Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?
Tel Aviv, Israel
Tom Donafin sat on the edge of his bed in Tel Aviv's Tel-Hashomer Hospital adjusting the strap on the new camera that Hank Asher had sent him as a get-well present. Outside Tom's window, a performance of major proportion in the night sky was made surreal by the glow of fires from the ground. The sparkle of anti-aircraft artillery painted narrow stripes across the sky as now and then the bright flash of an explosion added terrifying color to the canvas. Tom had captured it all, beginning only moments after the first shots were fired. He had even photographed a dogfight between a squadron of Libyan MIG-25s and Israeli F-15 Eagles.
Tom walked back to the open window and scanned the horizon for action. Like most of the other lights in the city, the lights of the hospital had been extinguished to avoid drawing the attention of enemy pilots – a condition which, coincidentally, also allowed for better night photography. Behind him Tom heard a knock on his hospital room door and turned quickly, a little startled.
As Tom turned in the darkened room, the person at the open door suddenly found himself facing a barrel pointed directly at him. Instinctively he ducked, but even as he did, he realized that the sinister barrel that seemed at first to be some type of small bazooka or shoulder-held anti-tank weapon was, in fact, only the telephoto lens of the American's camera.
"I'm terribly sorry!" Tom said, lowering the camera as he hurried to offer his hand to help his unexpected visitor up from the floor. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," the man muttered in a British accent through his embarrassment, while brushing himself off. "Are you Donafin?"
"Yeah, I'm Tom Donafin," Tom responded, offering his hand again, this time in greeting. "Who are you?"
"I'm Polucki from the British Embassy," he said formally. "On behalf of Ambassadors Rogers and Hansen I'm here to offer you the assistance of His Majesty's Government in expediting your evacuation from the State of Israel. Please accept my apologies for not notifying you earlier. We attempted to alert you to the situation but the telephone lines are down. At the direction of Ambassador Rogers, I've taken the liberty of inquiring of your doctor regarding your fitness for travel. He entirely agrees that, under the present circumstances, your full recovery would be facilitated by your immediate departure from the area of present hostilities. Besides," he added less formally, "they'll be needing the bed for the wounded."
"Where exactly do you plan to take me?" Tom asked.
"My instructions are to drive you to the British Embassy where you will be provided for until suitable arrangements can be made for your departure on the next U.K., U.S. or U.N. flight or vessel. If you prefer, I am to deliver you to the U.S. Embassy, where similar arrangements will be made."
Tom had been anxious to get out of the hospital, so he eagerly accepted Ambassador Roger's offer. In ten minutes they were on their way out the front door. There were no lights in Tel Aviv that night except the fires of burning buildings, which reflected against the smoke-filled sky and shrouded the city with an eerie glow.
"Polucki," Tom said, as his young British escort slowly drove the Mercedes through the abandoned streets, turning his lights on only when absolutely necessary and only for a few seconds at a time. "What's your first name?"
"Nigel, sir," Polucki replied.
"Polucki is a Polish name, isn't it?" Tom asked. "Yes, sir. My grandparents escaped to Britain at the beginning of the Second World War. They were part of the Polish government-in-exile which the British officially recognized as the true government of Poland."
At that moment the air around them began to rumble and convulse, finally culminating in the sound of an explosion, followed almost immediately by the screaming whine of a disabled Israeli jet as it careened in a tight spiral toward the ground. From inside the car it was impossible to determine what the sound was, but from the unearthly noise that shook the ground around them, it sounded like the gates of hell were opening.
The pilot was already dead as the jet slammed headlong into the side of a six story office building just two blocks away from where Polucki had brought the car to a screeching halt. His foot was planted firmly on the brake, and his fingers were locked around the steering wheel, but it did little to steady his shaking hands.
Tom was shaking too, but he grabbed his camera and jumped out of the car to get a shot of the destruction. "Wait here," he told his young escort. Nigel didn't argue – he needed a few minutes to steady his nerves before he would feel ready to drive again. Tom had walked only about thirty yards when again he heard the roar of jet engines. To his left, the horizon was filled with the wingspan of an oncoming Libyan MIG.
