rarely rediscover. He realized it was what kept the man digging in the dirt, and he hoped it was never lost under too many potsherds and bottle caps.
“How would you know?” Jagger said. “If you found it… how would you know it’s really from the tablets?”
“I think,” Oliver said, furrowing his brow. “I think we’d just know. I mean, they couldn’t be just rock, could they?”
Jagger smiled. “You don’t sound much like a scientist.”
“I’m a Christian first, Jagger,” Oliver said. “I believe in miracles.” He shook his head vigorously, as if shaking his dream out of his mind. “Besides, I’ll settle for any evidence: a trinket… the gold dust Moses made them drink after grinding up the calf… coprolite.”
“Copro-what?” Tyler said.
Addison grinned. “Poop.”
“Huh?”
“Human waste,” Oliver said. “There were a lot of people; they had to go to the bathroom somewhere.”
Tyler stood quickly and studied the ground where he’d been kneeling. “What’s it look like?”
“Like lava rock,” Addison said. “It’s rare, though. It usually dissolves into the ground. Sometimes you get lucky.”
“Lucky?” Tyler said. “To find poop?”
“Proof,” Oliver corrected.
“Still want to be an archaeologist?” Jagger said.
Tyler looked at Addison, who nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Yeah.”
Oliver slapped the boy’s back. “You want to help unearth the potsherd?” He handed him a tool.
Tyler examined it. “This looks like a chopstick.”
“It is,” Oliver said. “I’ll show you how to use it.”
Tyler smiled up at his father. Jagger checked his watch. He said, “Go for it. I’ll make my rounds and swing back in a little while.”
He stood and ran his fingers around the inside of his waistband to tighten his shirt. The stream of tourists had vanished from the front of the excavation site. He turned to see the last of them struggling up the mountain. The peak was out of sight, beyond the first towering slabs of rock.
At the place where Moses had encountered God now stood a tiny chapel. The monks had told Jagger that under the chapel’s floor, in the surface of the stone mountain, were the perfect imprints of two knees, left there by Moses as he knelt before God.
In the pit, Oliver was gently scraping the potsherd with the chopstick as Tyler watched, waiting for his turn.
“And, Ty?” Jagger said. “If it’s poop, don’t bring it home.”
[15]
Sunlight reflected off the rippling water and played against the room’s arched ceiling like electrical currents. Reclining in a poolside lounge chair, Philippe Gerard blew smoke into the air, adding to the illusion that he was in a dream, just floating in clouds and waiting to wake up. If only…
He had never thought his carefully constructed scheme to get rich would fall apart as suddenly as it had done. But like a house of cards, once the first fell, the rest followed.
Above him, the imitation lightning storm dissipated. He reached down to a box of tennis balls and tossed one into the pool, restarting the sun’s reflected dance.
While it had lasted, his empire building had worked like the hand of God, relentless and unseen but for the things it left in its wake. It had built the lavish mansion around him; given him friends who controlled countries and starred in blockbuster movies; funded vacation homes, cars, global travel-everything he’d ever dreamed of owning and doing. But now that everyone knew the money had flowed out of retirement accounts and trust funds, diminishing them to near nothing, not only were the friends gone and the bank accounts frozen, but Philippe was days away from being sentenced to decades in prison.
He flipped the cigarette into the pool. He would miss this place, its opulence and proximity to the opera houses and nightclubs. The sunlight danced on the ceiling, calming him. At least that, the sunlight, he would not miss, because he was taking it with him. Different walls, different water, but equally beautiful, equally tranquil. He had no intention of ever seeing the gray drabness of a prison cell. Years ago he had purchased a villa in the resort town of Yalikavak, on Turkey’s Bodrum Peninsula. Panoramic views of the Aegean Sea, a private beach, rooms with glass walls that levered up to let in the warm sea breezes.
His mother had been Turkish and had always insisted that he maintain citizenship in her native country. Now her conceit seemed providential. With Turkey’s notoriously rigid extradition laws, he was a short car ride and private flight away from leaving his troubles behind.
Jacquelyn and the kids were already in Yalikavak, preparing for his arrival. He’d finished tying up loose ends with just enough time for one last meditation by the pool before the car came to whisk him away. He picked up the pack and tapped out another cigarette.
A loud rapping on glass made his fingers fumble, and the smoke fell to the tiled floor. He jerked his head around to see a figure at one of the French doors. At that angle, the pane’s many bevels prevented a clear view. Only a journalist would be so bold as to broach the walls and gates around his property and make his way around back after receiving no answer at the front door.
“Go away!” he yelled.
More rapping, loud and sustained.
He sighed and rose out of the lounge chair. He pulled his robe closed and tied the belt, then picked up the revolver that had been under his leg. Holding it behind him, he approached the doors. A beautiful woman smiled at him from the other side. Long black hair, finely chiseled cheekbones and nose, exotic dark eyes-pretty enough to be the on-camera talent for any number of news agencies. But she was less modestly dressed than the ones who’d been shoving microphones in his face recently: tight black slacks, what appeared to be a matching bodice that accentuated her hourglass figure. A long black trench coat, open in front, fell below her knees. He glanced past her, saw no one else, no cameramen or sound guys lurking behind a topiary.
Hope goosed his heart. A fan, maybe? A going-away gift from one of his attorneys? He stopped in front of the door, only thin panes of glass between him and what he now realized was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Perhaps thirty-five, she was one of those rare wonders whose appearance had obviously refined with age.
He shook his head. “No interviews,” he said.
She pouted and said, “Do I look like I’m here to interview you?”
Behind his back, his finger slid over the trigger. His other hand unbolted the door, and he pulled it open. A breeze pushed her scent to him, overpowering the pool house’s chlorine and tobacco. It confused his imagination- not altogether unpleasant, but dusty and old, with a touch of sweetness, an orchid ground into dirt. “What do you want?” he said. “This is private-”
Her hand came out of the trench coat pocket, holding a piece of paper, which she unfolded with the same hand. He saw a printout of a newspaper article, his face prominently displayed. She looked at it, then at him. “You’re more handsome in person,” she said.
He fought a smile. “What is this? Who are you?”
Her features hardened, as if solidifying into a statue-just as beautiful, but unattainable now, someone else’s vision of beauty cast forever in stone. “Justice,” she said.
“What?” He began to pull the gun around. Someone slapped it out of his hand. He spun. A man glared at him with wild eyes, a big crazy grin. Twin white wires snaked from a bulge in his shirt pocket to his ears. Midtwenties, short-cropped hair, patchy facial fur: Philippe immediately pegged him as a punk and realized the situation had exploded into something horrible. The young man lifted a flat blade, replacing half his face with the reflected image of Philippe’s stunned expression. Squiggles of blood cracked the image like veins through marble.
Philippe looked down at his gun on the floor and saw his hand still clutching it. Blood pumped out of the
