sliding the key into the rental’s ignition, the order of those events had changed.

She’d never met Sturdivant in person. In fact, the day before had been the first time she’d ever spoken with him. Before that, all of her knowledge had come from secondhand accounts of others’ dealings with him, namely Jack and Romero—whose professions had them running in similar circles. She’d found him pleasant enough in a stuffy sort of way, and as he was the curator for several of London’s museums, she wouldn’t have expected anything else.

The M4 transitioned to the A4, and before long Hyde Park opened up on her left. While Sturdivant executed his role for a variety of museums, he spent most of his time at Apsley House, and within minutes Esperanza was bringing the car to a stop in front of the sixteenth-century structure. On most other occasions she would have enjoyed studying the building as well as the extensive collection of artwork and cultural icons it contained, but the purpose of her visit excluded such casual enjoyment.

Once inside, she located the administrative wing in short order, and Sturdivant’s office not long after that. The director was inside, an open file on his desk and a phone to his ear. Esperanza could not get a feel for the height of the man sitting behind the large desk, though she suspected he was quite tall—the height accentuated by a rail-thin physique. He looked up when Esperanza appeared in the doorway, but she might as well have been invisible for the way his eyes seemed to pass right through her. Then they were back on the desk, moving over the open file.

Esperanza took the lack of acknowledgment as tacit approval to enter and she did just that, stepping in and claiming a seat across from his desk. When he looked up again, she engaged her best smile, the one she knew was manipulative but that seldom failed to get her what she wanted. The problem, which she sensed immediately, was that Milo Sturdivant had no use for her charms. Still, the fact that she had invaded his personal space prompted him to finish his call, although he did not look at his guest again until he had gathered the contents of the file, meticulously replaced them, and slipped the file into a desk drawer.

“Can I help you?” he asked her, looking over his glasses and using a voice that let Esperanza know he would have rather done anything else.

“I’m Dr. Esperanza Habilla,” she answered, determined to ignore his demeanor. “We spoke on the phone yesterday.”

Sturdivant did not answer right away, but he did meet Esperanza’s eyes for the first time.

“You’re Romero Habilla’s sister, aren’t you?” he asked after a time, and she couldn’t tell by the tone if confirming the relationship would help or hinder her efforts.

“I am,” she admitted.

The museum director pursed his lips and nodded.

“I’ve purchased a few things from him,” he said. “His items are generally a bit higher priced than I believe is warranted, but I’ve found him to be fair.”

“He’ll be happy to hear that,” Esperanza said, pleased to have found some common ground but also beginning to believe that the man only dipped into his emotional well when perusing a painting by a dead master or an artifact from a vanished civilization—a theory granted weight by the speed with which he moved on to other matters.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Habilla?”

“As I said, we spoke yesterday—”

“You asked me about Jack Hawthorne.”

“The last time I spoke with him, he said he was planning to pay you a visit.”

“We had a meeting set for three days ago, and while I’m used to Dr. Hawthorne arriving in his own good time, he’s testing the limits of my patience.”

“Believe me, I understand,” she said.

“While I’ve allocated money for what he said he would be able to procure, I can’t hold on to it indefinitely. In fact, there’s an extraordinary display of Celtic weaponry I would love to have here in Apsley House and I’m considering redirecting the money meant for Dr. Hawthorne.”

“What is he supposed to be bringing you?” Esperanza asked, but Sturdivant’s head was shaking before she finished the question.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t reveal that,” he said, although Esperanza doubted he was sorry at all. Still, she offered a smile meant to convey understanding. “To be perfectly frank, Dr. Habilla, the only reason I haven’t yet reallocated the money is because of Dr. Hawthorne’s reputation. But that reputation does not entitle him to operate as if Apsley House is his personal trading post.”

“I’m sure that’s not how he looks at it,” she said, even as she suspected that was exactly how Jack viewed it. Esperanza saw Sturdivant’s eyebrows come together in thought.

“Forgive me, Dr. Habilla, but I’m still unclear about the reason for this visit.”

“It’s simple really. Jack is going to show up in London soon with an artifact that he wants to sell you, and I want to be here when he arrives at Apsley House to make the exchange.”

If her explanation did nothing else, it served to change the way Sturdivant looked at her. Rather than an entirely dismissive expression, the new one also contained a hint of puzzlement and a dash of worry.

“Why?”

“Because I have something very important I want to say to him,” she explained, using the voice that would have made most any man willing to accept something purely nonsensical. However, as she had already ascertained, Milo Sturdivant was not most men.

“And this something can’t be said over the phone?”

“Sadly, no,” Esperanza said, feeling the first hints of irritation—annoyance that grew as Sturdivant did not follow the Venezuelan’s response with one of his own. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and regarded her as one would a puzzle. After several seconds, he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk, making a steeple of his fingers.

“Just so I’m clear,” he said. “You flew here from Venezuela to track down a man you could just call—a man who, to be honest, may not show at all?”

Esperanza could not begrudge the man his questions. After all, hadn’t she asked some of the same ones during her long flight? However, hearing those questions come from a man who had spent the last several minutes robbing her of many of the tools she customarily used to get what she wanted brought the irritation to genuine anger and in less time than was normally the case.

