Now before I go any further with this book, I want to allay your fears. This book is not going to be devoted to extolling the Jones family and the love they showed for God, each other, and others, although one could write an entire book about that extraordinary family. But that isn’t why I sat down to write this book, and it probably isn’t why you sat down to read it. I sat down in front of this typewriter with a ream of blank pages and all the determination I could muster because I wanted to share with others the true story of what is surely the most remarkable adventure, the greatest quest in the history of mankind. I only wish that they had chosen a better man; a modern Homer would have been ideal.
But I learned a lot from the Jones family, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t share a few thoughts with you before I resume the narrative proper:
Now love is a curious thing. There are so many different types and intensities of it that not even the Greeks had enough words for them all. We all want love, every one of us. And, the older I get, the more convinced I become that it’s impossible for any of us to make that march from the cradle to the grave without getting our hearts broken at last once. Love is something you can neither buy nor sell. You can’t rent it or borrow it. About the only thing you can do is give it away, hoping that you’ll get some back in return, even though it doesn’t always work out that way. It’s truly the most powerful force in the universe, having launched thousands of ships and given many the courage to face torture and death unflinchingly. It’s inspired men to write sonnets and symphonies that will live as long as man does, and driven others to stick their heads in ovens or put pistols to their heads. The power unleashed by the splitting of the atom pales into puny insignificance in the shadow of the power that makes a man use cardboard in his shoes to patch the holes so he can give his children a good education or buy his wife a special birthday present.
Despite the oceans of ink and blood and sweat and of tears expended in the name of love throughout the millennia, none of us really know much about it. It’s odd, this love business. I don’t profess to know any more about it except that I know it when I see it, and I saw many forms of it in the Jones household. I saw it in Clarence’s eyes when he looked into Marge’s, in Marge’s secret smile when she looked at the kids. In the kids helping each other to recover from physical injuries as well as from disappointments. I saw it in the short evening Scripture reading and prayer that followed supper each night, when the Joneses thanked God for “all circumstances” because “in all things God works for the good of those who love him who have been called according to his purpose.” There was love in that house. It hung, like something palpable in the air. It permeated the very walls themselves. It was all there—romantic love, brotherly love, paternal and maternal love, neighborly love, godly love; I even caught glints of erotic love sometimes in the glances that Clarence and Marge exchanged.
Before I leave the subject, lest you think that I’m describing people who were not really human beings, I want you to know that the Jones house was not some kind of magic never-never land. They had fights; there was some selfishness that surfaced from time to time. There were some thoughtless words sometimes, and some harsh words. Sometimes certain members of the household didn’t like each other very much. Marge had moods when she felt she was being taken for granted. Sometimes the kids weren’t completely straight with their parents. Sometimes Clarence just wanted to be alone. But the point is that they never stopped loving each other. And the kind of love that is independent of liking is the most precious love of all.
They put me up in the room that doubled as Clarence’s den, and he and I would repair there each night, so he could brief me on all the research he’d done that morning. Using that amazing photographic memory of his and his keen analytical ability, he’d go through about thirty books each day and condense the material into a two-and-half-hour briefing each night. For the first few weeks, I had each Saturday and Sunday off. Then one night, Clarence told me he’d made arrangements for all the rest of my Saturdays before the mission.
“One other thing, Lightfoot,” he said in an offhand way one evening as he was winding up the daily briefing, “I’ve arranged for some self-defense training for you. The CIA has an instructor who’s one of the best in the world. I pulled all the strings I could to get him to spend his Saturdays at our Secret Service training site in Beltsville for the next several months. You’ll be his class.”
“Self-defense? But I’m not going on any military mission, Clarence. I thought the idea was for me to observe and report. Period.”
“It is indeed,” Jones nodded “but we’re sending you back to a pretty rough-and-tumble era. A dead observer or an observer in prison is of no use to us. Remember, you’re going to a country under the thumb of an occupation army. It’s a country that’s a hotbed of intrigue, plots, and counterplots—both political and religious. Even if you’re in Herod’s palace itself, you’re not safe. You know, Herod the Great murdered a number of his own family members, including one of his wives and several of his sons because he suspected they were plotting against him. Caesar Augustus himself said that it was safer to be Herod’s pig than Herod’s son. His son, Herod Antipas, who is now,” Clarence shook his head in wonderment, “now … who will be ruler when you arrive, is not a great deal better. He’s not as nuts as his old man, but he has just as few scruples.
“As for crime, being out on the roads after dark in those days was not only dangerous, it was downright stupid. Palestine was a muggers’ and highwaymen’s paradise. There was no police force in any sense that we can relate to. That’s why people traveled in caravans. The story of the Good Samaritan was a story that the people of the time could really relate to because it happened all the time. Robberies that is, not people stopping to help the victims.”
“If you really think it’s necessary.”
