F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 (20 page)

           
 
He forced them forward—

           
 
Empty!

           
 
"No!"

           
 
Sobbing, he dropped to his knees and crawled
around on the stone floor, running his hands over every inch of its craggy
surface, choking in the clouds of dust he raised, all in the futile hope that
she might still be here.

           
 
But she was not. The Mother was gone. The
Resting Place
had been vandalized and the Mother stolen.

           
 
Tearing at his beard, Kesev staggered to his
feet and screamed as the blackness surrounding him seeped into his despairing
soul.

           
 
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!"

           
 
For an eternal moment he stood there,
impotent, utterly lost, devoid of the most tenuous hope, frozen, incapable of
thought . . .

           
 
And then he remembered the car he'd seen
turning onto Route 90 earlier . . . the black Explorer.

           
 
Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe there was
still a chance. He had no honor to salvage, and no hope of redemption, but if
he could retrieve the Mother and return her to the
Resting Place
, he could continue his task as her
guardian.

           
 
Hope . . . like a cold spring bubbling up in
the heart of a desert . . . but he dared do little more than wet his lips.

           
 
All the way back to the highway, Kesev fixed
the image of the Explorer in his mind, trying to remember whatever details he
could about the driver and passenger. They'd been shadows, identifiable as male
and female and little more. When he screeched onto Route 90 again, he floored
the accelerator, pushing the Jeep to 150 kilometers an hour in the open
stretches, ready to flash his Shin Bet ID at any highway cop who tried to slow
him down.

           
 
He found a public phone on the outskirts of
Jerusalem
and learned from information that Eldan had
a car rental office in the Jerusalem Hilton.

           
 
Hoped edged a trifle higher.

           
 
He located the Eldan desk in the spacious
lobby of the tower portion of the Hilton. The pert brunette there wore a name
tag that said CHAYA in English. Kesev made sure she was properly impressed by
his Shin Bet ID, then he handed her the sheet from his notepad with the number
of the Explorer's license plate.

           
 
"Did you rent a Ford Explorer with this
plate out of here?"

           
 
"Explorer, you say?" She tapped a
few instructions into the terminal before her. A few beeps later, Chaya smiled.
"Yes, sir. To an American. Carolyn Ferris. Out of
New York
."

           
 
What luck! Found them on the first try. Then
again, if you were going to explore the area around the
Dead Sea
,
Jerusalem
was the ideal base.

           
 
"Have they returned the car yet?"

           
 
She shook her head. "Not yet."

           
 
"When's it due back?"

           
 
"Today, I would assume. They took it on a
two-day special—unlimited mileage. But there's nothing to say they won't keep
it till tomorrow. They have an option for extra days."

           
 
Tomorrow—he prayed they wouldn't keep it till
then. Especially since he wasn't even sure this Ferris couple were the ones he
wanted. The tire tracks around the
Resting Place
might not be theirs.

           
 
But they were the only lead he had.

           
 
If only there were some way to involve Shin
Bet in this. He could have the tire tracks identified as to their size and
brand and from that get a list of what vehicles used them as standard
equipment. If a Ford Explorer was on the list, he'd issue an all-points alert
for the Ferrises and their vehicle.

           
 
But Shin Bet would want to know what crime
they'd committed or were suspected of committing. Theft? What did they steal?

           
 
Kesev could not answer those basic questions,
so Shin Bet had to stay out of it. He was on his own.

           
 
He wrote down his home phone number and handed
it to the Eldan clerk.

           
 
"I will be close by and will be checking
in with you frequently. But if I am not about, call this number immediately
should you hear from the Ferrises. Leave your message on my answering machine.
Make sure you fill in whoever relieves you."

           
 
"Are they dangerous?" Chaya said, a
note of anxiety creeping into her voice.

           
He smiled to reassure her. It wasn't
easy. He wanted to grab the front of her blouse and pull her half across the
counter and shout that they may have stolen a relic that God Himself had
designated as
untouchable
and only
God Himself knew what might happen to Kesev—to the entire
world
—if it was not returned immediately to its designated Resting
Place.

