The 13 th tribe if-1

by Robert Liparulo

  “Lady Macbeth was referring to her guilt over killing the king,” Ben said matter-of-factly. He was fiddling with something on the cuff of his suit. “As far as the problem with making the eyes invisible, DARPA’s working it. My associates there are still trying to develop a photocell that can bend light and remain transparent when viewed from behind. That’s what we need, two-way metamaterial goggles. It’ll take an amorphous silicon ferromagnetic thin film to achieve it, but the technology hasn’t been invented yet. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Toby rolled his eyes. Throwing big words at him was Ben’s way of telling him to shut up. He said, “That’s what I thought.”

  The Jeep hit a rut, tossing them into the air. Toby’s thighs smacked the steering wheel; his head brushed the canvas canopy.

  “Tobias,” Ben said evenly, “five minutes sooner or later makes no difference. Our arriving in one piece does.”

  Nev’s suit beeped again, and she reappeared. In the skintight suit she appeared more like a mannequin than a flesh-and-blood woman, but Toby had to admit she made a fine mannequin. She leaned into the footwell again. When she straightened, she set a pistol and machete-like sword on her lap. Toby’s stomach rolled. That she’d brought the sword instead of her daggers reminded him of their reason for being here. Maybe his role as driver wasn’t such a bad gig after all.

  Nev slipped the gun into a pocket stitched into the invisibility suit under her left arm. Toby knew she’d wait to stow the sword. The pocket for it ran the length of her upper leg, from hip to knee. It was a pain to get it in and out while sitting.

  Ben tapped Toby on the arm and pointed at the GPS unit suction-cupped to the windshield. “Main road in two minutes. We should hit it on the monastery side of the police checkpoint.”

  The Sinai was nasty with police and U.N. checkpoints, left over from the Israeli-Egyptian hostilities of the 1970s and more recent terrorist activities.

  “Turn right and we’ll be there. Bring us close, but not too close.”

  “Got it,” Toby said. Whether or not he liked his role, the mission was on, and he didn’t mess around when it came to missions. None of them did. In the rearview he saw Phin insert two earbuds and drop an MP3 player into a pocket. Phin pulled on his mask, and a few seconds later everything but his eyes evaporated.

  Behind him, Ben yanked the slide back on a semiauto pistol and let it slam back into place, chambering a round.

  “Ready, everyone?” he said. “Three minutes.”

  [36]

  Jagger and Tyler had walked for five minutes and still hadn’t reached the burning bush. Tyler had suggested they take the “scenic route,” which was anything but. They traversed a tight tunnel between two buildings, with a ceiling created by structures built on top of them and spanning the narrow alley. Jagger knew of three such tunnels in the monastery, and he wasn’t sure there weren’t others. None was a straight shot from end to end; they all zigged one way, then zagged the other, making them eerily cavelike. The erratic placement and angles of the buildings, the dead ends, stairs, levels, and bridges from one rooftop to another all conspired to turn the complex into a labyrinth on par with the trickiest mouse maze. It was a nine-year-old boy’s dream and a security specialist’s nightmare.

  They made loop-de-loops along the walls and ceiling with the flashlight beams till they emerged from the tunnel at the base of a narrow flight of stone stairs. Tyler started up, pulling Jagger with him. At the top they walked along a terrace to a rooftop, lighted by an amber bulb and sporting a single wooden chair. Jagger stopped in the light.

  “Hold on,” he said. “I have something for you.” He dug into his breast pocket and pulled out the coin he’d found in the cave with the teen’s belongings.

  Tyler took it from him and held it up to the light, turning it to examine both sides. “Wow.”

  “I showed it to Dr. Hoffmann,” Jagger said. “It’s not Egyptian. He thought maybe a tourist dropped it, and it would be okay for us to keep it.” He didn’t mention the “tourist” it may have belonged to. “Ollie called it a ‘Charon’s obol.’ People put it in the mouth of a loved one they were burying. That way the dead person would have money to pay the ferryman who brought souls across the river that separated the living from the dead.”

