Destiny

ONE-HUNDRED-TWO

The next day Marcus and Alicia rode the service elevator down to the loading dock in the rear of the hotel. He wore a tuxedo, and she was dressed in a long, black gown. Walking across the loading dock Alicia said, “Somehow, leaving from the back door of our hotel and standing next to a garbage dumpster takes a wee bit of the glamour out of attending the coveted Nobel Prize ceremonies.”

“Forget the limo, our escort’s going to be in a van. And that’s probably him arriving right about now.” Marcus looked toward the service entrance parking lot where a dark blue cargo van was entering.

The van stopped in a loading zone and the driver got out. He had close-cut blond hair, linebacker shoulders, and wore a black suit, dark glasses, and a flesh-colored radio receiver in his right ear. “Mr. Marcus, Miss Quincy. I’m Darryl Lawson. The Nobel ceremonies are not too far away from here. We should be there in plenty of time. I was just informed that the president would like to meet with you prior to the acceptance speeches.”

Marcus nodded. “Okay.” A red dot swept across his tuxedo jacket.

“Down!” yelled Lawson, pushing Marcus behind the van.

The rifle bullet hit the dumpster directly behind where Marcus had stood. The round punched a dime-sized hole through the metal. “Get in the van! Lie down!” shouted Lawson. He opened the side doors. Alicia dropped between the seats. Marcus crouched next to her. Lawson climbed over the seats, put the van into gear and sped off. A second bullet blew out one rear window in the van.

Hundreds of spectators and media from around the world converged on the Stockholm City Hall, a building inspired by the architects who designed Renaissance palaces. A BBC journalist looked into a live television camera and spoke. “This is the culmination of the world’s most prestigious award ceremonies. Laureates and luminaries from around the globe are here tonight. Just a few minutes ago, we spoke with U.S. Secretary of State Merriam Hanover who confirmed rumors that Paul Marcus, the enigmatic American nominated for the Nobel Prize in Medicine, is indeed here. Marcus, as you may know, made international headlines for refusing to accept the nomination. It’s not publicly known why he changed his mind. Security is tighter than ever before because this is the first time a sitting American president is accepting the Nobel Peace Prize Award.”

Federal agent Darryl Lawson stayed behind in the Secret Service mobile command area of the building where he debriefed his superiors on the shooting. Another agent escorted Marcus and Alicia through the corridors where agents staked out positions in front of locked exits.

“The president will join you in a minute,” said the agent, opening a door to the posh settings of a private VIP room. The walls were paneled with dark, rich wood. Antique furniture gave the large room a feel of Swedish antiquity. Five large chandeliers bathed the guests in a warm glow. Women in elegant, long gowns accompanied men in black jackets, white ties and tails. The professional wait staff served champagne from crystal glasses and carried silver platters filled with mounds of black sturgeon caviar and broiled prawns. His Majesty, the King of Sweden, held court in one area of the room, sharing stories with the laureates.

A woman, hair pinned up, wearing a dark blue business suit, approached Marcus and Alicia. “Mr. Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Liv Backlund from the concierge’s office. I apologize for any intrusion, however, sir, there is a gentlemen on the phone who says he has an urgent message from his sister.”

“Who is he?”

“He said his name is Laurent Fournier. He said his sister is Gisele Fournier.”

Marcus said nothing for a few seconds.

Alicia said, “That’s impossible. Gisele is dead.”

“I’m sorry Madame,” the woman nodded. She looked at Marcus. “Shall I tell the caller you can’t be reached?”

“No, I’ll take the call.”

“Very good, sir. You may take the call in the hall outside. Please, follow me.”

Alicia gave Marcus an anxious look. He said, “It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

In the hall, the concierge pointed to a white phone cradled on top of a polished marble and mahogany stand. As he lifted the receiver, the woman smiled and left. “This is Paul Marcus.”

“Mr. Marcus, my name is Laurent Fournier. I don’t mean to bother you. It’s just that I saw all of the news coverage of your arrival in Stockholm, and I thought of my sister, Gisele. She spoke highly of you.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. Your sister was a fine and caring person.”

“Thank you. When Gisele’s body was being prepared for burial, the funeral director discovered a sealed note she had apparently hidden in her blouse either before her death from the car accident or as she lay dying. Your name was on the envelope.”

Marcus felt his heart beat faster. “What does the note say?”

“It was written by my grandfather, and it appears to be some sort of communiqué to a nun, an assistant to the Pope at the end of World War II.”

“Please, read the opening sentence.”

“No problem. It says, ‘Dear Mother Pascaline, please inform the Pope that we are praying for a swift recovery in France and the rest of Europe from the aftermath of such a terrible war.’”

“Is there text at the bottom of the letter written in a different language?”

“Yes, but I can’t read it.”

“Give me your number, and I’ll text you back mine. Can you send me a picture of it as soon as you get my number?”

“Yes, no problem.”

As the man spoke, Marcus memorized the number. “Thank you, Mr. Fournier.”

“Oh, one other thing. Gisele mentioned to me she’d told you that Paris Police Inspector Juneau said there was no Inspector Victor Roux when she’d called with the information warning of the possible assassination attempt on Israeli Prime Minister Meltzer. There is a story this morning in the news — the French DGSE has arrested Inspector Juneau because they believe he has connections to whoever killed Meltzer.”

Marcus closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank you for telling me.” Then he sent a text to the number and waited.