The Arrival

by J W Brazier

  Finally, Ian managed the securing of the Jew’s remains. He and Charles soon said their emotional good-byes to Nassir.

  Job finished, it was time to relax and prepare for their trip to America. They culminated their arduous journey and last night in Palestine the way they’d dreamed: a soaking hot bath, a sumptuous meal, and a long-awaited uninterrupted blissful night’s sleep tucked between crisp, clean sheets.

  *

  May 14: Early morning

  Ian awoke in a real bed for the first time after almost two years of contending with abject misery. He felt rested, but for a moment during the night, the tomb’s horrible images had revisited him in a vivid dream. He now lingered in bed, thinking about the nightmare, but soon refocused his mind by envisioning the perks of his newfound financial independence. No more bug-infested jungles, swamps, or living in tents mired in grit, dung, and mud.

  Being rich feels good, he mused. I like it.

  During a phone call the evening before, Charles had spoken at length with the research scientists at Solomon Industries. He verified they had the Jew’s body remains preserved and sealed for shipment.

  Elated at the good news, Abram had immediately deposited Ian’s bonus of cash and gold bullion into numbered Swiss bank accounts, as he’d asked. Ian and Charles each verified their accounts several times. They’d become multimillionaires set for life.

  Ian sat up in bed, but then let his head hit the pillow again. No hurry, so why not enjoy the bed, the figured. Then the phone rang: Charles, reminding Ian that their ship would leave port with or without them. They needed to leave the hotel, and soon.

  Charles’s third call finally spurred Ian into action and he began stuffing his steamer trunks.

  Charles is right. Time to pick up the pace, Taylor. You can relax later.

  Then a familiar sound from the streets caught Ian’s attention. He heard an endless rumble of trucks and exuberant people shouting. He walked toward for his balcony to check out the commotion, but stopped long enough to pour a two-finger glass of whiskey.

  What he saw below honestly alarmed him. Street activity had swollen, as if people were gathering for a parade. An endless line of trucks loaded with war machinery and lines of armed soldiers marched through the narrow streets. Ian took a big gulp of his drink. He spotted another sight he’d never seen: the merging convoys already sported their new flag, the Star of David, as they passed in review.

  “Look at that,” Ian mumbled. “The Jews took that giant leap into the unknown.”

  He raised his glass and toasted the procession. The Zionists had declared their independence. An all-out Arab-Israeli war was certain.

  “Here’s to you, Israel. May your God have mercy! You’re gonna need it,” Ian said.

  He thought about his friend Nassir and decided to make another toast.

  “Nassir, wherever you are, thank you, my friend. May your Allah bless you and keep you safe.”

  He gulped the last of his drink and then heard a disturbing sound. A ship’s steam horns bellowed in three long sequenced cycles from the Haifa docks. He wondered if the Golden Fleece was preparing for departure with the tide—or, worse, she was leaving sooner than expected.

  Ian hurried inside to finish packing. The situation appeared to be changing by the minute. The lineage from Abraham’s sons—Isaac and Ishmael—were about to renew their four-thousand-year-old argument over birthrights. He hoped he and Charles had enough time left to make it out of port.

  Now seated alongside a corner table, Ian eyed the four special items he’d bought from Nassir. All of them lay in a pile wrapped in cloth. Nassir had relayed an astounding story about these ancient Christian relics. He’d said that the items held powers unimaginable: power over evil. With those powers, though, came grave responsibilities for the relics’ possessor—and they would forever change their keeper’s life. Ian handled the objects with care, examining their details.

  “Hmm, wonder if these artifacts are genuine … with the powers that Nassir claims.”

  Nassir’s story told of how Bedouin tribesmen had passed the artifacts down through the generations. The Crusaders held them first until Saladin’s occupation of Jerusalem in 1187 AD. The fantastic story raised the bar on Ian’s skepticism.

  Unimaginable tales, black-market scams, myths, and superstitious nonsense were plentiful. Faked relics were endemic, but Nassir had never lied to him. Ian examined them in his hands. Something about them warmed his heart when he considered the possibilities.

