Hundreds of spectators and media from around the world converged on the Stockholm City Hall, a building inspired by the architects who designed Renaissance palaces. A BBC journalist looked into a live television camera and spoke. “This is the culmination of the world’s most prestigious award ceremonies. Laureates and luminaries from around the globe are here tonight. Just a few minutes ago, we spoke with U.S. Secretary of State Merriam Hanover who confirmed rumors that Paul Marcus, the enigmatic American nominated for the Nobel Prize in Medicine, is indeed here. Marcus, as you may know, made international headlines for refusing to accept the nomination. It’s not publicly known why he changed his mind. Security is tighter than ever before because this is the first time a sitting American president is accepting the Nobel Peace Prize Award.”
Federal agent Darryl Lawson stayed behind in the Secret Service mobile command area of the building where he debriefed his superiors on the shooting. Another agent escorted Marcus and Alicia through the corridors where agents staked out positions in front of locked exits.
“The president will join you in a minute,” said the agent, opening a door to the posh settings of a private VIP room. The walls were paneled with dark, rich wood. Antique furniture gave the large room a feel of Swedish antiquity. Five large chandeliers bathed the guests in a warm glow. Women in elegant, long gowns accompanied men in black jackets, white ties and tails. The professional wait staff served champagne from crystal glasses and carried silver platters filled with mounds of black sturgeon caviar and broiled prawns. His Majesty, the King of Sweden, held court in one area of the room, sharing stories with the laureates.
A woman, hair pinned up, wearing a dark blue business suit, approached Marcus and Alicia. “Mr. Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Liv Backlund from the concierge’s office. I apologize for any intrusion, however, sir, there is a gentlemen on the phone who says he has an urgent message from his sister.”
“Who is he?”
“He said his name is Laurent Fournier. He said his sister is Gisele Fournier.”
Marcus said nothing for a few seconds.
Alicia said, “That’s impossible. Gisele is dead.”
“I’m sorry Madame,” the woman nodded. She looked at Marcus. “Shall I tell the caller you can’t be reached?”
“No, I’ll take the call.”
“Very good, sir. You may take the call in the hall outside. Please, follow me.”
Alicia gave Marcus an anxious look. He said, “It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”
In the hall, the concierge pointed to a white phone cradled on top of a polished marble and mahogany stand. As he lifted the receiver, the woman smiled and left. “This is Paul Marcus.”
“Mr. Marcus, my name is Laurent Fournier. I don’t mean to bother you. It’s just that I saw all of the news coverage of your arrival in Stockholm, and I thought of my sister, Gisele. She spoke highly of you.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. Your sister was a fine and caring person.”
“Thank you. When Gisele’s body was being prepared for burial, the funeral director discovered a sealed note she had apparently hidden in her blouse either before her death from the car accident or as she lay dying. Your name was on the envelope.”
Marcus felt his heart beat faster. “What does the note say?”
“It was written by my grandfather, and it appears to be some sort of communiqué to a nun, an assistant to the Pope at the end of World War II.”
“Please, read the opening sentence.”
“No problem. It says, ‘Dear Mother Pascaline, please inform the Pope that we are praying for a swift recovery in France and the rest of Europe from the aftermath of such a terrible war.’”
“Is there text at the bottom of the letter written in a different language?”
“Yes, but I can’t read it.”
“Give me your number, and I’ll text you back mine. Can you send me a picture of it as soon as you get my number?”
“Yes, no problem.”
As the man spoke, Marcus memorized the number. “Thank you, Mr. Fournier.”
“Oh, one other thing. Gisele mentioned to me she’d told you that Paris Police Inspector Juneau said there was no Inspector Victor Roux when she’d called with the information warning of the possible assassination attempt on Israeli Prime Minister Meltzer. There is a story this morning in the news — the French DGSE has arrested Inspector Juneau because they believe he has connections to whoever killed Meltzer.”
Marcus closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank you for telling me.” Then he sent a text to the number and waited.
ONE-HUNDRED-THREE
Alicia accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter. After he left, she turned to Marcus who arrived back inside the great room and briefed her on the call. “Is the postscript on the letter from Gisele Fournier’s grandfather in Arabic?”
“No, it’s Hebrew. Philippe Fournier wrote, ‘My dreams do not allow me very much sleep anymore. I have premonitions without a real sign as to their ultimate meaning. Perhaps, Pope Pius, you can hear my sins, interpret my dark dreams and offer hope. Not for me, but for mankind. I have sinned. I have killed because of the atrocities of Hitler and the war. I have seen visions of an army of wicked, not unlike the last war, crawling over a dark land. And I’ve seen a multitude of angels, and then a single angel, his sword drawn high over his head. I believe the vision is that of Saint Michael. The Order of St. Michael, as you know was founded here in France in 1469. In A.D 539, the last of the three horns was removed recognizing the Pope as a civil leader. I have reason to believe Saint Michael will return to where he was last seen on earth as an advocate of the children of Israel. I’m not sure what this means, however, one angel who guards the bridge carries the passage of the prince who arises from Daniel.’”
“You see a correlation, don’t you, Paul? I do, too. And I think some of the stuff we found in the vase, on that scroll written by Daniel, is connected to this.”
Marcus lowered his voice. “It could be our missing link…the actual date of the final day. Philippe Fournier mentions 1469 and 539 A.D. You add those and you get 2008, and that’s past history. The numbers on the scroll were 1260 days. Daniel also wrote that Saint Michael returned five decades and one day after the third horn was plucked away. Fournier writes about a third horn being removed in 539.”
Alicia keyed in her mobile phone and waited a few seconds for the information to appear on the screen. “It says Saint Michael, known as the Archangel, the angel who did battle with Satan, made his last appearance on earth atop the Castel Sant’Angelo, an old Roman mausoleum. The time was the triumph over the plague, and the year was 590 A.D.”
The doors opened and two more Secret Service agents entered, followed by the president, first lady, Secretary Merriam Hanover, assistants and two additional agents. The couple slowly worked the room, handshakes, wide smiles and snatches of congratulatory conversation, making their way to the Swedish King.
Alicia said, “If we add five decades and one year, fifty-one years to 2008 we get 2059. But what does that mean?”
“There’s still the reference in Daniel to 1260 days.”
“Which is about three and a half years.”
Marcus glanced around the room. The president’s party was coming closer. “Alicia, let’s tee up Daniel’s reference to Saint Michael returning fifty-one years after the horn was plucked away. If we add that number to the year the horn was plucked away, we come up with 590 A.D, the last time Archangel Michael was seen on earth. We need to go to Rome, to the bridge Gisele’s grandfather visited when he met with the Pope. I think that’s where we’ll find the last number to the puzzle, the missing link.”