Flying just above the rooftops, the plane's engines swallowed up huge gulps of air as it passed directly over Tom's head, followed a moment later by a second jet, an Israeli Eagle, in hot pursuit. The MIG maneuvered sharply to the right and the Israeli followed. The Libyan went left, but the Israeli was right behind him. Then, as Tom recorded the images of the duel on his digital camera, the Libyan made what Tom thought was a fatal mistake: he started to climb. Tom knew the MIG could never match the Eagle in climbing speed. The Israeli closed on his target. As the two planes streaked skyward, the Eagle released a sidewinder air-to-air missile, just as Tom expected.
The missile closed in for the kill and Tom readied his camera to capture the moment of impact. But at what seemed the last possible second, the MIG rolled into a dive. It was a good maneuver, but it had come an instant too late. The heat-seeking missile had caught his scent and turned with him. Downward the MIG sped, racing for its life against the single-minded sidewinder. Soon the pilot would have to pull up, and when he did the loss of speed would allow the missile to overtake him.
Closer and closer he came to the ground, maintaining his course as long as possible in order to build speed. A few seconds more and it would be too late to pull up; the MIG would crash into the earth, followed by the unrelenting sidewinder.
The flyer made a valiant attempt, but as he passed the point at which Tom thought he must pull up, it seemed all had been in vain. Tom readied his camera to record the crash as, finally, the pilot raised the plane's nose. It's too late, Tom thought, but to his amazement the pilot raised the machine in a tight arch that missed the tops of buildings by less than fifty yards. The plane shook violently at the demanding effort but the pilot held its course, streaking directly overhead. The missile began to follow but was unable to fully make the radical course adjustment.
As Tom searched the sky for the trailing missile it suddenly came into full view. It was headed directly towards them. As the missile pierced the metal roof of Nigel's Mercedes it exploded in a sun-bright flash, killing Nigel instantly as his body disintegrated into minute particles and joined the wash of other charred projectiles flying in all directions at cyclone speed. Before Tom could even blink, small shards of steel and glass cut painful, bloody paths as they sank deep into his face and eyes, followed an instant later by the car's hood, which knocked him violently to the street.
Derwood, Maryland
Decker sat at the computer in his study, typing up the profile piece on Ambassador Hansen. It was early morning, a few minutes before 6:00. He would e-mail the article to News World later in the day, but there was no rush. The real news was the war in the Middle East. Hansen's profile would probably make for an interesting sidebar story to the war. Decker's angle was to look at Hansen as the man who almost stopped the war. It was an exaggeration, but he would tone it down in the body of the story.
In Louisa's old room, Decker could hear Christopher's alarm clock ringing. He was starting school in a few days and he wanted to re-adjust to early mornings. By the time Christopher was dressed, Decker had breakfast on the table.
"Good morning, sleepy head," Decker said when Christopher came into the kitchen. "I fixed your favorite: waffles and syrup with plenty of bacon on the side!"
Christopher gave Decker a knowing smile and responded, "Uh, Mr. Hawthorne, as I recall, that's your favorite breakfast. Remember?"
Decker put his hand over his mouth and gasped in mock surprise. "Why, so it is!" he said, continuing the act. "Well, now isn't that a wonderful coincidence!" Decker laughed at his own joke and reached for the remote control to turn on the kitchen TV set. It was 6:30 and the news was just starting. "Our top story," the news anchor said, "is the war in the Middle East. For two reports we go to Peter Fantham in Tel Aviv and James Worschal at the State Department. Peter?"
"Thanks John. Today is the Sabbath in Israel, a day of rest, but few are resting. Last night, just after dusk, as the Sabbath began, Syrian, Libyan and Iraqi jets penetrated Israeli air space, headed for dozens of strategic targets. At the same time, Syrian ground forces crossed into Israel from Syria and Lebanon, supported by additional ground forces from Jordan. Throughout the night and into the late morning, widespread fighting has continued on several fronts with heavy casualties on both sides.
