Elisha's Bones Part 10

"Did it say why?" I ask.

"No. As far as I can tell-and remember, we're talking about material almost four hundred years old and written by a French expatriate-a group with the Chevrier designation purchased an estate in Gatai in1628 and then sold it in 1641. And there's no mention that any dead relatives went with them back to Samarc."

My brain is working furiously now, trying to fit these small bits of data into a scheme that makes sense along the timeline. At the same time, I'm humbled that Romero took my request as seriously as he did. I hate to think how much research he had to do to find that one reference book.

"Is it too much to ask if it gave the name of the person they moved?"

"No name, but the text used the word uncle uncle. And we both know how little that says."

He's right. In the genealogical parlance of the period, uncle could mean anything from the brother of one's parent to a respected cousin from five generations ago. Still, it wouldn't have been common to dig up and transport remains of someone beyond an immediate family member or a respected patriarch. There's some meat to chew on here. Before the idea can take hold of anything, I dislodge the information and stuff it into the cranial cavity designated to hold unsubstantiated musings, like who really killed Kennedy, or what comprises the Colonel's spices.

"I'm sorry, my friend. It's all I could find."

"Don't apologize. It's just what I needed."

"Except that all I've done is to encourage you, when I should be attempting to get you to abandon this nonsense."

I appreciate his sentiment. On the flight back from San Cristobal, I went through all of this in my mind. Do I really want to add a globe-spanning pursuit to the list of things I've done over my vacation? Shouldn't I just be happy I'm alive and that I can leave this crazy place and go back to Evanston? It's possible that if I show obvious signs of giving up, they will leave me alone.

The only answer that makes any sense is that I don't believe I have a choice. I feel as if some veil has been lifted, and it has shown me the mechanism that controls my life, and the man with the errant balloon who operates the levers and pulleys. I feel as if events outside of my influence have wrapped me up and carted me hither and thither. Now that I'm aware of the manipulation, there is that indefinable something inside that may want to explore choosing the destination. And, despite the fact that everything in my life over the last five years demonstrates disengagement, I can't deny I have a need to see some light shed on what happened at KV65. It's a need strong enough to set my destination away from where I'd rather go. Ethiopia will have to wait. In my mind is a picture of the man who killed Will; I have no doubt of it. And unless I do something, I don't think going back to Evanston will provide me sufficient distance from myself.

As if on cue, my phone rings.

"He's dying," Duckey says.

"h.e.l.lo, Ducks."

"Reese has liver cancer. His chart lists it as undifferentiated hepatocellular carcinoma. It's stage four."

I don't ask how Duckey got hold of Reese's medical records. Nor do I tell him that I already knew Reese is dying. It will give him a sense of accomplishment to think he uncovered that by himself. "Thanks. That's helpful," I say. "Did you find anything else?"

"The fact that he's dying isn't significant enough?"

"We're all dying, Ducks."

"Some of us not quickly enough," he grumbles. "Hold on, I have a few things jotted down here."

There's a span of several seconds, during which he drops the phone and I hear several choice phrases as he retrieves it.

"All right, here's my list, in no particular order. Reese Industries netted more than three hundred million last year. Their stock split. He named his son CEO in March. He's flown three times to San Diego, and once each to Vienna, Paris, and Addis Ababa-all in the last twelve months. He has four children and seven grandchildren, and one of the grandkids has terminal cancer." He pauses, then adds, "She's the one in San Diego."

As he finishes, I'm working through the information, seizing on the bit that I find most alarming.

"He's been to Ethiopia?" I try to keep the panic out of my voice.

"Got back yesterday. He spent two, maybe three days there."

I quickly go back over the timeline. If Duckey's right, then Reese left for Addis Ababa within a half day of my last conversation with him. I have no idea what to make of that. How could he have known of the Ethiopian connection before I'd connected the dots? It takes a moment's silence-during which I can hear Duckey's children yelling in the background-before the obvious answer presents itself.

"He has another team."

"If you say so."

I'd forgotten that I have yet to reveal the particulars of my employment to Duckey. He has no idea why I'm interested in Reese, much less that I'm leading a research team for the man. Rather, I was was leading a research team for him. Now it appears I was just one of Gordon's bets-one late to pay off. I find myself wondering, however briefly, who's leading the compet.i.tion? leading a research team for him. Now it appears I was just one of Gordon's bets-one late to pay off. I find myself wondering, however briefly, who's leading the compet.i.tion?