  “This was in some dead guy’s mouth?” Tyler said. “ Cool.” He stretched out the word, like a fascinated gasp. He looked at both sides again, then unsnapped the lid of his utility case and dropped it in. He smiled at Jagger. “Thanks.”

  Tyler gripped Jagger’s hand again, and they started down a gradual slope of wide steps that arced around a curved wall. When they descended the last step, they were standing behind the basilica, where they’d attended services that morning and Jagger had prayed for the first time in sixteen months. Across the walkway, an eight-foot-tall round wall of rough stones and sloppy mortar protruded from another chapel and acted like a giant planter. Sprouting from the top was an enormous bush, billowing up six feet and cascading down like a fountain. It hung over the walkway, within touching distance of daytime tourists who’d stripped the leaves off the last foot of its stems. Its official name was Rubus sanctus — Holy Bramble. The monks believed this was the actual burning bush through which God had spoken to Moses, still alive and flourishing. Centuries past, a chapel had been built around it, but lack of sunlight had distressed the bush, so it was moved a dozen feet to its current location.

  Jagger started toward it, but Tyler held him back.

  “Wait,” the boy said. He sat on the bottom step, put his flashlight into the utility case, and tugged off a sneaker. “It’s holy ground. God told Moses to take off his sandals.” He stripped away his sock and started on the other sneaker.

  “We’re not Mo-” Jagger began, then sighed and sat beside Tyler to unlace his boots. Before the first one was off, Tyler was barefoot and standing, scrunching his toes on the stone ground.

  “Do you think God was really in that bush?” he said, eyeing the scraggly bramble.

  “ In the bush or was the bush, I don’t know,” Jagger said. “But yes, I believe the story.”

  “Why do so many people come here? You know, to see it and go up the mountain too?”

  “Like you said, it’s holy.”

  “When they see the mountain and the bush, they’re so… so.. ”

  “Amazed?”

  “No… kind of like the way you look at Mom.”

  “In love?”

  Tyler thought about it, nodding slowly, but not quite sure.

  Jagger understood what Tyler was grasping for. Some visitors had the look of This is it? That’s all? I came all this way, spent all this money, hiked and sweated in the sun-for what, a bush, a mountain? But Tyler was thinking of the others, the ones who seemed in awe of being here, so near the bush and mountain. They seemed at peace. They prayed. They had a glow about them, as people say of pregnant women. They didn’t see a brambly shrub, a rock; they saw God.

  He said, “I think it’s a mixture of a lot of things: love, respect, awe, reverence…”

  “Because God was here, because he touched it?”

  “That’s part of it,” Jagger said, working on his second boot.

  Tyler turned to face him. “But isn’t God everywhere? Hasn’t he touched everything? That’s what you and Mom say.”

  Jagger squinted up at him. “That’s true too.”

  Tyler thought a moment. “Then isn’t everything holy?”

  “In a way… I guess.” He wasn’t sure now was the time to launch into a theological discussion about original sin and free will.

  Tyler made a firm face, coming to some conclusion.

  “What?” Jagger said.

  “If people love what’s holy, and people are holy, then they should be nicer to each other.”

  Jagger’s heart ached for Tyler’s idealism: the beauty and simplicity of it. “I wish that was the way it worked, Ty.”

  “Well, I say there’s something wrong when people treat a bush bett
er than they treat each other.”

  Jagger stretched out to grab Tyler’s hand. “And I say you’re right. You’re a smart kid, you know it?”

  He was smart, but more important, he had a big heart for people. At his school in Virginia, he had stuck up for kids being bullied, but also had a way of sympathizing even with the bullies (“Maybe something’s wrong at home”) that Jagger himself had difficulty comprehending.

  Jagger felt pride for his son well up in his chest. And he thought about how Tyler’s praying that morning had led to his own prayer and to this conversation. He wondered if he’d find his way back into the fold of the faithful not through his physical presence in a holy place but through his family, the two people who’d stuck by him when even he couldn’t stand himself.

  [37]

  Jagger stood, sweeping Tyler up with him. He carried his son to the bush and held him up so he could brush his fingers along the tips of the dangling stems. Then he set the boy down and playfully stepped on one of his bare feet with one of his own.