  Lost in thought, frantic pounding at his door jolted him back to reality. He placed the objects on the table.

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming!”

  He marched to the door and flung it open to see Charles standing there.

  “Oh, hey, Doc. Sorry, I thought it was someone else, like our meddling Rabbi Goldman. Come in, come in. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  “So soon? You’re unbelievable, Ian. What brass!” Charles stormed through the door, his hands animated.

  Ian ignored him and strolled out onto the balcony. Charles followed.

  “I’ve called you three times, Ian. Oh yeah, here’s more bad news. The Jews declared their independence and the Arabs will counter by declaring war. They’ll be on their way soon. The hotel lobby is in chaos. It resembles the New York stock market crash of 1929. Anyone that’s not a Jew is leaving in a big hurry. Ian, we’ve got to go—now!”

  “You’re right, Doc. Look below: those military convoys were in the streets this morning. The Jews may have bit off more than they can chew. They’re about to have a hell of a fight on their hands … a hell of a fight.”

  Ian started to take a sip of his drink, but stopped midway, turned his head, and stared at Charles. Then he rushed from the balcony to a table inside in his room and grabbed their steamship tickets.

  “Ian?”

  Ian ignored him. The hotel manager had delivered their return tickets when they’d first arrived in Haifa. Ian, though, had never taken time to examine them. Now he looked at the purchased and departure dates of the tickets.

  “Oh my God …” he muttered. “The dates …”

  He handed them to Charles, who soon enough looked shocked as well.

  “Dear God,” Charles said. “Abram … He didn’t make a lucky guess. He booked these tickets nearly two years ago. How could he have known? It’s as if he knew beforehand the precise date the Jews would declare their independence. That’s … downright scary.”

  Ian didn’t answer, but gulped down his drink. Scary indeed, Charles. Abram’s prearranged departure wasn’t by accident, he mused.

  Charles laid the tickets on the table, his hands trembling. “At least we’ve bypassed all the paperwork ahead of everyone. We’re walking out of this chaos escorted like royalty. Abram planned ahead for everything. I’m guessing it’s because of what we’re bringing back for him on the ship.”

  Ian rubbed at his face and chin, then nodded. Charles is right. Abram placed a high value on that Jew’s remains from the start, he thought. He prepared for every contingency knowing that a country in chaos is a smuggler’s opportunity. He knew that he had one last shot at retrieving that Jew’s body.

  “Yes … Yes, good points, Charles. In all sincerity, I never cared why Abram wanted that Jew’s corpse; for me, it was always about the money. I found it, and he’s paid us, end of story. But I’ve no doubt his motives were deceptive from the day he hired me, but now isn’t the time for that discussion. Perhaps over dinner at sea, on our way home. For now, we’ve bigger problems. We’re about to be knee deep in a war zone.”

  Charles nodded. “Yes, and include the Syrians, the Egyptians, and Jordanian armies. They’re all massing on the borders as we speak, headed this way. We need to go. I’ve a truck waiting and four men downstairs to carry your trunks.”

  “Almost ready, Charles. Give me a couple of minutes and we’re out of here.”

  Charles pointed at Ian’s last open trunk, with his personal stuff scattered, stuffed, and wa
dded together without care. “Ian, you always pack like that?”

  Ian smiled. “I do when I’m in a hurry, Doc.”

  Charles’s brow furrowed, suggesting, “Sure you do.” He ambled to the table with Ian’s pile of private stash. The relics caught his eye.

  “Say, what are these” Charles asked, examining the huge chunk of what looked like charred wood. “Are you collecting wood and scrap metal now. Oh please! Don’t tell me, let me guess: they’re pieces of Noah’s ark?” He chuckled, no doubt thinking it funny, but Ian felt excited.

  “Doc, stop. Please, don’t touch them—I mean, here, let me have those, and yes, I’m a pack rat, I admit it. I never know when something unique will turn into a valuable piece for sale to private collectors. Remember what they say, ‘One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.’”

  “You mean stolen or black-market junk, don’t you?”

  “Now, now, Doc, be nice. We’ve a long voyage home. If you promise not to preach at me, I’ll tell you an incredible story told to me about these objects.”

