Marcus thought about the data he uncovered from the inscription, especially the last verse, ‘and they shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks…’
“Hey asshole! Remember me?”
Marcus turned around. A man stood in the shadows. Marcus recognized the nervous, high-pitched voice. He could see the glint of a knife in the man’s hand.
“Set the laptop on the ground! Toss your wallet! Do it!”
“I remember you. You’re the guy who attacked the old man.”
“And I’m the guy who told you I’d slit your throat the next time we meet.”
Marcus said nothing.
“It’s nobody but us, dude. No cameras on this part of the street either. Put the computer down!” The man stepped closer, crouching.
“Do you think you’re the first person who’s pulled a knife on me?”
“I’ll be the last.” The man lunged at Marcus. The blade nicked his shirt. Marcus used the back of his computer as a shield countering the man’s attack stance. The mugger thrust the knife. The blade hit the steel of the computer. Marcus kicked the man in the chest. The blow was hard, in the center of the solar plexus. The kick sent the knife flying out of the man’s hand. He fell to the ground, wheezing and writhing on the street trying to suck air back into his lungs. Marcus set his computer down, picked up the long knife and broke the blade across his knee.
The man caught his breath and scurried backwards on his palms trying to flee. As he attempted to stand, Marcus grabbed him by the shirt and slammed his back against the wall. Marcus held him with one hand and drew back his fist. Then he stopped, the man’s eyes wide, frightened and pleading. Marcus slowly released him, the man sliding to the ground, tears spilling from eyes now small and wounded. He sucked in air, chest heaving. “Go on and kill me!”
“What?”
“Just kill me.”
Marcus could see the needle tracks on the man’s arms. “I’m not going to kill you. You’ll do that yourself if you keep sticking junk-filled needles into your body.”
“You have no idea what I’ve seen. You couldn’t understand the pain!”
Marcus said nothing for a few seconds. “What’s happened to you? Tell me.”
The man looked up at Marcus. “Why? I could have cut you.”
“But you didn’t. What have you seen?”
The man used the back of his trembling hand to wipe a tear from his cheek. “When I was thirteen, my entire family was killed when a suicide bomber walked by the market where my mother, father, brother and sister were shopping. This ring was removed from my father’s severed hand. They found it, and other parts of his body, fifty feet from the bomb. You know how many times I almost sold this to buy drugs. That’s how sick I have become…my father would be so ashamed of me.”
Marcus could see a gold ring with a small ruby inlaid in it.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mohammed Zaki”
“Mohammed, where’d you go after your family was killed?”
“I was sent to live in a crowded children’s home for kids who’d lost families. It was an orphanage, one of the few ever built to handle Arab war refugees. I ran away many times, but always they found me. The people who operated the orphanage were okay, there were just way too many kids there…and they kept coming. Some without arms or legs. I couldn’t stand all the crying, the suffering. I had to leave.”
“Please, get up.”
Mohammed stood, his back pressed to the stone wall.
Marcus said, “You’re right, your father probably would be ashamed of you. So the question is what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. What do you care?”
“What’s your passion? What would you like to do more than anything? ”
A gust blew down Via Dolorosa, lifting a piece of soiled newspaper from the street, tire marks across the print. Mohammed watched it for a moment, his eyes shifting back to Marcus. “I’d like to direct movies one day. It sounds crazy, but I love film.”
Marcus smiled. “It doesn’t sound crazy. It’s a goal you can begin moving toward today. You can die on the streets or change your way of thinking. Your choice. It begins by getting a job. Three blocks back there is the Abu Shukri Restaurant. The owner’s name is Radi. He’s looking for a good waiter. Tell him the man from Virginia sent you. To tie you over, here’s some money. Spend it on food, not drugs.” Marcus reached in his wallet and pulled out money. He handed it to Mohammed.
“Why are you doing this? I tried to rob you…not once but twice.”
Marcus shook his head. “You’re not very good as a mugger, and you aren’t a killer. Maybe it’s time to find your calling. Make some great films.”
Mohammed looked at Marcus in disbelief.
Marcus picked up his laptop and turned back to Mohammed. “I do have an idea what you went through. You’re not through it yet…I’m not either.” He nodded and continued walking down Via Dolorosa.
Mohammed watched him walk away. He glanced down at the money in his hand. He looked up, the clouds parting, revealing a crescent moon hanging over the Old City. For the first time since his family died, Mohammed said a prayer.
Soon Marcus was walking by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He paused in front of the church, its ancient walls and facade illuminated in the light. Marcus felt a stab of pain beneath the scar tissue on his chest, the allusion of rain coming from the Hinnom Valley. He started to walk but stopped when he heard a sound.
There were sounds, soft sobbing coming from the church. Marcus stepped a little closer to the old church. The weeping was louder. “Who’s there?” Marcus’s eyes searched the shadows around the church.
A dark cloud covered the moonlight. The temperature dropped as the wind changed directions, the sounds fading in the cold night air. Marcus turned his collar up and continued his walk alone down Via Dolorosa. The only sounds, again, coming from his leather soles against stones smoothed from ages of those who walked before him.
FORTY-TWO
It was after 11:00 p.m. when Paul Marcus reached his hotel. His mind was on the coding and the revelations beginning to appear. Locals and tourists — mostly people in their twenties, strolled the streets, coming in and out of nightclubs, music and the smell of alcohol, tobacco and burnt marijuana following them. Marcus stepped up to his hotel where a woman was getting out of a taxi, struggling to carry two suitcases, a large purse and two canvas bags. She paid the driver, a razor-thin man with a gold-hooped earring in his right ear. He got back in the taxi.
“Let me help you,” Marcus said, reaching for the suitcases.
She turned and smiled, blowing a strand of black hair from eyes that had the power of blue diamonds. Her smile was wide, eyes appreciative, accentuating high cheekbones and flawless skin. She wore a business suit, collar open, and a single strand of white pearls against her olive skin. “Thank you. It looks like the bell captain has the night off.”
“Maybe he’s on break,” Marcus said, opening the door for the woman. He waited for her to walk inside. Even with carrying the other suitcase, bags and purse, she walked like a model, shoulders squared and back straight. Marcus could tell she had the body of a woman who spent time exercising, shapely legs and thin waist.
The bellman came from the elevator, a luggage dolly in hand. He smiled awkwardly. “Madame, please allow me to help.” He took the bags while she waited for the desk clerk to finish with a customer.
The woman turned to Marcus and extended her hand. “I’m Layla Koury.”