The Watchers

by Mark Andrew Olsen

  She took a long drink of the honey wine, glanced pleadingly at the ceiling, and continued.

  “My father worked for the British consulate, and so during World War II we were called here to London. It was the safest thing, yet I was heartbroken, for not only did I love my country, but I knew my nanny was quite old and would not likely survive to greet me if I ever returned. The last thing she told me, the night before we boarded our ship, was that my coming here was a mission. She said God himself had told her I was to come here and start a gathering place, and decorate it with signs of the strange Sisterhood she belonged to. And someday I would be used in a mighty way to help heal a deep wound.”

  “A deep wound?”

  “Those were her words. So I came here, and when the war ended and I married and my children entered school, I remembered my nanny’s odd mission for me. I told my husband I wanted to open a restaurant celebrating our native land. In spite of many doubts, he supported me. The restaurant has thrived, and I have used it to help many of my people through the years, in the hope that each one embodied the one special calling I was waiting for. But I never felt like it had ever happened. So, still, I have waited.”

  “Do you have the Sight?”

  The old woman looked away sadly and shook her head. “I did for a time, right after leaving Ethiopia. But living here, in the big city, with such a frantic life, I have neglected my walk with Him. I still believe, at least most of the time, but I grew busy and stopped attending church, stopped praying, reading the Scriptures. Now I feel things, faintly, like I did when you walked in tonight. But little more than that. The best I have done was stay true to this mission. Waiting.

  For you.”

  “For me.” Abby said the words as if she was trying them out for the first time. “Tell me, what is your given name? Mine is Abby.”

  “Alemu.”

  “Dylan,” he offered.

  “Alemu, have you ever heard of a holy fire?”

  The old woman’s face twisted in disgust, as though a foul smell had just filled the air. “Yes, I know of the practice. It is a repugnance to me.”

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  “You mean, you know nothing of it?”

  Both Abby and Dylan shook their heads.

  “Have either of you heard of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre?”

  “You mean in Jerusalem?” Abby asked.

  “Yes. Of course. The church built over the traditional site of Christ’s crucifixion and burial. In the Old City. One of the most divided and fought-after pieces of real estate in the world. The Orthodox, Catholics, Coptics, Armenians, Ethiopians—they all fight over every square inch of the place so fiercely that legend has it a Muslim family has to keep the keys and open the place for worship every morning.”

  “How do you know so much about this?” Abby asked.

  “Most Ethiopian Coptics know about the abomination of how their brothers and sisters have been treated there over the centuries. I do not have time to tell you the full list of outrages perpetrated by the Egyptian Coptics against the monks of my native faith. But enough to say that our monks have been attacked, lied about, stolen from, expelled from our rightful places, systematically harassed every hour of every day for decade after decade. Even when it cost the lives of our people. Today, the monks of the Ethiopian Coptic church reside in a tiny, stinking postage stamp they call a monastery, on the church’s rooftop. With no running water, no electricity, no sanitation at all. Surrounded by snarling Egyptians who wait to strike them in the mouth for exceeding their territory by even an inch.”

  “And what does this have to do with us?” asked Dylan.

  She looked at them again with thinly veiled impatience. “Because you asked me about the holy fire. That is an annual ceremony held by the Greek Orthodox clergy and thousands of their followers, down on the church’s main floor. They claim that on Easter’s eve every year, a pale blue flame comes to life above the sacred tomb and lights a candle in the hands of the Greek Patriarch. Then he turns around and lights candles being held by a crowd of worshipers packed into the church.”

  Abby fluttered her eyes for a moment, thinking back. “Dylan, do you remember what Sister Okoye said about a special person in the Sisterhood? A leader, maybe? And no one is quite sure where she is?”

  “Yes. She’s the one who’s close to the holy fire. That’s why we’re asking about it.”

  “Right. I almost forgot.”

  “Yes,” broke in Alemu. “That is what you are meant to do. The Spirit is telling me too. Go to Jerusalem. Find the church. Then find her.”

  CHAPTER

  _ 55

  LONDON, BLOOMSBURY DISTRICT —THAT NIGHT

  As soon as they entered their hotel’s two-bedroom suite on a clean but unpretentious Bloomsbury street, Dylan flew into action. Without warning he grabbed his new suitcase, brandished it high in the air, and shook all of his new clothes out onto the floor. Without a word of explanation he scooped up a large armful and carried it into his bathroom, tossing it unceremoniously into the large bathtub.

  “What are you doing?” asked Abby. “Are you upset?”

  “Abby, I couldn’t say anything in the cab over here,” he said without turning from his chosen task. “For one thing, I didn’t want to rain on your parade. I know you’re thrilled about finding this lead, and I believe it is the right one. But there is a problem. By the way, the second reason I couldn’t talk about it until now is that it’s too sensitive to speak of even within earshot of a cab driver.”

  “What is it now?” she said, suddenly burdened by the weight of all the complications she’d encountered since meeting this man.

