Destiny

FIFTY-TWO

When he stepped outside from the Church of All Nations, it was almost dark. A flushed smudge of the sun’s last rays faded far beyond the Old City, the Dome of the Rock now a silhouette. The lights of Jerusalem glowed in a sea of shadows caught between cut granite blocks, adobe, concrete, and glass. Marcus’s cell buzzed in his pocket. The screen read: UNKNOWN. Marcus answered and Bill Gray said, “Paul, we need you back here. Something’s come up.”

“Who are we? What’s come up?”

Marcus heard Gray sigh into the phone. “The police have arrested a suspect in the deaths of Jen and Tiffany.”

Marcus’s heart hammered. His palm was damp, fingers gripping the phone. “Are you sure?”

Gray was silent for a moment. “Yes, Paul. A local guy. He’s a low life meth head with a long rap sheet.”

“I’ll catch the first plane out of Tel Aviv.”

“I hope this will bring closure to you. Goodnight, Paul.”

Marcus disconnected and tried to think. His head ached, scalp tight, muscles knotting in his back. He watched the fog building from the Kidron Valley, diffusing some of the perimeter lights of Jerusalem while a full moon inched above the city. He stepped into a garden near the church. He was alone, exhausted, eyes burning, the sound of traffic far away down the Jericho Road. Stone paths laced through the garden, flowers planted along the paths. Huge olive trees, most with ancient and massive gnarled trunks, stood like aged warriors along the path. Under the moonlight, Marcus could see that the knotted girth of each tree was filled with dark pockets and crevices, many cavernous enough to reach inside the fissures carved into the bark by the knife of time. Some of the trees predated sections of the Old City.

Marcus walked around the gardens, heavy with the scent of hibiscus and olives. What was the head? What was he looking for, and would he recognize it if he found it? The moon rose higher above the old trees and a mist snaked through the wrought iron gates surrounding the garden. He could see olives growing from some of the trees. How many centuries of crops, he wondered. Who had picked from these trees? Who had found shade under the same branches he now walked beneath where dappled moonlight cast bent and crooked shadows across the paths?

He suddenly felt very tired, heavy fatigue building behind his eyes. He sat on a concrete bench under a majestic old olive tree and thought about his wife and daughter. Police have arrested a suspect in the deaths of Jen and Tiffany. Finally. But was it true?

He reminded himself that their deaths were the reason he was here. But what had he done? He felt so disconnected. Alone in a garden.

Soon the fog erased the shadows and Marcus felt a chill in the night air. Something, maybe a bat, flapped wings overhead in the dark, the cool air drifting down his neck. The fog moved, covering the tree trunks and settling beneath limbs that seemed to be floating on top of a white sea. Marcus wondered if he could find his way back to the small exit.

He heard steps. Soft steps. Not the heels of hard sole shoes, but more like steps from sneakers or boat shoes. They stopped. Marcus felt the scar on his chest tingle. He breathed deeply and silently. His mind raced. Did he really hear something? Was someone lost? Was it the man he’d seen watching him? Who and why? He lowered himself to the damp earth and felt around the base of a tree. He found a rock almost the size of his hand. He stood and held his breath. Listening.

“You need not cast a stone.” The voice was soft, almost as vaporous as the fog. Or was it a voice? A man with an accent that sounded foreign even in a place of multiple nationalities, personalities, customs and creeds.

“Who’s there?” Marcus asked. He gripped the rock tighter.

Silence. Only the sounds of crickets. I’m exhausted. My mind must be playing tricks on me again!

“I am here.” The voice seemed to come from nowhere, yet everywhere.

“Why are you following me?” Show yourself!” Marcus thought he spotted a movement in the fog. His heart pounded. Fear. When was the last time I was afraid for myself?

“When you walk through the valley look to the light, as the light will give you a path to seek the truth.”

“What truth?” Marcus’s heart rate slowed, his breathing easy, tension replaced with a strange sense of peace. He could hear traffic far away on the Jericho Road, the smell of a eucalyptus tree and myrtle leaves swirling in the damp night air. Through the curtain of fog, he couldn’t see anyone. “Are you there?”

“Yes.” The voice moved, coming from just behind the trunk of the largest olive tree enveloped in mist. “Love is truth. The time of reign grows closer. It is known in hearts and found from that which has been sealed. The blade itself will unseal it. Deliver its message and release the spear into the fire of Etna. Destroy it.”

“Where is this spear? Etna? Who are you? Tell me.” The sound of crickets returned. “Show yourself! Please…. ” Nothing. Marcus looked down at the rock he held. He felt foolish and self-conscious, and he dropped the rock at his feet.

