The Second Messiah

Savage tipped back his baseball cap and shook his head. “If you really believe that, then you’re a big dummy, Mosberg. But good luck to you, because you’re sure going to need it.”

Mosberg’s face flushed red with annoyance. He spread his arms and looked toward the excavation site, his tone icy. “Tell me, who pays for all this, Savage? The expense of the dig, the crew salaries?”

Savage sipped another mouthful. “The crew are mostly volunteers. Some, professionals like me, get a basic salary that’s nothing to write home about. As for the costs, most digs have sponsors. Ours are a number of wealthy international businessmen and a religious trust that pick up our tab.”

“And what do they get in return?”

Savage shrugged. “I’m sure there’s maybe a tax break or two in there for some of the sponsors. But mostly they just want to contribute.”

“To what?”

“Our knowledge of religion and of humankind’s history.”

Mosberg jotted more notes in his pad. “All very noble, but I’ll need a list of your sponsors, Mr. Savage.”

“Hey, I’m up to my plums in work right now, Mosberg, but you’ll get it, rest assured.”

“Today, please.” Mosberg handed over his business card. “You’ll see my e-mail and fax number at the bottom. May I ask what religion you are, Mr. Savage?”

“What the heck has that got to do with anything?”

“It’s a simple question.”

“There was a time when I could say Roman Catholic, but I’m afraid I fell from grace. These days I’m happy to settle for agnostic. What does it matter?”

“Where do you live when you’re not working on digs, Mr. Savage?”

“A bachelor pad in a small upstate New York town.”

“You find your work rewarding?”

“I’m not sure where this is going, Mosberg, but yeah, sure.” Savage held up his calloused, clay-stained hands. “Would I work these fingers to the bone if I didn’t love it? I’ve been doing this job for well over twenty years and with little reward except for the pleasure it gives me.”

“Really?”

“Really. Though at this stage in my life I’d probably settle for a condo in Florida, a Mustang convertible, and an accommodating lady. Now, if you’ve finished scraping the barrel, I still have work to do.” Savage stood and tossed his empty Coke can into a bin.

Mosberg rose. “When you found Professor Green you said he was already dead. Did you see anyone nearby or leaving the tent? Did you witness anything at all, no matter how insignificant it might seem? It could be important, Mr. Savage. Please think.”

“I already answered that question for Inspector Raul.”

“Please answer it again.”

“I saw nothing. Not a soul. I heard nothing. Now, are you done?”

Mosberg flipped shut his notepad. “For now, Mr. Savage.”

Savage watched Mosberg climb into a Nissan SUV and drive off in the direction of the Bedu village. He heard a noise behind him and turned.

Jack Cane stood facing him, his face drawn, his clothes crumpled and stained. “Hello, Pops.”

“What the heck?” Savage stepped forward and his arm went around Jack’s shoulder. “Boy, am I glad to see you. Sergeant Mosberg was just here, looking for you. Don’t worry, I told the guy nothing.”

“Has he any leads?” Jack’s face was beaded with sweat, his voice hoarse.

“You ask me, the guy’s as lost as a dog in long grass.” Savage noticed a rip in Cane’s inside right trouser leg, revealing a gauze bandage. The clothes’ stains were caked patches of dried blood. “What happened? And where are Yasmin and Josuf? What have you been up to?” he demanded.

Jack was barely able to stand, his face racked with pain. “I’ve lost some blood. Yasmin’s gone to find a fresh dressing in the first-aid kit. I need to sit down, Buddy.”

As Savage went to help him toward his tent, Jack collapsed into his arms.

54

“Here, drink some of this, it’ll settle your nerves.” Buddy Savage splashed Wild Turkey into two glass tumblers and handed one to Yasmin.

Yasmin’s clothes were dusty, her hair mussed as she sat in one of the canvas chairs and accepted the glass. “Thanks. Though the condition I’m in, I probably look like I’ve had a few already.”

Savage grabbed another chair. “If you want my opinion, you all need your heads examined for crossing into Syria illegally.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, Buddy, something we got caught up in. Jack was desperate to try to find the parchment.” Yasmin looked behind her. “Does Pierre really know what he’s doing? Shouldn’t we just fetch a doctor?”

Savage followed Yasmin’s gaze to the room at the back of the tent. Jack sat in a canvas chair, one leg of his trousers cut away. Seated in front of him, the cheery Frenchman was engrossed as he worked on Jack’s wound, a first-aid kit open, next to it a plastic basin filled with steaming water.

“If we call a doctor he’d probably inform the cops. Don’t worry about Pierre. Believe it or not he was once a medic with the French Foreign Legion. He’s treated a few bullet wounds in his day, which is why he’s in charge of our first aid. He gave Jack a morphine shot, so he can’t feel a thing. How about you finish your story?”