Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [58]
“Again, I cannot help you, my friend.”
“My brother died because of them,” I say.
He looks as if I’ve pained him. I’m not even certain he knew my brother was dead. I go on to tell him about Egypt, about the man I saw there, and how I saw the same man in Rubio. I leave out most of the details, telling him just enough to get him to see the connection. I’m in the risky position of needing this man’s help yet having to be wary of revealing too much to him. As I speak, the effect of my words is obvious; it’s akin to the way things changed for Espy when she stood in front of the symbols in the temple, instead of flipping through pictures in a book. When I’ve finished, Al is quiet, but I can see that he’s deep in thought.
“Alem’nesh,” Espy begins in near-perfect Amharic, “people have died because of these things.”
It elicits a sad smile from the priest. “People die for many things, Ms. Habilla.”
I do not add anything. I’ve said all I can say, and Espy has provided support. It’s now Alem’nesh’s decision, and I will not fault him whatever choice he makes. For once, the eyes that see everything, show everything, and it’s a fierce battle—a weighing of allegiances. It’s a painful thing, this reconciliation of past loyalties and current responsibilities. The silence, broken only by the sound of a ringing telephone in another office, is so complete that I almost jump when he speaks.
“What did our Lord say, Jack, when the Pharisees told Him to instruct His disciples not to exalt His name? He said, ‘If they keep quiet, the rocks and stones will cry out.’ ” Alem’nesh leans in, closing the distance between us as much as the desk will allow. “You’ve found the place where the stones cry out, Jack—where worship comes from the rock. Now let the dragon speak to you.”
He will not say more. I don’t understand the part about the dragon but I won’t press him. I can guess what even this little bit has cost him. I am beyond grateful.
CHAPTER 13
The one good thing about flying into Lalibela, rather than attempting the drive, is that the twenty-three-kilometer road from the airport to the town is paved, unlike many of the roads we might have taken had we braved ground travel from Addis Ababa. Coming in from the air, it was at first hard to see the town. It sits in the mountains, where it rests amid the natural greens and reds of the surrounding land. When I did locate it, by spotting the hotels and other larger buildings sitting at the top of a very steep hill, I couldn’t help but feel my heart kick out a few more beats per minute. The name of this place was carved on a floor on the other side of the world; this dusty town contains something of great importance.
Lalibela holds somewhere between ten and twenty thousand people, and much of it consists of modest stone dwellings with thatched roofs. One of the unique architectural identifiers is a preponderance of round two-story homes. The first story holds any animals owned by the family, and the people live above. I pulled up a few pictures on my laptop while on the plane and determined that the houses resemble small silos.
Right now I’m not researching anything beyond the flavor of the cigar I’m smoking. I’ve given the Cubans a rest and instead fired up a Clasico Robusto from San Cristóbal. I don’t have to worry about bothering the driver, who is enjoying one along with me. Espy has expressed her displeasure by lowering the window but is allowing me to retreat to the familiar for the time being.
It’s always when you’re most comfortable that something demands your attention. In this case, it’s my phone.
“Hey, Ducks,” I say after battling to extricate the phone from my pants pocket.
“There are five possibles.”
“That many?” I’m disappointed. I’d been hoping Duckey’s friend in the State Department would cull a definite bad guy from the list. Maybe someone who specializes in international hits.
“And let me make sure I put the proper emphasis on possible. There’s not a one of these guys with a criminal record that goes beyond minor