"Behind me are the still smoldering remains of an American-made F-15 Eagle, one of the most modern planes in the Israeli arsenal, shot down last night in a dogfight over Tel Aviv by a Libyan MIG-25. But sources tell CNN that while there may have been far more Libyan and Iraqi MIGs than Israeli aircraft shot down in last night's fighting, the real story of the first day of this war was not in the air, but on the ground.
"CNN has learned that most of the Israeli Air Force never even got in the air. According to one source, dozens of Israeli fighters and bombers were destroyed and had to be bulldozed off runways to allow undamaged planes to take off. The Israeli military has refused comment and has ignored requests to allow our camera crew onto any of their bases, but unofficial estimates of losses range as high as sixty percent of the entire Israeli Air Force. If these figures are correct, Israel may be in a struggle for its very existence."
The scene switched to another reporter standing in a large hall with flags of various nations behind him. The caption identified the man as James Worschal and the place as the U.S. State Department.
"This is the fourth time Israel has been in an actual war with her Arab neighbors," the reporter began, "Each time before, she has emerged the victor against far superior numbers. But this time the odds seem to have changed dramatically in favor of her Arab neighbors.
"In the past, Israel has depended on four basic strategic advantages: superior intelligence capabilities; more highly trained and motivated soldiers and officers; a world-class air force; and distrust and disorganization among Arab allies at the command level. But this morning three of those four strategic advantages seem to have been severely damaged or lost altogether.
"The successful attack not only decimated the machinery of the Israeli Air Force, as Peter Fantham just reported from Tel Aviv, it has also shown that the perennial problem of cooperation between Arab states may have come to an end. Military experts tell CNN that last night's unified attack was nearly flawless. The level of coordination between the Syrians, Libyans, Iraqis, and Jordanians was a classic display of synchronized modern warfare. In part, at least, the Arab participants can thank the United States for that. U.S. military sources all seem to agree that the experience gained by Syria while working with the U.S. during Operation Desert Storm in 1991 played a large role in the success of this attack.
"Finally, John, the key to the success of last night's attack was surprise. The Arabs successfully launched a massive three-pronged attack in total secrecy. Israel's Intelligence Agency, the Mossad, has a reputation second to none in the world, but last night they appear to have been asleep on the job. John."
The scene switched to a split screen of the news desk in New York and the reporter at the State Department. "Jim, what about Israel's strategic defense that we've heard so much about? Isn't that a factor?"
"No, John. Although, as you say, Israel is believed to have a highly developed strategic defense – which unofficial estimates say may be more advanced than the US program – this highly touted system is not considered to be a factor in the present conflict. The reason for this is that the Arab attack used entirely conventional forces, while Israel's strategic defense – as its name implies – is designed to defend against a strategic attack by incoming missiles ranging from SCUDS to ICBMs. Against small, low-flying aircraft and ground forces their strategic defense was useless."
"What's the prognosis there at the State Department?" the anchor asked. "Has the possibility of direct U. S. intervention been discussed? And, even if the U.S. does become involved, is there much hope that Israel can recover from this?"
The reporter at the State Department adjusted his earphone before responding. "John, no one is talking openly about direct intervention, although it is very likely that both the U.S. and Britain will respond with assistance in the form of military equipment. To answer the second question: no one is making any bets on the outcome one way or another, but there is some quiet optimism being expressed. Despite the successful first strike, it's important to remember that this is not the first time Israel has suffered a surprise first strike. The first time was in the Yom Kippur war – a war which the Israelis came back to win and win big. The other point of optimism is still Israel's Air Force. Despite the heavy losses, it's possible that the Israelis may be able to make up in quality what they are lacking in quantity. Two examples keep being brought up: the first, as I mentioned, is the Yom Kippur war, in which the Israeli Air Force shot down over two hundred Syrian MIGs without the loss of a single Israeli aircraft. The other example – which in its own way is no less impressive – is that in July of 1970, in their only head-to-head meeting with the Soviet Union, the Israelis shot down six Russian MIG-21s while the Soviets failed to damage even one Israeli aircraft. If the Air Force can duplicate that kind of record in this war, they may still have a chance of surviving."
