The Cloning

by Washam, Wisner

  They emerged on a small quay along the edge of the Tiber River near the Ponte Sant’Angelo. Lissaro waved to the captain of a speedboat that was waiting at the murky water’s edge. “This isn’t the route we planned, but there’s your boat. Get aboard,” he instructed Marc and Maria, then hurriedly assured them that the captain would take charge from here on.

  As Marc helped Maria into the boat, he asked Lissaro, “Aren’t you coming?”

  “The Holy Father will need me,” the Monsignor replied.

  Marc looked to Stephen who explained, “I’ll be needed to see that Dugan’s put away. Godspeed.”

  As the captain gunned the motor, Maria and Marc called their thanks and waved farewell. The bow of the boat lifted out of the water, and immediately Lissaro and Stephen hurried up a stone stairway to street level.

  A few moments later, Dugan and his crew emerged from the tunnel, just in time to spot the departing speedboat. “Get another boat! Quick!” he told his men. The four Capuchin monks spotted another motorboat on the far shore and yelled until they got the owner’s attention. “Over here! We need your help. For the love of God, hurry!” the Cardinal bellowed, gesticulating wildly.

  *

  Further downstream, in the estuary at Ostia, a seaplane bobbed in the choppy water. A grizzled pilot sat patiently at the controls, smoking a cigarette and occasionally checking his timepiece, then looking at the sails on nearby fishing boats to ascertain that the wind hadn't changed. It was still coming from the east, which meant that he'd have to take off upstream; it wasn't ideal, but there was no choice. More worrisome, it was past the appointed time; he wondered how much longer he should wait.

  A wind surfer moved in his direction, but then tacked back toward the shoreline. Motorboats crisscrossed the water from time to time, but none approached his plane. Finally, the urgent whine of a finely tuned motor caught his ear; it was a speedboat, coming directly from upstream toward him. He quickly hit his ignition, the motor gave a hum, and then the propeller began to turn. By the time the boat pulled alongside, he had jockeyed the plane into the wind. Without waiting for introductions, Marc helped Maria onto a pontoon, then into the tiny cabin, and passed Alpha to her waiting arms. As Marc was about to climb aboard, the speedboat’s captain handed him a manila envelope.

  “Don't lose these. Your new life is inside. And no more shaving,” he instructed Marc. Marc tucked the envelope inside his cassock, and shook the captain's hand heartily.

  “Thank you.”

  “God be with you.” Without wasting another moment, the captain returned to his controls and pulled the boat sharply away from the plane.

  Marc turned to Maria who was squeezed into the back seat of the cabin. He gave her a thumbs up and said, “We're going to be okay.” She smiled back with a look of uncertainty and crossed her fingers until she thought better of it and made the sign of the cross instead.

  As the pilot moved the throttle forward and the plane began gathering speed, the motorboat carrying Dugan and his men appeared upstream. Marc spotted them instantly and told the captain that under no circumstances must they allow Dugan to stop them. The pilot opened the throttle all the way, and they hurtled forward, rapidly gaining speed while Dugan's boat sped toward them. The pilot had no choice but to continue into the wind, upstream . . . directly into the boat's path. They were on a collision course.

  “He's going to ram us,” Marc yelled to the pilot.

  “So it seems.”

  “Go up! Go up!” Maria called.

  “We have a full load of fuel,” the pilot informed her.

  The two vehicles sped toward each other, bouncing along the surface of the water with ever-increasing speed. Marc sensed that the plane was becoming lighter, that is was about to become airborne, but it wasn't happening quickly enough.

  “Can't you turn?” he called to the pilot.

  “We have too much speed now.”

  “He's going to hit us!” Maria screamed.

  But at the last second, the Capuchin who was at the controls of the boat, lost his nerve and veered the boat to the right. In doing so, the vessel caught a wave and spun out of control, capsizing in a spray of water and throwing Dugan and all his men into the drink. As they floundered, the plane managed to lift into the air and passed just over their heads. Marc looked down and was certain that he'd caught Dugan's eye for a split second; he couldn’t resist giving the drenched prelate a little wave.

