The 13 th tribe

[33]

Jagger remained in the cave until the exploding balls of green and purple light diminished from his vision. He rubbed his temple where the baton had made contact, feeling a big goose egg there. His brain pounded, and he laid his palm over his right eye, waiting for the drummer in his head to take a break. He found the baton, tossed it out of the cave, and backed out on all fours, dragging with him the sleeping bag and a backpack he’d found under it.

He wasn’t worried about the intruder coming back to hurt him. If that were his intention, he would have shot Jagger from the safety of the clearing while Jagger was incapacitated in the cave. He suspected the boy might have used the gun when they were playing hot potato with it, but he’d been cornered; the kid merely wanted his freedom and nothing to do with Jagger. Fair enough.

But everything about this boy bothered him: his brash helicopter entrance, his gun, his knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, his surveiling St. Cath’s at the precise moment the monks mysteriously took in a wounded stranger. It all pointed to trouble at the monastery, and there was nothing he could do but wait for it to play itself out and hope no one got hurt.

Crouching in front of the cave, he opened the backpack and rummaged through it. Clothes, energy bars, beef jerky, a small first-aid kit, a candle and lighter, a flashlight and spare batteries. He removed a tattered X-Men comic book and thumbed it open: Dobbiamo ottenerli da qui prima che Logan trovi che fuori e ancora viva. Looked Italian, but he wasn’t sure. The boy had spoken English-only two words, but Jagger hadn’t detected an accent.

He unrolled the sleeping bag and patted it down. If the boy had identification or a phone, it must be in those multipocketed pants. He pushed the unrolled bag and the backpack into the back of the cave-no sense denying the kid his food or a warm place to sleep. As he backed out, something in the sand glinted. He picked it up, exited the cave, and sat back on his heels to examine the object. It was a medallion or coin stamped with a human skull. Clutched between its teeth was a banner bearing an engraved word, almost worn away, nicked in spots. He thought the word could have been Choroutte. It appeared to be old, but what did Jagger know? Probably something an Egyptian fast-food chain handed out with its kid meals. He slipped it into his shirt pocket.

When he stood, the pounding in his head turned into something fast and loud: Deep Purple or Led Zeppelin or the Rolling Stones. He closed his eyes, and after a few deep breaths felt a little better. He retrieved the baton, collapsed it, and returned it to the scabbard. He walked a dozen yards along each of the other paths leading away from the clearing and didn’t spot any sign of the boy, or anything else interesting. He returned to the camel-mostly sliding over the scree on his butt-and headed back to the monastery, all the way wondering if the boy was just a boy or an omen of more bad times ahead.

Toby pulled the sleeping bag out of the cave and shook it, watching for anything that fell out of its folds. He got the backpack and dumped the contents on the clearing’s stone ground. He brushed his fingers over the objects, spreading them out. He crawled into the cave and sifted through the sand. The obol was gone. He’d kept it in his pants pocket with the Glock. When he’d drawn the gun, it must have fallen out, and the security guard must have taken it.

Should have killed him, he thought, sitting in the cave, feeling as gloomy as his surroundings. He’d had the obol for years and really liked it; it was both a lucky charm and sentimental memento. Nevaeh had tried all sorts of ways to get it from him, to add to her collection of death memorabilia, but he’d always resisted her wagers and appealed to Ben when she tried to claim the obol as his punishment for some misdeed or another.

The satphone in his pocket vibrated. “Yeah?” he said into it.

“No trouble with the man?” It was Ben.

“No.”

“He’s alive?”

“You said not to kill him, didn’t you?”

“Since when have you listened to me?”

“Since forever,” Toby said. “When are you getting here?”

“We’re en route. We’ll meet you at Deir Rahab. You know it?”

“Yeah.” Toby pulled a map and compass out of a pocket. Deir Rahab was an oasis-probably with a single farm-where the mountain met the plains about two miles north of his position.

“Sebastian’s arranged for someone to drop off a Jeep and supplies,” Ben said. “Can you be there by eight?”

“Tonight? I can crawl there by then.”

“As long as you’re there. We’ll arrive an hour or two later.”

After they disconnected, Toby wondered if Nev and Ben would let him participate in the night’s activities, and if he’d have a chance to get the obol back. He didn’t get a good look at the man who’d taken it-he was just a dark shape silhouetted by the light coming through the mouth of the cave-but how many security guards could St. Catherine’s have?

Guess they’d find out soon enough.