Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

“They specifically deny the Exodus, that Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt.”

“Even that the Red Sea parted?” Tyler said.

“Especially the miracles,” Oliver agreed. “Just too crazy for them.”

Tyler looked out of the hole at the mountain rising above them. “Or the Ten Commandments?”

“They don’t believe any of it,” Oliver said. He stood and brushed dust off his khaki trousers. “Thing is, no one has found any proof that the Israelites were ever here, which is sort of amazing, considering how many of them there were.”

“Like… how many?”

“Oh, about two and a half million,” Addison said.

“Or twenty thousand,” Oliver said, “depending on whom you listen to. Either way, it was a lot of people. They should have left some evidence that they were here.”

Tyler stared at the find Oliver had brushed. “Like what?”

“Bones, a gravesite. When Moses came down from the peak with the first tablets God had given him and found the people worshipping a golden calf, he had the Levites kill three thousand people. The bodies have to be somewhere.”

Tyler made a face. “They just killed them?”

“For disobeying God. The rest of them had to wander in the desertthis desert-for forty years, until most of them died off. God wanted their children to inherit the Promised Land, not them.”

“Wow.” Tyler turned a horrified expression toward his father.

Jagger said, “And you think a spanking is bad.”

Oliver continued: “Normally, archaeologists would look some distance away from encampments or settlements for gravesites. But scholars believe Moses would have had the slain buried right here at the base of the mountain, to warn the others of what happens when they sin against God. Plus, here’s where we have the best chance of finding other evidence… like jewelry, lots of it. Moses said they didn’t deserve to be decorated with ornaments, so the Israelites stripped off all their jewelry before leaving this place.”

Tyler started to say something, but Oliver held up his hand to stop him. “Oh, and what if, just what if, we found”-he raised his hands and gaped theatrically at Tyler-“the holy grail of the Old Testament?”

“ What?” Tyler exclaimed. “The real holy grail, like in that old Indiana Jones movie?”

Oliver laughed. “No, no. My holy grail, the greatest discovery I can imagine.”

Tyler just stared.

“A piece of the original tablets,” Oliver said. “A shard of the tablets that Moses broke when he saw the Israelites worshipping the idol. Written in stone by the finger of God himself.”

“Really?” Tyler said. He looked at the walls of the dig. “Here?”

“If anywhere,” Oliver said. “Can you imagine?”

He looked up, and Jagger could see on Oliver’s face the wonderment that children display so easily and adults rarely rediscover. He realized it was what kept the man digging in the dirt, and he hoped it was never lost under too many potsherds and bottle caps.

“How would you know?” Jagger said. “If you found it… how would you know it’s really from the tablets?”

“I think,” Oliver said, furrowing his brow. “I think we’d just know. I mean, they couldn’t be just rock, could they?”

Jagger smiled. “You don’t sound much like a scientist.”

“I’m a Christian first, Jagger,” Oliver said. “I believe in miracles.” He shook his head vigorously, as if shaking his dream out of his mind. “Besides, I’ll settle for any evidence: a trinket… the gold dust Moses made them drink after grinding up the calf… coprolite.”

“Copro-what?” Tyler said.

Addison grinned. “Poop.”

“Huh?”

“Human waste,” Oliver said. “There were a lot of people; they had to go to the bathroom somewhere.”

Tyler stood quickly and studied the ground where he’d been kneeling. “What’s it look like?”

“Like lava rock,” Addison said. “It’s rare, though. It usually dissolves into the ground. Sometimes you get lucky.”

“Lucky?” Tyler said. “To find poop?”

“Proof,” Oliver corrected.

“Still want to be an archaeologist?” Jagger said.

Tyler looked at Addison, who nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Yeah.”

Oliver slapped the boy’s back. “You want to help unearth the potsherd?” He handed him a tool.

Tyler examined it. “This looks like a chopstick.”

“It is,” Oliver said. “I’ll show you how to use it.”

Tyler smiled up at his father. Jagger checked his watch. He said, “Go for it. I’ll make my rounds and swing back in a little while.”

He stood and ran his fingers around the inside of his waistband to tighten his shirt. The stream of tourists had vanished from the front of the excavation site. He turned to see the last of them struggling up the mountain. The peak was out of sight, beyond the first towering slabs of rock.

At the place where Moses had encountered God now stood a tiny chapel. The monks had told Jagger that under the chapel’s floor, in the surface of the stone mountain, were the perfect imprints of two knees, left there by Moses as he knelt before God.

In the pit, Oliver was gently scraping the potsherd with the chopstick as Tyler watched, waiting for his turn.

“And, Ty?” Jagger said. “If it’s poop, don’t bring it home.”

Sunlight reflected off the rippling water and played against the room’s arched ceiling like electrical currents. Reclining in a poolside lounge chair, Philippe Gerard blew smoke into the air, adding to the illusion that he was in a dream, just floating in clouds and waiting to wake up. If only…

He had never thought his carefully constructed scheme to get rich would fall apart as suddenly as it had done. But like a house of cards, once the first fell, the rest followed.

Above him, the imitation lightning storm dissipated. He reached down to a box of tennis balls and tossed one into the pool, restarting the sun’s reflected dance.

While it had lasted, his empire building had worked like the hand of God, relentless and unseen but for the things it left in its wake. It had built the lavish mansion around him; given him friends who controlled countries and starred in blockbuster movies; funded vacation homes, cars, global travel-everything he’d ever dreamed of owning and doing. But now that everyone knew the money had flowed out of retirement accounts and trust funds, diminishing them to near nothing, not only were the friends gone and the bank accounts frozen, but Philippe was days away from being sentenced to decades in prison.

He flipped the cigarette into the pool. He would miss this place, its opulence and proximity to the opera houses and nightclubs. The sunlight danced on the ceiling, calming him. At least that, the sunlight, he would not miss, because he was taking it with him. Different walls, different water, but equally beautiful, equally tranquil. He had no intention of ever seeing the gray drabness of a prison cell. Years ago he had purchased a villa in the resort town of Yalikavak, on Turkey’s Bodrum Peninsula. Panoramic views of the Aegean Sea, a private beach, rooms with glass walls that levered up to let in the warm sea breezes.

His mother had been Turkish and had always insisted that he maintain citizenship in her native country. Now her conceit seemed providential. With Turkey’s notoriously rigid extradition laws, he was a short car ride and private flight away from leaving his troubles behind.

Jacquelyn and the kids were already in Yalikavak, preparing for his arrival. He’d finished tying up loose ends with just enough time for one last meditation by the pool before the car came to whisk him away. He picked up the pack and tapped out another cigarette.