"Thanks, Jim. Now for more on this story we go to Tom Slade in Jerusalem." The scene switched to the Temple Mount.
"John, Arabs and Israelis have never really needed a reason to fight, but on this occasion the reason is clear. This is a holy war, a 'jihad,' bringing together Arab countries which only a few years ago were bitter rivals. Surprisingly, their cause is a piece of land only about the size of two football fields.
"Behind me, construction of the Jewish Temple goes on despite the war, on land claimed by both the Jews and Muslims. For nearly twelve hundred years, until it was destroyed by Jewish extremists three years ago, this spot was occupied by the Mosque of Omar, the third most holy shrine in Islam. Before that, on this same spot, stood the ancient Jewish Temple, which was itself destroyed in 70 A.D. by the Roman army.
"Orthodox Jews, who have tried to muster support for rebuilding the Temple since before Israel became a state in 1948, attempted to portray the destruction of the Mosque as a sign from God to rebuild the Temple, but for most Israelis, rebuilding the Temple was a non-issue.
"For nearly three years, since the destruction of the Wailing Wall by Palestinians and the subsequent destruction of the Mosque by Israelis, the land sat cordoned off, guarded and undisturbed behind Israeli police lines. During those years, Israeli politics has moved sharply to the right in response to continuing Palestinian riots. Last year Moshe Greenberg's Ichud party, campaigning on hard-line promises including expulsion of Palestinians suspected of rioting and the symbolic promise of rebuilding the Temple, won a small but solid plurality in the Knesset. Minority religious parties made the reconstruction of the Temple a key issue when they agreed to support the Ichud party in forming a coalition government.
"Today, after nearly four years of increasing tensions and violence between Palestinians and Israelis, even many nonreligious Israelis defiantly support the rebuilding of the Temple as a cultural and historic landmark. So, ironically, while fighting goes on all around it, here on the Temple Mount, the construction crews continue their work."
"Tom, aren't the workmen at great risk of being caught in an Arab air strike to destroy what has already been built?" the anchorman asked.
"Actually, no, John. Remember that even without the Mosque of Oman, this mount is the third holiest location in Islam. For the present, it's considered highly unlikely that the Arabs will do anything that might damage this site. They will not bomb the construction site, but many have vowed that if they are successful in taking Jerusalem, they will tear down the Temple with their bare hands."
"Thanks, Tom," said the anchor as the scene switched back to the studio. "Here in New York, the United Nations Security Council will meet this afternoon in emergency session to consider what action to take in response to this outbreak of hostilities. British Ambassador to the U.N., Jon Hansen, has been outspoken in his response to the attack. Hansen, who recently led a U.N. delegation to the Middle East, called on the United Nations to respond with strict economic sanctions, and suggested that if the fighting continues, he may seek deployment of the U.N.'s recently commissioned naval forces to blockade the combatants' ports.
"But with most of the world still grieving for those who died in the Disaster and awaiting the official report on its cause from the World Health Organization, there is a sense that while the words and posturing may be the same as in any other war, realities are actually very much changed. Most of the world has seen all the death that it can stomach for a while."
Decker turned down the volume with the remote, "Well, Christopher, it seems our trip to New York allowed you to get a bird's-eye view of history in the making."
Christopher looked upset. "Holy war," he said quoting one of the reporters. "Once again, man uses religious differences to justify his personal desires. Religion should lift men up, not be used as an excuse to kill and destroy."
Decker was unprepared for such a thoughtful response from his young ward. It took him a moment to shift gears and meet the boy on level ground – ground much higher than his comparatively petty statement about 'a bird's eye view of history.' He waited to hear what else Christopher might say, but Christopher seemed satisfied to keep his thoughts to himself and go back to his breakfast. Decker decided to probe. He didn't know what he expected, but here, sitting at his breakfast table was the clone of Jesus of Nazareth – a fact which seemed strangely easy to forget – and he was talking about religion. Decker wanted to keep him on the subject a while longer.