  “Too close,” the pilot observed as he banked the plane into a southeasterly direction.

  “Where are we headed? Can you tell us now?” Marc asked.

  “Oh, we have stops along the way, but if we've lucky, we'll eventually end up in Israel.”

  “You're kidding?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Mind if I look at the flight plan?”

  “There is no flight plan,” the pilot informed him. “There'll be no record of this flight at all. No one will be able to trace you . . . we hope. We'll land in the Dead Sea, and I'll turn you over to a priest from Bethlehem.”

  “Bethlehem?” Marc asked reflexively, then turned and gave a penetrating look to Maria.

  “And you still don't believe in miracles?” she asked.

  *

  The overcast sky was in their favor; their plane couldn’t be observed from the ground, so there was no visual indication of their course. Arrangements for radar tracking would take some time, and by then they would hopefully be out of Italian air space. The pilot explained that extra fuel tanks had been installed to increase the length of each leg of the journey.

  “But,” he continued apologetically, “there was no time to provide food for the flight.”

  “That’s all right,” Maria said. “We’ll survive.”

  “What about the baby?” the pilot asked.

  “I can breast-feed him. How long will we be traveling?”

  “If all goes as planned, we should be there by nightfall.”

  Alpha seemed unfazed by the furor through which he’d just passed, and quickly fell asleep to the drone of the motor. Noticing the manila envelope which he’d stuck into his cassock pocket, Marc opened it and found, among other items, two well-thumbed U.S. passports along with a letter advising them to destroy all previous identification immediately and to make the necessary physical changes in their appearances as soon as practical. Upon looking at the photo in his new passport, he was startled to see his visage with a full black beard and mustache; obviously it had been computer generated but was absolutely convincing, even when he examined it closely. His new name was Michael Gabriel Stern. Maria’s name was Ruth Elizabeth Stern, and she had long golden tresses. He hardly recognized her and couldn’t resist a smile as he turned to show her the document. She laughed. “I always wanted to be a blonde, but my father wouldn’t let me.”

  “And we’re going to be Jewish,” Marc added.

  “Just like the other Mary and Joseph,” she observed.

  Marc didn’t reply, but as instructed, he collected all of their old identification, including driver’s licenses, credit cards, even library cards. With a knife borrowed from the pilot, he shredded them all into fine pieces, and, halfway across the Adriatic, he opened the window and tossed them out. Like confetti in a storm, their pasts whirled into the sky, then drifted silently down into the sea.

  Their first stop was the island of Corfu where they touched down in a sea of crystal blue, then taxied into a small, rocky cove. There was no sign of life, but after the pilot said something in Greek into his radio, a barge came into view from a protective cover of trees along the shore and moved toward them. The pilot instructed Marc and Maria to draw the curtains inside the cabin and not to say anything within earshot of the two men who filled the gas tanks. No questions were asked, and the refueling took less than a quarter hour.

  From there, they flew over the Mediterranean to Crete where, once again, they landed in an out-of-the-way location for refueling. This time, the plane entered a small hanger built ov
er the edge of the water. Alpha was perfectly behaved, making not even a whimper, so the men working on the plane had no clue that there was a baby inside. After the refueling was complete and the workers left the hanger, Marc and Maria were allowed to get out for a brief rest stop. The pilot went outside for a few minutes and purchased some apples from the workers.

  “I’m sorry, this is all they had.”

  “Looks good to me,” Marc assured him. “Thanks.”

  Monsignor Lissaro had done his job meticulously. Every rendezvous had been planned with utmost precision, and there was absolutely no hitch along the way. As the sun began to set that afternoon, they sighted the shoreline of Israel, and they touched down on the Dead Sea just as night fell over the land.