“Marcus, it’s me, Jennifer.”

Jenny’s voice. No. Impossible. Just tired. Need sleep. I’m losing it…

“Marcus. It’s me, honey. Thank God, you’re here! I know how tired you are.”

“Jen! Where are you? Is Tiffany with you?”

“No, Marcus. I’m alone.”

“Where’s the man? I heard another voice. Where are you?”

“Over here, sweetheart.”

Marcus ran around the trees, olive branches raking his face. “Jen! Where are you? Baby, they have a suspect in custody. Where are you? Where’s Tiffany?”

“Right here, babe. Please, come to me.”

Marcus felt the barrel of a gun wedge against his head.

“Don’t move!” ordered a woman, dropping her American accent.

In the swirling fog, Marcus could see the woman held the pistol with two hands. Through the murkiness, he recognized her face, Layla Koury. A face that was once soft and suggestive, now hard, eyes burning through the mist. He said, “It’s you…why?”

A dark eyebrow arched over her blue eyes. “You may be the best at decoding, but you can’t even tell whether your dead wife’s voice is real or not. That’s because you’re schizophrenic — you hear voices. You’re profile said your father and grandfather did, too. A whole family of crazies! This disease, schizophrenia, makes voices sound real in your head. Poor Paul, it’s part of your DNA. Maybe it is a sad compromise of your genius.” Layla laughed. “You were just talking to yourself like a village idiot. Have you begun hallucinating yet? If not, it’s only a matter of time. Usually the strange dreams preface the onset of hallucinations.”

“I gave you my answer.”

“That’s why I’m here. If the Republic…if Iran, cannot buy your talents, you are choosing to aid its adversaries. We suspected it. Now we know it. That cannot be tolerated.”

“Didn’t you get my note?”

“What note?”

“The one I left at the hotel for you. I said I’m willing to play cards, deal.”

“You’re lying. Regardless, I have my orders.” She raised the Beretta higher. “You’re not afraid are you? Why?”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Oh, really?” She tilted her head, a smile on her lips, finger curling around the trigger. “Somehow you managed to survive the first assassination attempt. You will have no such luck this time.”

“What assassination attempt?”

“The one that killed your wife and daughter. Don’t look so surprised. We’ve known about your talents for quite a while, and we knew it was just a matter of time before Israel recruited you to slow or destroy our nuclear capabilities. That wasn’t and isn’t about to happen. I won’t miss where my colleague failed. You survived a hit carried out by a legendary assassin called the Lion. That never happens, and now your good fortune has ended.” She brought her left hand up to steady her aim. A dozen floodlights illuminated the garden. Layla looked toward the lights.

“Mr. Marcus! Are you still here?” Sister Nemov shouted from the porte cache.

Marcus slammed Layla’s arm against the barnacled trunk of an olive tree. She grimaced in pain. He wrestled the gun from her hand. She used her fist, pounding his head and left ear. Marcus drove his elbow into her chin. Layla fell to her knees, spitting blood. He pointed the pistol at her head. “Don’t move!”

“Paul Marcus! Is that you out there?” shouted the nun.

“Yes, Sister. Call the police!”

Layla, sprawled on the ground, popped something into her mouth. She bit down hard and swallowed, a peculiar smile coming over her face, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

“No!” Marcus shouted. “Spit it out! Don’t!”

“You are a foolish man, Paul.” She stared at him, the moonlight slicing through a moving cloud and casting shadows over her indignant face. A rooster crowed somewhere behind the Church of Mary Magdalene.

“It’s too late for me, Paul. And it’s too late for you, too.”

“You don’t have to waste your life. This is not worth dying for?”

She was quiet, her eyes watching the clouds move across the moon. Then she smiled and met Marcus’s eyes. “Yes…yes it is. You don’t understand what’s at stake for Iran or in the Middle East. The West isn’t capable of it. Maybe the next voices you hear will be your wife’s or mine. Will you be able to tell the difference?”

She coughed, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Her left arm twitched. Her breathing became labored. A pink froth spilled from her lips as the light in her eyes faded.

Marcus fought back the urge to vomit. He could feel his pulse pound in his neck. Layla Koury. Who was she? He reached in her pocket and found a small cell phone. He slipped it in his sock and then he used his phone to take a picture of Layla’s face, her lifeless eyes staring directly into the lens. He placed the phone in his pocket, sat on a concrete bench, looked at the lights of the Old City in the distance and waited for the police to arrive.