Decker had already determined never to reveal to Christopher the secret of his origin. But like most people, Decker thought about things like the meaning of the life, whether or not there is life after death, and if so, what it's like. He really wanted to hear what Christopher had to say on such subjects. As he was about to speak, Decker hesitated. Christopher was, after all, only fourteen years old. How much insight could he really have into such things? It wasn't as though Decker would actually be talking to Jesus; Professor Goodman had made it clear that Christopher had no memory of his past life. Still, Decker had to ask.
"Christopher," Decker began, "I don't want to pry into your private thoughts or anything, so if you don't care to talk about it, just say so; but I'm interested in what you were saying about religion."
Yeah, that was pretty good, he thought; not too pushy; not too probing. He didn't want to say anything he'd have to explain.
What Decker was about to hear would go far beyond anything he possibly could have expected. Christopher didn't answer right away. It seemed as though he was deeply considering something. At first Decker thought it was just an answer to the question, but the look on Christopher's face said that it was something altogether different. Could he have understood the real reason for Decker's question?
"Mr. Hawthorne," Christopher began, looking as serious as Decker had ever seen him, "I've been meaning to talk with you about something, but the time just never seemed right."
Christopher took a long breath while Decker looked at him in anxious surprise. "I know who I am," he said. "I know that I was cloned from cells that Uncle Harry found on the Shroud of Turin."
"What?! How do you know?" Decker managed to sputter despite his shock.
"Well, I always had a feeling that I was different from other kids. But whenever I mentioned it to Aunt Martha she would just tell me that every kid feels that way from time to time and that I shouldn't let it bother me. Aunt Martha was a wonderful lady: she could always make me feel better.
"But when I got a little older, just before my twelfth birthday, I had a terrifying nightmare of being crucified – literally! It was so real. I didn't tell Aunt Martha or Uncle Harry about it because I thought it was just a nightmare. But over the next few months I had the same dream several more times. Of course, I had heard of crucifixion, but it didn't particularly frighten me, certainly not enough to cause a recurring nightmare. The dreams were always terrifying while they were happening, but when I'd wake up, it all just seemed kind of crazy, and pretty soon I'd go back to sleep.
"Then about a year ago, I was in Uncle Harry's study. He was doing some work at his desk and I was doing my homework in his big over-stuffed chair and I fell asleep. When I did, I had the dream again and apparently I started talking in my sleep. When I woke up Uncle Harry was sitting in front of me with the strangest look on his face. He had recorded most of what I said in my sleep on his old tape recorder. When he played it back for me I didn't understand a single word. It was my voice but the words weren't English.
"Uncle Harry called someone he knew in the language department at the university, played the tape for him over the phone, and asked him if he could identify the language. The man said that I had been talking in ancient Aramaic with some Hebrew thrown in.
"That's when Uncle Harry told me the whole story about the Shroud and everything. According to the man on the phone, a couple of things I said in my sleep were similar to things Jesus was supposed to have said when he was crucified.
"It was scary, but to tell you the truth, it was kinda neat too, especially when Uncle Harry told me his theory that Jesus might have been from another planet. I guess every kid likes to think he's special. He made me promise not to tell Aunt Martha or anyone else because he was afraid of what people might think or do. He was especially worried about the fundamentalist Christians who would think it was a sin to clone Jesus. He said that the only other person who knew about me was you. And, of course, you were in Lebanon."
"But how can you remember these things?"
"Uncle Harry wondered about that, too, and he had a theory that he thought might explain it. He said that each cell in the body has the blueprints for the whole body – not just things like race and sex and hair color and eye color and whether you'll be tall or short, but everything that every other cell in the body needs to know to function. That's how the single cell of a fertilized egg can reproduce to form something as complex as a human being. The information even tells the cells in a finger which finger they're in and how they're supposed to grow so that finger fits with the other fingers on the hand, and is the same size as the matching finger on the other hand. He said that information is also what makes cloning possible.
"Uncle Harry's theory was that the cells may include even more information than all of that. He said that about 95% of human DNA is called 'junk DNA' by scientists because they still don't know what it's for. He thought maybe the junk DNA is used by cells to record any changes in other cells, so that every cell stores the information from every other cell, including the cells of the brain. He said that might also answer some questions about evolution and something he called the collective unconscious of the species, but he didn't really explain that." Decker recognized the reference to the theories of Sigmund Freud's protégé, Carl Jung.