           
 
Instead he kept his tone low and even.

           
 
"Absolutely not. They are just a couple
of tourists who may have witnessed something and we may need to question them.
The problem is that they don't know we're looking for them and we don't know
where to find them. Not yet. But with your help we can clear up this matter
swiftly and everyone can go about their business."

           
 
Meanwhile, he didn't have to sit idle.

           
 
He went to one of the Hilton's house phones
and asked the operator to connect him with the Ferris room. He slammed his fist
on the counter when she informed him that there was no Ferris registered at the
hotel, then glanced around to see if he'd startled anyone. He did not want to
attract attention. He forced himself to return the receiver gently to its
cradle.

           
 
Then he moved to a pay phone and called all
the major and some of the minor hotels in
Jerusalem
, asking to be connected to the Ferris room.

           
 
No luck. They weren't registered in
Jerusalem
. One could almost believe they'd driven to
the north end of Route 90, and instead of turning left toward
Jerusalem
, turned right toward
Jordan
. Or worse yet, were hijacked by some PLO
crazies. . .

           
 
The thought staggered Kesev, weakening his
knees.

           
 
The Mother . . . in the hands of that rabble!

           
 
No. Such a thing was unthinkable, so why
torture himself with it?

           
 
Kesev found himself a seat in the lobby where
he had an unobstructed view of the Eldan desk. He calmed himself with the
thought that he had done all that one man could do at the moment. All that was
left was the waiting. So he sat and waited. He was good at waiting. An expert.

           
Sooner or later the Ferris couple
would show up to return their car. When they did he would confront them. He'd
know if they were hiding something. And if they were, he'd get it out of them.
First by intimidating them with his Shin Bet credentials. If that didn't work,
there were other ways.

           
 
Kesev slipped his left hand into his pocket
and gripped the handle of the long folding knife he always carried.

           
 
Yes, he thought grimly. He knew other ways,
and he was quite ready to use whatever means were necessary to return the
Mother to the
Resting Place
.

           
Tel Aviv

           
 
"It
should be right around the next corner to the left," Carrie said,
glancing between the street signs and the map on her lap.

           
 
"I sure as hell hope so," Dan
muttered from the front seat.

           
 
Carrie reached forward and gave his shoulder a
gentle rub.

           
 
Poor Dan. Not a happy camper at the moment.
He'd complained most of the trip that her sitting in the back made him feel
like a chauffeur. Carrie was sorry about that, but with the way the Explorer
had bounced around the hills, she'd been afraid the Virgin would be harmed.
She'd folded down part of the rear seat and pulled the Virgin's blanket-swathed
form beside her to steady and protect it.

           
 
But even after they'd hit paved road she
stayed here, her fingers gripping one of the cords that bound the blankets.
Carrie felt
good
sitting close to the
Virgin. Despite the danger in smuggling her out of the country—Carrie had no
idea how the Israeli government felt about smuggling, but she was sure it could
cost Dan and her years in jail if they were caught—she felt strangely calm. At
peace.

           
 
"Damn this traffic!"

           
 
Poor Dan. He was anything but at peace. They'd
got lost twice already, and now they were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic
that would give
Manhattan
's cross-town crawl a run for its money, all of which might have been
bearable if the air conditioner had been working. Tel Aviv in the summer . . .
almost as hot as the desert they'd left this morning, but suffocatingly humid
thanks to the Mediterranean, only blocks away.

           
 
"At last!" Dan said as he turned off
Ibn Givrol in the northern end of the city.

           
 
Carrie saw it too: The Kaplan Gallery. Gold
letters on black marble over two large windows filled with paintings and
sculpture. A spasm of anxiety tightened her fingers around the cord. She prayed
Bernard Kaplan would help them. If not, where else could they go?

