The Staff of Moses (Oliver Lucas Adventures) Read online

  The Staff of Moses

  An Oliver Lucas Adventure

  Andrew Linke

  Copyright

  ISBN-10: 0983219702

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9832197-0-5

  All characters and events in this story, other than characters from ancient history, are fictitious products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Andrew Linke

  Get updates about Andrew's work at www.alinke.com

  You can also find Andrew on Twitter @darkillumine and join him in talking about books and life on Google+.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art based on Egypt Saved by Joseph, painted by Abel de Pujol in 1827. The author was inspired to write the book you now hold by seeing this mural, which is painted on the ceiling of the Louvre, during a vacation in Paris in the summer of 2010. Additional imagery courtesy of www.publicdomainarchive.com.

  To my parents... for giving me the time to read.

  And my wife... for giving me the time to write.

  Chapter One

  Oliver fumbled with the tap, doing his best to keep the blood on his knuckles from smearing onto the spring loaded knob as he attempted to wash the battered fingers of his left hand. It was quite the challenge and he was starting to get angry. If only airlines had regular taps, he thought, or even those timed pressure taps. But no, the mandates of efficiency and conservation stood head and shoulders above the needs of passengers whose day-old scars started to crack and bleed in the dry cabin air of an eight hour flight.

  He finished washing his left hand and started in on the right, rushing to finish before the newly washed knuckles began to bleed again. He succeeded for the most part, then reached into his toiletry bag for a washcloth. He gingerly padded at his fingers until they were mostly dry, hardly noticing as fresh red splotches joined the faded brown blood stains already speckled across the washcloth. He fished the last remaining packet of liquid bandage from the bag, ripped it open with his teeth, and began slathering its contents across his abused knuckles. The antiseptic in the bandage burned, but he hardly noticed. He tossed the packet into the trash slot and began waving his hands gently up and down in front of him to dry the bandage.

  “Not a bad price to pay,” he muttered to his reflection in the dingy plastic mirror. The man in the mirror nodded back at him and quirked a smile with one corner of his mouth.

  Oliver leaned forward, inspecting his appearance. His khaki shirt was threadbare at the shoulders and bore the wrinkles of a transatlantic flight. His face was tanned from the unrelenting sun and snow glare of the last two weeks and the scraggly stubble of an underdeveloped beard was starting to show. His red hair was a disheveled mess from sleeping on the airplane. He ran a hand across the stubble on his chin and considered shaving before returning to his seat.

  A soft knock sounded on the door of the tiny bathroom. Oliver started and reached for his bag, then remembered that he was aboard an international flight. The handgun he had carried for the last two weeks was locked away in a safe in Reykjavik. Besides, he chided himself, this was most likely just another passenger in need of the toilet.

  The knock came again. This time it was followed by the softly accented voice of a flight attendant, “Sir, are you alright in there?”

  “Yes. Fine,” he replied, zipping his bag and reaching to unlock the door. “Coming out now.”

  Oliver had hardly left the restroom when he was nearly knocked over by a small boy pushing past him. The boy slammed the restroom door shut and Oliver looked to the flight attendant. She was about his height, with a thin frame and blond hair. Not exactly his type, but certainly pleasing to look at.

  She smiled apologetically at Oliver. “I’m sorry sir, he was quite desperate and your compartment had been occupied the longest.”

  He stole a glance at her name tag. “No worries, Eowyn. Just a bit of first aid for my hands. Had a bit of a rough time of it on a glacier in Iceland.” He flashed her a grin and waved one hand, knuckles towards her. As Oliver had expected, the flight attendant’s eyes lit up at the sight of his newly bandaged fingers.

  “Are you a scientist?” she asked.

  “You could say that, but not studying the ice or volcanoes. More of a historian looking for clues to the early settlers,” he explained.

  “Fascinating. My sister is studying history at university.”

  “Oh? What’s her favorite time period?”

  Eoywn frowned and appeared to concentrate for a few seconds, then replied, “I don’t really know. She talks about the Celts a good deal though.”

