The Harbinger (2 page)

“An alarm?” she asked. “An alarm of what?”

“Of warning.”

“To whom?”

“America.”

“Why?”

“When you hear it,” he said, “you’ll understand why.”

“All this from a mystery that goes back…how far did you say?”

“I didn’t say.”

“So how far back does it go?”

“Two and a half thousand years.”

“A two-and-a-half-thousand-year-old mystery behind what’s happening in the twenty-first century from politics to the economy to foreign affairs—all that and you’re the only one who knows about it?”

“I’m not the only one.”

“Who else knows about it?” she asked.

“There’s at least one other.”

“Not the government? The government has no idea, even though it’s behind all that?”

“As far as I know, no government, no intelligence agency, no one else.”

“No one but you.”

“And at least one other.”

“And how did you happen to discover it?”

“I didn’t discover it,” he answered. “It was given to me.”

“Given? By whom?”

“A man.”

“And who was this man?”

“It’s hard to say.”

At this she leaned forward and spoke to him in a tone both intense and slightly sarcastic.

“Try me,” she said.

“You won’t understand.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” she replied, with a trace of amusement in her voice.

“No, he never told me.”

“So this earth-shattering mystery is known only by you and this one man who gave it to you but doesn’t have a name.”

“I didn’t say he didn’t have a name. He just never told it to me.”

“And you never asked?”

“I did, but he never told me.”

“No phone number?”

“He never gave me one.”

“No business card?”

“No.”

“Not even an e-mail?”

“I don’t expect you to believe me yet.”

“Why not?” she replied, making no attempt to hide her skepticism. “It sounds so plausible!”

“But hear me out.”

“So this man with no name gives you this mystery.”

“That’s correct.”

“And why to you?”

“I guess I was the right one.”

“So you were chosen?”

“I guess so,” he replied, his voice trailing off.

“And where did
he
get the mystery from?”

“I don’t know.”

“A mystery on which the nation’s future is hanging, and no one knows where it came from?”

“From where do prophets get their messages?”

“Prophets!” she said. “So now we’re talking prophets?”

“I guess we are.”

“As in Isaiah…Jeremiah?”

“Something like that.”

“The last time I heard about prophets I was in Sunday school, Nouriel. Prophets don’t exist anymore. They’ve been gone for ages.”

“How do you know?”

“So you’re telling me that the man who gave you this revelation is a prophet?”

“Something like that.”

“He told you he was a prophet?”

“No. He never came out and said it.”

“And you believe all this because it came from a prophet?”

“No,” he answered. “It wouldn’t have mattered who said it. It’s not about the messenger; it’s about the message.”

“So why are you telling
me
all this? Why did you come here? I’m not exactly known for dealing with anything remotely like this.”

“Because the stakes are so high. Because the future is hanging on it. Because it affects millions of people.”

“And you think I have a part in this?”

“I do.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

She leaned back in her chair and stared at him for a moment, intrigued, amused, and still trying to figure him out.

“So, Nouriel, tell me how it all began.”

He reached into his coat pocket, laid his closed hand down on the table, then opened it. In the middle of his palm was a small object of reddish, golden-brown clay, circular and about two inches in diameter.

“It all began with this.”

He handed it to her. She began examining it. The more she looked at it, the more intrigued she became. It was covered with what appeared to be ancient inscriptions.

“It all began with this.”

“And what is it?”

“It’s a seal,” he answered. “It’s the first seal.”

Chapter 2

The Prophet

A
SEAL,” SHE REPEATED
as she continued her examination of the object in her hands. “And what exactly is a seal?”

“It’s what they used in ancient times to mark a document as authentic or authoritative.”

She laid it down on the table.

“And the markings?”

“Letters,” he said, “Paleo-Hebrew engravings.”

“Paleo-Hebrew…I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s an ancient form of Hebrew script.”

“Are you some kind of an archaeologist?”

“No,” he replied, “a journalist, a freelance journalist.”

“Wait a minute…Kaplan…Nouriel Kaplan. I knew the name was familiar. You’ve done pieces in magazines and on the Internet.”

“Guilty.”

“Why didn’t it hit me before?” She shook her head back and forth in her amazement over not having recognized the name at the start. “So you’re
not
crazy after all,” she said, almost apologetically.

“Some would disagree with such a presumption,” he answered. At that, her demeanor and tone became markedly less guarded.

“But this has to be a departure for you. How did you get involved with it?”

“This is how,” he said, lifting the clay seal from the table. “This is what began everything.”

“How did you get it?”

“Believe it or not, it came in the mail.”

