The Christos Mosaic

by Vincent Czyz

  Brother Paramos snorted like a horse. “What should I do? Keep it at the monastery? To draw more tourists? Besides, the four Gospels have been written. There are no more Gospels. There can be no new understanding of the Gospels.”

  “Will you show us where it is?”

  “No.”

  His refusal wasn’t loud, but it seemed to echo in the small cave.

  “Brother Paramos, if we don’t take it, the men who killed Tariq will turn this desert inside out until they find it,” Zafer said. “Most likely they’ll kill you as well. If you lead us to the scroll, we’ll make sure you receive money for it.”

  Brother Paramos had stopped talking.

  “Wasn’t that the idea?” Zafer went on. “Tariq was going to sell it, you were going to split the money, and you were going to donate your half to the monastery provided they close it off to visitors?”

  The monk said nothing.

  In the pause there was the sound of something scraping against stone.

  Zafer cocked his head.

  Drew heard it again.

  Someone was climbing toward them.

  9: 7

  HAND TO HAND

  THE SOUND WAS COMING from the back of the cave, which disappeared in darkness.

  Zafer lifted his chin. “Is there another entrance?”

  Brother Paramos broke his silence. “Yes.”

  Zafer took the pistol out of the satchel. Cuffing the back of Drew’s neck, he pulled his ear close to his lips and spoke in a harsh whisper: “Don’t fire unless I’m about to be waxed—and I mean it. These are close quarters. Even if you don’t hit me, a ricochet might. Just back me up.”

  Tipping his head to indicate that Drew should follow, he led the way.

  The narrow passage branched to the left of the cave’s back and became pitch black. Drew felt panic rise in him like something dead floating up from the bottom of a lake. For about a meter they had to feel their way along a rough wall. Gradually, light seeped in from what must have been the second opening.

  They could hear voices now; there were two of them at least.

  Zafer gestured to Drew to slow down and then put a finger over his lips. Crouching, he crept forward until he reached the edge of a precipice, but as he straightened up, the stone under his foot gave way. Zafer fell. He twisted hard, trying to right himself, but his Glock struck the stone lip and clattered somewhere below.

  Drew was at the edge a second later, pistol drawn. The drop, to what was little more than a shelf, was only about five feet. Drew was just in time to see a man he assumed was Francis Collins dive to the cave floor for Zafer’s pistol. Drew trained his pistol on Collins, but Zafer gained his balance and caught Collins full in the face with a sweeping kick. The Sicarii flew back, and a khaki desert cap flipped off his head.

  Zafer’s pistol bounced on stone again.

  The second man, dressed in Army-issue shorts camouflaged for the desert and the same khaki cap with a neck flap, looked like an Arab legionnaire. Before Collins hit the floor, he swung a submachine in Zafer’s direction.

  Afraid to fire, Drew called out. “DROP IT!”

  Drew pulled back from the stone lip as a staccato explosion of gunfire overlapped with the whines of ricochets and the hard rain of stone splinters against the walls.

  Zafer, in a dim nether-realm of instinct, was still able to catch the distant echo of a last conscious fear: Did Drew get hit? He caught the legionnaire’s weapon from underneath and pushed up. Another burst of fire drilled the cave roof. Zafer let go with a hammer-blow intended for the solar plexus, but he struck too low. The Arab grunted but held onto the submachine gun with one hand and brought an elbow down on Zafer’s ear.

  That hurt.

  Head ringing, Zafer pushed the weapon higher and stepped into the legionnaire with an elbow to the throat. The tug of war for the weapon ended with the submachine gun flying and landing with a clatter a few feet away.

  The Arab underhooked Zafer at the armpit and tried to swing him off balance. Zafer tightened his overhook, straightened his opponent up by pulling back—exposing one side—and landed two hard blows to the ribs. Reversing torque and pulling down now on the overhook, Zafer got the legionnaire off balance and landed three palm heels to the face in rapid succession. The commando’s cap tumbled down his back. Pulling up again on the overhook, Zafer added a heel trip, and the Arab hit the stone floor hard. Driving all his weight down, Zafer landed three more strikes, smashing the man’s nose to a bloody pulp.

  He glanced up just in time to see Collins raising a pistol.

