Virgin

by F. Paul Wilson

  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 stood 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 first leg of her long 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.”

  True enough. Carrie should have been satisfied that the Virgin was safe after watching Kaplan’s staff seal her into that excelsior-filled shipping crate, but she couldn’t let her go. Not yet. She’d insisted on accompanying the crate to Haifa. There’d been this overpowering urge to see her off, like a child coming to the docks to wish a beloved parent bon voyage.

  And now she was glad she’d come.

  “That’s our crate. Why did he have to pick ours?”

  “Kaplan warned us that they do spot checks. Don’t worry. She’ll pass. Just stay calm.”

  Carrie held her breath as the inspector lifted the crate top and pushed the excelsior aside. He unfolded the blankets and she saw him freeze for a moment as he stared at the Virgin’s face. She watched him lean closer, staring.

  Please don’t touch her. PLEASE don’t!

  The inspector looked up from the crate and scanned the area. He had close-cropped gray hair, wore aviator sunglasses, and carried himself like an ex-military man. When he spotted Dan and Carrie, he tucked his clipboard under his arm and approached them.

  Beside her, Carrie heard Dan mutter a soft, “Uh-oh.”

  The inspector thrust his hand at Dan. “Good day. My name is Sidel. You are the owner of that sculpture, I believe?”

  “Yes,” Carrie said. She noticed that he didn’t offer to shake hands with her. “We just acquired it.” She emphasized the first word.

  “It’s most unusual for people to come down to the docks to see off a shipment, but in your case I can understand why. What an extraordinary piece. Who’s the artist, if I may ask?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know,” Dan said. “We saw it and just had to have it.”

  Sidel nodded. “I can understand. I do a little toying with modeling clay myself, so I can appreciate the fantastic detail of this work. You’re shipping it to Ireland?”

  Carrie felt her heart begin to thump. Why all these questions?

  But Dan was cool. “The name’s Fitzpatrick, after all.”

  “Enjoy it,” Sidel said, turning away. “I envy you.”

  Sidel returned to the crate, stared at the Virgin a moment longer, then shook himself and covered her again. Carrie’s heart rate began to slow as the crate top was nailed back into place. She sagged against Dan.

  “Oh, Lord. That was close. For one very long minute there I thought …”

  “You and me both. All right. We’ve seen her off. Time to go.”

  Reluctantly, Carrie had to agree. They’d discussed their options as they’d followed the Kaplan Gallery truck to Haifa. Dan saw two courses: Stay in Israel a while longer, then head home, or head directly home tonight. He favored the latter.

  Carrie agreed with getting out of Israel as soon as possible. Just as she had at the Resting Place, she felt an urge to keep moving. But she preferred a third route: Fly to Ireland and meet the Greenbriar in Cork, make sure the Virgin was transferred properly, then fly back to New York and wait for her there.

  They’d argued but eventually Carrie had won, as she’d known she would. From the outset she hadn’t the slightest intention of doing it any other way.

  She’d called and learned that there was an El Al flight to London tonight. If they hurried, they could make it. From there it was practically a shuttle flight to Shannon.

  They wheeled into Ben Gurion Airport with time to spare. But they received a shock when they turned in the Explorer at the El Dan desk.

  “Ferris!” said the thin, mustached man behind the counter. “Boy, have you caused a stir.”

  Carrie saw Dan go pale and felt her own heart kick up its tempo again.

  “Really?” Dan said. “What’s the problem? Look, I know we rented the car in Jerusalem but I thought we could return it anywhere we—”

  “Oh, that’s not the problem. No drop-off fee if you turn it in here. But somebody at the Jerusalem desk has been burning up the wires looking for you two. Something about a Shin Bet fellow who wants to talk to you.”

  “Shin Bet?” Carrie said.

  “Right. Domestic Intelligence. Somewhat akin to your FBI, I believe. But don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble. Just wants to ask you some questions.”

  “Well, uh, we’ll be glad to cooperate in any way we can,” Dan said. “Just, uh, have us paged. We’ll be around for a while.”

  His grip was tight on her arm as he led her toward the El Al ticket counters. Her mouth felt dry. Were they in trouble?

  “Dan, what’s the matter? Why would this Shin Bet—?”

  His voice was tight. “Somebody’s onto us. How long before we leave?”

  Carrie glanced at her watch. “A little less than an hour.”

  “Damn!” He stopped. “Look. Before we buy our tickets and check our bags, let’s get changed.”

  “Why? What for?”

  “It might give us an edge to be in uniform.”

  Jerusalem

  Kesev had come to the end of his patience. He was about ready to explode with frustration and start breaking some Hilton property when he saw someone gesturing to him from the Eldan desk.

  Chaya had gone home. Sharon, a brittle-looking peroxide blonde had replaced her. She was waving a bony arm over her head.

