between the tiers and hooked his arms over it. By the time he pulled himself up, the copter was lifting off again. Jagger rushed toward it, waving his arms. The pilot made no indication he saw him. Its downdraft whipped the branches of the trees, blowing leaves off them and pelting Jagger with sand and debris.
Jagger spotted a man climbing to the third level, which was also the roof of a building the monks used to store garden tools and supplies. The guy rolled onto it and lay there a moment. He got to his feet and staggered. He didn’t look well: the giveaway, besides his wobbly gait, was white gauze wrapped around the crown of his head. He moved toward the rear of the monastery, and Jagger took after him. “Hey!” Jagger yelled. “Stop!”
The man glanced back and redoubled his efforts to reach the back wall. Then he made a mistake: he stopped at a three-foot-square iron door, fuzzy brown with rust, set into the wall. He dropped to his knees and began pounding on it. During Jagger’s initial risk-assessment tour of the monastery, Gheronda had told him that the old door once acted as an emergency exit in case of fire or siege. It had never been used, and decades earlier had been welded shut on the outside and bricked up on the inside.
Pound away, Jagger thought as he lifted himself onto the top level. He wondered how close he’d get before the man gave up on the door and resumed running. When he was twenty feet away-sure now that he could overtake the guy if he ran-Jagger stopped to catch his breath. He stooped to put hand and hook on his knees and chugged in air like a locomotive. The man kept pounding, and Jagger noticed that blood had soaked through the bandages, drying into a brownish-maroon patch the shape of Texas. He shook his head and said, “Don’t bother, buddy. Look, man, I only want to ask you-”
The door opened, screeching like a tortured spirit. It swung inward, and the man collapsed onto his hands to crawl in. He threw a frightened gaze back at Jagger and disappeared.
Jagger sprinted to reach the door before it closed. “Wait!” he said. He dived for the door, reaching… The spirit screamed again as the door swung shut. At the last second, Jagger jammed his hook between the jamb and the door. The metal clanged into it, opened a few inches, slammed again.
“Wait,” he repeated. “It’s me, Jagger. I just have a few questions.” He got his knees under him and positioned himself to shoulder his way in. Something struck his hook-a metal bat or pipe. The hook twisted and flattened against the floor. Shock waves blasted up his arm, from stump to shoulder, and he instinctively pulled what he still thought of as his hand away from the source of pain. The door slammed and rattled as bolts and locks engaged on the other side.
[28]
Jagger held RoboHand against his chest, hoping the electric-shock feeling in his elbow, biceps, and shoulder would fade quickly. He beat against the door with his fist. “Open up!”
Yeah, that would happen after they hit him with a bat to get the thing closed. Oh, I’m sorry, sir, didn’t see you there.
He ran to the edge of the tier and dropped down, crossed the court, and swung himself down to the lowest level. Tourists crowded at the corner. They gawked, pointed, snapped pictures. He pushed through them, heading for the main entrance, mentally working through the logistics of where he needed to go. The small door was near the monastery’s back wall. It would have to lead into the Southwest Range Building, on the side that housed the monks’ quarters.
Inside, he passed in front of the basilica on his way to the stairs near his apartment, which would take him to the Southwest Range Building second floor and main entrance. He turned right around the mosque and spotted Father Leo heading for him. The monk’s worried expression quickly turned charming.
“What just happened?” Jagger said, closing the ground between them. “Who was that? Why was I told that door had been bricked up?”
When he angled himself to walk by without stopping, Leo sidestepped to block him. Jagger pulled up inches from him, encroaching on what the average person considered his personal space. He’d found the tactic rattled people, just enough to give him a slight advantage in a verbal confrontation. Leo didn’t seem to notice. Close to the same age, the two men couldn’t have been more different. Where Jagger’s inner being was a raging river, Leo gave the impression that his was a peaceful lake. It was a quality Jagger admired and hoped to attain someday. He just wasn’t sure it was a disposition that could survive outside a monastery.
“What’s going on?” Jagger said.
“Monastery business.” Leo’s irises flicked back and forth, searching Jagger’s eyes for… what? His temperament? Signs of his intentions?
“I’m head of security and-”
“Of the excavation,” Leo clarified.
“When Gheronda allowed my family to stay here, it was my understanding that he would appreciate my assistance in monastery security as well.”
“You’re here at Gheronda’s pleasure,” Leo said, maintaining that infuriating little smile of his, “and right now his pleasure is to keep monastery business private. I’m afraid this is a need-to-know matter, and you don’t need to know.”
“Look, within three hours, two helicopters violated restrictions governing their use around St. Catherine’s, and some guy is up on that mountain keeping an eye on this place with binoculars. I think-”
“What guy?” Leo blinked several times, the only indication that something had disturbed the surface of his lake.
“A teenager, the same one who buzzed the compound this morning. He seemed particularly interested in that last copter.”
“Where was he, exactly?”
Jagger took a step back. Maybe he was getting somewhere. “Where he could scope out the excavation and the monastery. He was watching.. all of it, as far as I could tell.”
“You didn’t see anyone else?”
“Not with the boy. You know him?”
“I didn’t see him.” His gaze drifted away. Then it returned, and he put his hand on Jagger’s shoulder to guide him back toward the gate.
Jagger didn’t resist. He didn’t like it, but Leo was right: he was out of his jurisdiction. If push came to shove, the monastery could shove him and the entire archeological team out of the valley, probably out of the country.
Leo said, “We appreciate your concern, Jagger, we really do. But I can assure you, this has nothing to do with the excavation, and we have everything within these walls under control. Please trust me about this.”
“Just tell me who he is, the man who entered through the small door.”
Leo shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Is he all right?” Jagger said, fishing now. Often, a little information led to more. “He was injured.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Jagger stopped. “How can you know that? As soon as the guy got in, you must have run to cut me off.”
“He made it this far.”
“From where? Why here?”
The monk’s face was inscrutable.
Jagger nodded. “I can find my own way out.” He smiled. “I’ve been thrown out of nicer places than this.”
Leo’s smile grew into a grin. He nodded, then turned and walked away.
On his way to the gate, Jagger considered the conversation and came to a conclusion about it: whether by Leo’s charisma or his steely resolve, Jagger was pretty sure he’d just been played.
[29]
