“We will have more than adequate security. Paul, your decryption talents are, no doubt, without equal. Let us hope, however, the information you are receiving from your sources, the Bible and writings of Isaac Newton, are inaccurate. The time you are placing in decrypting ancient codes and writings could be, in my opinion, better served with the challenges of the present and future. Have you reconsidered my offer?”
“That’s not what I came to the Middle East to do.”
“But yet you have become the prophet of doom, the early warning of impending assassinations that do not materialize. You are wasting your time. Jacob Kogen is a man looking for signs from God when, in fact, evil is constantly rearing its ugly head. These ancient texts are hieroglyphics that have no bearing whatsoever on today’s complex issues. I trust you can understand that.”
“A lot of today’s complex issues are really pretty simple and have been the same for two thousand years. All that’s changed is the choice of weapons.”
“How long will you be in Paris?”
“I didn’t say I was in Paris.”
“I assumed as much because you told me about the statue of the angel. I was aware of the Rabin Memorial. Paul, please don’t take advantage of our hospitality and stray into other pastures. Our team is very good — so good, in fact, I’m told we can look for cyber fingerprints, or coding techniques unique to the author. Since you are only one of a handful of authors capable of such coding, I trust you have no illusions about what I’m saying.”
“Before you threaten me again, you’d better take seriously the information I just delivered to you. Levy, you want me working for you, right?”
“I am listening.”
“You find the bastard who killed my wife and daughter. He’s an Iranian agent.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because the other agent sent to kill me, Taheera, had no reason to lie when she was about to shoot me in the head. She told me an agent killed my wife and daughter, and then left me for dead because they didn’t want me recruited by Israel. Now, if you want me to damage the Iranian nuke operation, you kill the son-of-bitch that destroyed my life.”
SIXTY-THREE
Marcus left the café, caught a taxi and arrived at the Hotel de Crillon on Place de la Concorde. He entered the lobby and walked across the imported, honey-colored marble floor, which reflected light and glass from the opulent chandeliers. Before approaching the concierge’s desk, he glanced at the plasma monitor listing hotel events. An attractive young woman, whose nametag read Dominique, sat at the desk. “Dominique, I’m running late for Secretary of State Hanover’s dinner. Is it in the Batailles Room?”
She smiled, her eyes dazzling, bouncing light from the chandelier above her station. “No sir. That dinner is being held in the Marie-Antoinette Room on the second floor.”
“Thank you.”
Marcus took an elevator to the second floor. When the elevator doors opened, he could feel the hushed, efficient orchestration of a restricted, invitation-only dinner party. Guests, holding cocktail glasses, chatted in semi-circles while waiters in tuxedos delivered champagne and hors d’oeuvres. There was the smell of garlic, steamed crab and money in the air. Men in dark suits and short haircuts roamed the halls. Hotel security manned a metal detector leading to the Marie-Antoinette Room. Security agents checked ID’s while the crowd filed into the dining room. Marcus weaved his way through the guests and then stopped beneath a massive crystal chandelier to the far right of the entryway. He stood away from the throng, watched and waited.
When the last few late arrivals were ushered into the room, Secretary of State Hanover’s entourage arrived, and she was in the center flanked by assistants and bodyguards.
“Secretary Hanover!” shouted Marcus, lifting his arm. Two members of her security team were quickly in front of Marcus.
Secretary Hanover stopped and turned toward him. She smiled and walked over to Marcus. “It’s okay, gentlemen. This is Paul Marcus, the Nobel Laureate in medicine. It’s good to see you, Paul. Last we spoke you were in Jerusalem. What brings you to Paris?”
“Secretary Hanover, may I speak to you in private?”
“I’m sorry, but Secretary Hanover is already late for the dinner,” interrupted her assistant, Jennifer Greene. She was tall, thin lips, and a sharp nose that supported black-framed glasses. She held an iPhone and an iPad like weapons.
“It’s okay, Jennifer. Paul, I have a couple of minutes. Let’s step over there.” They walked a few feet away from the group. “I’m hoping you have good news and you’ve decided to attend the Nobel proceedings with the president.”
“Secretary Hanover—”
“Paul, I told you to call me Merriam.”
“Merriam, I have reason to believe that there will be an assassination attempt on the prime minister during Thursday’s ceremonies at the Yitzhak Rabin Memorial.”
Her eyes opened a little more and she tilted her head. “What have you heard and where’d you hear it?”
“I haven’t heard anything. I found something. I found it buried in biblical texts, information that indicates a possible plot to kill the prime minister.”
“Paul, I don’t want to seem like you’re shouting wolf, but this is the second time you’ve approached me about a potential threat to the prime minister’s life. Our intelligence found no indication, not the slightest evidence that anything was there during the Lincoln Memorial ceremony. I assure you, security will be heavy at the Rabin Memorial, too.”
“I’m not shouting wolf. Maybe I’m wrong again. But if something happened and I made no effort to warn anyone, I’d have a hard time with that.”
“I understand. It’s not unlike security in the world’s airports — better safe than sorry. I need to go make a speech. I hope to see you in Stockholm.” She turned to leave.
“Has any progress been made on getting Iran to release Brandi Hirsh and Adam Spencer?”
“We haven’t forgotten them. However, I’ll be frank with you, Paul. The talks have stalled. We’ve done all we can. I’m hopeful there will be more international pressure for their release, but the Iranians have waged a nasty campaign to convince people that the two Americans are spies. Those allegations are so farfetched it’s incredulous. Iran wants to play hard ball.”
“Maybe we can throw a perfect game.”
“What do you mean?”
Jennifer Greene, iPad wedged beneath one arm, thumbs punching the keys on her phone, approached. “Excuse me, Secretary Hanover, Ambassador Bertrand is waiting to introduce you to his guests.”
She nodded and said to Marcus, “I’m sorry, but duty calls.”
“Can you get a security clearance for me at the Rabin ceremony?”
“Of course. I’ll make sure of it.”
She turned to walk to the regal dining room. Marcus said, “Tell the president I’ll be in Stockholm with him.”
Secretary Hanover looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “Thank you, Paul.”
“At the Rabin Memorial — be careful and be very aware of your surroundings.”
Marcus registered at the Paris Eiffel Cambronne Hotel. He unlocked the door to his room, and then set his laptop and small suitcase on the bed just as his phone rang. Jacob Kogen said, “Paul, out of hundreds of European cathedrals, you have found the one that is the closest match possible in size, scope and engineering to what we know of Solomon’s Temple.”