The unpredictability of this enterprise has just increased by a factor of ten, and some of that has to do with the revelation of the granddaughter's illness. I force myself to avoid thinking of her as a person at this point; as harsh as that might seem, obsessing over the impending death of a child I've never met does me no good. At the moment, she is a puzzle piece, only I'm not sure where she fits. Reese's uncharacteristic behavior is the sort of thing that might be driven by worry, but it doesn't explain why he would sabotage one of his chances at finding the bones. Unless he's already found them . . . My eyes widen as I consider that; it makes my stomach knot to think that someone else may have beaten me to a quarry that, within the last few days, has started to take on substance.

"Duckey, you have no idea how much you've just helped."

"Then why do I feel like I just gave you the go-ahead to do something stupid?"

I chuckle at that but do not answer, because he's right. I'm so enthralled with the information he's provided, I almost forget to ask for my second favor. "Ducks, I hate to overdraw from my account, but I need another favor."

"You do realize I'm on vacation, don't you?"

"If I send you a list of names, can you get your buddy at the State Department to run them through their system?"

It's the sort of request that can change the entire nature of a conversation. Indulging a friend by collecting information about a reclusive billionaire is one thing; leveraging the resources of two government agencies in one week is quite another.

"What's going on, Jack?"

I sigh, understanding the position in which I've put him. "It's important, Ducks. I can't go into it right now, but I wouldn't ask if I had any other options."

For the second time in as many days, I've asked him to weigh the level of trust that exists in our friendship. Fortunately, it appears I still have enough in the account to cover this one.

"Send me the names," he says. "But that explanation you owe me? It had better be the most eloquent thing I've ever heard, or else every one of your cla.s.ses will be at eight a.m. next semester, got it?"

"Got it."

"What am I asking them to check for?"

I tell him and then, after ending the call, I turn to Romero.

"Do you know if there are any direct flights to Addis Ababa?"

CHAPTER 12

Addis Ababa sits in the foothills of the Entoto Mountains, and as we travel north along Menelik II, I can see their greens and browns through an unseasonable haze. It's been more than a decade since I've been here but there are some things that leave a lasting impression. And looking out over the Ethiopian capital from a mountain ridge is one of those things. My knee aches and I shift as much as the cramped s.p.a.ce will allow until I'm rewarded by a relaxing of pressure.

I gaze out the window as the minibus slows to pa.s.s a donkey train that is navigating a boulevard shaded by a long line of eucalyptus trees. As the man next to me-the one virtually sitting on my lap-shouts again into his cell phone, the thought of conveyance by a smelly, cantankerous animal seems pleasant by comparison, and that's taking the flies into consideration. As if to validate that desire, the weyala leaning out the door of the vehicle calls to a group of pedestrians in Amharic, gesturing toward the oversized taxi. My command of the language is suspect, but it's a good bet he told them we're headed to Arat Kilo Square, and we've got plenty of room. There are no takers, and the blue and white bus speeds off.

Across the aisle, Espy is sandwiched between two young men who look like students. She wears a smile, and I can tell it's not manufactured. Even though twenty-two people are jammed into a vehicle built to seat twelve, and the air is filled with a dense mixture of unpleasant smells, and the weyala-in between collecting fares-is making off-color remarks about her, and one of her seatmates keeps smelling her hair, she seems to be having a great time. It's a full cultural immersion; more than that, it's an embrace of her circ.u.mstances. I have to smile, despite the fact that cell-phone guy has turned so he's shouting directly into my ear.

The fact that she's on the bus is a testament both to her stubbornness and my inability to hold the line against a hostile front. It encourages me to know that even her brother had been unable to keep her from coming along, and for as much as he maintains a fear of his sister, he can be an impa.s.sioned and convincing orator. In the end, after more than an hour spent arguing the matter, it boiled down to the bruise on her leg. She has a stake in this; her pain is her ante.

The fact that I'm on the bus is a testament to something else. I'm no longer on Reese's payroll, which means I'm working for free. But there is an understanding between Espy and me that we've invested too much to give up. Now I just want to find the bones, regardless of any power they possess. I want to spite Reese. Too, I want to see the things that Will may have died for.