“I do.” Clarence stared off unto the distance for a long, silent moment. “Since I’ve been with the Old Man, during the war, and during the Cold War, I’ve seen a lot of people sent out on jobs they never returned from. The Old Man and I have talked about it a few times. When men don’t return, you’re haunted. Sometimes for a few minutes. Sometimes for a lot longer. Sometimes for a lifetime. Did I do everything I could have for him, you ask yourself. Did I make sure that he got the best training and enough of it? How about his equipment? Was it all he needed? Was there something else that I could have said or should have said to make the job and the dying any easier? Did I let him down?” He turned back to me. “That’s not going to happen with you, old buddy. I intend to come through for you in every way. And you can take that to the bank.”
17
The Department of Agriculture holds several hundred acres of prime farmland in the Beltsville, Maryland area, which is about ten miles due north of Washington. And it’s on the grounds of the Beltsville Agricultural Research Center that the Secret Service has one of its training facilities. It’s not used to train new agents; they all go to Glencoe, Georgia, for initial training just like all other federal law enforcement officers, with the exception of the FBI. It’s used primarily for refresher and in-service training, so it’s not very big. But it’s more than adequate. The classrooms, auditorium, and gym are all housed in one long single-story cinderblock building, and the ranges are all one would expect. In fact, in autumn, when all the leaves are off the trees, you can see the mock-up of a city street off to your right at the Beltsville exit of the Washington-Baltimore Parkway if you’re northbound. I had some fun with my Colt .45 shooting pop-up targets on that “street” every Saturday after my hand-to-hand training. At least that was some consolation or compensation for going eight hours of muscle straining, bone-crunching fighting with Tom Riley, the CIA expert Clarence shanghaied to train me. Tom was indeed an expert. A guy like him should be required by law to register his earlobes as lethal weapons. He knew every trick in the book and then some. It was the last Saturday in January that we drove out there to meet him for my first class. He was waiting
for us in the gym.
As soon as we walked in, he scared me. He was built like a grizzly bear, only he looked more dangerous. In an instant, he was pumping Clarence’s hand and thumping his back.
“Hey, stranger, where’ve you been hiding?” Clarence returned the big man’s huge grin.
“Hi, Tom. I’ve been busy fighting for truth, justice, and the American way.”
“Yeah, you and Superman and Batman. This the boy wonder here?”
“This is him, all right. Pretty poor material, but see what you can do with him, O.K.? He’s not too bright, but his heart is in the right place.” The giant gave me a long and frank appraisal.
“Hummm … uh huh … uh huh … umm,” he intoned as he walked around me. I felt like a used car. “Well, they don’t call me the ‘miracle man’ for nothing. I guess if I could teach you how to fight, Clarence, then I can do the same for this miserable wretch. His skull doesn’t look much thicker than yours does. O.K.,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “what’ll it be? Karate, savate, kung fu, knife fighting, club fighting, boxing, wrestling, American street fighting, judo, tae kwon-do, jujitsu? Name your poison.”
“Some of all the above, along with offensive and defensive work with a lance, also with a sword about yea big,” Clarence said, extending his hands, Riley looked perplexed.
“You mean a saber that big. Nobody uses swords that size anymore.”
“No, I mean a sword that big.”
“You mean a bayonet that big.”
“No, I mean a sword that big.”
“The lance I can see, but, with all due respect, nobody uses swords that size any more. What you’re talking about is the Roman short sword. Nearest thing anybody’s used in the past couple of centuries is the machete, the cavalry saber, and swords used for ritual beheadings in the Middle East, and none of them are close at all.”
“Where he’s going,” Clarence said, indicating me, “they use them.” The wheels in Tom Riley’s massive head began to whir. His professional curiosity was aroused. Clarence threw him a red herring.
“O.K., off the record. My friend here is going to, shall we say, visit the palace of a Middle East potentate. This personage is a bit eccentric. His palace guards are experts with these weapons, and my pal here won’t be able to carry anything with him except a knife.”
“Hmmmm. Roman short swords,” he said, warming to the challenge. “Do they carry shields too?”
“Right. Convex rectangular shields, about so long and so wide,” Clarence replied, gesturing, “made of leather over wood with metal reinforcements “
“Body armor?”
Clarence nodded. “Cuirasses of segmented metal on the upper torso, and iron helmets with extensions that come down over the temples, like so, and a flared extension that protects the back of the neck.”
“Amazing,” Riley muttered. “Look, this potentate has got to be some kind of screwball. Do you know what you’ve just described?”
“What?”
“The gear of a Roman legionnaire.”
“Is that right?” Clarence said innocently.
“I like it,” Tom nodded. “Yes, I do. It’s a challenge. A break in the routine. I’ve been getting kind of tired of teaching college boys karate down at The Farm.” He stuck out his hamlike hand to me. “Tom Riley.”
“My name is Aloysius Lightfoot O’Brien.”
“Clarence, when I finish with your boy,” Tom laughed, “he’ll be able to take on a whole Roman legion.” Clarence and I joined in the laughter.
18
I was quite a novelty with the kids. They asked question after question about life on the reservation and Indian customs and beliefs. The American West was so far removed from their world that it may as well have been on the far side of the moon. Clarence Junior was interested most especially in flying. He knew an awful lot about aircraft of all types, but his passion was fighters. It was his ambition to become a fighter pilot. How did the MIG-15 stack up against the F-84E? Against the F9F-2? What was it really like to fly a combat mission? How good were the Chinese pilots?
