or pencil he’d used at the time and the handwriting itself helped him remember what he was thinking when he wrote it, even years later. It was one reason he ignored Ben’s encouragement to switch to an e-book reader. Lugging the heavy book-or any of his other favorite reads-was a small sacrifice for the history of his thoughts.
He found himself reading the same passage a third time before realizing his mind wasn’t in it tonight. He closed the book and leaned back into the seat. From his shirt pocket he pulled a thin box of rolling papers and a bag of tobacco. He rolled himself a cigarette and stuck it into the corner of his mouth. He found his Zippo and sat there flipping open the top, lighting the wick, and closing it again, over and over. He wondered if Creed would really go as far as the Trongsa Dzong. It was easier to climb Everest with a Sherpa on your back, or so it seemed to Elias: the twelve-hour flight to Paro, which hosted Bhutan’s only airport, followed by a painfully slow drive on coiling roads to Trongsa. He doubted Creed would undertake the journey if he was seriously wounded. Then again, he’d want to get as far away as possible, and Trongsa was both distant and a Haven.
He shook his head at Creed’s defection. The man had been with them so long. Why now? It was the Amalek Project that bugged him. But there’d been others in which Creed had participated. Okay, none so.. ambitious. Still, to leave and sabotage the whole thing was beyond Elias’s comprehension. Fool.
He eyed the duffel bag in the ridiculously luxurious chair across the aisle from his seat. Protruding from the duffel was the handle of a falcata, a brutally powerful sword. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but there it was, just in case.
Jordan’s chartered flight arrived at London Luton Airport’s private jet terminal well before sunrise. After checking through customs and finding the chauffeured car Sebastian had arranged for him, he instructed the driver to take him to the corner of Fleet Street and Inner Temple Lane.
“Your dad told me,” the driver said, adjusting the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Jordan in the backseat. “He a barrister, your dad? Or solicitor?” They were heading for the heart of London’s judicial district.
“My dad? Yeah, something like that.”
“What are you, eleven? Pretty young to be traveling alone.”
Jordan unzipped the daypack he’d brought and pushed his hand past a change of clothes and a satellite phone to the wad of cash Ben had given him. He peeled off a ten-pound note and handed it over the seat to the driver.
“What’s this for?” the driver said.
“Peace and quiet,” Jordan said. He smiled at the mirror, which the driver then returned to its original position. Thirty minutes later Jordan gave the mute driver another ten pounds and climbed out. At that hour, the area was nearly deserted. Only a few cars cruised the street. Jordan wore khaki slacks and a green polo shirt, hoping anyone curious about him would mistake him for a student. It was a weak disguise he didn’t want to test.
A block away, a dark figure jangled keys in front of a storefront. Probably a restaurant or bakery, Jordan thought. Gotta get ready for a rush of breakfast customers. He knew how the people would come, like a spring rain with a few drops leading to a light sprinkle, then an all-out downpour. He had to get into position before then. He moved south on Inner Temple and within a few steps saw the portico protecting the west door of Temple Church. Lamps mounted high on the surrounding buildings left few shadows to cover his approach. No one around as far as he could tell, but still he stayed close to the walls and kept his steps quiet.
The church’s famous round structure came into view, and Jordan stopped. Looking past the rear of the church, he spotted one side of the Master of the Temple’s big brick house. It was there that Creed would seek help. A wall and gate kept tourists from approaching.
Jordan adjusted the daypack’s straps over his shoulders and passed the church’s west door into the front court. It was a wide-open area whose only adornment was a statue of two Knights Templar riding a horse. He had brought his soccer ball, hoping to kick it around-maybe get a few local boys to help with the ruse-while watching for Creed. But he realized now that the Master’s house was out of sight from the court. He crossed to the far side of the church, where another wall and gate stretched between the church and another building. Through the gate he could see the front of the house. Between him and the house lay a grassy lawn lined on both sides with bushes and trees.
“Okay, then,” he said, slipping off his pack and tossing it over the brick wall. He followed and dropped onto the grass. He circled the house and didn’t find any lighted windows. If Creed had beaten him here, injured or not, at least some lights would be burning. There was a rear door, but anyone heading for it would have to cross Jordan’s sightline from where he planned on stationing himself in front. He returned to the grassy area and pushed himself behind a heavily foliated bush at the northeast corner of the church. He had a clear view of the house’s front door, its west side, and the alleyway leading to it from the east.
He sat and pressed his back against the church, knees bent up. He pulled the pack into his lap and unzipped it. He made sure the satellite phone was set to vibrate and pushed it down the front of his shirt so he’d feel it against his chest if it rang. Then he withdraw a Carambar and slid the pack to the ground beside him. As he unwrapped the candy, he looked at each of the house’s dark front windows. He wanted to be the one to spot Creed, but he felt guilty about it. Creed was old enough to be his father, but he’d always acted more like a big brother. He took the time to play with him, and he’d always been patient about explaining things when the others wouldn’t. In the end, however, Jordan’s loyalty was to the Tribe, and anyone who threatened it was the enemy. Besides, all they wanted was the chip. Creed would be okay, and maybe someday he’d come back.
He stuck the end of the candy in his mouth and flattened the wrapper against his thigh. He leaned sideways to put the backside of the wrapper in the glow of a lamp and read the riddle printed there in French:
The strongest chains will not bind it,
Ditch and rampart will not slow it down.
A thousand soldiers cannot beat it,
It can knock down trees with a single push.
He worked the caramel soft with his tongue and teeth as he thought about it. “Wind,” he said, scrunching up the wrapper and shoving it into the pack. He wiggled his rump until the dirt yielded a more comfortable seat and squared his shoulders against the wall. Then he watched the sky lighten to day and waited for Creed.
[26]
Ollie had convinced Gheronda to let him use the apartment below Jagger’s to catalog and store the site’s discoveries. It was there Jagger was headed, with Addison and a hand-carted crate, when a noise stopped him. Faint, almost not a sound at all. If it weren’t for its repetition- tap-tap-tap, like the bass beats of a distant lowrider-he never would have noticed. From his position in front of the outside wall of the monastery he could see out of the valley, past St. Catherine’s Village to the Plain of el-Raha stretching to the horizon. A black dot in the sky grew larger as it approached: a helicopter. The sound of its blades chopping the air rushed ahead of it and bounced off the valley walls.
“Isn’t this restricted air space?” Jagger said.
“This and almost every tourist site in Egypt,” Addison said. “Before the ban the things swarmed like flies, ruining the experience for everybody else.”
Jagger pulled a small notepad and pencil from his breast pocket and checked his watch: 10:07. He recorded this, then turned in a complete circle. Tourists in front of the monastery gate either watched the helicopter with mild interest or ignored it altogether. The excavation workers displayed slightly more intrigue, but nothing that signaled expectation, excitement, or nervousness.
The helicopter buzzed over the village a mile away. It resembled a black Plexiglas egg, what the military called Little Bird. Good for moving six people tops in and out of a hot zone fast.
“Any idea who it is?” he said.
“Rich tourists,” Addison said. “Probably kept slapping down Egyptian pounds until the pilot couldn’t say no.”
The helicopter slowed, then hovered over the gardens on the outside of the monastery’s east wall. It rotated to give the passenger a better view. Hard to tell at that distance, but Jagger thought the passenger was either a woman or teen. The person scoped the area with binoculars. Jagger reached behind him to a pouch hanging off his
