Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

‘I’m not worried about the doc,’ Torres said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘She’s just some Mossad dyke. I can handle her. But Fowler-’

‘Forget the old crow. Hey, if all this is an excuse for not admitting that you took care of the white prof-’

‘Jackson, I’m telling you it wasn’t me. But trust me: nobody here is who they say they are.’

‘Then thank God we have an Ypsilon protocol on this mission,’ Jackson said, displaying her perfectly white teeth, which had cost her mother eighty double shifts in the diner where she worked.

‘As soon as your boyfriend says sarsaparilla it’s time for heads to roll. The first one I’m going after is the priest.’

‘Don’t mention the code, fucker. Go ahead and raise.’

‘Nobody’s going to raise,’ Alryk said, motioning to Torres. The Colombian held back his chips. ‘The frequency scanner isn’t working. It keeps trying to start.’

‘Fuck. Something’s wrong with the electricity. Leave it alone.’

‘Halt die klappe Affe. We can’t have that thing turned off or Dekker will kick our ass. I’m going to check out the electrical panel. You two go on playing.’

Torres looked as if he was about to continue the game, but then he gave Jackson a cold stare and got up.

‘Wait up, white man. I want to stretch my legs.’

Marla realised that she had gone too far in messing with Torres’s manhood, and the Colombian had placed her high up on his list of potential hits. She was only a little sorry. Torres hated everybody, so why not give him a good reason?

‘I’m going too,’ she said.

The three went out into the boiling heat. Alryk squatted near the platform.

‘Everything looks OK here. I’m going to check out the generator.’

Shaking her head, Marla went back inside the tent, wanting to lie down for a while. But before going inside she noticed the Colombian kneeling at the end of the platform and digging around in the sand. He picked up an object and looked at it with a weird smile on his lips.

Marla didn’t understand the significance of the red lighter decorated with the flowers.

42

THE EXCAVATION

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

Friday, 14 July 2006. 8:31 p.m.

Andrea’s afternoon had been a series of close calls.

She had barely managed to escape from under the platform when she heard the soldiers getting up from the table. And not a moment too soon. A few more seconds of the hot air from the generator and she would have passed out for good. She crawled out through the side of the tent opposite the door, stood up, and walked very slowly towards the infirmary, doing her best not to keel over. What she really needed was a shower, but that was out of the question, since she didn’t want to go in that direction and run into Fowler. She grabbed two bottles of water and her camera and left the infirmary tent again, looking for a quiet spot on the rocks in the index finger.

She found a hiding place on a small slope above the canyon floor and sat there watching the archaeologists’ activities. She didn’t know what stage their grief had reached now. At some point Fowler and Dr Harel went by, probably looking for her. Andrea ducked her head behind the rocks and tried to piece together what she had heard.

The first conclusion she came to was that she couldn’t trust Fowler – which was something she already knew – and she couldn’t trust Doc – which was something that made her even more uncomfortable. Her thoughts about Harel hadn’t gone much beyond the tremendous physical attraction

All I have to do is look at her and I’m turned on.

But the idea that she was a spy for Mossad was more than Andrea could handle.

The second conclusion she reached was that she had no choice but to trust the priest and the doctor if she wanted to get out of this alive. Those words about the Ypsilon protocol had totally undermined her sense of who was really in charge of the operation.

On one side there’s Forrester and his stooges, all of them much too meek to pick up a knife and kill one of their own. Or maybe not. Then there’s the maintenance people, tied to their thankless work – no one pays them much attention. Kayn and Russell, the brains behind this madness. A group of hired soldiers, and a secret code word to start killing people. But to kill who, or who else? What’s clear, for better or worse, is that our fate was sealed the moment we joined this expedition. And it seems fairly certain that it is for worse.

Andrea must have fallen asleep at some point because when she woke up, the sun was going down and a heavy grey light had replaced the usual high contrast between sand and shade in the canyon. Andrea was sorry she had missed the sunset. Each day she tried to make sure she went to the open area beyond the canyon at that time. The sun would dive into the sand, revealing layers of heat that looked like waves on the horizon. Its final burst of light was like a gigantic orange explosion that remained in the sky for several minutes after it had disappeared.

Back here in the canyon’s index finger, the only twilight scenery was large, bare sandy rock. With a sigh she reached her hand into her trouser pocket and pulled out her packet of cigarettes. Her lighter was nowhere to be found. Surprised, she began searching her other pockets until a voice in Spanish almost made her heart leap into her throat.

‘Looking for this, my little bitch?’

Andrea glanced up. Five feet above her, Torres was lying on the slope, his arm outstretched, offering her the red lighter. She guessed that the Colombian must have been there for a while – stalking her - and it sent a shiver up her spine. Trying not to betray her fear, she stood up and reached for the lighter.

‘Didn’t your mother teach you how to speak to a lady, Torres?’ Andrea said, controlling her nerves enough to light the cigarette and exhale the smoke towards the mercenary.

‘Sure, but I don’t see no lady here.’

Torres was staring at Andrea’s smooth thighs. She was wearing a pair of trousers that she’d unzipped above the knees to convert them into shorts. With the heat, she had rolled them up even further, and the white skin above her suntan seemed sensual and inviting to him. When Andrea noticed the direction of the Colombian’s gaze, her fear increased. She turned towards the end of the canyon. One loud scream would be good enough to get everyone’s attention. The crew had started digging some test pits a couple of hours before – almost the same time as her little trip under the soldiers’ tent.

But when she turned, she couldn’t see anyone. The mini-excavator was sitting there by itself, off to one side.

‘Everybody’s gone to the funeral, baby. We’re all alone.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at your post, Torres?’ Andrea said, pointing to one of the cliffs, trying to appear nonchalant.