The ground rules, Clarence told me, were that I could be as free and open with his family as I cared to be, as long as I didn’t discuss the mission. He told his family that I was in training for an important job, but we weren’t allowed to talk about it. They were evidently a well trained Secret Service family, because they took it in stride, and never asked a single question about my training or my job. Not even Cindy.
About Cindy. My first impression of her had been totally and absolutely incorrect. I’d seen her as a pitiable little waif. Well, she wasn’t. I’d seen her in a very weak moment that first day, at a moment when the pain had been so bad as to be almost literally unbearable, and at a moment when her eyes were filled with tears because she was so happy to see her Dad back home.
The truth was that she had an inner core of steel, and a courage so great that it was of Apache dimensions. Apache warrior dimensions; even greater, for I doubt that I could have faced what she had to, and reacted with love, as she did. Nor had I ever met any other men who could have. It takes courage to face pain, suffering, and death with stoicism. It takes guts to face the Great Leveler with equanimity. But it takes courage bigger than the sky itself to face it with love.
We often make the observation that pain and suffering constitute a mighty crucible in which a person can either be strengthened and refined, or broken and destroyed. Cindy’s will and character and her spirit had been tempered to an exquisite hard sparkling luster, not unlike a beautifully cut, many faceted diamond. It had made her much older and wiser than her thirteen years. Impending death finally makes philosophers of us all, I think, but it had outdone itself with Cindy. She had been an exceptionally bright kid to begin with, and her illness had given her even more time for reading and for reflection. She was easily more mature than most kids six or seven years older. I got very close to her, and I often had to remind myself that I was speaking to a child of thirteen, not a college student. Her eyes were older than the rest of her body, you see.
One evening, there was a curious look in those eyes as she regarded me at the dinner table.
“Daddy, is it all right if Mr. O’Brien reads to me tonight?”
“It’s all right with me, if Mr. O’Brien doesn’t mind.” He had a most curious look in his eyes too. It took me completely by surprise. But I genuinely liked the kid so I didn’t even think twice about it.
“Sure.”
So, to make a long story short, after Clarence and Marge had tucked her in that evening, in I went. She looked so frail, so ghostly, her complexion matching the stark white pillow case. I drew up a chair and asked her what book she wanted me to read to her from, for there were many books in her bookcase. She pointed to the single volume on the nightstand. The Bible. I had gone through all twenty-eight years of my life without ever once opening that book, and here I sat, undone at the hands of a thirteen-year old. I thought briefly of telling her what I had told so many adults over the years. I had my own beliefs, thank you. Live and let live. Let everyone go to hell his own way. Isn’t that what America is all about, after all? Thanks just the same. Adults know better. Then there was another very unique consideration.
Clarence had told me just two weeks before that the question of my reading the Bible had been the cause for some heated debate among the members of the Project Council. Some had taken it as a matter of course that the study of the Bible, particularly the New Testament, would be an integral part of my training. Others maintained that to study the Bible would be to prejudice the witness; that expecting to hear certain words said or to see certain things done, I might imagine I saw them happen that way. Extreme care had been taken in the selection of a witness, said Dr. Namuh, the leader of this faction on the Council. One had been found who satisfied the all important requirement of an established reputation of objective observation skills and honesty. The candidate was also neither an atheist nor a Christian nor a Jew but, in that felicito
us phrase that Dr. Namuh used, “a seeker after truth.” Why tamper with an ideal arrangement? It was a hard question. Ike had paced a few miles back and forth across the carpet of the Oval Office, and he hadn’t yet arrived at a decision. Well, there it was. The book in question. Right in my hands.
Come on, I told myself, what was I, a grown man, afraid of? A book is a book, not a bomb. Or so I thought at the time.
“O.K., Cindy. Any particular part?”
“The Lost Sheep.”
“Lost Sheep, huh? Which chapter is that?” I asked, flipping through the unfamiliar page headings.
“Start at Matthew, Chapter 18, Verse 12.”
“Matthew … hmmmm …”
“Here, I’ll find it for you, Mr. O’Brien,” she said, taking it and deftly flipping to the spot. It’s a very short bedtime reading, that. But you’d have to search a lot to find one more comforting.
For the Son of Man is come to save that which was lost. How think ye? If a man have a hundred sheep, and one of them goes astray, doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine, and go into the mountains, and seek that which has gone astray? And if he finds it, verily I say unto you, he rejoices more over that one sheep, than of the ninety-nine that didn’t go astray.
“That’s a pretty short bedtime reading, Cindy.”
“It’s not the number of the words that count, Mr. O’Brien. It’s what they say. See, now I’ll just lie here and think about those words and fall asleep.”
“Oh, sure I see,” I said. “Good night, Cindy,” I said as I got up and turned out the light. I went back to my room and went to sleep thinking about those words too.
Fifth Gospel:The Odyssey of a Time Traveler in First-Century Palestine Page 10