  Oliver smiled at that. “Neat people, the Celts. Can’t say I’m an expert on them myself, but I have a friend who worked at dig in Brittany.”

  She nodded and seemed about say more, but at that moment a soft tone sounded from the service compartment.

  “It’s been lovely chatting with you, sir, but I have a call to attend to. I hope the remainder of your flight is enjoyable.” She dipped her head to him and slipped past, catching hold of the beverage cart and pushing it down the aisle in front of her.

  Oliver watched her go, feeling a vague guilt at noticing the pleasing curves of her uniform as she moved down the rows and paused to dispense a cup of hot tea to an elderly woman. Social mores could be so confusing these days, he thought. Thirty years ago, a man would have felt no compunction about noticing a stewardess, but now it was hard to tell if the lovely woman chatting you up outside the toilet was genuinely interested, or merely providing top-notch customer service with a smile. They weren’t even called stewardesses anymore on most airlines, instead the generic term “flight attendant” had been applied to the entire profession. He considered waiting for her to return and trying to rekindle the conversation anyway, just to see where things went.

  Then he noticed the man out of the corner of his eye.

  He sat three rows away from the restroom compartment, between Oliver and the place where the lovely Eowyn stood dispensing a cola to an elderly woman. There was nothing remarkable about the man, except that he was staring at Oliver with undisguised interest. His dark eyes, small holes of black under a heavy brow, bored into Oliver across the rows. Oliver had never seen the man before, but he certainly didn’t like the way he was looking at him.

  Oliver turned away and returned to his seat. He didn’t need any trouble on the plane, but he would have to be careful when they debarked. Hopefully he was simply being paranoid.

  The remainder of the flight was uneventful. Oliver tried to get back to sleep, but the competing images of Eowyn’s enticing curves and the dark-eyed man’s threatening gaze kept him from resting peacefully. He passed some time reading, but after a short while, a baby began to cry several rows over, distracting him. He plugged his headset into the plane’s entertainment system and selected a recent film from the media menu. Midway through the movie, he paused it and went to the toilet, half hoping to see Eowyn sitting on the crew bench, but she was nowhere to be seen. Oliver caught the man staring at him again as he emerged from the compartment.

  Oliver traveled under his own name, of course. Airline security being what it was these days it wasn’t safe for an average person to cross borders under a false name. But as soon as he was through Icelandic immigration control, Oliver had switched to one of the false identities he had purchased anonymously online several years back. He had scrupulously maintained that persona throughout his time in Iceland until the moment he stepped up the ticket counter in Reykjavik to pick up his returning ticket. If he was being followed, and that had yet to be proven, the people responsible had probably just booked a last
minute seat when they heard the ticket agent announce which gate his flight would leave from.

  Oliver settled back into his seat for the remainder of the flight. There was nothing he could do until the plane landed. There was no point in worrying unless the dark-eyed man continued to watch him in the airport.

  ---

  Debarking at Dulles International Airport, Oliver found himself crammed into a gangly large wheeled passenger transport with a hundred other weary travelers, including the dark-eyed stranger. Oliver made an effort to appear unconcerned. He neither watched nor obviously avoided the man from the plane. He still suspected that he might be suffering from a touch of paranoia. For all he knew, the man would clear immigration and walk right past the baggage claim to board a plane to California or New York.

  As the travelers spilled from the hallways of the unloading terminal and began sorting themselves into the lines for immigration, Oliver slipped through the crowd and made for the restrooms located across from the roped-off queues. He spun on his heel and backed through the door to the men’s room, using the moment before the door swung shut to scan the crowd for his pursuer. He didn’t spot the man, but decided to wait a few minutes and see what happened. If he really was being followed, there was no telling whether the dark-eyed man was a citizen or not. Oliver couldn’t count on losing him in the tangle of the immigration lines. Better to find out now whether the man was a threat or not.