  Tyler pulled his foot out and laid it on Jagger’s. “Do you ever wish you’d lost a leg instead of an arm?”

  “You know,” Jagger said, “I do. I think it would be easier to adjust to.”

  “But then you couldn’t run so good, and wouldn’t it be hard walking around the dig and chasing bad guys?”

  Jagger nodded. “I guess-”

  An explosion boomed through the compound-a loud concussion, repeated in diminishing echoes as it bounced off the stone walls, followed by the sharp clatter of debris striking hard surfaces, raining down on roofs and walkways.

  Tyler jumped, and Jagger instinctively wrapped himself over his son. Gripping Tyler’s head with his arm, he looked around. The explosion had come from the other side of the monastery, near the front gate. The basilica blocked his view of the sky in that direction, but he imagined a cloud worthy of the sound: smoke and dust billowing up, drifting away. And then a light fog did reach him, coming from the alley between the basilica and the north wall. Smoky, with the bitter odor of burning plastic.

  “Dad?”

  “It’s okay, Ty. Shhh.”

  Someone was coming for the stranger. He could be wrong, but he doubted it, and he didn’t have time to consider any other possibilities. He had assumed the man was holed up in the monks’ quarters in the Southwest Range Building. If so, the attackers would cross through the entire complex, passing between Jagger and Tyler’s position and their apartment; he couldn’t send Tyler there. He glanced up at the top of the wall holding the burning bush. It was too high to push the boy up there.

  “Come here,” he said and led Tyler to the corner formed by the rounded wall and the chapel. “Sit.” He eased him down, then went back to the overhanging bush. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket, opened it, and clapped RoboHand’s hooks onto the handle.

  The sound of running footsteps bounced off the walls. Lights came on in windows overhead. Deep in the compound, someone yelled in a foreign language.

  Jagger jumped up, grabbed a handful of stems, and pulled them down. He reached high to get into the leafy branches and hacked them off the bush. He did it a second time and brought the cluster of foliage to Tyler. “Hold these in front of you,” he whispered. “Don’t let them shake. Stay here till I get back, you hear? Don’t move.”

  “Dad, what’s happening?” Tyler said in a small voice. “I’m scared.”

  “Everything’s going to be fine. Just stay here and don’t move.”

  Someone screamed, and Tyler gasped.

  Jagger reached around and squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Shhh. Be brave, son.” He moved to the stairs where they’d left their shoes and looked back. Tyler was in shadow, but the reflected glow of the bulb that illuminated the bush caught his trembling hands and the vibrating tips of the branches. Jagger would have broken the bulb, but it was twenty feet overhead. The best camouflage was anything that broke up the shape of a human body, and the branches at least did that.

  He rushed up the stairs.

  [38]

  Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

  The words flashed in Tyler’s head like a flickering neon sign. But the explosion had been so loud it had even scared his dad, he could tell. People were yelling. Footsteps grew louder, then faded away. It was like everyone was running around, all confused and scared and bumping into the things they were trying to get away from. He hadn’t seen many monster movies, but he’d watched enough to know they were like this.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and felt tears streak down his cheeks. He hadn’t even known he was crying; he wasn’t really, only frightened enough to make his eyes water. That’s all.

  The branches in front of him shook, and he snapped his eyes open, stopping a scream by cutting off his breath. He looked up, knowing some gruesome creature had found him. But there was nothing, only his shaking hands, and he stiffened his muscles to make them stop.

  Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

  He remembered something his mother had read to him from a story about Joshua: Be strong and courageou s. Do not be afraid, because God is always with you. Something like that.

  “God, are you there?” he whispered. “Make me strong and courageous.” He closed his eyes again, releasing another tear. “Make me be okay. Make Dad be okay. And Mom. And Gheronda and Father Leo and Father Jerome and…”

  Footsteps were coming down the stairs. Tyler held his breath and stared out through the leaves. No one appeared, and the footsteps echoed away.

  “Dad?” he said quietly, then louder: “Dad?”

  He squeezed farther back into the corner and adjusted the branches in front of him. His stomach hurt, and his heart was pounding so hard he was sure it would burst out of his chest. He rested the branches against his legs and pressed his palm over his breastbone. Pa-dump, pa-dump, pa-dump.