           
 
Dan had called him from
Jerusalem
and asked if he could arrange a shipment for
them similar to the one he'd arranged for Harold Gold. Dan said Kaplan had been
noncommittal on the phone but gave them directions—not very good directions—to
his gallery. Dan double-parked and turned to her. "Stay with the car. I'll
leave the engine running and run inside. Hope this isn't a wasted trip."

           
 
Carrie nodded and watched him disappear
through the gallery doors. She sat in the heat and fumes, ignoring the glares
of annoyed drivers as they inched around the Explorer. As long as they weren't
police . . .

           
 
Dan seemed to take forever inside the gallery.
Finally, when she was almost ready to run in and see what was taking him so
long, he emerged with a man in a gray business suit—tall, tanned, silver hair
slicked straight back. Dan introduced him as Bernard Kaplan. He said Mr. Kaplan
had called Harold in the interim and Harold had vouched for them.

           
 
"He wants to get a look at the size of
our, uh, sculpture."

           
 
"Ah, yes," Kaplan said with a
British accent—or was it Australian?—and flashed a dazzling set of caps as he
looked at the bundle. "About life-sized, as you said. I'll have a couple
of my men bring it in and we'll—"

           
 
"That's okay," Carrie said quickly.
"We'll bring it in ourselves."

           
 
Kaplan glanced at Dan who nodded and said,
"It could be fragile and this way we'll take full responsibility for any
damage."

           
 
Kaplan shrugged. "Right. Very well, then.
I'll have one of my men find a parking spot for your car."

           
 
With Carrie taking the shoulders and Dan the
legs, they carried the bundled Virgin the length of the gallery to the shipping
area at the rear where they placed her on a bench.

           
 
Before she could stop him, Kaplan had a knife
out and was cutting the cords.

           
 
"What are you doing?" Carrie said.

           
 
"Going to take a look at this sculpture
of yours."

           
 
"Must you?"

           
 
"Of course. How else can I list it for
the manifest?"

           
 
She watched anxiously as Kaplan cut the rest
of the cords and unwrapped the blankets. He gave a low whistle when he saw the
Virgin's face. His diction seemed to regress.

           
 
"Well, now, that's bloody somethin',
in'it?"

           
 
He leaned closer and touched the Virgin's
face, running the tip of his index finger over her cheek. Carrie wanted to grab
his wrist and yank him away, but restrained herself.

           
 
A few
more indignities, Mother Mary, then you 'II be on your way to safety.

           
 
"What is this?" Kaplan said.
"Some sort of wax? I've never seen anything like it. The detail is
incredible. Where'd you get it?"

           
 
Dan glanced at Carrie before he spoke. On the
trip from the desert they'd agreed that rather than invent a series of lies,
the best course was to give no answers at all.

           
 
"We'd prefer to keep our source a
secret," Dan said.

           
 
Kaplan nodded and straightened. Carrie sighed
with relief as he folded the blankets back over the Virgin.

           
 
"Very well. But 1 see no problem shipping
this out. We'll simply list it as a wax sculpture—a piece of contemporary
art."

           
 
An idea flashed in Carrie's mind. She turned
to Dan. "Why can't we do that ourselves? Ship it home on the plane with
us?"

           
 
"You could do that," Kaplan said.
"You wouldn't need me for that. But remember, anything going aboard an El
Al flight gets a going over like no other place in the world. Direct
inspection, dogs, metal scanners, X rays—"

           
 
"Never mind," Carrie said quickly as
she imagined the Virgin's skeleton lighting up on an inspector's fluoroscopic
scanner. "We'll do it your way."

           
 
"Very well," Kaplan said. "I
can include it with a consignment of our crates I've scheduled for shipment,
and have it on a freighter out of
Haifa
tonight."

           
 
"Wonderful!" Carrie said. "When
will it get to
New York
?"

           
 
"It's not going to
New York
," Kaplan said. "At least not on
this freighter. The
Greenbriar
will
get your shipment to
Cork
Harbor
. After that, we'll have to make other
arrangements for the second leg."