  He walked past the first row of stalls and turned a corner. He tossed his backpack onto the counter between two sinks and and leaned against the wall. From here he could just catch the reflection of the door in the mirror, but didn't think it likely that anyone coming through the door would notice him in the narrow sliver of dressing mirror that was visible from the first row.

  Oliver pulled his phone out of his pocket and flicked it out of airplane mode, then waited for it to acquire a signal while he watched the door. The phone buzzed in his hand as the data connection activated and pulled down his e-mails. He glanced away from the door and skimmed the titles of the e-mails in his priority inbox. One of them caught his eye and he pulled it up. Delivery confirmed. One side of his mouth turned up in a crooked smile.

  Just then, the restroom door opened.

  Oliver glanced at the sliver of a reflection visible from where he stood. The man entering the restroom weighed at least three hundred pounds and had blond hair. Obviously not the dark-eyed stalker. Oliver slipped his phone back in a pocket and pulled a comb out of his bag. He waved a hand under the sink to wet his fingers, then started slowly combing his hair, but stopped when the man didn't turn the corner to the second row of stalls. A moment later he heard the clatter of a stall door locking.

  The door opened again.

  It was the dark-eyed man.

  Oliver watched him in the sliver of mirror. The man paused and surveyed the first row of stalls, sinks, and urinals. Then he moved forward and out of the field of the reflection. Oliver tensed, listening carefully, ready to spring if the man came around the corner. He heard a stall door bang open. Then another. Then Oliver heard a loud thudding, followed by an angry shout as the man's hand pounded on the stall occupied by the blond traveler.

  "What the hell, man! Occupied here." An angry New York accent, most likely the large blond man who had entered the bathroom after Oliver.

  The banging of stall doors continued as the stranger worked his way down the rest of the row. Oliver waited, tense, his battered fingers flexing.

  The stranger rounded the corner and spotted Oliver.

  He swung a fist at Oliver's gut.

  Oliver spun to the side and ducked, letting the swing slip past him as he rammed his elbow into the stranger's ribs. The stranger's dark eyes bulged and he let out a huff of air, then he seemed to recover and brought his fist down on Oliver's neck. The blow dazed Oliver and he dropped to his knees. He grabbed at the man's jacket as he fell. That caught the stranger off balance and Oliver heard a dull crack as the man’s chin slammed into the countertop. The stranger went limp and Oliver pulled his feet back under himself and sprung up, slamming into the stranger's right side and spinning him round so he leaned stunned against the counter.

  Oliver stood straight and grasped the man's collar with one hand, holding the other up in a tightly balled fist. He pushed his face in close and hissed, "Who. Are. You? Why the hell are you following me?"

  The man's eyes came into focus and he glared at Oliver. He worked his jaw slowly and with obvious pain, but his gaze never left Oliver's face as he spoke. "You took something that doesn't belong to you." He growled in a thick accent that Oliver took to be Eastern European. "Give it back and we won't kill you."

  Oliver chuckled and pressed his thumb up against the stranger's bruised jaw. The man clenched his teeth and groaned in agony. "I don't recall stealing anything from your part of the world recently,” he whispered. "So unless I miss my guess, you're just pissed that I stole something before you had the chance to steal it yourself."

  He slid his thumb back down the man's throat and waited, his gaze questioning.

  The man spat, the spray spattering across Oliver’s chest and right shoulder. He growled at Oliver, "Such details don't matter. You're playing a dangerous game, Mr. Croft. The people I work for have connections. What have you got? Nothing but a dangerous hobby and a target on your..."

  A toilet flushed in the first row of stalls and both Oliver and the dark eyed stranger froze. Their eyes locked. Oliver tightened his grip on the man's collar, but dropped his fist to reach in the man's jacket and grab his belt. "If he comes round the corner, you slipped and I'm helping you up," he hissed. The man nodded. Whatever enmity existed between them, both knew it would be bad news to have airport security alerted to their tussle.

