Destiny

SEVENTY

Brandi Hirsch sat on the cot in her prison cell and looked down at her trembling hands. She extended her fingers. The shaking was worse today. Getting worse every day, she thought. Dear God…please help me.

Brandi pulled the dirty bed sheet over her shoulders and hugged her upper arms. The sheet smelled of dried sweat, vomit, and diarrhea. When she tried to stand, the small cell began spinning. She licked her parched and cracked lips, which were encrusted with dried blood. Brandi was glad there was no mirror in her cell because she was afraid to look at her own face. She knew her face was emaciated — could feel its sunken features. Her dark hair was filthy and matted. Her eyes were dead with dark circles underneath.

Brandi stared through the bars, through the two-inch glass in her cell, to the prison yard one story below her. She watched a guard smoke a cigarette, his eyes hooded beneath a billed hat. He crushed the cigarette under his black boot, scratched his crotch, and walked toward a guard tower.

Brandi closed her eyes, a single tear spilling down one cheek. I don’t want to die here. Is Adam okay? Miss him so much…miss Mom. Don’t even know how Granddad’s doing with his cancer…just want to hug him again. I miss Aunt Alicia’s smiling face…and Grandma…her chicken pot pie. I can smell it. I can taste it.

She wiped the tear from her cheek and sat down on the cot and pulled her knees beneath her chin.

Paul Marcus took a taxi to Terminal One at Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Hundreds of people moved about, pulling luggage behind them. The airport announcements were being made in French and English. Marcus stood near the Arrival section and waited. His phone buzzed: UNKNOWN.

“Paul, this is Merriam Hanover. We…no…I personally owe you a huge apology for not taking serious enough the information you brought to us. It’s just that, after the first non-incident at the Lincoln Memorial, we didn’t know how much stock to put into the data. Working with the French and Israelis, we now have every available resource pulled in to find the assassin. I’m trying to understand how your research is giving you a prophetic glimpse into the future. What else have you seen? What can you tell me?”

“I can’t explain it beyond what I’ve told you. I’ve simply taken old biblical notes from Isaac Newton and used a computer to search for possible codes in the Bible that can reveal more.”

“What portions of his notes? Specifically what were you searching for?”

“At first, it was to find out who killed my family.”

“Have you found that?”

“No. It doesn’t work that way…I can’t press a button like an app on a phone or tablet and download answers. The information is a process, a slow reveal, that’s never the same thing I’m looking for when I start. It’s like I’m being dealt a hand of cards, and it’s not always about the future. Sometimes it’s about the past.”

“What do you mean?”

Marcus paused, scanning the sea of people for Alicia’s face. “Has anyone or any group taken credit for the assassination?”

“Not yet. No one has come forward from any Palestinian faction — nothing from Hezbollah, Hamus, al-Qaeda, Muslim Brotherhood, or other groups.”

“I have reason to believe that the assassin who killed the prime minister was a hired hand that pulled a trigger. The head — the corporate brains, ordered it. Find that.”

“Any thoughts on where we’d look?”

“Try starting with the same place that’s holding Brandi and Adam. Iran.”

“Corporate brains and Iran in the same breath — are you aware of something we aren’t?”

“I don’t know what you know. It’s a good bet that the prime minister had sanctioned the cyber war that is racing between Israel and Iran. Possibly he was taken out to retaliate or slow it down. Maybe that’s finding the bargaining ground. Merriam, find a way to leverage some of our expertise in cyber warfare. Use it as a poker chip. Give the Iranians something they want in exchange for the release of Brandi and Adam.” Marcus heard her sigh into the phone.

“Paul, if we did that, Brandi and Adam would be the poster children for a constant procession of American hostages held ransom for intelligence. And, when it comes to nuclear intel, there’s absolutely no way. The president simply won’t go there. I’m sorry. I have to take a call from—”

“Merriam!”

“I have to take a call from the vice president. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. I want to ask you something.” She disconnected.

Marcus spotted Alicia pulling a flight bag. Her hair was swept back, and she was dressed in black jeans, low heels and a jacket. He watched her for a moment, waiting for her eyes to find his. Alicia seemed to peel away from the crowd, or stand out from the pack of people. She saw Marcus and smiled — a wide radiant smile that beamed down the long corridor.

“Welcome to Paris,” Marcus said, stepping up to her.

She stopped pulling her suitcase, stood there for a moment and then reached up to embrace Marcus. “It’s so good to see you.” They hugged. He could feel her hands clutch his back.

“How was the flight? More importantly, how are you, Alicia?”

“Better now. I was numb during the funeral. I cried all I could cry. Mom has a sense of peace in her face I haven’t seen in three years. Dad suffered much too long. The last time I was in Paris I was a teenager.”

“Well, then welcome back. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

They began walking through the airport.

“Paul, I need to tell you something that I couldn’t tell you electronically.”

“What?”

“Bill Gray is under a lot of pressure by the CIA? They think you’ve turned, working for Iran.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know all the details. It may have been in an intercepted email from the Iranian operative before she died?”

“Taheera? She killed herself. The Israeli police know it. The Mossad knows it, and I’m sure the CIA is aware of it.”

“But they don’t know everything that transpired between you and Taheera before she took her life, and why.”

“Bill Gray said a suspect was arrested for murdering Jen and Tiffany. That’s not true, right?”

“There hasn’t been anything in the news media about that. Bill’s under a lot of pressure—”

“Gray lied to me! He lied to get me back so Langley could interrogate me—”

“Halt!” shouted a man from the crowd. Within seconds four men surrounded Marcus and Alicia. All four leveled pistols at them. Inspector Andre Juneau stepped forward. “Mr. Marcus, turn and face the wall. Place the palms of your hands on the wall. Spread your legs. Miss, you do the same thing.”

“I don’t think so!” Alicia fired back. “Who are you? I don’t see any ID—”

“Paris police! And you will be searched for a weapon whether you like it or not.”