  Ian opened a desk drawer, took out a piece of paper, and started writing, then handed Charles the paper.

  “Charles, take my address and phone number in case—Well, just in case we’re separated. You’ll always be able to reach me there, so keep it safe. If you need me for anything, Doc, please write or call me and I’ll be there.”

  Charles looked like he didn’t know what to say.

  “Promise me when you’ve settled in Arkansas, you’ll send me your home address,” Ian said. “You can at least write and say hello.”

  Charles nodded. “I promise, and thank you.”

  The emotional moment seemed as uncomfortable for Charles as it did for Ian, and Ian didn’t mind when Charles quickly changed the subject.

  “Okay, then, we need to go. I’ll send the men up for these trunks.”

  “I’m ready now, Doc. Let’s go.”

  Ian hurriedly wrapped up the objects he’d bought from Nassir, stuffed them in the trunk, closed the lid, and locked it.They started for the door when Ian stopped.

  “Hold up a second, Doc. We’ll need our tickets.”

  “Ian, make it quick!” Charles shouted on his way out the door.

  Ian dashed across the room and grabbed their pre-purchased tickets. He read the dates again:

  Purchased: November-2-1946, New York, USA

  Departure: May-14-1948, Haifa, Palestine

  Destination: New York, New York, USA

  PART 2

  White River, Arkansas

  1980

  Chapter 2

  For more than three decades, the memories of the sepulcher’s discovery in 1948 had lain dormant in the minds of Dr. Charles Wagner and Ian Taylor—but not forgotten. In the wee hours of the morning on May 13, 1980, visions of that event resurrected themselves to plague both their night’s sleep with graphic nightmares.

  In northern Arkansas, Charles lunged upright in bed because of the horrible dream. At the same time, Ian fought with sheets and sprang awake at a luxurious hotel in New York City.

  Each one’s tortured sleep depicted terrible images. A howling black phantom with bloodred eyes haunted Ian. And the remains of a two-thousand-year-old Jewish corpse tortured Charles.

  *

  Ian had never believed in the existence of demons. He’d thought it nonsense—until that eventful day in 1948 proved him wrong … a fact he couldn’t deny ever again. For him, demons did exist. Unable to sleep now, he checked his watch—3:08 a.m. He called for room service to deliver breakfast and a pot of coffee.

  His breakfast had long since arrived, but now sat on a tray untouched, except for the coffee. Staring down into New York City’s Central Park, Ian slipped his hand under his robe and caressed an amulet around his neck. A jeweler had fashioned the special piece out of the relic pieces Ian had bought before leaving Palestine. Ian’s vivid nightmare troubled him. Abram Solomon’s face invaded every despicable scene. He wondered if it weren’t an ominous foretelling of more to come. After thirty-plus years, why am I having dreams of that hideous creature now? And why Abram Solomon? What’s his association?

  *

  Wrapped in a thick terry-cloth robe, Charles sat on his front porch drinking hot tea. The air of the Ozark Mountains felt cool and invigorating before sunrise. He typically enjoyed listening to the soothing sounds of birds chirping in the forest before dawn. This particular morning, though, their melodies had become muted noise.

  Charles searched his memories, focusing on the root source for his appalling dream. Abram Solomon had been the dominant figure in his vision. He wondered if the distressing nightmare might be a harbinger. He found the notion a distasteful assumption to contemplate. If the horrific dream was a true omen, Abram Solomon’s presence seemed the common link.

  Could it be that my work in Palestine somehow ties in with my current research at Abram’s new GEM-Tech facility? he wondered. Am I becoming senile … or am I that naïve?

  He frowned. “Has my zeal for our research finally seared my conscience?” he whispered.

  The two connections appeared at odds, but possible. He determined to dig deeper. I’ve got to talk with Ian and tell him of my work with Abram and my suspicions. Charles picked up his cup of tea and hurried inside to make his call. Hope Ian won’t start by calling me “a religious nutcase.”

  *

  Ian’s telephone rang, interrupting his concentration. He glanced at the phone.

  “There’s only one person who would dare call me at this early hour,” he said and then answered the call. “Hello.”