"Before he and Aunt Martha died, Uncle Harry was experimenting with some white mice to see if a cloned mouse would remember its way through a maze that the original mouse had been trained to go through. I don't think he ever completed his work on that.
"He thought that maybe the reason my memory is only partial is because of the cellular trauma of crucifixion, resurrection, and cloning."
"Do you remember anything after Jesus's resurrection?" Decker asked.
"No. Uncle Harry said that I wouldn't remember anything about that because I was cloned from a cell left on the Shroud only seconds after the resurrection."
"Is there anything else besides the crucifixion that you remember about your life as Jesus?"
"Uncle Harry tried to spur my memory by having me read parts of Aunt Martha's Bible. It was interesting, but it didn't help me remember anything. There was one thing in the Bible that seemed really confused, though."
Decker was intrigued. "What was that, Christopher? What was confused?"
"Well, the Bible made it seem like Jesus knew he was going to be killed, like it was all planned out, but that's not the way it was. I know this all sounds kinda strange, but in my dream, before the crucifixion, I remember being in front of Pilate and he was asking me questions. The whole time I just kept thinking that any minute I'd be rescued by angels. But something went wrong. Mr. Hawthorne, the crucifixion wasn't supposed to happen! For hours I hung on that cross with spikes driven through my wrists and feet, trying to understand what went wrong. That's why I said, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?' I wasn't supposed to die. God was supposed to rescue me!"
Remembering this was obviously a painful experience for Christopher. "I'm sorry," Decker said, as he put his hand on the boy's shoulder and tried to comfort him.
At that moment the phone rang.
Decker gave Christopher's back a comforting rub and went to answer the phone. It was Ambassador Hansen. "Decker, I don't know any way to say this to make it any easier on you," Hansen said, "so I'm just going to read you the dispatch I received from Ambassador Rogers in Tel Aviv.
As per your request, at about five o 'clock Eastern time, midnight Israeli time, a driver was dispatched to Tel Hashomer Hospital to bring Mr. Tom Donafin back to the British Embassy with the intention of expediting his departure from Israel. The driver and Mr. Donafin were expected back within two hours. Three hours later, that is about three o 'clock a.m. Israeli time, the driver had still not returned to the Embassy and could not be reached by mobile phone.
In keeping with standard operating procedures, a search team was dispatched to cover the route that the driver had indicated on his itinerary. The search team was unsuccessful in finding either the driver or the car, but they did verify that Mr. Donafin had checked out of the hospital and left with the driver from the Embassy.
The search team expanded their search to include some likely alternate routes and at about seven thirty a. m. Israel time, they located what was left of the car, which was positively identified by the license plate.
"Decker, I'm sorry," Hansen concluded. "It appears that the car took a direct hit from a stray missile or artillery shell and was completely destroyed. There were no survivors."
New York
The wealth of the Bragford family was clearly evident in the solid cherry wood paneling, rich carpeting, and highly polished brass which presented former U.N. Assistant Secretary-General Robert Milner and Alice Bernley with perfect mirrored images of themselves and the operator who was piloting the private elevator to the penthouse office of the family's guiding force, David Bragford.
Most of Robert Milner's adult life had been spent in the presence of the wealthy and powerful. Raising large amounts of money from rich patrons for special projects at the U.N. came with the job of being Assistant Secretary-General, and Milner was quite good at it. The experience had its benefits. He knew what it took to separate the rich from their money, at least small portions of it. He had become adept at getting what he wanted by alternately stroking an ego and stoking a sense of guilt for having so much while others starved.
Still, Milner held a deeply seated distrust of those with great wealth, and certainly there were few on earth who possessed such wealth as did the Bragfords. Men like David Bragford were altogether different from the garden-variety rich. While it was true that the Bragford family had been very extravagant in their support of the U.N. – indeed, the Bragfords had been instrumental in financing the original organization of the U.N. – Milner had found that such extravagance is never born purely of generosity. When they gave, there was usually something they expected in return and in Milner's experience, at the very least that meant intrusion.
