Robert Liparulo - The 13 th tribe

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.

With Creed’s arms draped over their shoulders, two monks half carried, half dragged him down a dark corridor. Gheronda followed, praying loudly. They approached another monk, who ushered them into a small room: water-stained plaster walls, the smell of candle wax, spartan in every way. They lowered him onto a bed-no more than a raised board covered with blankets-and immediately forced his head around so they could inspect the bloody bandages.

“I’m all right,” he said, weakly pushing at them.

Brother Ramon tugged the bandage up and off, taking with it a profusion of hair.

“Ahhh!” Creed complained, grabbing the back of his head and glaring at the monk.

Brother Ramon unclipped the strap from the duffel bag and pulled at it.

Creed yanked it back. “This stays with me!”

Ramon leaned in, grabbed Creed’s chin, and turned his head.

Creed said, “All right, all right,” and shifted to face the wall. Ramon pushed away clumps of bloody hair.

Leaning around Ramon, Gheronda saw the wound, and it wasn’t what he’d expected. It was several inches long, as though the bullet had struck at an angle, gouging up the flesh. Scar tissue appeared to be already forming along the edges, making it look like a mouth with leprous lips. Ramon touched the hair just below it; blood welled up and spilled out. Ramon snatched his finger away and looked back at Gheronda.

Gheronda smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”

“I told you,” Creed said, turning to face his audience. He rubbed the back of his head, examined his bloody palm, and returned it to the wound. “Fierce headache, though.”

Gheronda pulled the monks away. He said, “Let’s give the man some room. Brother Ramon, I’ll leave it to you to keep the bandages fresh.”

Ramon nodded and walked to a writing desk, where he began rummaging through a satchel.

As if remembering an urgent task, Creek yanked the duffel up to his chest and unzipped it. He pulled out a mobile phone, ran his thumb across the screen, and squinted at it. “Oh, come on,” he said. He shook it, held it up high, then tossed it into the corner of the room, where bits of it shattered off.

“Shhh,” Gheronda said soothingly. “There’s time for everything you need to do.” He tugged a blanket up from the bottom of the bed, covering Creed, and gently pushed on his chest. “Lean back. What you need now is rest.”

Creed grabbed a handful of the monk’s cloak and pulled him close. He gazed into Gheronda’s eyes with a mixture of insistence and pleading. “What I need now, right now, is a phone.”

Owen Letois rushed along the dirt road, a teenaged girl draped over his arms. Her blood soaked his shirt, splattered his bearded face. He passed rickety houses pieced together with discarded scraps of wood and sheet metal, and huts of timber and straw-most of them long abandoned.

Gunfire behind him made him look. The heart of the village was beyond a rise in the road, out of sight. He saw no fighters, only a few civilians fleeing in his direction, ducking with each burst of gunfire. Dongo was barely a pinprick on Central Africa’s Oubangui River, but it was the current flashpoint in the hostilities between the Enyele and Munzaya tribes over farming and fishing rights. The clash had been going on for years, and Owen suspected none of the militiamen understood or cared about the reason they fought; they were in it to avenge old grudges and recent atrocities, and because man’s darkest demons were opportunistic creatures.

The girl groaned, and Owen tried to ease the jostling she received in his arms. The blade had gone deep, cutting through the muscles of her shoulder and upper chest; it had probably broken her clavicle. He angled off the road and started up a grassy slope, aiming for the cinderblock clinic of Medecins Sans Frontieres-Doctors Without Borders.