  They waited. There was a click, followed by the hiss and splash of water running from an automatic sink tap in the next row. The blond New Yorker could be heard muttering something to himself, then the faucet stopped running and the restroom door squeaked open and banged shut.

  Without breaking eye contact with the dark eyed stranger, Oliver rammed his knee into the stranger’s groin, at the same moment releasing his grip on the man's collar and slamming his fist into his already bruised chin. The stranger's eyes rolled up in his head and he gasped. His knees went weak and Oliver let the man collapse onto the floor, then delivered one swift kick to the man's stomach before grabbing his backpack from the counter and running for the exit.

  Oliver slowed just before he reached the door and left the restroom at a stroll, not letting himself look back as the door swung shut behind him. He strode directly to the citizen's check-in line and fished his battered passport from the side pocket of his khaki cargo pants. The line moved forward at a shuffle and Oliver pulled out his phone, both to kill time and to look as normal as possible as he kept one eye on the bathroom door. About three minutes later, he saw the restroom door swing open and the dark-eyed stranger walked slowly out, wincing with every step. The man scanned the crowded check-in line and locked eyes with Oliver, who smiled, waved, then gestured towards the check-in line with his free hand. The man glowered, then limped towards the line marked for visitors holding European citizenship.

  Thirty minutes later, Oliver was through security and heading towards the immigration exit when he heard raised voices from behind him. He turned and saw his pursuer gesticulating wildly as three security officers moved in on him, stun guns out and pointed at him. Oliver smiled and reached into his pocket where he felt the worn pages of the burgundy passport he had slipped out of his attacker’s jacket pocket during their encounter in the restroom. He figured it would take a few hours for the man to convince the TSA that he wasn’t a terrorist, then a while longer for him to establish his citizenship and contact his embassy to work things out. Chances were that even then the man would be sent right back to his homeland.

  All told, Oliver was pretty sure that he was rid of his pursuer. Still, whoever was behind this had arranged for him to be follow
ed all the way from Iceland to Virginia, so it would be wise to take precautions. He pulled out his phone and tapped the name of his cousin, Amber, who was supposed to pick him up at the airport. She picked up immediately.

  “Welcome home Ollie. Where you at?”

  “Just got through immigration. Listen, I had some company on the plane. Looks like another collector isn’t pleased with me winning this round. Would you mind picking me up at the Tysons Corner food court instead? I don’t want to risk anyone spotting your car.”

  Amber didn’t miss a beat. “Sure, but you’ll have to tell me the story when I get you.”

  “I promise.”

  Oliver ended the call and shrugged his backpack on, then headed past the crowds surrounding the baggage claim, rode the long escalator to the ground floor, and pushed his way through the revolving glass doors into the sweltering heat of northern Virginia. He joined the line at the cab station and was soon settled into a barebones hybrid with vinyl seats and rubber floor mats.

  “Where you going man?” The driver asked, his head bobbing slightly side to side to the rhythms of the jazz music coming from his radio.

  “Tysons Corner Mall.”

  “At this time of day? Man, sit back and chill. You’re in for a long ride.”

  Oliver did just that. He kept an eye out the window until the taxi had pulled away from the curb, just in case the dark eyed man had somehow managed to get past security and come after him, but the man never appeared and nobody in the throng appeared concerned with Oliver’s ride. As the taxi pulled out of Dulles, merging into the crawl of Beltway traffic, Oliver finally allowed himself to breathe easy.

  He pulled the passport out of his jacket pocket. The cover was even more battered than his own. He flipped it open and examined the photo on the first page. It was his man.

  Nikola Simo. Latvian citizen. 36 years old and well traveled, by the stamps nearly filling the little book. No way to know if this was the man’s real name, but Oliver was willing to bet that it was. False passports were growing more difficult to come by these days and in this business, the rewards really weren’t worth the risk of being caught with false identity papers. In the grand scheme of things, a few relics acquired for a wealthy collector weren’t worth a stint in federal prison or, worse, the holding tank of some third world nation that somehow caught you in a lie during immigration.