  All he wanted was to be back in the apartment with Mom and Dad, all of them cuddled up on the couch, reading something cool like Diary of a Wimpy Kid… actually, he’d settle for anything, even one of those boring books Mom liked.

  God, please, I’ ll even do the dishes. Just get me out here. Make everything okay, make it He heard his name… thought he did. Had Mom just called him? His breathing was too loud in his ears. He forced his lungs to stop, and listened. Footsteps, all over the place, running, echoing. Then: “Tyler!” It was Mom! But not close by… he’d heard it many times before: she was calling from the walkway in front of their apartment.

  Someone yelled back. Dad, had to be, but the voice was quieter and Tyler couldn’t make out the words. Did he want him too?

  He tossed the branches aside and sprang up. He took two running steps toward the stairs, kicking up the stuff in his utility case-loud as a siren-and stopped. Stupid, stupid! Last birthday, Grandma Marilyn and Grandpa Tony had bought him sneakers with lights in the soles that flashed when they hit the ground. He’d never worn them, because how could you sneak around in the dark with lights marking your every step? But he’d never considered how unsneaky his utility case was. Around the monastery-uncovering its secrets and spying on monks-he’d always crept. He’d never thought about running quietly.

  He worked the belt buckle, but it was a “friction style,” Dad called it, with a post that tightened the belt against the back of the buckle. He liked it because they’d found it in an army surplus store-a real army belt-but he could never get it undone. After a few seconds of frustrated tugging, Tyler decided walking quietly at least got him moving, and he padded up the steps, past the shoes and socks he and Dad had left behind.

  [39]

  Following their plan, Phin had scrambled through the smoldering hole where the monastery’s gates stood thirty seconds before and hooked right into the compound. He’d seen Nevaeh’s invisible body float through the plumes of dust and smoke, like a bubble in champagne, beelining into the heart of the monastery. Ben would be moving left, all three of them pushing back toward the rear of the mini-city in search of their prey.
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br />   Phin ran on light feet, his right hand at his hip, ready to whip his sword from the suit’s thigh pocket. He felt for the MP3 player in his pocket and cranked up the volume. A symphony of percussion instruments-chief among them kettle drums and an insistent, rhythmic gong-slammed his eardrums at a rate of 200 beats per minute. His heart raced to catch up, feeling as though it possibly could. As often as he’d done this-hunted, killed-it never lost its high. The smell of blood helped. True, what he’d told the others, that its odor instilled fear and panic in those whose nostrils it reached, but more so it excited him as it did any wild beast: an olfactory cue to become stealthy, agile, ruthless.

  He took a big whiff, disappointed that the mask caused his breath to dilute the fragrance, and sprinted past the Well of Moses toward the northwest wall. That would take him past the guest quarters, into a tunnel, and right to the big structure along the rear wall that the monks called the Southwest Range Building. Toby had reported that Creed had entered the structure through an emergency door, and it was there that he expected to find his prey. The building was large, with numerous rooms, and housed many of the monks, who were now in protection mode.

  Phin had turned between the wall and the corner of a building when a light washed over him from behind. A monk wielding a heavy walking stick was standing in the doorway of a small homey structure. He pulled the door shut and rushed toward Phin, who had his sword half out before remembering that the monk could not see him. He released the blade and pushed back against the wall.

  As the monk approached, Phin saw that the “walking stick” was in fact a shotgun. Of course they would be armed; protecting the likes of Creed was their sworn duty, and that aside, the brotherhood here hadn’t survived sixteen centuries by merely throwing prayers at their attackers. Over the years, they’d been known to pour boiling oil over enemies at the gate, conduct sophisticated bow-and-arrow defenses, and even sneak outside to kidnap the kings of besieging armies. They adhered to a doctrine in which God expected ferocity of body as well as gentleness of spirit. The time for beating swords into ploughshares had not yet arrived; these monks-and Phin too-believed the era would be ushered in by the godly, and without the occasional use of the sword, the godly would be Abel to the rest of the world’s Cain.