  He stood square to her and took her shoulders in each hand. “Abby, entering Israel under false pretenses is an incredibly difficult thing for anyone but the most highly trained liar. Israeli intelligence has taken a very unusual approach in identifying incoming travelers who have something to hide. Instead of trying to spot their weapons, they try to identify their lies. They’ll take you aside and ask you a nonstop series of questions for three, four hours at a time. They’ll intimidate you. Rattle you. Ask you seemingly random questions, then jump at you with a new one. They might even film you for facial parameters, which could be a disaster, because unless we rebuilt parts of your face with putty, you would be identified no matter how changed your hair color and cut was.”

  “What’s with the clothes?”

  “Oh, that’s the other thing. They put everything you bring under a microscope—almost literally. If you have a cell phone, they’ll call your most-dialed numbers. Yeah, they’ll call them, then ask the person who picks up all about you. They’ll read your journals. Hack into your PDA, right in front of you. And they’ll certainly notice if you appear to have bought all your clothes brand-new less than two days ago in London. Addis Ababa wouldn’t have noticed this, or cared. But Jerusalem would in a heartbeat.”

  “What if I said my domestic carrier lost my luggage?”

  “Yeah. Then watch them call your domestic carrier to verify your story.”

  “Whoa. They’re really that thorough?”

  “More. I’m very worried about you getting through. And if they catch you, bam. It’s all over. Deported back to the States, your cover blown, crowds of reporters, no chance you’d ever solve the mystery. High chance the Scythians would find us before any help would, whatever that might be.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We have no choice but to go. Jerusalem is clearly the next stop on the itinerary. But we’ll just have to prepare very, very carefully. And as usual, I guess, pray our guts out when we get there.”

  “See, that’s the problem. I can’t picture myself asking God to help me be the best liar I can be.”

  “Then don’t,” Dylan answered. “Ask Him to make you invisible to the authorities. Or to keep you from being selected. Ask Him to keep you from having to lie at all.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still giving a false passport.
”

  He sighed, then said, “Abby, try to see it in terms of the greater good—that, sure, we’re breaking a rule, yet it’s still the right thing to do. Didn’t Christians during the Cold War used to smuggle Bibles into the Soviet Union? Well, they were breaking a law there and yet it was a good and brave thing they were doing, following a higher authority in that case. See what I mean?”

  She pondered this. “You make a good point.”

  “I know I’m new at all this, but I’d imagine God looks at our hearts. Our motives. Why are we doing something? For the good of our neighbors? Out of love, or out of hate and malice?”

  Abby nodded.

  “And we have to focus on what you’re trying to do here. In our case, we’re not only acting out of love for others, but we’re trying to carry out a mission God gave you. That mission is to prevent the slaughter of thousands, to conquer an enemy who has been killing your people for time immemorial. You’re trying to prevent a victory for the forces of evil and death. Now which is more wrong? Which is more reprehensible? You presenting a false passport, or the forces of death winning this victory and spilling blood all over the world?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Besides, I just remembered something else. Jesus was arguing once with the Pharisees about doing stuff on the Sabbath. And He said something like the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. Our pastor called it the Sabbath Principle, and he preached on it—how God meant for the law to serve us, not rule us. Having pure motives was more important than following the letter of some rule scribbled on parchment somewhere.”

  Abby sat still, lost in thought, for several long moments. At last, she blew out a long breath and fixed Dylan with a relaxed, though still appraising, glance. “All right. I’ll do it. Until, that is, I hear the first thing from God to the contrary. If I get the first inkling that He is displeased with this approach, I’ll tell them everything. I won’t hesitate to spill it all.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said.

  For the next four hours, they meticulously prepared for the trip. After stomping on their new clothes in the bathtub for a half hour, they concluded that short of washing them with stones or pouring acid on them—then having them washed, dried, and ironed, which they had no time for—the new clothes had to be either thrown away or heavily supplemented.

  They boarded a cab for the nearest late-night thrift shop and gleefully raided it for clothing, assorted toiletries, and worn-looking travel items.

  When they arrived back at the suite an hour later, at nearly one o’clock in the morning, Dylan narrated their packing with his best improvised instructional lecture.

  “I went through interrogation school at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, years ago,” he began, pausing briefly to search his thoughts. “But the more I remember, the more I realize we’re in a totally different situation. Military interrogation is trying to extract information whose general subject is already known, from someone already known to be, or highly suspected of being, a bad guy. Here, your interrogator doesn’t know if you’re a bad guy or not. He or she is only trying to determine if you’re lying, and after that, why.”

  “Well, I better warn you. I’ve always been told I don’t lie well. I’m not bragging or anything—I’m just naturally kind of transparent.”

  “Great,” he said sarcastically. “Well, here’s the basics of successful deceit. First of all, it’s all about not breaking your pattern. Don’t alter your manner no matter what. If you’ve been looking all around the room, using a certain tone of voice, a certain pitch, certain rhythm, anything consistent, don’t change it. A change in pattern is the most obvious sign of lying. Don’t even change your eye movements while answering a question. That especially includes bringing your hand to your face. Touching your nose or your mouth is another classic sign.”

  “Do I keep eye contact with them?”

