Destiny

NINETEEN

A cloud parted and the Old City was immersed in soft moonlight. Marcus stopped. He listened without turning his head. Then he cut his eyes in the direction of the sounds. An old man was trapped like a frightened animal in the corner of the ancient crypt. A younger man held a knife to his victim’s throat and demanded money. The attacker’s back was to Marcus. He looked around. No one. Marcus slipped off his shoes and walked in his socks toward the mugger and intended victim. Now he could hear them clearly.

“The pouch! Where is it old man?” demanded the mugger.

“In my store! In the safe.”

“I see you take it every Monday. Today is Monday! Where is it? Tell me or I’ll slaughter you like a lamb! No cameras over here. Nobody will know.” He pressed the blade against the side of the old man’s neck, an inch from the carotid artery. Blood trickled down the aged skin, a blossom of red forming on his white collar.

Marcus was less than twenty feet away. Moving silently.

The old man saw Marcus approaching. He didn’t allow a response to register in his eyes, quickly looking back at his attacker’s face.

The mugger said, “Lift your jacket! You hide it in your belt. Lift it!”

“He’s not going to lift anything,” Marcus said, now less than fifteen feet from the attacker.

The man whirled around. His face filled with disbelief at what he was seeing and hearing. His breathing was fast. Chest expanding. Sweat rolling down his forehead. Pupils dilated wide as cats’ eyes at night, adrenaline and cocaine flowing in his system.

“Don’t do it,” Marcus said evenly. “Just go. Walk away.”

“Gimme your wallet asshole! And that laptop! Now!”

“I’m not going to do that.”

The man sneered. To the old man he shouted, “Keep back!” Then he shifted his weight. Crouching, he gripped the knife, his right hand swaying.

Marcus lowered the laptop to the ground, never blinking, never breaking eye contact with the man holding the knife. He stepped closer to the mugger, the man’s eyes wider with disbelief. “You sound American. This will be where you die. Right here! Tonight!”

“Just turn and walk away.” Marcus said, stepping closer.

There was laughter in the distance. A group of tourists entered through Jaffa Gate. The mugger looked toward them, his face twisted in disgust. “Screw it, man!” He turned to leave, glaring at Marcus. “You weren’t even scared, dude. That mistake will get you killed in this country.” He used the index finger on his left hand and moved it across his neck as if it were a knife. “Next time.” Then he turned and ran, the alleys swallowing him as if he entered a dark catacomb.

Marcus approached the old man. “You’re bleeding. Let me see.”

“It is only a scratch,” he said, taking a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket and holding it against the cut. “Thank you. Thank you, my friend. And thank God. My name is Bahir Ashari. You are?”

“Paul Marcus.”

“Thank you, Paul Marcus. You saved my life. I am indebted to you.”

Marcus smiled. “No, you’re not. I’d like to believe, if the situation was reversed, you’d do the same for me.”

Bahir smiled. “I would like to believe that as well. But I’m not sure I could. I saw your eyes when the man faced you. I saw no fear. None.”

“I was pretty far away.”

“Not that far.” The old man’s croaky voice with the Arabic inflection sounded as if it came from another age. He stepped closer, out of the shadows and into the light. He wore a dark Nehru jacket and pants. A week’s growth of silver whiskers on his weathered face caught the light. “How did you see us so far from the center of the street?”

“I didn’t see you. I saw those graves first. Then I heard you, or at least I heard him threaten you.”

Bahir’s eyebrows rose. “Most people don’t see them, especially at night.”

“Pardon me?”

“The ancient tombs. To most, they go unnoticed. I am waiting for my grandson to bring the car to carry me home. He telephoned and said he ran out of fuel and had to walk to a petrol station. I’ve been here about two hours after I closed my shop. Maybe two hundred people have walked by. You are the only one who stopped at the graves.”

“Who’s buried there?”

Bahir smiled, his eyes opening wider. “It is believed these are the graves of the men who designed and built the very walls that surround the Old City. They were commissioned by Suleiman, the Ottoman ruler, in 1538 to build the granite walls.”

“How’d they die?”

“Murdered. Killed by the sultan, it is said, because the men failed to include Mount Zion and David’s tomb within the walls.” Bahir chuckled. “Suleiman must have had some respect for the architects because he buried them here near the entrance to the gate, which legend says every conqueror of Jerusalem will enter. Why did you stop in the night when so many never see the tombs?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you need directions?”

“I was just taking in the night air and sort of wound up here.”

“If you are headed for the Western Wall, it’s about five hundred meters straight down David Street. Jewish Quarter is near it. The Muslim section is the area to the north of the Dome of the Rock. The Christian Quarter is to the north of where we now stand.”

A group of teenagers, laughing and singing, walked by heading east on David Street. An organized church group followed them, a dozen people with matching blue T-shirts. In white letters and numbers across the front of each shirt was: John 3:16.

Their leader, a man wearing a baseball cap backwards, bull neck and a girth that strained the shirt said, “Okay, everybody, we’ll make a night stop at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for pictures only.”

When the group left, Bahir said, “Anything you need to know about this place, please ask me. I’ve lived here all my life, and I have seen many, many things. My coffee shop is called Cafez, right down David Street. I give you my card.” He lifted his jacket and pulled a small leather pouch from a band under his coat. He unzipped it and handed Marcus a business card. “Please, come by. You have free coffee and conversation for the rest of your life.” He grinned.

Marcus smiled. “Thank you.”

“You are American, yes?”

“Yes.”

“You do not look like a tourist.”

“How can you tell?”

“I see thousands of them, each week, from all over the world. You are here for something else, business perhaps?”

“Yes, business.”

The old merchant smiled. “I imagine this business is of interest to others, possibly?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because the time we’ve been speaking, a man has stood back under the arch at Jaffa Gate, smoking a cigarette and trying not to give the impression of watching you.”

Marcus looked toward the gate when a man turned and walked away. He was cast in silhouette as a small car shot through the entrance and pulled up closer to where Marcus and Bahir stood.

“Ah, here is my grandson.”

Marcus nodded.

The old man opened the passenger side door. “We can provide you transportation to wherever you are staying. Perhaps the man we saw had his eye for that computer bag you carry. Possibly it is something else, yes?”

“I doubt he was watching me.”

“Which hotel are you staying?”

“The Mount Zion.”

“It is very close to us. Please, get in and we will make your journey easier.”

“I appreciate the offer, but my hotel is a short walk.”

“Please, sir. Forgive the concerns of an old man. Although this is a holy city, it still is one of the bloodiest cities on earth. Let us drive you to your hotel. Trust me on this, my new friend.”