“You ordered it?”

“No. I didn’t order it, and I wasn’t expecting it. It just came…a small brown package with my name and address and no return address. Inside was this ancient-looking seal, nothing else, no letter of explanation…nothing.”

“And what did you think?”

“I didn’t know what to think. What was I supposed to make of it? It had no connection to anything in my life. Who would have sent it to me with no explanation? I put it away. But it continued to intrigue me. One day…it was late afternoon…I found myself unable to stop thinking about it. I decided to go outside for some fresh air. I put the seal in my coat pocket and went for a walk along the Hudson River. It was a windy day. The sky was dark, filled with ominous-looking clouds. After some time I sat down on one of the benches overlooking the water. I took out the seal and began examining it. I wasn’t alone on the bench; there was a man sitting to my left.”

“Looks like a storm,” he said without turning to me or interrupting his gaze, which was fixed on the sky above the water.

“It does,” I replied.

That’s when he decided to look, first at me and then at the seal in my hand. And that’s when the intensity of his gaze first struck me. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Some archaeological artifact.”

“May I see it?” he said. “I promise to be careful.”

I was reluctant, but for some reason…thinking back, I don’t know exactly why, I agreed to his request. He began examining its details.

“Do you have any idea what it is?” I asked.

“Where did you get it?”

“Why?”

“It’s very interesting. It’s an ancient seal.”

“Which is what?”

He continued, “Seals like this one were used to mark important documents—edicts, decrees, communications by kings, rulers, princes, priests, and scribes—in ancient times. The seal was the sign of authenticity. It would let you know that the message was real, from someone important, and to be taken seriously.”

“What about the writing?”

“It’s in ancient Paleo-Hebrew, from…I would say…the sixth to seventh century
B.C.
How did you get it?”

“Someone sent it to me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

He removed his gaze from the object just long enough to make eye contact with me as if surprised by my response.

“You don’t know who sent it to you?”

“No.”

“Someone just sent you this in the mail.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“About seals?”

“Yes.”

“Ancient objects are a hobby of mine. It’s Judean.”

“Judean?”

“The seal is from the kingdom of Judah.”

“And that’s significant?”

“Very. It’s where most of the Bible came from, the kingdom of Judah—Israel. There was never a people for whom the authenticity of a written word meant so much. For them, it was a matter of life or death. You see, God spoke to them. He sent them words, prophetic messages of correction. Messages to save them from calamity. If they ignored such a message, the result would be catastrophic.”

“And God sent these words how?”

“Through His messengers, through His servants, the prophets.”

“And how exactly would He
send
these messages?”

“The prophet would receive the word through impartation—a vision, a dream, an utterance, a sign. He would then be responsible to deliver the word to the nation, either by proclaiming it or by committing it to writing or by performing a prophetic act.”

“And how would the nation know if a word came from God or not…if it was authentic? How would you recognize an authentic prophet?”

“It wouldn’t be by his appearance,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. He wouldn’t necessarily look any different from anyone else, except that he was
called
. He could be a prince or a farmer, a shepherd, a carpenter. He could be sitting right next to you, and you’d have no idea you were sitting next to a prophet. It wasn’t about the prophet but about the One who sent him.”

“So then how would they know if the message was from God?”

“It would contain the mark, the fingerprint of the One who sent it.”

“Like a seal.”

“Yes, like a seal…and the word would come at the appointed time—when the nation needed to hear it, in critical times and in times of apostasy and danger.”

“Danger?”

“Of judgment,” he replied.

“And would they listen to the prophets?”

“Some would; most would not. They preferred to hear pleasant messages. But the messages of the prophets weren’t meant to make them feel good but to warn them. So the prophets were persecuted…and then came judgment…calamity…destruction.” He handed me back the seal.

“It was him,” said Ana, breaking her silence. “The man on the bench…he was the prophet.”

“Yes.”

“He was letting you know that when he said, ‘He could be sitting right next to you.’”

“Exactly.”

“What did he look like?”

“Somewhat thin, dark hair, a closely cropped beard. He was Mediterranean or Middle Eastern looking.”

“And what was he wearing?”

“A long dark coat. He was always wearing the same coat every time I saw him.”

“So he handed you back the seal.”

“Yes, and I asked him, ‘So why would anyone want to send me an ancient seal?’

“‘A seal,’ he said, ‘bears witness to a message that it’s authentic or that it’s of great importance.’

“‘But what would that have to do with me?’ I asked. ‘I don’t have anything to do with messages of great importance.’

“‘Maybe you do and just don’t know it.’