It was, therefore, with some discomfort that he agreed to accompany Alice Bernley to Bragford's office. Bernley was positive, she said, that this was the right thing to do and that Bragford would help them. She had consulted her spirit guide, the Tibetan Master Djwlij Kajm, and he had left no doubt that Bragford was to be consulted.
At the conclusion of their ascent to the penthouse, they were met by David Bragford's administrative assistant who escorted them past two security posts to a mammoth office where David Bragford sat comfortably on the edge of his desk, talking on the telephone. Beside the desk, on the white carpeting, lay a full-grown black Labrador retriever who, unlike their host, seemed to take no notice of their arrival. Bragford quickly finished his conversation and joined his guests in a sitting area of the office.
"Alice, Mister Assistant Secretary-General, welcome," Bragford said, affording Milner the honor of his previous post. "Can I get you anything? Would you like some coffee?" Bragford had his secretary bring coffee for his guests while he shared niceties with Alice Bernley and Robert Milner about their recent projects. The arrival of the coffee seemed to mark the end of small talk and the beginning of discussion of the business at hand.
"So," David Bragford said, directing his opening to Milner, "Alice tells me that you would like my help with something."
"Yes," Alice Bernley said, taking the lead. "As you know, Master Djwlij Kajm many years ago prophesied that both Bob and I would live to see the true Krishnamurti, the Ruler of the New Age. Yesterday, we saw him."
One would never have guessed it from the look on his face, but with each word Alice spoke, Robert Milner was dying inside of embarrassment. Why, he asked himself, had he allowed Alice to do the talking? He should have known this would happen; Alice was not one to control her emotions. This was not the correct approach for the uninitiated. Sure it was all true, they had seen him, but Milner knew damn well that David Bragford did not believe one word of this about Bernley's spirit guide. Bragford, after all, had never been present at a demonstration of the Master Djwlij Kajm's power.
"That's great," Bragford replied to Alice Bernley's introduction. "When can I meet him?"
Though there was absolutely no evidence of it, Robert Milner was sure Bragford was patronizing them, but he was suffering too greatly from the embarrassment to respond.
"Oh, well, that's the problem," Bernley said. "We don't know where he is. He was at the U.N., but then he left with a man, possibly his father."
"His father?" Bragford asked. "Just how old is this… uh," Bragford was trying hard not to say anything that would make his skepticism too obvious, but he could not for the life of him remember what Bernley had called this person.
Alice spared him the difficulty of finishing his sentence. "He's just a boy," she said. "I'd guess he was about, oh, what would you say, Bob?" But Bob wasn't saying. It didn't matter though, Alice was already starting to answer her own question: "fourteen or fifteen, I'd say."
"Fourteen or fifteen?" Bragford echoed.
"Yes," Bernley said, ignoring Bragford's raised eyebrows and the skepticism in his voice. "What we need is your help finding out who he is."
To Milner's surprise, Bragford was ready with an answer. "I think I have just the right person to help you. Just a moment," he said as he reached for the phone on the coffee table. "Betty, would you ask Mr. Tarkington to join us in my office?"
Almost immediately, the door opened and a tall muscular man entered the office. "Come in, Sam," David Bragford said, as he sat his cup down. Bernley and Milner rose to meet him. After the introductions Bragford got right to the point of explaining what was required, but leaving out the stranger aspects of Bernley's and Milner's interest in finding the individuals.
"Do you think you can do it?" Bragford asked.
"I believe so, sir. The security cameras at the U.N. record everyone entering and exiting the guest lobby. I can get the tapes from U.N. Security. If Ms. Bernley and the Assistant Secretary-General can identify the man and boy from the tape, then I'll put our people to work finding out who they are. If they went anywhere in the building that required signing a registry, such as the Secretariat Building or the Delegates Dining Room, it'll make our job a lot easier."
"Great," Bragford said, satisfied with the prospects and confident of Tarkington's abilities.