  Some division of a second—a tenth? A hundredth? A thousandth? before Drew understood what it would take to shoot another man, and the threat that if he didn’t, someone close to him would lose his life. Just as Zafer drew the unconscious commando’s sidearm from a shoulder holster and fired, Drew squeezed off two shots. His head reverberated with the concussive blows to his ears.

  Francis collapsed.

  “Did I …” The stink of gunpowder singed Drew’s nostrils. “Did I hit him?”

  “Forget about him.” He pointed at the unconscious Arab. “You see what’s happening here?”

  “Raymond’s calling up his old pals.”

  Zafer nodded. “Ex-legionnaires. They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us.” He waved a hand. “Go make sure the monk didn’t go anywhere.”

  Reluctantly, Drew disappeared into the dark passage.

  Zafer put Kevlar restraints on the legionnaire’s wrists and ankles (he was too groggy to resist) and made sure Collins was dead. He’d been hit three times, so at least one of Drew’s shots had been accurate. Zafer gathered up the weapons and tossed them up on the ledge from which he’d fallen. Taking a running lead and vaulting like a gymnast, he hauled himself over the stone lip.

  As he approached the cave’s other chamber, he saw Brother Paramos struggling to get past Drew, who was blocking off the passage to the rear entrance.

  Zafer dropped the weapons he’d collected. “One of them’s dead—you can’t help him. The other will be fine, okay?”

  Falling to his knees, the priest began to pray in Coptic.

  “Francis is dead?”

  Zafer nodded.

  “Did I hit him?”

  Zafer faked a smirk. “You missed.” He whacked Drew’s shoulder. “But you did all right.”

  Drew hadn’t realized until that moment how close he’d gotten to Zafer —probably closer than he was to his own brother.

  “You saved my ass, you know.” Zafer shook his head. “Over-fucking-confident back there.

  Before Drew could think up a cocky reply, Brother Paramos jumped to his feet and sprinted for the entrance of the cave.

  “Wait!” Zafer leapt after him, catching him just at the entrance. Not a second later, Drew heard the crack of a rifle shot, and a cloud of red exploded behind Zafer.

  9: 8

  THE HAND OF GOD

  HOHENZOLLERN COULD NOT BELIEVE his luck. No, he told himself, it was not luck, it was God. His team—Francis, himself, and an Algerian legionnaire named Abdullah—had been scouring the hills and caves. Seeing a small opening, Abdullah and Francis had investigated, but Hohenzollern had wanted to see if there was anything more promising. Indeed, he’d found a much larger opening. Using the scope of his sniper’s rifle, he glimpsed the monk inside the cave, and his heart began to pound.

  Then he’d heard an automatic weapon fire and pistol shots.

  A few minutes later the hand of God interceded.

  He’d wanted to go to the smaller entrance to support Abdullah and Francis, but something told him to stay close to the monk. He decided to take cover and train his scope on the larger cave mouth.

  And then the monk had run out pursued—imagine!—by the Turk who had beaten Jan unconscious and had nearly broken his rib with a kick. Next time will be different, Hohenzollern had said. See you in Egypt, he’d replied. Overconfident idiot. Hohenzollern had seen him in Egypt. In the crosshairs of his scope as he
tried to haul the monk back into the cave. Oh he recognized him—even with that Egyptian headdress on. It hadn’t been a headshot, but it had been a clean hit. He would certainly bleed to death before help could arrive.

  Neither Abdullah nor Francis answered his phone calls. They were probably dead. Which meant the cave entrances had to be connected. The Turk, he realized, might try to escape the back way. Hohenzollern decided to move to a position where he could cover both openings. Before he did, he called the other teams for back-up.

  9: 9

  AN ORANGE GLINT

  ZAFER SAT WITH HIS BACK against a stone wall. He tried to slow his breathing, to keep his heart rate down, to bleed less. He’d been hit above and to the left of his heart. He wasn’t coughing up blood so his lung had also been missed. The bullet had gone clean through, and the wound had soaked his T-shirt with blood. The pain—Allah! It hurt to move. It hurt to sit still. It hurt to do nothing but breathe. No pain he’d ever felt was anything like this.