The driver navigates the turns to get us onto King George Street without going anywhere near the brake, and we ride the wrong lane for the few harrowing moments it takes for us to slip back into the flow of traffic. Through my window I have a clear view as the Arat Kilo monument-a monolithic structure that sits in the center of the square-comes into view and the bus screeches to a halt. But our destination is beyond this; I can see a dome beckoning. The weyala shouts "Mercado!" several times into the crowd, announcing the destination for the return trip, and a few people climb aboard before the bus lurches and speeds off to its last stop before returning to the open-air market.

When Esperanza and I are, to my relief, deposited within a short walk of our objective, I take in a large draught of air and execute a sleepy stretch and then start down the narrow access road-almost a long driveway-that will take us to Trinity Cathedral. Espy is in step and, in contrast to my condition, she looks energized. Some people just travel well, and I'm a bit envious of that.

Most descriptions of the ma.s.sive church ascribe European sensibilities to the structure. But to my eye, there's a visible, if minimal, cla.s.sical North African element evident amid the Old World lines. In terms of most sacred buildings in Addis Ababa, Trinity is new-completed in 1941. But the builders stayed true to all that makes Orthodox construction unique. The details are beyond exquisite, showcasing a love of iconic imagery and ornate design.

As we enter the courtyard, its borders defined by a low stone gate with s.p.a.ced pillars joined by chains, I notice Espy running appreciative eyes over the architecture. Our progress is slow through the courtyard; we almost dawdle as we pa.s.s the statues of the four writers of the Gospels.

Finally we reach the entrance, where there's a steady stream of people entering and exiting-tourists and the devout carrying cameras or prayer books. Espy and I slip into the tourist line and pay the fee.

It takes my eyes some time to adjust after entering, and I b.u.mp into someone I can't see enough to avoid. After turning down a tour guide who appears out of nowhere, we both remove our shoes and walk deeper into the cathedral. I'm taking in as many of the details as I can while still remaining mindful of the reason I'm here. After spending some time appreciating the cathedral's interior, we head toward one of the two doors on either side of the altar, my right hand running along the back of a wooden pew. Ignoring the few men and women praying in various parts of the sanctuary, I disappear through the door, Esperanza in tow, before someone tries to stop us.

Following the directions he gave when I called from the plane, I proceed to the end of the hall, make a right, and stop at the second doorway.

Alem'nesh Wuhib must have a sixth sense, because a tennis ball is in the air before I've cleared the threshold. I catch the ball a few inches from my face, somehow doing so without dropping my shoes.

"h.e.l.lo, my friend," Alem'nesh says with a wide smile. He stands and comes out from behind a desk and gives me a warm embrace. I'm still clutching the tennis ball at eye level.

"h.e.l.lo, Al."

As he steps back, I toss the ball into the air between us and he fields it and, as smoothly as a magician, slips it into a pocket of his sticharion.

Alem'nesh is Oromo, the largest ethnic group in Ethiopia. He has sharp features, highlighted by a strong nose-the nose of a pharaoh. And he has eyes that see everything.

"You look good," I say.

A close perusal-without the prospect of dodging various objects-reveals a touch of salt-and-pepper to his dark hair, and a pudgier face. But he looks largely as he did the last time I saw him, which is largely as he looked when we went to college together. It was then the projectile game took its form, at a time when a silly contest could compensate for the stress built into the lab-partner dynamic-an arrangement made more difficult by the language barrier between us. He has since become fluent in English, and I've learned just enough of his language to find a bathroom and count out cab fare. Alem'nesh left the study of archaeology for the ministry the next semester. I had harbored guilt for a while because I was certain it was our pairing that ruined the field for him.

His eyes stray to my right. "I do not believe I have had the pleasure," he says to Esperanza, extending a hand, which Espy takes in her own.

"Reverend Father," she says, bowing. "Bless, Father."

Alem'nesh beams at the proper usage of the honorific, and the customary request for a blessing, spoken in his native Amharic.

"Please, I'm Alem'nesh. Or if you are challenged by relatively simple, if foreign-sounding, names," he adds, looking at me, "Al will do."

"Esperanza Habilla. It's a pleasure, Alem'nesh."

He leans toward her with a conspirator's twinkle in his eye. "How does someone like Jack merit a traveling companion so obviously superior to him in every way?"

"Oh, you and I are going to be good friends, I can tell," she answers.