"Great," echoed Alice Bernley. "Now, once we find out who they are, there's one other thing we may need your help with."
Tel Aviv
The darkened streets were nearly silent as the tall bearded man walked among the rubble scattered across the pockmarked asphalt. His long purposeful strides and the soft muffled sounds of the leather soles of his shoes gave no hint of the great weight the man bore over his shoulder. The long brown, curled hair of his traditional Hasidic earlock was flattened against his cheek, sandwiched tightly between his face and the load that he carried. For more than six miles the darkly-dressed man carried his load, from the business district of the city, down long straight streets, to a cluster of apartment buildings near the shore of the Mediterranean.
Finally, the man stopped in front of a ten-story apartment building on Ramat Aviz and went to the front entrance. The glass doors, which had been destroyed in a blast the night before, had been replaced with sheets of plywood. The man knocked, and a moment later the door was cracked open and two eyes peered out at him. As recognition registered in the eyes, the door was quickly shut again and a table moved so that the door could be fully opened. A rather plain woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a blood-stained surgical gown, greeted her unexpected guest.
"Welcome, Rabbi," she said, as she led him to an area of the lobby that had been converted to a makeshift clinic. Here and there family members of some of the patients were camped out near their relatives to assist with their care.
"Not here with the others," he said, his words revealing a voice unusually rich and measured. "You must take him to your apartment."
Only now did the woman see the face of the man the rabbi carried over his shoulder. The blood that covered his face and soaked his clothes was foreboding enough to his prognosis, but his misshapen skull led her to believe that the patient was as good as dead, and, perhaps, would be better off if he was.
"Rabbi, I think we're wasting our time with this one," she said.
"You must see to it that we are not," he answered firmly, as he turned and walked toward the stairwell. "You are a good doctor. I have full confidence in your abilities."
"But Rabbi, he's nearly dead if he's not dead already."
"He is not dead," the rabbi said, as he opened the door and began to ascend the first flight of stairs, the woman following close behind.
The woman moved quickly up the stairs, dipping and swerving to get around the rabbi, then placed herself in the middle of the stairs, stopping his advance. The rabbi stared insistently, his eyes telling her to let him pass.
"At least let me check his pulse!" she pleaded.
The rabbi paused as she took the man's wrist and checked his pulse. He watched her eyes, entirely certain of what she would find. To her amazement the pulse was reasonably strong. The rabbi moved past her and continued up the steps.
"Okay," she said, "so he's alive, but you can see the condition of his head. He's probably hopelessly brain-damaged."
"There's nothing wrong with his brain. It's an old injury he received when he was a child." The rabbi reached the third floor and opened the stairwell door.
"Okay, okay, so maybe he'll survive." She was becoming frantic to stop him as he made his way ever closer to her apartment with his unwelcome patient. She knew that her only hope was to talk him out of his plan. If he insisted, however, she knew she would have to submit: he was, after all, the rabbi. The problem was that as far as she knew, no one had ever talked the rabbi out of anything.
"But why does he have to stay in my apartment?! Why can't he stay downstairs with the others?"
The rabbi, who had now reached her apartment, turned to answer as he waited for her to unlock the door. "He is unclean," he answered in a whisper, though no one else was within earshot. "He is uncircumcised," he added in clarification. "Also, he will need your personal care."
Convinced that it was futile to resist, the woman relented and opened the door. "Put him in the extra bedroom," she said as she grabbed some old sheets from the linen closet.
"Is he a gentile?" she asked, as she began spreading the sheets on the bed.
"He believes he is," he answered. "In a week or so, when he is better, I will see to his circumcision."
"Who is he?" she asked, now reluctantly reconciled to her situation.
"His name is Tom Donafin." The rabbi waited while the woman ran water into a basin and began to clean Tom's wounds. "He is the one of whom the prophecy spoke when it said, 'He must bring death and die that the end and the beginning may come.'"
The woman stopped her work and looked back at the rabbi, stunned at what she had just been told.
"He is the last in the lineage of James, the brother of the Lord," he continued. "He is the Avenger of Blood."