           
 
"Can't we get a nonstop?" Carrie
said. Kaplan's smile was tolerant. "No, love. We don't want a direct
route. Why draw a line straight to your door? Much safer to break up the trip.
We ship your crate to a fictitious name in
Cork
where one of my associates picks it up,
holds it a while, then puts in on another ship to
New York
. Bloody near impossible to trace."

           
 
Carrie was uncomfortable with the thought of
the Virgin lying in a moldy warehouse in
Ireland
, but if this sort of route would safeguard
her secret . . .

           
 
"How do we pay you?" she said.

           
 
"Cash, preferably."

           
 
She looked at Dan. Cash? Who had cash? All she
had was the AmEx card Brad had given her.

           
 
"Do you take plastic?"

           
 
Kaplan sighed. "I suppose we can work
something out."

Jerusalem

           
 
Kesev had given up sitting and waiting. Now he
was pacing and waiting. He'd explored every nook and cranny of the lobby,
browsed all of the shops until he thought he'd explode with frustration. Where
were these people, these Ferrises? They had to turn in their rental sooner or
later. Didn't they?

           
 
An awful thought struck him. He ran to the
Eldan counter. Chaya was still there. She'd just finished with a customer when
Kesev arrived.

           
 
"How many offices—rental centers—do you
have?" he said.

           
 
"I'm not sure," she said, furrowing
her brow. "Let's see . . . a couple in Tel Aviv, a couple in
Haifa
, one at
Ben
Gurion
Airport
—"

           
 
This was worse than he thought. "Can
these people, the Ferrises, turn their car in at any of them?"

           
 
"It's not a practice we encourage. In
fact, there's a drop-off fee that—"

           
 
Kesev tried to keep from shouting. "Can
they or can't they? A simple yes or no will do."

           
 
"Yes."

           
 
I am cursed by God, he thought. I have always
been cursed.

           
 
He wanted to scream, but that would solve
nothing.

           
 
"I want you to call every Eldan agency in
the country."

           
 
"But sir—"

           
 
"Every
one of them! It won't take you long. See if the Ferris car has been turned
in at any of them. If not, give them this very simple message: The Ferrises
rented their car here and you wish to be notified immediately if they turn in
their car anywhere else.
Immediately.
Is
that clear? Is that simple enough?"

           
 
She nodded, cowed by his ferocity.

           
 
"Good. Then get to it."

           
 
He turned and stalked away from the counter to
continue his pacing. And as he paced he was haunted with the possibility that
the Ferris couple might have had nothing at all to do with the disappearance of
the Mother.

Haifa

           
 
Haifa
had its beauties and Carrie wished she
could spend some time here seeing the sights. Behind them rose
Mount Carmel
, high, green and beautiful; somewhere on
its slopes, near the Stella Maris lighthouse, sat the
Mount Carmel
monastery, home of the Carmelite order; and
in a grotto on the monastery grounds was the cedar and porcelain statue of Our
Lady of Mount Carmel. Carrie would dearly love to climb the mountain to see it.

           
 
But she had to be all business now as she and
Dan stood in the monolithic shadow of the huge Dagon grain silo and watched the
inspector check off the crates on the manifest from the Kaplan Gallery. Her
American Express account now carried the purchase price of a piece of
"modern sculpture" from the Kaplan Gallery. Carrie had nothing
tangible to show for that charge, but the Virgin had been packed up and placed
on the gallery's shipping manifest. Carrie scanned the ships anchored in the
harbor but couldn't make out their names in the hazy air. One of them was the
Greenbriar,
which would unknowingly
start the Virgin on the long first leg of her journey to a new home. Beyond the
long breakwater stretched the azure expanse of the
Mediterranean
, bluer than she'd ever imagined a sea could
be. The creak of nails snapped her attention back to the docks. The inspector
was using a pry bar to open one of the crates. She looked more closely. Good
God, it was the Virgin's crate! She stepped forward but Dan grabbed her arm.
"Easy, Carrie," he whispered. "I told you we shouldn't have
come."