  Drew knelt in front of Zafer and reached out with a hand but he didn’t touch him. Shaking, it hovered a few inches from his body. “There’s so much blood …” His voice quavered. “How bad … is it?”

  Zafer tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace. “You can’t imagine.” He winced. “How much it hurts.” His left arm had gone mostly numb.

  “We have to get you out of here. Fuck the scroll.”

  Zafer shook his head. “He’s calling for back-up. Right now. If they get the scroll …” He shook his head. Even talking hurt. “They’ll kill Kadir. Probably you, too. Even if it takes a couple of years. We have to hope … there’s only one sniper. Take him out. There’s no other way.”

  Drew threw his phone at the startled monk. Brother Paramos bobbled it but managed to hang onto it.

  “Call those brothers of yours! Get an ambulance here!”

  Zafer looked at the cave entrance. “Hohenzollern or Raymond. Could be both. Could be another legionnaire.”

  “Hohenzollern? The police arrested him in Istanbul.”

  “The Ecole probably bailed him out. Gave him a new passport. Hustled him out of the country.”

  Drew dug through the canvas bag. “We have to stop the bleeding.”

  “If there’s only one shooter, he’ll move to a spot where he has a shot no matter which end we come out.”

  Drew opened the first aid kit and tore open a package of cotton.

  Brother Paramos was on the phone speaking rapidly in Arabic.

  “We have to get your shirt off first.”

  Zafer couldn’t bear even the thought of lifting his arm. “Just cut it.”

  Drew rummaged around the first aid kit until he found the scissors. When he cut away the shirt and actually saw the wound—a hole so dark at its core it was the wet black of overripe cherry flesh—he almost vomited. Blood didn’t sicken him; seeing this hole in Zafer sickened him.

  “Lean forward.” Drew had known the exit wound would be worse, but he was close to shock when he saw how much flesh had been blown away and the steady flow of blood out of the hole. He saw ragged meat and the bone of Zafer’s shoulder blade—a piece of it missing—like something hanging in a butcher’s shop.

  He’s going to die.

  “Christ,” Drew breathed, and prayed that was one of the names to which God answered. As gently as he could, he stuffed the exit wound with cotton.

  Zafer’s moan was bone chilling.

  “I’m sorry.” The cotton turned red immediately—almost like some horrible magician’s trick—and shrank as it absorbed blood. Drew pushed more into the wound and, again, Zafer moaned. Wiping away blood with the dry part of Zafer’s T-shirt, Drew made a white asterisk of medical tape over the cotton.

  He plugged the entrance wound the same way.

  Zafer was pouring sweat. “I need a drink, Drew.”

  Drew brought the canteen to his mouth and held it for him.

  He drained half of it.

  “Okay … now, break the … the head off that broom. Keep as much handle as you can.”

  Using the side of his foot, Drew snapped it against a wall.

  “Now … that mirror … use the medical tape …”

  Drew taped the mirror to the end of the broom handle, losing only a strip of reflective surface where the tape crossed the middle. He made a thick band of tape to make sure the mirror was secure.

  “I’m counting on one shooter. We know he shot from across the pass. But he must have moved. Probably west. I’m going to the back entrance. Keep your phone handy. When I call you … you’re going to use the mirror. And stay back, Drew. Stick the damn thing out. As far as it will go. Don’t give him a shot. See if you can spot him with the mirror. Look for his scope. For the rifle barrel. They might catch sun’s rays. When you find him … tell me where he is.”

  “How are you going to call me? Your cell phone is in Cairo.”

  “Dumb-ass. I always have two. Only Gökhan has the number to this one.” He managed a weak smile. “Now you’ll have it, too.” He put out his right arm. “Help me up.”

  Drew pulled him to his feet. “Are you sure you’re up to this?

  “You know how hard it’s going to be? To hit him at fifty or sixty meters with a pistol? You can’t make the shot. It has to be me.”

  “Then we’ll wait. Till the monks get here. And the police. They have to be on their way now.”

  Zafer shook his head. “This isn’t America. There probably isn’t a police station for fifty miles. Even if the monks show up first, Raymond or Hohenzollern will put a bullet in one of them, and the other’s will turn around. Let’s go.”

