Juan Gómez-Jurado - Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

The mercenary stood up and turned around. Andrea was coming at him, ready to strike, but the soldier disposed of her by smacking her with the back of his hand, leaving an ugly red welt on her cheek. Andrea fell backwards. As she hit the sand she felt something hard beneath her.

Alryk now bent over Harel. He grabbed the big mane of curly black hair and pulled, lifting her up as if she were a rag doll until his face was next to hers. Harel was still reeling from the shock but managed to look the soldier in the eye and spat at him.

‘Fuck you, you piece of shit.’

The German spat back at her, and then lifted his right hand, which was holding a combat knife. He sank it into Harel’s stomach, enjoying the sight of his victim’s eyes rolling back and her mouth opening as she fought to breathe. Alryk turned the knife in the wound and then pulled it out roughly. Blood gushed out, splashing the soldier’s uniform and boots. He let go of the doctor, a look of disgust on his face.

‘Nooo!’

The mercenary now turned to Andrea, who had landed on the pistol and was trying to find the safety catch. She screamed with all her might and pressed the trigger.

The automatic jumped in her hands, leaving her fingers numb. She had never fired a gun before and it showed. The bullet whistled past the German and slammed into the door of the Hummer. Alryk yelled something in German and charged at her. Almost without looking, Andrea fired three more times.

One bullet missed.

Another punctured a tyre on the Humvee.

The third went into the German’s open mouth. Because of the momentum of his 200-pound body, he continued plunging towards Andrea, although his hands were no longer intent on taking her pistol and choking her. He fell, face up, trying to talk, blood gurgling from his mouth. Horrified, Andrea saw that the shot had ripped out some of the German’s teeth. She stepped aside and waited, still aiming the pistol at him – although if she hadn’t managed to wound him through sheer luck, this would have been pointless as her hand was shaking too much and her fingers had no strength left in them. Her arm ached from the pistol’s kick.

It took the German almost a minute to die. The bullet had gone through his neck, destroying his spinal cord and leaving him paralysed. He choked on his own blood as it flooded his throat.

When she was sure that Alryk was no longer a threat, Andrea ran over to Harel, who lay bleeding on the sand. She sat down and cradled Doc’s head, avoiding looking at the wound as Harel tried helplessly to hold her guts in with her hands.

‘Hold on, Doc. Tell me what I have to do. I’ll get you out of here, even if it’s just so I can kick your butt for lying to me.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Harel answered in a weak voice. ‘I’ve had it. Believe me. I’m a doctor.’

Andrea let out a sob and leaned her forehead against Harel’s. Harel took a hand away from the wound and grabbed one of the reporter’s.

‘Don’t say that. Please don’t.’

‘I’ve told you enough lies. I want you to do something for me.’

‘Name it.’

‘In a minute I want you to get into the Hummer and head west on this goat track. We’re about ninety-five miles from Aqaba, but you should be able to reach the road in a couple of hours.’ She paused and gritted her teeth in pain. ‘The vehicle has a GPS direction finder. If you see anybody, get out of the Hummer and ask for help. What I want you to do is get away from here. Swear to me you’ll do that?’

‘I swear.’

Harel twisted in pain. Her grip on Andrea’s hand was weakening by the second.

‘You see, I never should have told you my real name. I want you to do something else for me. I want you to say it out loud. Nobody has ever done that.’

‘Chedva.’

‘Scream it out.’

‘CHEDVA!’ Andrea yelled, her anguish and pain shattering the stillness of the desert.

A quarter of an hour later Chedva Harel’s life was extinguished for ever.

Digging a grave in the sand with her bare hands was the most difficult thing Andrea had ever done. Not because of the effort it required, but because of what it meant. Because it was a senseless gesture, and because in part Chedva had died because of the events she had set in motion. She dug the shallow grave, and marked it with the aerial from the Hummer and a circle of rocks.

When she finished, Andrea searched the Hummer for water but with little success. The only water she could find was in the soldier’s canteen hanging from his belt. It was three-quarters full. She also took his cap, even though to keep it on she had to adjust it with a safety pin she found in her pocket. She also pulled out one of the shirts stuffed into the broken windows and grabbed a steel tube from the trunk of the Hummer. She ripped out the windscreen wipers and stuck them into the pipe, draping them with the shirt to make an improvised umbrella.

She then went back to the track the Hummer had left. Unfortunately, when Harel had asked her to swear to return to Aqaba, she didn’t know about the stray bullet that had destroyed the front tyre because she had had her back to the vehicle. Even if Andrea had wanted to keep her promise, which was not the case, it would have been impossible for her to change the tyre on her own. As much as she looked she couldn’t find the jack. On that kind of rocky road the vehicle would not have been able to go a hundred feet without a functioning front wheel.

Andrea looked to the west, where she could see the faint line of the main road snaking in and out of the dunes.

Ninety-five miles to Aqaba in the noonday sun, almost sixty to the main road. That’s at least several days’ walking in 100-degree heat, hoping I’ll find someone, and I don’t even have enough water to last me six hours. And that’s assuming I don’t get lost trying to find an almost invisible road, or that those sons of bitches haven’t already taken the Ark and come across me on their way out of here.

She looked to the east, where the Hummer’s tracks were still fresh.

Eight miles in that direction were vehicles, water and the scoop of the century , she thought as she started to walk. Not to mention a whole crowd of people who want me dead. The upside? I still have a chance to get my disk back and help the priest. I have no clue how, but I’ll give it a shot.

VATICAN CITY

Thirteen days earlier

‘Do you want some ice for that hand?’ Cirin asked. Fowler took a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to bandage his knuckles, which were bleeding from several cuts. Avoiding Brother Cesáreo, who was still trying to repair the niche that he had destroyed with his fists, Fowler approached the Chief of the Holy Alliance.

‘What is it you want from me, Camilo?’

‘I want you to bring it back, Anthony. If it truly exists, the place for the Ark is here, in a reinforced room one hundred and fifty feet under the Vatican. Now isn’t the time for it to go floating around the world in the wrong hands. Let alone for the world to know of its existence.’

Fowler gritted his teeth at the arrogance of Cirin and whoever it was above him, maybe even the Pope himself, who felt they could decide the fate of the Ark. What Cirin was asking of him was much more than a simple mission; it weighed like a tombstone over his whole life. The risks were incalculable.

‘We will keep it,’ Cirin insisted. ‘We know how to wait.’

Fowler nodded.

He’d go to Jordan.

But he too was capable of making his own decisions.

AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN

Thursday, 20 July 2006. 9:23 a.m.