  *

  The pilot eased the plane toward the beach until he saw a flashlight signaling from the darkness. After he'd cut the motor, he climbed down into the water to push the plane as close to the shore as possible. Next, he helped Maria and Marc, carrying Alpha, into the shallow water where they waded toward the flashlight and dry land.

  Father Mazursky was a craggy Pole, a huge bearded man, who had been in Israel for thirty years, serving in the Church built over the traditional sight where Mary gave birth to Jesus of Nazareth nearly two thousand years ago.

  “Welcome,” he greeted them with a bow from the waist, then introduced himself. Marc and Maria thanked the pilot for his help, then went with the priest to his tiny automobile.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Starving,” Maria and Marc answered almost in unison, then laughed. “The food service was the only thing lacking on the trip,” Marc explained.

  “I have some lamb stew in the refectory,” Mazursky offered. “It won't be up to Vatican standards, but it will sustain you.”

  *

  Later, while Marc and Maria devoured their stew and coarse bread, Mazursky couldn’t keep his eyes off Alpha. Maria had improvised a temporary crib from an armchair nearby.

  “He seems to have survived nicely,” the priest observed.

  “Better than I have,” she concurred. “I can’t wait to actually lie down in a bed and close my eyes.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be tonight,” Mazursky replied.

  Maria moaned involuntarily. “Why not?”

  “I received word from Rome that the search for you is continuing. The Holy Father wants to be sure that you’re safe. So you must keep moving.”

  “Where are we going next?” Marc inquired.

  “To the territory south of Gaza. We should be there by dawn.”

  “And then what?”

  “You’ll travel on to Egypt,” Father Mazursky replied.

  Marc couldn’t help looking to Maria. Neither of them said anything, but he knew from the expression on her face that she was thinking, “Does he still believe all this is just coincidence?”

  Alpha whimpered, opened his eyes, and looked around.

  “May I hold him?” the priest asked.

  “Of course,” Maria agreed readily.

  He gently picked up the baby and looked into his little face with infinite love. “Isn’t it an amazing happenstance that he came to Bethlehem to begin his new life?” It was clear that Mazursky harbored no ambivalence about Alpha’s divinity, despite recent events.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” she concurred with a piercing look to Marc.

  *

  The roads were nearly empty as Mazursky steered his ramshackle car through the darkness toward Gaza. Maria slept contentedly in the back seat with Alpha, but Marc couldn't take his eyes off the dusty road ahead.

  “How far are you going with us?” he inquired of Mazursky.

  “Only to the border. I've arranged for you to have a vehicle there. You'll go into Egypt on your own.”

  “Where in Egypt?”

  “To a Coptic monastery in the Sinai desert. You'll stay there until all the arrangements are completed for you to begin your new life.”

  Still looking ahead where the headlights cut into the darkness, Marc wondered exactly what “your new life” meant. Those dreams he’d had at the abbey were beginning to make more sense. But where does all this lead? Is Maria right? And if she is, what then?

  CHAPTER 18

  As the morning sky began to brighten over Sinai, ripples of heat could already be seen rising from the desert sand. Mazursky's tiny car was pulled to a halt amidst the ruins of a little village that had been bombed out during the Sinai war, then, abandoned. Marc and Maria had taken refuge in the remains of a partially collapsed stable while waiting for their vehicle to be delivered. After improvising a sleeping place for Alpha in a bit of straw, she sat on the ground nearby with her head on Marc's shoulder. Both of them were dozing.

  Outside, Father Mazursky paced impatiently, checked his watch occasionally, then paced some more. When he glanced inside to be sure that the young family was all right, he was deeply moved by the sight, overwhelmed to be a part, however briefly, of the lives that had affected the whole world . . . and might still affect it more.

  As the sun inched higher in the sky, Maria's eyes opened, and after checking to see that Alpha was all right, she snuggled close to Marc. His eyes opened, too, and he pulled her nearer. She caressed his unshaven face.