  “Ian! It’s urgent. We have to talk.”

  “Good morning, Charles.”

  *

  Neither the passage of time nor changes in world events dulled or swayed Abram Solomon’s strategy. His plan remained the same with a new cast of co-conspirators committed to bringing his original intent to fruition. A new research laboratory built deep in America’s Bible Belt, in rural Arkansas, oversaw the culmination of Abram’s long-awaited project.

  GEM-Tech, his new corporate umbrella, had chosen White River as its base of operations—one of northern Arkansas’s off-the-radar, out-of-sight, out-of-mind rural areas. A perfect setting to secretly house an ensemble of twenty-five gifted scientists recruited from around the world. Their work: Abram’s crown jewel. He’d code-named his clandestine project, “Phoenix.”

  Three stories underground, GEM-Tech’s new building had hidden an extensive subterranean architectural marvel. No other medical research laboratory in the world could match GEM-Tech’s modernistic designs. The experimental equipment and technologies used simply didn’t exist anywhere else.

  Gathered in one place, a group of medical alchemists worked without restraints, carrying out GEM-Tech’s controversial experiments. The scientists applied their radical theories and methods with unfettered freedom, all to improve on God’s creation. Over one hundred sacrificial young girls, plucked from around the globe, bore the cost.

  Most of the girls lived in dormitory fashion. A few rooms accommodated a single person; others, three to five girls to a room, and still others ten to twenty. Staged near the girl’s rooms, elaborate cubicles interlaced, as if a giant web. The design assured five teams of scientists—five doctors to a team—easy access to labs, conference rooms, offices, and cafeteria.

  One team’s medical chart identified a particular young girl as Patient 0102, nicknamed “Mary.” Assigned to Mary’s care was Dr. Deborah Holland, an acclaimed research scientist and gynecologist—a woman of striking physical attributes. Aqua-blue eyes and pouty lips accentuated her small oval face, garnished with radiant auburn hair draped in waves below her shoulders.

  Mary—Patient 0102—was a seventeen-year-old New York City street hustler, drug addict, and prostitute. She was just another forgotten runaway, like all the other young girls in GEM-Tech’s project. Her absence from the world would go unnoticed, because no one cared.

  Each of the young girls went thr
ough a rigorous physical exam and period of detoxification. Mary, being the worst case, took three months before Dr. Charles Wagner qualified her as ready to take part in the experiments.

  Mary’s ordinary features and persona befitted her adolescent round face and thin, lanky body. Her long, dark brown hair fell below her shoulders. Puffy, poodle-like bangs graced the middle of her brow. Her best attribute: her captivating, dark brown Bette Davis eyes.

  *

  Dr. Bruner, the assistant director to Abram Solomon’s project, often praised Deborah among the other staff during rounds, declaring, “Deborah’s my most valued asset. She has the face of a reassuring mother, the one component those girls need.”

  Bruner, a gruff old German, was an oddity to behold. His short bowling-pin physique waddled like a penguin as he walked. His large bulbous nose merged with an abundant mustache, obscuring any recognition of human lips.

  Deborah admired Dr. Bruner as a professional colleague and scientist. She’d smile in his presence, but found his patronizing distasteful. Whenever possible, she avoided socializing with him or Abram outside her work.

  Assigned to Dr. Wagner’s team, her friendship with Charles blossomed, despite cordial but heated differences in opinions when applied to politics and religion. She respected Charles as a consummate professional and a genuine nice guy. She also enjoyed listening to his adventurous tall tales of his time in Palestine with a rogue archeologist named Ian Taylor.

  Charles stirred fond memories of rousing discussions on similar topics with her parents before she’d left for college. Her faith and conservatism, while nurtured from childhood, had faded into obscurity during her college years. Progressive liberal philosophies of university academia replaced what she’d learned around her parents’ dinner table.

  Despite Deborah’s ardent agnostic liberal views, against obedience to an unseen God’s moral code of absolutes, she sensed the cracks in her protective hardened shell. Other team members confirmed her suspicions. They’d referenced a noticeable change in her attitude toward the girls and her insolence to question the project as a whole.