A hand seized his shoulder and spun him around. He pulled his fist back to strike the intruder. It was Owen, right in his face, glaring. He grabbed Jagger’s head, fingers curved around behind, palm over his ear, firm.
“I know,” he said, the words what you’re going through unnecessary, communicated through his gaze, and his expression said that he really did.
Jagger felt a measure of the chaotic jumble inside him flow out, as though taken by Owen, a burden shared. His fist opened, and his hand fell to Owen’s shoulder. He wanted to say something, to explain himself, but the sense that Owen already knew everything was so great that all he could do was nod.
Jagger had never believed that sympathy or even empathy helped anyone; intense emotion, agony, was unique to each person: a million starving people in the world didn’t help ease the stomach cramps of the man who hadn’t eaten in three days. But this was different. It was shared anger, grief, and pain, coupled with a solution; it was the one-legged man throwing his arm over the shoulder of another one-legged man because together they could both walk.
Owen pushed a box into his arms. “I guessed size eleven.”
Jagger lifted the lid to see new cross trainers and a package of socks. He nodded. “Thanks.”
“There’s a kahwa up the street.” Owen smiled at Jagger’s puzzlement. “A cafe. We have to talk.”
Jagger returned to Tyler’s room first, and Beth assured him there was nothing for him to do there at the moment, and she’d be fine if he grabbed coffee with Owen.
“Go get out of your head for a while,” she said. “It’ll do you good.”
[57]
The two men walked four blocks into a neighborhood with dirt streets and none of the sparkle or forced Egyptian decor that made Sharm el-Sheikh attractive to tourists. They approached the kahwa — a converted house-at just past six in the morning, a smoldering orange glow singeing the eastern frays of a violet sky. When Owen pulled the door open for Jagger, the aroma of coffee, tobacco, and fried food wafted over them. Smoke hazed the cavelike interior, whose dim light came from dozens of candles lined up like soldiers on a narrow shelf running the length of each wall, a yellow bulb hanging over the service area behind a counter, and murky front windows.
Behind the counter, an old man tended to something sizzling in what appeared to be a household FryDaddy. A cigarette with three inches of ash dangled from his lips. Two other old guys sat in the back, coffee mugs and a tall sheesha water pipe on the table between them. Tubes ran from the sheesha to the corner of each of their mouths, and they sat there puffing as they watched Jagger and Owen.
Owen unslung the pack at his waist and dropped it on a heavy wooden table. The table was weathered and beaten; it looked like it might have been something else once, part of a ship or a door. Jagger sat, and Owen greeted the old man behind the counter in Arabic, then turned to Jagger. “Coffee? Sugar, cream?”
“Black.”
Owen held up two fingers to the old man. “ Kahwascitto.” He pulled back a chair and dropped into it with a loud sigh. He studied Jagger’s face for a good ten seconds, then said, “I spoke to the doctor. He said the surgery went well.”
Jagger shrugged. “Tyler’s not in the clear yet.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it happened at all.”
The old man shuffled over and placed mismatched mugs on the table. He grumbled something to Owen, who asked Jagger, “Breakfast? He’s got t’aamiyya, kind of like falafel: ground fava beans, coriander leaves, sesame seed paste…”
Jagger was shaking his head. “I can’t eat.”
Owen said something, and the old man went back to his post. They sat in silence for a minute, Owen sipping his coffee, Jagger staring at his bloody knuckles. He tasted the brew, winced at the bitterness, and set down the mug. “Who was the guy they were after,” he said, “the one you were coming to see?”
Thinking, Owen used a palm to flatten his beard, first one cheek and jawline, then the other side. He said, “He called himself Creed. He was part of a group, but he was trying to get away.”
“So they killed him? Is it a cult, a Charles Manson thing?”
Owen shook his head. “Nothing like that. There’s no charismatic leader brainwashing the others. They’re all in it together, voluntarily. They think of themselves as a tribe, but really they’re a family. Not blood related, but they’ve been together a long time, and they genuinely care for one another.”
“Yeah,” Jagger said. “We killed my brother when he wanted to leave home too.”
Owen squinted at Jagger, a slight smile turning up one corner of his mouth. “The Tribe adheres to a fierce set of principles, the most important being Protect the Tribe. If Creed had wanted only to leave, they would have let him. He took something they needed, something that would not only stop them from what they believe they must do but could also destroy the Tribe.”
Where’s the boy? the woman had said. He has something of ours.
“What?” Jagger said, leaning forward. “What did Creed have they wanted so badly?”
“A computer microchip.”
“With information? Data that would expose them, get them all busted?”
“I don’t think so.” Owen took a swig of coffee. “Creed said it would prevent them from completing their mission, and just having it would open doors, get people to listen and act to stop them.”
“Mission? What is their mission?”
“Creed used a code word, Agag. It comes from the Bible, I Samuel. Agag was the king of the Amalekites. God ordered the Israelites to destroy the city of Amalek, every man, woman, and child. The code word meant something big was going down.”
“Something big, like blowing-up-a-train big… or 9/11 big?”
The muscles of Owen’s face tightened. “Like Hiroshima big.”
Numbed to the cares of the world by the crisis with Tyler, Jagger was surprised to feel a pang of panic jitter through his stomach and into his heart. The thought of thousands-tens of thousands-of innocents like Tyler suffering, dying in fear and pain, was enough to cut through the fog of his own misery. “You think that chip controls a nuclear bomb?”
“Nuclear, or something just as destructive.”
“Wait a minute.” Jagger looked around the room, his eyes stopping on the old men in back, so dark in the shadows their eyes stood out like an animal’s catching the moonlight. He said, “I figured these guys were pros, the way they attacked the monastery in a coordinated effort, the way they fought. Those invisibility suits, they aren’t off the rack, not even issued to top-shelf black ops boys. They’re DARPA or some foreign equivalent or maybe an off- the-charts elite private organization. Now you’re telling me they’ve got nukes… or ‘something just as destructive.’ You’re talking heavy backing, government backing.”
“Just the Tribe,” Owen said.
“How many?”
“I don’t know for sure. Ten, fifteen maybe. Used to be more.” He shifted in his chair, leaned back, and dropped a booted heel on the corner of the table, settling into the conversation. “But they’re well connected. The favors I called in to get the military chopper? Nothing to them. For years, they’ve helped important people become important. Everybody owes them. They’re privy to the most secret information-classified umbra in the U.S., Streng Geheim in Germany, Sirriy lil-Gayah here in Egypt.” He waved a hand: whatever. “And once they know about something, all they have to do is ask. I’m sure that’s how they got hold of that invisibility technology.”
“What do they give in return?”
“Knowledge, for one thing. They’re intelligent, freakishly so. Mostly about human nature, and no knowledge is more powerful than that. As a species, we’re fickle, counterintuitive, vacillating between altruism and selfishness. We’re influenced by loved ones, friends, enemies, colleagues, rivals, culture, movies, literature, who we hope to be, wish we were, our health and personalities and personal histories-more factors shape our decisions than shape our flesh. Anyone who can read those calculations with even a modicum of accuracy wields more power than a nuclear arsenal.”