  “Only when you’re hearing or processing a question. A lot of people think it’s convincing to keep relentless eye contact with your questioner, but that’s not necessarily true. No eye contact isn’t good, but too much can also be a sign you’re trying too hard. And again, it’s your pattern that matters most. Don’t start making eye contact at the moment you start covering up, or you’ve given yourself away. Besides, most people look up when they’re recalling information, especially about their past. Although looking down is not a good idea. A downward look is a sign you’re checking your feelings, which is a sign of guilt.”

  “So what’s our story? Should we stay a day longer while we work on it?”

  “No. The longer we stay in London, the more we risk exposure. We need to move on. The best kind of cover story we can make up is the kind with the most truth in it. Minimize your need to lie. Remember that the core you’re trying to conceal is your identity. Everything else is open to being sprinkled throughout your story, or even used wholesale. Study your new identity. You’re Isabelle Rawlins of Ann Arbor, Michigan. A college student on sabbatical. No previous stamps. You’ve gone to Mexico on spring break, hence your one reentry stamp is all. But feel free to say where we’re actually going, and what you’re interested in. Just change a little about why.”

  “What do I tell them about us?”

  The question seemed to catch Dylan completely flat-footed. He stopped in his tracks, without even turning around. “Again, as much truth as possible. While you find me devastatingly handsome and charming, the truth is that you know it’s not safe for a young woman to travel alone anywhere, let alone the Middle East. So I’m just a friend. A male friend come to look after you during your research trip.”

  She smiled, then asked, “Am I going to be sitting in a chair with a lamp aimed in my face?”

  “Nothing that campy. If you’re selected for further interview, you’ll be in a small room, though. Sparsely furnished. You could even be interviewed by a man-woman team. Just remember that they’re going to question you along a story line. They’ll get your rhythm going along a certain subject. Then they’ll suddenly interrupt you with the odd, irrelevant question. Just to throw you off your game. See, it’s only human to want to be heard when you speak. And it’s confusing to be interrupted with an unrelated question. So if they get you going too fast on a given subject, watch out. They’ll try to make you stumble and contradict yourself. It’s okay to slow down, and to pause. . . .”

  CHAPTER

  _ 56

  LONDON —THE NEXT MORNING

  Both Abby and Dylan slept in until nine, then got ready and grabbed a cab back to the Internet café in Soho, where Dylan purchased a pair of tickets to Israel on an American carrier. They exited, then disappeared to the same upper floor they had visited the day before.

  Forty-five minutes later they emerged, smiling, yet considerably poorer. In a carefully concealed waistband wallet, Abby now owned a freshly minted, although cunningly distressed, U.S. passport. Thanks to post–9/11 improvements in passport security, the required holographic and embedded detail work, not to mention the use of a verifiable American identity, had skyrocketed the cost of acquiring such a document by nearly twentyfold. And the exacting glue and laminate work had required an overnight waiting time for drying purposes.

  But neither client was complaining.

  Marcus Bryce—his original identity of Dylan Hatfield now almost lost for all time—had engaged the most skilled, discreet, and expensive forger of such things in all of Western Europe. And that kind of care took time.

  The piece, along with its accompanying driver’s license and Visa debit card, were foolproof.

  They hopped another cab for the return leg to Heathrow. From her seat inside the speeding black Fairway, Abby looked up at the sky. It was a gray day, made overcast by the soiled underbelly of high, thick clouds—a typical London day. She looked out at the crowded street, listened to the honking and beeping of vehicles, smelled the urbane aroma of exhaust fumes and ozone. She glanced at her companion.

  “You know something, Dylan?” she said, barely above a w
hisper. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  “No, I won’t. What is it?”

  “I miss Nigeria. I’d give anything to be back in that forest right now. I miss Sister Okoye. I miss those people . . . weren’t they wonderful? The smiles, the children, the incredible women with their dresses and their voices and their wild, exuberant worship. I miss all of it.”

  She paused while he smiled dreamily back in the same places with her.

  “Do you know that after all that time,” she continued, “I never learned whether Okoye was her first or her last name?”

  “Neither did I.”

  The silence descended back on them. The taxi picked up speed.

  The young woman looked back out the window, trying to identify a difference in hue between the monotonous grays of concrete highway, soot-stained walls, and leaden sky.

  She began to cry, softly, to herself.

  JERUSALEM, CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE

  The monk approached her usual sitting spot and froze in place. He stared.

  She was sitting up like a normal, healthy person, the kind strong enough for everything from speech to movement of limbs to engaging in ordinary human conversation. He smiled and gave a prayer of thanks. How long had it been now?

  And she so young. Or seemingly so young.

  “You can come closer, you know,” she said in a voice he noted was free of weakness, breathiness, and impediments of any sort. It actually had a ring, a timbre to it. Praise God.

  He approached, trying to mask his relief.

  “I feel better this morning,” she said. “Do you know why?”

  “No, I do not, Sister,” he answered.

  “I am having visitors tomorrow. Very important visitors.”

  “Oh. Well, I am glad for the warning. Perhaps I can tidy up the area—”