  “We found them!” she said, grinning as he approached.

  Kesev’s heart leapt. He wanted to take her in his arms and dance her around the lobby. Perhaps God had not deserted him after all. Perhaps this was just a warning.

  “When? Where?”

  “They turned their rental into one of our Tel Aviv locations just a few moments ago.”

  “Which one?”

  “Ben Gurion.”

  Kesev went cold. The airport! Merciful God, they’re leaving the country!

  He wheeled and ran for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Sharon called out behind him. “You can call from here. They said they’d be there awhile and you could page them!”

  Page them? Kesev groaned as the meaning of her words sank in. The Ben Gurion desk must have blabbered that someone was looking for them. They’d probably be long gone by the time he got there.

  Ben Gurion Airport

  Kesev was sure he made the fifty kilometers to Ben Gurion in record time. For once luck was on his side. The airport was designated Tel Aviv but actually it was in Lod, just east of the city. If he’d had to
fight city traffic, he’d still be in his car. But he wasn’t looking for a racing medal. He wanted the Ferrises.

  He flashed his ID at the El Al ticket desk and had them run a computer search for a couple by that name. They found a single. Carolyn Ferris. On a one-way to Heathrow. Seat 12C, non-smoking. Boarding now. Gate 17.

  A single. He was looking for a couple. But this Carolyn was the only Ferris he had. And if he didn’t check her out right now, she’d be gone.

  Kesev ran for Gate 17.

  He wasn’t armed so he had no problem with the metal detectors and his Shin Bet ID got him to the boarding area without a ticket. But along the way he picked up a friend: Sergeant Yussl Kuttner of airport security.

  The last thing Kesev wanted at this point was someone looking over his shoulder, but he had no choice. Anything that deviated from normal airport routine was Kuttner’s business, and allowing an unticketed man onto an El Al plane, even if he was Shin Bet, was certainly not routine. Kuttner was armed and he wasn’t letting Kesev out of his sight.

  “Just what is this passenger suspected of, Mr. Kesev?” Kuttner said, puffing as he trotted beside Kesev.

  Kesev improvised. “The home office didn’t have time to fill me in on all the details. All I know is that an archeological artifact has been stolen and that the thieves will be trying to smuggle it out of the country.”

  “And Shin Bet believes this passenger in 12C is involved?”

  “We don’t know. We do know one of the suspects is named Ferris. That’s why I need to speak to her. You really don’t have to bother yourself.”

  “Quite all right. Besides, if you want to remove her from the plane, you’ll need me.”

  Kesev clenched his jaws. This was getting stickier and stickier. If only he’d had more time to set this up.

  Kuttner led him down the boarding ramp to the loaded plane and explained the situation to the stewardesses while Kesev moved down the aisle, looking for row 12.

  He froze, staring. The right half of row 12 held only one passenger. Seats A and B were empty. Seat C was occupied by a nun. A young, pretty nun. Almost too pretty to be a nun. That gave him heart.

  “Excuse me, Sister,” he said, leaning forward. “Is your name Ferris?”

  “Why, yes,” she said, smiling. She had a wonderful smile. And such guileless blue eyes. “Sister Carolyn Ferris. Is something wrong?”

  What to say? He had no time to ease into this, so he might as well throw it in her face and see how she reacts.

  He flashed his Shin Bet ID and kept his voice low. “You’re wanted for questioning in regard to the theft of an archeological treasure that belongs to the Israeli government.”

  She reacted with a dumbfounded expression.

  “What? Are you mad? Just what sort of treasure am I supposed to have stolen?”

  “You know exactly what it is, Sister. It doesn’t belong to you. Please give it back.”

  “Does it belong to you?”

  The question took Kesev by surprise. And she was staring at him, her narrowed eyes boring into his, as if seeing something there.

  “No … no … it belongs to—”

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “I told you. Kesev, with—”

  “No. That’s not true.” Her eyes widened now, as if she were suddenly afraid of him. “You’re not who you say you are. You’re someone else. Who are you—really?”

  Now it was Kesev’s turn to be dumbfounded. How did she know? How could she know?

  Reflexively he backed away from her. Who was this woman?

  “Excuse me, Sister,” said another voice. “Is this man bothering you?”

  Kesev looked up to see a tall priest rising from an aisle seat a few rows back, glaring down at him as he approached.

  “The poor man seems deranged,” Sister Carolyn said.

  The priest reached above the nun’s seat and pressed the call button for the stewardess. “I’ll have him removed.”

  Kesev backed away. “Sorry. My mistake.”

  The last thing he wanted was a scene. He had no official capacity here and no logical reason he could give his superiors for pulling this woman off the plane.

  Besides, he was looking for a man and a woman, not a nun. Especially not that nun. Something about her, something ethereal … the way she’d looked at him … looked through him. She’d looked at him and she knew. She knew!