  Shirtless and bleeding through the cotton wadding, Zafer wobbled down the dark passageway to the back entrance. Drew followed him As gently as he could, he lowered Zafer by his good arm over the stone lip.

  Zafer had to stifle a scream when his feet hit the cave floor, jarring his body.

  “You all right?” Drew called.

  “Yeah. Get out of here.”

  The legionnaire was sitting up, his wrists and ankles bound together. Jagged streaks of blood ran from his nose.

  “You’re on the wrong side, brother,” Zafer said in Arabic.

  “Looks like you’re in worse shape than I am.”

  Zafer held up his pistol. “Wouldn’t take much to change that. Now, who else is out there? If you lie, I’ll shoot both your knee caps before I ask you again.”

  “Just one.”

  “Who?”

  “Hohenzollern.”

  “Good.” Zafer glanced out the back entrance, which was just big enough for a man to squeeze through and opened to the north. He called Drew. “We got lucky. Just Hohenzollern. Find him.”

  Drew put his phone on speaker. He stuck the mirror out on shaky arms. If for some reason Hohenzollern had moved east instead of west, he’d have a shot at Drew. The mirror wobbled as he held it out. Drew couldn’t see anything but rocks.

  Where the fuck was he? Look for the scope, he told himself. Find the barrel …

  The sun was low.

  A glassy glint. Yes! Drew saw the German sweeping east to west, then west to east—looking for them.

  “I got him!” Drew tried not to shout. “He’s at a point about midway, just like you said. Right above a rock shaped like a … it’s like a big tooth. A front bottom tooth sort of.”

  “Tell me when the rifle is aimed at your entrance,” Zafer answered.

  A ridge blocked Zafer’s view. It also kept him invisible to the sniper.

  It was going to be like a turn-around jump-shot in basketball: he’d have to pop up from behind the ridge, aim instinctively where he thought the sniper would be while trying to match that up with Drew’s description of a tooth-shaped rock, and hope he had a clear shot before Hohenzollern did.

  “He’s coming back this way …” Drew’s voice was near panic.

  One … two …

  “He’s facing east now.”

  Zafer dropped the phone and sprang up fro
m behind his cover, but he didn’t see the sniper or the tooth-shaped rock. He used the stone as a rest for his right forearm, but he didn’t see the target.

  “What are you waiting for?” he heard Drew’s harsh whisper. “He’s looking right at you … now.”

  Zafer caught the dull glimmer of the black barrel. It was pointed at him. He aimed just above it. He was only going to get one shot.

  The barrel had stopped moving, and Zafer realized Hohenzollern had spotted him. He aimed slightly high to adjust for the distance—about fifty meters—and the descent of the bullet’s arc. He squeezed.

  Drew heard two shots almost simultaneously. The head and scope suddenly disappeared from the rectangle of mirror.

  “You got him!” Drew shouted. “You got him!” Dropping the mirror, he ran to the back of the cave and leapt down.

  The bloodied legionnaire shook his head.

  Drew’s stomach felt as though it had been sucked into a vacuum. “Fuck do you know?” he snarled and squeezed through the opening.

  Zafer lay on his back, head-down, on a slope a few feet away. In his rush to get to him, Drew lost his balance and fell. He crab-walked the rest of the way, refusing to believe Zafer had been hit—again.

  The bullet had caught him at the base of his throat, had probably severed his spine.

  “No.” Drew shook his head. “No no no no no no no.” He kept shaking his head. “This isn’t happening.” He slammed stone with the heels of his fists. Again and again. “This can’t be happening.” He started to cry. “Bring him back,” he whispered. “Please, God, bring him back.” Drew grabbed Zafer’s shoulders and sank his fingers into the muscles. He put a hand on his chest, feeling for a heartbeat where he knew there couldn’t be one. “I don’t give a fuck about the scroll! Please!”

  Cradling the Turk’s head, he pressed his cheek against Zafer’s. He heard blood drip. The sound made him furious. He eased Zafer’s head onto a bed of loose rock and clambered down the slope. Crossing the pass, he hiked up to where he’d last seen Hohenzollern.

  The German lay on his back. Most of the top of his head was gone. The brown eyes had become dull stones, and the mouth was open a fraction of an inch.