Destiny

SIXTY

Marcus took a seat at a sidewalk café in the northern side of Jerusalem, ordered bottled water and removed Taheera’s cell phone from his pocket. He thought about calling the number, speaking with the man who is “consulting with his superiors.” Should you try to deceive us, your head will be removed with a dull knife.

Marcus sipped the water. He wore dark glasses, watching the incoming tide of humanity walk down the street toward Damascus Gate. There was a caravan of departing tourists’ buses — the throaty sounds of diesels protesting, bus drivers downshifting to maneuver through the streets.

He set both mobile phones on the table just as his phone buzzed. It was Alicia. “Paul…” There was a long pause.

“What do you have?”

“My father died two days ago.”

Marcus felt his chest tighten, his scar pulsate. “Alicia, I’m so very sorry to hear that. I wish I was there.”

“I do, too. The only positive things about his death are that Dad is no longer suffering, and we had time to prepare for his passing. Brandi, in Iran, has no idea her grandfather just died. They were really close. She won’t be here for his funeral.”

“Maybe she’ll be home for Christmas.”

“I pray.”

“How are you doing, Alicia?”

“I’m a little numb. Not at his death, because he’s no longer in pain, but what hurts is the reality of him not being here, ever again. I can’t just pick up the phone and call him. It’s beginning to creep up around me. Dad called me the morning right before he died. He wanted to watch a sunrise with me. I was looking out my apartment window when the dawn broke, and Dad was watching the sunrise from our backyard. Paul, I felt so connected to my father…even though I wasn’t physically there. I felt we were in the same room with a window to the universe…the same instant he was experiencing a daybreak that took him back to his boyhood home.” She paused, speaking just above a whisper. “I miss him so much. It hurts.” Her voice trapped in sinew, mucus and memories.

“I wish I could have met him.”

“A few weeks ago, Dad asked me if he’d been there…you know, been a father when a girl needs one.”

Marcus was silent, letting Alicia reach deep inside the well of her soul.

“Dad said he hoped, if nothing else, he’d given me some fond memories…good memories to draw upon because he said those were the picture postcards we mail to ourselves on Sunday mornings.”

“It sounds like he was a remarkable man.”

“He was.” Alicia pulled a strand of her dark hair behind one ear. “I have almost a month’s vacation time stored. If I don’t take some of it, I’m gonna lose it. After the funeral I want to — no, Paul, I have to get away. You need my help. I can be just as effective in Israel as I can in Washington, maybe more so. Would you mind if I came there?” Alicia bit her lower lip.

“It’d be good to work together in the same time zone. I could use your help. Tell me when you’re arriving, and I’ll be at the airport to pick you up.”

“Thanks. I’m going to go back to my parent’s house to wrap my arms around my sister Dianne and Mom. Dianne hasn’t heard from Brandi in three months. We don’t know if the Iranians are providing her with insulin. This, on top of Dad’s death…”

“Alicia, don’t lose faith. We’ll find a way to get Brandi and Adam out of Iran.”

“I haven’t lost personal faith, but I’ve come damn close to losing what little faith I have for a big slice of the human race.” Alicia told Marcus about her conservation with Greg Owen and his death by drowning in the Potomac River. “The reports say he blew out a tire and the car careened off the bridge. His car was three months old. I checked the records. Owen bought it new, and it couldn’t have had much wear on the tires. Paul, he said the picture he took underwater showed a hole in the tail of Kennedy’s plane. He was bringing it to me before he was killed. Police say they didn’t find anything in the car except his registration and a few personal effects. Someone wiped it clean.”

“Did you find anything Kennedy was doing before his death that may have prompted this reaction and cover-up?”

“Try this one on for size. In 1997, his Magazine, George, published an article by the mother of the man convicted of killing Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin. She alleged that her son, Yigal Amir, was provoked to do the assassination because Rabin had signed the Oslo Peace Accords, essentially opening deeper negotiations with the Palestinians over the occupied land.”

“Does your research indicate who supposedly provoked Amir?”

“His mother said it came from inside the Shin Bet, the agency charged with Rabin’s security. There is, of course, nothing to substantiate those accusations. Rabin’s widow was not too happy that Kennedy gave the mother of her husband’s killer a public platform in the magazine. There’s also evidence that John was going to reopen the story of the assassination of his father while tracking down leads on the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin.”

“Alicia, when you peel back the layers, the worms retreat.”

“Speaking of worms, I uncovered a few rocks which show some dark, slimy things living, breeding and cutting covert deals under the cover of darkness.”

“I’m listening.”

“There’s a company here in Washington, headquarters off Pennsylvania Avenue, conveniently not far from the Capital, White House and the Pentagon. It’s called the Kinsley Group. They have an office in New York, too. Paul, for all practical purposes, this company is America’s ninth largest defense contractor. The reason that’s odd is because they are, essentially, a private equity investment company. But the board of directors is like a who’s who of former politicians and heads of state. And these are the ones I could find by doing some easy digging. The rest took heavy lifting. I have a call in to a close friend of mine who works for the Justice Department. He may be in a position to shed some light on this.”

“Meet him somewhere like a crowded restaurant.”

Alicia looked out her kitchen window toward the front street. A cable installation van sat in front of her neighbor’s home. “Paul, what are you saying?”

“Just be very aware of your surroundings. Anything else?”

“I’m still digging in that dark area. On another front, I’ve found something.”

“What?”

“When I was talking with Dad he remembered a couple of names from the General Patton accident or incident. One was a guy who was an assistant to the U.S. prosecutor in the Nuremberg Trials and later worked with the OSS. His name was Lawrence J. Foster. The other man was someone thought to have been a member of the French Resistance, a shadowy figure who was a thorn in the side to Germany, and apparently Russia, too. Dad heard that it was this guy who was believed to have been involved with David Marcus in stopping the Russian hit man. The Frenchman had the last name of Fournier.”

Marcus said nothing.

“Paul, are you there?”

“Yes. Alicia, before you fly here, go back to visit the Mayflower Assisted Living home. Spend a little time with Mama Davis. One of the residents there is a man by the name of Larry Foster. It’s a long shot — but find out if he’s the same Lawrence J. Foster who worked with David Marcus during the Nuremberg Trials. If he is, ask him where we can find James Tower.”