After letting the director’s question hang there for a moment, she too leaned into the desk, closing the distance between them. “I’m here because I’m going to say some things to an absentee archaeologist that just might make his ears bleed,” she answered, her accent thick with frustration.

She waited a beat to make sure she had Sturdivant’s attention. Seeing that she did, she continued, “I swear to you, if he shows up here and you don’t call me to let me know, I will show up at your office door again. And I promise you that that visit will not go as swimmingly as this one has.”

She’d said every word with a calmness that would have been appropriate for a discussion of traffic patterns around Hyde Park, yet there was no mistaking the genuine threat in each syllable. She suspected that Milo Sturdivant knew she wasn’t bluffing.

Which was why he did something for the first time in her presence: he smiled.

“I can certainly do that,” he said, the barest hint of apology in his tone. “As soon as I hear from Dr. Hawthorne—if I hear from him—I will call you and let you know.”

In that instant, the menace that had taken over Esperanza’s whole being vanished, replaced by the smile with which she’d entered the room.

“That would be wonderful,” she said, sliding her card across the desk. Then, to further reward his acquiescence, she rose and started for the door. She had just reached it when a thought struck her. “By the way, how much are you set to pay Jack for whatever it is he’s bringing to you?”

When Milo Sturdivant provided the answer, Esperanza felt everything shift. Less than sixty seconds later she was in the hallway calling Jack.



The Egyptian resisted the urge to run a hand over the back of his head, as he had a number of times since waking. He knew the wound had clotted and his hand would not return blood, which meant that, for now at least, it was not a concern.

He’d pulled what he could from the pockets of Benton and Phillips, which wasn’t much, but he had a tidy sum of his own—enough to track Martin Templeton to the ends of the earth if need be.

The heat had cleared the streets of most of its traffic, which allowed Imolene to make good progress toward the area of town with the few shops that offered him a chance of renting a car that would take him to Al Bayda.

The dirt road ran into a stone wall twenty yards ahead, with an adjoining road following the length of the wall in both directions. He took the path leading to the left and followed the cut-through until it emptied into a busier thoroughfare. Here, the Egyptian stopped to collect himself and to readjust the heavy pack slung over his shoulder.

He could see all three of the businesses on his list and selected one based on the fact that it was the only one with a car parked out front. Resettling his pack, he started toward the store, pausing when he reached the car—a Yugo that seemed held together by rust. Grunting, he gave some thought as to how he would fit his large frame into it. In the end he decided that necessity outweighed comfort.

The interior of the shop was dark and smelled vaguely of garlic. The Egyptian took a position behind another man who had arrived before him and exchanged a look with the proprietor, a middle-aged Libyan with thinning hair and a faded but vicious-looking scar that began below his right ear and traveled down his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt.

“I only have the one vehicle,” the man said to the other customer.

“That car will not get me to Tiblisi,” the customer said.

“It’s a good car,” the owner said. “It will take you across the desert and back if you let it.”

“Is the Yugo the only car you have available?” the Egyptian asked, leaning past his competition.

“It’s the only car,” the shopkeeper said. “The first car I’ve had in two weeks.”

He assumed an apologetic smile before dismissing Imolene.

The first customer had pulled a billfold out of his pocket and peeled off several dinars, placing them down on the counter.

“You can have the car for two hundred,” the owner said. He gestured at the sixty dinars the man had offered. “This will not even fill the tank of the next car that comes.”

Imolene understood the intricacies of this process but lacked the patience to deal with it this day. He leaned forward again.

“Is there anywhere else to get a car in town?” he asked.

This time the man did not even look in his direction.

“This is the only car,” he said.

Imolene returned a thoughtful nod and then turned to his fellow customer.

“Excuse me,” he said, placing his massive hand on the man’s shoulder. When the man turned, it was obvious that he had not taken a good look at his competition for the vehicle because his expression was pure irritation. It wasn’t until the much shorter man was forced to look up into Imolene’s cold eyes that his face changed.

“I need the car,” Imolene said. It was not a request as much as it was a simple fact.

“I already told you,” the merchant interjected. “I only have the one car.”

Despite the merchant’s protest, the Libyan customer appeared uncertain. Imolene took a half step forward, invading the other man’s space and pointedly ignoring the merchant. He leaned down so that his face was a scant few inches from that of the other man.

“I require the car and, consequently, I am going to leave with it. You may either allow me to do so or I will break each of the bones that I can reasonably assume you would use in the course of driving.” He allowed the threat to settle in before smiling and adding, “And I imagine the average person uses a great many bones in the process of piloting a manual Yugo with no power steering.”

Once he’d made the threat, he did not pull back but kept his face close. He could smell the odor of the man, the sweat of days. He watched a bead of sweat develop on the Libyan’s forehead and start a trail down the side of his face. Beneath this inspection the man finally caved. Without a word, or a look at the merchant, he swept his money from the counter and hurried to the door, giving Imolene a wide berth. Once he was gone, Imolene turned to the merchant, his calm expression unchanged.

His original customer gone, the proprietor appeared to weigh his options and returned the Egyptian’s look with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Okay, we have one car,” he said. “It is out front. Perhaps you’ve seen it?”