“Yes, I’m here Dad. How are you feeling?”
“I’ve had some better days…and now that you’re here, today will make it one of those better days.”
Alicia smiled and held her father’s hand. “Dad, we’ll get Brandi out of Iran soon, okay? I want you to know that.”
“I believe you will, I do.” He managed to smile.
“I’ve been doing some research at work, and the subject is something you know well.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?” He coughed.
“World War II, specifically General Patton.”
Her father’s eyes opened wider, a sense of vigor now blooming in his face. “What about Patton?”
“I remember that poem you read to me and Dianne when we were kids, the one that Patton wrote.”
“You mean, Through a Glass, Darkly?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“What about it?”
“Patton makes reference to a spear, maybe the same one that pierced the side of Jesus. Patton supposedly recovered some religious artifacts from Hitler, including what’s been referred to as the Spear of Destiny. I wonder what ever happened to it.”
“Well, General Patton was in a minor car accident right before he was scheduled to fly home from Germany. He died in an Army hospital a week or so later in Mannheim. There are those who think he kept that spear for a good long time. But who really knows.”
“Dad, do you think Patton died from injuries sustained in the accident, or did someone kill him?”
Her father raised his eyebrows. “That’s a good question. There are numerous conflicting reports. What we know is he was the only one hurt in the accident. No one else had a scratch. An autopsy wasn’t done on the body. It’s no secret that Patton and Eisenhower came to despise each other. When Patton accused Eisenhower of caring more about a career in politics than conducting his military job, Ike relieved Patton of his duties and ordered him to come back to the States. The speculation part of all this is who’d want George Patton dead? Ike may have thought Patton was capable of dragging the nation into a war with Russia down the road. Stalin hated his guts, and the feeling was mutual. The Germans were too whipped to retaliate against Patton.”
“Did you know Patton removed the original set of the Nuremberg Laws out of Germany right before the tribunals were to begin?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t known by many until that library in California, where the papers were stored in a vault for fifty-five years, decided to give ‘em to the National Archives in Washington. The document was just four pages, but long enough to set the ground work to create Nazi, Germany, and they were signed by Hitler.”
“Do you know anything about the others in the car with Patton at the time of the accident, or the men in the truck that hit Patton’s car?”
Sam grinned. “My daughter suddenly sounds like an attorney. I remember reading that the fella who actually hit Patton’s car — what the hell was his name?”
“I can find it.”
“Okay, anyway, I read that he was flown out of there pretty damn quickly. On whose orders, I don’t know. I’m trying to recall something a war veteran told me long ago. These drugs have my mind scattered…but it was something about Stalin and Patton. I just can’t remember.”
“Don’t strain yourself, Dad. Was there anyone else in the truck with the driver?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, and I do remember his name. James Tower. He was a British officer, one of the Allies who stayed around to help with the clean-up.”
“Dad, do you believe Patton wrote that poem, Through a Glass, Darkly, because he’d found and kept the spear?”
Sam inhaled and coughed, causing a touch of pink flowering in his cheeks for a second. “Who the hell knows? Ike ordered Patton to return it and all the other religious artifacts the Germans had stolen from the Hofburg Palace and Museum in Vienna. The rumor was that Patton hung on to this spear, and some say he kept it with him at all times…maybe up to his death. Alicia, why this sudden interest?”
She smiled and squeezed his hand again.
Sam said, “I know, you can’t tell me. It’s all part of your job, right?”
“Right.”
Sam coughed.
“Can I get you some water?”
“No, I only use that stuff to bathe in. I could handle a shot of scotch, though.”
“I’ll ask Mom to make sure it won’t be an adverse mix with your medication.”
Sam looked toward the pictures of his family on the wall and said, “A mixture like that might kill me.”
Alicia smiled at his joke and touched his shoulder. “I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart.”
She stood and kissed her father on the forehead.
“I just remembered something else about the British officer, James Tower.”
“What’s that, Dad?”
“I read that he spoke fluent German, Russian and Italian.”
FORTY-NINE
Paul Marcus stood near the Western Wall, the sound of people praying in the background. His mind replayed the conversations he’d had with Bahir about Solomon’s Temple, its size, and its possible location. He watched Jewish men pray at the face of the wall in a separate area from the women. A fence divided them. Some of the women stood on plastic chairs in order to see over the fence where their husbands and sons prayed. Marcus saw a teenage Jewish boy write on a small slip of paper, whisper a request, and place the paper in a crack between the old stones.
Marcus moved on, strolling through the tide of worshipers, tourists and spiritual pilgrims. They were seeking the touch of a stone wall, the splash of water from an ancient cistern, the scent of anointment oils, the physical cornerstones to harden and set with their internal cathedrals of faith often flawed with hairline cracks.
Marcus glanced up at the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque near it. He discretely observed the Muslims, Christians, and Jews all walking the same streets, together, in a city of contradictions and denial, its borders drawn in the heated sands of conviction. The four quarters of the Old City were communities on the edge, alienated by suspicion and hypothesis. Synagogues, mosques, and churches stood on a two-thousand-year-old stage of non-scripted drama, playing to a world audience where everyone in the house was a critic. Marcus could smell sun block lotion, sweat and cigarette smoke on the clothes of the people he passed. He brushed by a man who stared at him a second too long.
“Paul Marcus.”
Marcus turned around. The man was short, balding, early sixties, face heavily lined, dark glasses and wearing a polo shirt outside his khaki Bermuda shorts. He wore sandals. “I’m actually a friend of Jacob Kogen. There’s a nice café a few meters to the west. Please, let me buy you a coffee. I’d like to discuss something with you.”
“Who are you?”
“I sincerely appreciate the information you delivered about a possible assassination attack on the prime minister. I’m thankful to God that no such attack was made. My name is Nathan Levy. I work for the Israeli government.” The director of the Mossad smiled.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Please, let’s sit where it’s quiet. As much as I love the old wall, the prayers can become way too loud when many people are here.”
Marcus nodded and followed the man to the café. They went inside and took a seat in the far corner, Levy’s back to the wall. They ordered coffees and Levy said, “I speak for Jacob and all of Israel, really, when I say we are most appreciative of your efforts to decode the mysteries of the Bible.”
“It’s not me. It’s the vast knowledge Isaac Newton had of the Bible, the people — all the tribes, events and languages. I’m just trying to sort through the cards in the deck.”