  “I like your beard.”

  “Give it a little time.”

  “I like you, too” she murmured.

  “The feeling's mutual.”

  “But will it still be mutual when I’m a blonde?”

  “I’ve always liked blondes . . . remember?” She gave him a playful—but nevertheless sharp—poke in the ribs. “Watch it, Mrs. Stern! I was just kidding,” he protested.

  “I know you were, Gabriel,” she replied with supreme confidence.

  Marc laughed; he appreciated her willingness to move into their new identities right away. But he detected something else in her deep eyes. “So what's that look for?”

  “What look?”

  “That little slightly-less-than-happy look.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “When you love somebody, you want to know everything about them, don't you?” surprised, even as he said it, how easily the “L” work fell from his lips.

  “I was thinking about us . . . Mr. and Mrs. Michael Gabriel Stern. I wish we were really married,” she confessed. “Truly married.”

  Before Marc could reply, Father Mazursky returned to the stable. “No sign of him yet,” he informed them.

  “How much longer till the patrol's due?”

  Mazursky checked his watch again. “Another half hour at least. He'll be here before then, don't worry.”

  “Then you have time to perform a wedding ceremony,” Marc said simply.

  Mazursky stopped his pacing and froze in place. Maria's head jerked toward Marc. “Here?” she demanded.

  “Why not?” Marc replied. “We have some time on our hands, and there's a priest available.”

  She looked toward the amazed Mazursky. “Would you do a wedding here?”

  The priest stammered, “Well, I . . .”

  Marc interrupted. “We've had a baby together, in a manner of speaking. And we're in love with each other.”

  “And our passports say we’re already married,” Maria pointed out.

  “But the circumstances are a bit unusual,” Mazursky protested.

  “More than a bit,” Marc corrected. “You'll never have another opportunity like this. Never. Ever.”

  Father Mazursky considered the truth of the statement only briefly before concluding, “That's for certain. All right. Yes, I'll marry you.”

  *

  After Mazursky dug his missal from the glove compartment of his car and donned his stole, Maria and Marc stood before him, still dressed in their black cassocks. She held Alpha in her arms, and the baby observed the proceedings with what appeared to be keen interest in this odd ritual.

  Using her real name, Maria repeated the vow. “I Maria take thee . . .” she hesitated only a sec
ond, “. . . Joseph to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I give thee my troth.”

  Mazursky read, “O Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life . . .”

  The sound of an oncoming vehicle was heard. Mazursky stopped mid-prayer as they all looked toward the horizon. An ancient jeep was approaching, barely chugging along, but stirring up a dust storm in the process.

  Mazursky quickly turned a page in his missal. “We’d better move along,” he informed them, then continued from the end of the ceremony, “Forasmuch as Maria and Joseph have consented together in holy wedlock and thereto have given and pledged their troth, each to the other, I pronounce that they are Man and Wife, in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Let’s go now.” Alpha smiled approvingly.

  They moved outside the stable just as the old jeep pulled to a stop, the motor still idling. A young Palestinian, wearing ragged jeans and a baseball cap, jumped out.

  Mazursky eyed the doorless jeep critically, then asked, “Is this the best you could do, Abdul?”

  Abdul was offended. “It’s a good vehicle. It makes much noise, but who hears it in the Sinai?”

  “Is there water?” Mazursky asked.

  “A goatskin full.”

  “All right. We don’t have much choice at this point,” Mazursky observed, turning to Marc and Maria. “You’re on your own now . . . except for the grace of God, of course.”

  “Just don’t turn the motor off,” Abdul warned, “whatever you do.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Marc said with a note of apprehension, then put out his hand to Maria. “All aboard . . . for better or worse.” He pulled her to him for a kiss, the conclusion of their marriage ceremony, then helped her and Alpha into the jeep. “And thank you for everything,” he said to Mazursky.