Destiny

EIGHTY-THREE

At an altitude of 30,000 feet, Alicia turned to Marcus, whispering under the drone of the jet engines. “The spear may arrive before we do.”

“Bahir will hold it for me.”

“If you know what that inscription means, why haven’t you told me?”

“Because I’m not sure what it really means. The text is in ancient Hebrew. It seems to make a reference to the Apocalypse or the Book of Revelation, the twenty-first chapter, verse twenty-three. When we packaged and shipped the spear, I looked up that part of Revelation on my cell to be sure. It reads: ‘And the city had no need of the sun, neither the moon to shine in it…for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light that will be there.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I believe it’s referring to the future of an eternal day — a future that may be found where the sun and moon won’t literally shine because God will illuminate it.”

“Where do you think that is?”

“Maybe Jerusalem. Let’s try to get some sleep.”

They landed in Tel Aviv. The sun was rising over the air traffic control tower. Paul Marcus wore dark glasses walking through the Ben Gurion International Airport. He looked away from the security cameras mounted on walls and support beams and away from the faces of those he knew were watching him. He and Alicia had checked no luggage. They cleared customs and caught a shuttle to the long-term parking garage where he found the Toyota as he’d left it.

Marcus dropped to the concrete floor of the garage, searching under the car. Alicia watched him for a moment, and then she casually looked around the garage for security cameras. Marcus popped the hood, probing for any sign of a bomb or tampering of the engine. “Looks okay,” he said, opening the car doors.

Alicia got inside. She held her breath when Marcus turned the ignition. The car started with no problem. “How far is Jerusalem from the airport?” she asked.

“Depending on the traffic, about an hour.”

“I wish I were seeing this with you under different circumstances.”

Marcus cell buzzed. It was Bill Gray. “Paul, look, the shit is hitting the damn fan at Langley. I’ve done all I can to keep them at bay. They say they have reason to believe you’re using this so-called intel about the Lion as a smokescreen. In spite of what I’ve told them, they believe you’re now working directly for Tehran.”

“I’m doing the exact opposite! You know that. I didn’t just take a vacation to the Middle East.”

“I know that, Paul, but things here are escalating. They want you back in the U.S.”

“Who does? Look, Alicia and I have uncovered some dark secrets, some of which reach to the people who’ve appointed or been appointed to CIA positions.”

“What do you have?”

Marcus quickly summed up his findings. Gray said, “No one could have predicted you’d step into a lair of rattlesnakes. I don’t even know what to—”

“All I need is a little more time, Bill. As long as you and Secretary Hanover have my back, maybe I can get through this, not for me, but for what it’s about to reveal. These people have to be stopped.”

“As much as I want to watch your back, I can’t. No one can now. You need to tell Alicia I’m ordering her home. The risks are far too dangerous.”

“You tell her.” He handed the phone to Alicia.

“Hello, Bill.”

“Alicia, I know you’re there on vacation days, but it’s over. This is out of control. Paul’s risking his life, and he can’t put yours on the line, too. Pack it up and return to Washington.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have no choice.”

“You’re wrong, Bill. As long as my niece is sitting in that Iranian shithole, it means I have a choice. Therefore, I’m going to do whatever I can because not a damn soul in Washington, or Langley, is doing shit. Goodbye, Bill.” She disconnected and folded her arms across her breasts. “Let’s get out of this parking garage.”

Marcus nodded, put the car in gear, and placed a call to the Cafez Coffee Shop. Bahir told him that nothing had arrived from Fed EX. “Okay,” Marcus said, “we’ll be over this evening, maybe it’ll be there by then.”

He drove out of the garage, paid the parking fee, and started to pull onto the road. A woman talking on a mobile phone stepped in front of his car. Marcus slammed on the brakes. He came within two feet of hitting her. The woman glared at Marcus.

Something slid from under the seat and tapped Alicia’s left foot on the floorboard. She reached down and lifted up the object. “It’s a cigarette lighter, and it’s an old one.”

Marcus stared at the lighter in her hand. Alicia said, “There’s an inscription on it. It reads: To “M” with love. Your adoring wife.”

Marcus said nothing for a few seconds, his mind replaying the rainy night he gave a ride to the army colonel he met near Abu Ghosh. He drove from the terminal parking lot onto the highway. “It came from the guy I picked up that night in the rain. He said he was David Marcus.”

Alicia turned her head toward him, and then she looked at the Zippo in the palm of her hand. “It can’t be the same David Marcus, a.k.a. Mickey Stone or David “Mickey” Marcus, from the Nuremberg Trials, unless he was in his late eighties or early nineties.”

“He was no more than about forty. He must have left it in the car that night I picked him up.”

Alicia set the lighter on the console. She glanced out the window and looked at the traffic, then at the hills of the Israeli countryside resting to the east. “All of this, you know, the spear, these connections to World War II, the deaths of General Patton, Kennedy Junior, the Nuremburg Trials, the formation of the Circle of 13, the assassination of the prime ministers, the murders of Father Davon, Gisele, your family, even the Iranians holding Brandi as a spy…it’s just too much to wrap one’s head around — all of it seems, now, like some ominous picture puzzle morphing into a huge disaster.”

“Maybe it’s a picture of hope.”

Alicia looked at Marcus driving toward Jerusalem. “Brandi’s supposed to be released in two days. If she isn’t, there’s not a soul we can go to. No one we can tell, or we’d risk espionage charges filed against you.”

“Maybe we won’t have to go to anybody. Who the hell could we really trust? The Kinsley Group, with its roster of former politicians on the payroll, is so embedded in the Middle East that we’d have to use a lug wrench to twist them off the oil rigs. Jonathon Carlson’s grandfather had ties to Nazi Germany, and much of Carlson’s wealth today was built on those investments. His grandfather ostensibly wanted the spearhead that Patton took from Hitler’s vault. When we get to the hotel, let’s see what we can find out about the remaining members of the Circle of 13.” Marcus changed lanes and accelerated around a car.

There was a buzz from one of the phones in his pockets, and he knew it wasn’t his mobile. Marcus pulled out Taheera’s phone and answered it.

“Mr. Marcus.” The voice flat as the first call, yet it had the same intimidating tone Rahim used when he spoke during the forty-eight hours Marcus spent coding the Myrtus worm hidden in the belly of the Iranian nuclear operation. “The time is growing closer, Mr. Marcus. We need to set up a meeting.”

“If Brandi isn’t released in two days, there will be no meeting.”

“You are in no position to offer a veiled threat.”

“Okay, I’ll lift the veil. The only way that coding is going to continue is when you get the updated coding I installed on a flash drive. It’s the key you need to keep in the ignition. We have an agreement. Your engineers can see the centrifuge problems you experienced have now ended, and it was because of what I did. If you want it to continue, the girl must be released as we agreed, and then you get the flash drive with the coding that will be your lifeline for that plant.”

“The girl will be released. I shall call you right before she boards the plane and tell you where to meet me. Bring the Quincy woman. I have something to tell her.”