I can only shake my head and wonder if the fact that I'm always the b.u.t.t of the joke when people I know meet each other says something unpleasant about me. I feign a pained expression that seems to please them both. What I keep to myself is my own appreciation for Espy's talents. I learned back on the bus, when I heard her conversing with her seatmates, that she has added Amharic to her language pantheon. And now to find her familiar with the customs of the Orthodox Church on the other side of the world . . . It's a reminder that even people you think you know can surprise you. I'm hoping-praying is not too strong a word-that Alem'nesh will surprise me. is not too strong a word-that Alem'nesh will surprise me.

As if sensing my unspoken request, Alem'nesh releases Espy's hand and gestures to a pair of chairs facing the desk.

"Come, sit," he says, taking each of us by an elbow and guiding us to the seats. Once we are situated and he has claimed his own spot behind the desk, he offers a knowing smile. "It's been a long time, Jack. I was very surprised to get your call."

"It's hard to believe it's been ten years," I say.

"What's ten years among good friends?"

There's a lot of history between us, and I feel a measure of guilt for popping up after so long because I need something. But I can't spare the time it would require to complete the cultural niceties. Fortunately my old school chum understands Western sensibilities; he's used to our brand of narcissism.

He is quiet, except I hear him making a clicking sound with his tongue that indicates he is thinking. It would always annoy me when he would do that.

"There is something wrong."

"I need a favor, Al." It's become my mantra, my own personal b.u.mper sticker: Itinerant archaeologist needs a favor Itinerant archaeologist needs a favor.

"You're not going to ask to see the Ark of the Covenant at St. Mary's, are you?" he asks with a chuckle.

"Tempting, but no. I'm here for something else."

"Then tell me. What has brought you to see me from so far away?"

Since I'm in a church, I reason that honesty is the best policy. "What can you tell me about the bones of the prophet Elisha?"

There's a reason that I wanted to be here when I asked the question. I wanted to see his face, in that instant before lucid thought would provide a mask. I hate the knowledge that our past friendship does not engender sufficient trust so that I would accept his answer as gospel. The truth is that when one buys into a religion, protecting that belief system can become more important than anything else. Alem'nesh is a man I haven't seen in a decade; and he's not Romero.

The moment comes and goes, too quick, but what I catch, what I see fly past his eyes, is enough to incline me in one direction. Unless I'm clinging to something that's not there, and his expression was the simple result of an odd question.

The answer he gives is of the one-size-fits-all sort. "You came to see me so that I could tell you a Bible story?"

"I came to see you because you're my friend. And because you're the only Ethiopian Orthodox priest I know well enough that I can ask strange questions without feeling like a complete idiot."

Alem'nesh appears to digest this, and he starts that tongue-clicking thing again. I can't read his face. Finally he says, "You must help me understand your question. You do not wish a recounting of the biblical story, but what more could I give you?"

It's a valid point. Fortunately, Espy saves me from the duty of clarification.

"What we want to know, Reverend Father, is if the bones of the prophet Elisha are part of some international conspiracy spanning over twenty-five hundred years, several families, the ancient Egyptians, the Coptic church, and at least one South American trade organization." When she finishes, she offers a smile, yet it does nothing to fill the silence that settles on us. If I'm grateful for nothing else, it's that Al has stopped making that infernal noise.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but what I see on Al's face isn't it. There is something resembling incredulity, that's certain, only it seems the degree is off a bit. I imagine my expression looks more surprised than his-a result of hearing how outrageous my hypothesis sounds when stated so concisely. No, what I see in Alem'nesh is something else-not fear, but something like it. Worry, perhaps?

I don't know how much time pa.s.ses, but it seems like a great deal. During the interval, the worry, if that's what it is, melts away, replaced by something I can't qualify. The eyes that see everything are also able to reveal nothing. I'm comfortable waiting for him to speak. I suppose that's a result of bearing up under so much of Duckey's scrutiny.

He's the one who breaks the silence. Al leans forward in his chair and steeples his fingers on the desk. I can't read his expression; I can only acknowledge that there are a number of things fighting for premier placement.

"I do not know how to respond to something like that, Ms. Habilla," he says. "Where did you come up with such an engaging story?"

"Al, I have the evidence," I say. "It's not enough to prove anything in court, and it wouldn't stand up under peer review. But I can follow clues as well as the next guy."

"Clues that say we are involved in the preservation of holy relics over a period of more than two millennia?"

"In a nutsh.e.l.l."