  He staggered forward through a cloud of confusion. What was happening? Everything had been fine until that damn SCUD had crashed near the Resting Place. Since then it had been one thing after another, chipping at the foundations of his carefully reconstructed life, until today’s cataclysm.

  Kuttner looked at him questioningly as he reached the front of the cabin.

  “Not her,” Kesev said. “But I want to check the cargo hold.”

  The head stewardess groaned and Kuttner said, “I don’t know about that.”

  “It will only take a minute or two. The object in question is at least a meter and a half in length. It can’t be in a suitcase. I just want to check out the larger parcels.”

  Kuttner shrugged resignedly. “All right. But let’s get to it.”

  Dan quietly slipped into 12A. His boarding pass had him in 15D—they’d decided it was best not to sit together—but Carrie had this half of row 12 to herself so he joined her. But not too close.

  When no none was looking he reached across the empty seat and grabbed her hand. It was cold, sweaty, trembling.

  “You were great,” he whispered.

  She’d been more than great, she’d been wonderful. When he’d seen that little bearded rooster of a Shin Bet man stalk down the aisle, he’d prayed for strength in the imminent confrontation. But he’d stopped at Carrie’s seat, not Dan’s. And then Dan had cursed himself for not realizing that their pursuer would be looking for someone named Ferris. But Carrie had stood up to that Shin Bet man, kept her cool, and faced him down. Dan had only stepped in to add the coup de grace.

  “I don’t feel great. I feel sick.”

  “What did you say to him at the end?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he hadn’t seemed too sure of himself in the first place, but—”

  Carrie’s smile was wan but real. “We can thank your idea of getting into uniform for that.”

  “Sure, but you said something and all the color went out of him.”

  “I asked him who he really was. As he was speaking to me I had the strangest feeling about him, that he was an impostor—or maybe that isn’t the right word. I think he’s truly from their domestic intelligence, whatever it’s called, but he’s also someone else. And he’s hiding that someone else.”

  “Whatever it is, I’d say you struck a nerve.”

  “I didn’t really have a choice. I just knew right then that I was very afraid of the person he was hiding.”

  “So am I, though probably not for the same reason. Damn, I wish we’d get moving. What’s the hold up?”

  Dan looked past Carrie through the window at the lights of the airport, and wondered what Mr. Kesev was up to now. He wouldn’t feel safe until they were in the air and over the Mediterranean.

  “And yet,” Carrie said softly, “there’s something terribly sad about him. He said something that shocked me.”

  “What?”

  “He said ‘please.’ He said, ‘Please give it back.’ Isn’t that strange?”

  Kesev stood at one of the panoramic windows in the main terminal and watched the plane roar into the sky toward London.

  Nothing.

  He’d found nothing in the cargo hold or baggage compartment large enough to contain the Mother.

  That gave him hope, at least, that the Mother was still in Israel. And if she was still here, he could find her.

  But where was she?
Where?

  He trembled at the thought of what might happen if she were not safely returned to the Resting Place.

  FOURTEEN

  The Greenbriar—off Crete

  Second mate Dennis Maguire was rounding the port side of the superstructure amidships when he saw her.

  At least it seemed to be a her. He couldn’t be sure in the downpour. The figure stood a good fifty feet away in the center of the aft hold’s hatch, wrapped head to toe in some sort of blanket, completely unmindful of the driving rain as she stared aftward. He couldn’t make out any features in the dimness, but something in his gut knew he was looking at a she.

  They’d run into the squall shortly after dark the first night out of Haifa. Maguire was running a topside check to make double sure everything was secure. A sturdy little tramp, the Greenbriar was. With a 200-foot keel and thirty feet abeam, she could haul good cargo in her two holds, and haul it fast. But any storm, even lightweight Mediterranean squalls like this one, could be trouble if everything wasn’t secured the way it was supposed to be. And Captain Liam could be hell on wheels if something went wrong because of carelessness.

  So Maguire had learned: Do it right the first time, then double check to make sure you did what you thought you did.

  And after he wound up this little tour of the deck, he could retire to his cabin and work on his bottle of Jameson’s.

  I’m glad I haven’t touched that bottle yet, he thought.

  Because right now he’d be blaming the whiskey for what he was seeing.

  A woman? How the hell had a woman got aboard? And why would any woman want to be aboard?

  She stood facing aft, like some green-gilled landlubber staring homeward.

  “Hello?” he said, approaching the hatch.

  She turned toward him but the glow from the lights in the superstructure weren’t strong enough to light her features through the rain. And then he noticed something: the blanket or cloak or robe or whatever she was wrapped up in wasn’t moving or even fluttering in the wind. In fact, it didn’t even look wet.

  He blinked and turned his head as a particularly nasty gust stung his face with needle-sharp droplets, and when he looked again, she was gone.