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# JESUS RETURNS

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### Published by Doug Walker at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Doug Walker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover Image: David W. Dellinger

CHAPTER ONE

When this chronicle began, a man who was living in the downtown area of the city told me he was Jesus. He wanted to befriend someone like myself. Why, I wasn't certain, but I thought there was some prank involved. So I told him my name was Ishmael. At the time it didn't seem to matter.

Call me Ishmael. When it all started, I was living in Asheville, North Carolina, and maybe I still do. At that time Asheville prided itself as being a "weird" city, with lots of people, many of them young, who dressed oddly in an assortment of wool hats, long skirts, and skimpy attire. They seemed to be hippy throwbacks. There were also many microbreweries, an ample and diverse supply of restaurants, and lots of music of all sorts. Tattooed folks were everywhere one looked.

Some of these characteristics would change periodically, but what doesn't change is that the city sits on the French Broad River, a very broad river, not too deep, running over rocks. It's a bit odd because of its northerly direction. It flows into Tennessee.

The city rests in the western part of the state in the Smokey Mountain part of the Appalachians. The altitude varies but averages around 2500 feet, which supposedly keeps it cool in summer, and sometimes this is true. There are various festivals and outdoor events, generally throughout the summer season. Organic, green and local food is extremely popular. This might be best illustrated by the odd food stores, farmers markets and an almost unwholesome desire to recycle anything that doesn't move.

The citizens of the city are justly proud of the art deco city hall. However, these citizens of the city and Buncombe County, in which the city sits, are equally in a state of despair over their ugly courthouse. Originally the county fathers said they would match that artistically excellent structure with an art deco courthouse, but then went back on their word, apparently for convenience and political expediency. It remains a scandal in the streets. If Asheville is about anything, it is heavy on art. This might be further explored later on.

There is also the Grove Park Resort Hotel, the Biltmore Estate, which boasts the largest private home in America, the Grove Park Arcade, numerous art galleries, and Pack Square, which is named after a famous person. There is a statue of an angel, which represents the city's most famous author, Thomas Wolfe, who includes among his works a book titled "Look Homeward Angel." Wolfe, who lived a fast-paced thirty-eight years, is buried in the city. Also buried here is O. Henry. Zelda, F. Scott Fitzgerald's spouse, died here in a fire. Both F. Scott and Zelda rest in an obscure cemetery in Rock Creek, Maryland. The remarkably lovely Blue Ridge Parkway runs directly through the south and eastern sections of the city.

These last things I mentioned are the unchanging characteristics of the city. Fairly obvious is the truth that Wolfe and O. Henry are not going to rise from the dead and walk among us, or catch a tour to Asia, although there are things to come later on that might cause one to doubt that seeming fact. As we have heard from various sources, there are known facts and unknown facts, and the known facts might sometime prove to be not unknown, and indeed not facts at all.

Before we get into the actual chronicle, there is one thing left: a brief description of the Grove Arcade, which sits in downtown Asheville, and is an architectural delight.

It is an arcade. That is you can walk through it, and there are shops on the first floor. During World War Two it was taken over by the federal government. After the war it was closed up and abandoned for some years while Asheville was wiggling out of its cocoon to burst forth in its present radiant form. Rehabilitation, or refurbishing, followed.

On one side there are a series of small eateries and a wine shop that can be entered from inside or outside and where there is often sidewalk seating. Inside there are mainly touristy shops. These are all subject to change. Shops, galleries, restaurants, and music venues continually rise and fall throughout the Asheville area for many reasons. The arcade is located on a slight hill, so one goes either up or down depending in which direction one walks. Hills are ubiquitous in Asheville, including at least three mountains within the city – Sunset, Town and Beaucatcher Mountains.

Upstairs in the arcade there are fairly pricey condos. It was to one of these condos that I, Ishmael, was summoned. Single, I am. The live-in long ago departed, weary of my long sessions at the computer scratching out a poverty level living as a freelance writer.

Some of these factors were likely involved in why Jesus picked me. He needed someone with whom to discuss his ideas and the global situation. Of course he has special powers, although just what they are I'm still not certain. But his e-mail, the type one would usually dismiss to the spam file, caused me to have a look. It contained the aforementioned invitation to a condo in the Grove Arcade. Normally I would have declined, but something compelled me to keep the appointment.

Upon knocking, he opened the door and said, "I shall call you Ishmael, the name given to Abraham's first son."

"You're trying to impress me," I replied.

"Really, I'm not," he said. "Why would Jesus Christ try to impress anyone? I'm something of a mild mannered wanderer."

He looked to be in his early thirties, maybe 5 foot 10, possibly 180 pounds, clean-shaven, light brown hair, brown eyes, sun tanned, and wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. Fairly handsome, but not star quality.

Entering the sparsely furnished condo, he invited me to have a seat in one of two easy chairs. There was also a love seat, coffee table and a couple of lamps. A stack of magazines and newspapers was on an end table. "The place came with these," he said, indicating the furnishings.

I nodded that I understood, but added, "A man with no visible means of support is sitting in an expensive condo with the attendant expenses of simply living." A flat-screen TV was on the wall.

"I visited Wall Street in your New York City. There's money lying around there almost for the taking. Of course I don't steal. As you know, I'm said to be the only person without sin. So I walk the straight and narrow. I make a modest living here selling reverse mortgages."

It sounded like one terrific put on, but I went along with the gag. "You go door to door?"

Jesus laughed. "Of course not. I have access to nation-wide phone lists, and I can tell who might profit from such a mortgage and those who might find it a disaster. I sell to those who would profit in a persuasive way."

"Persuasive?"

"Yes, the same way I enticed you to come here, Ishmael. You are here, aren't you?"

"Indeed I am. And I'm interested in just why I'm here."

"We're a couple of guys with time on our hands. I can put you on to some easy ways to earn a living. And I need someone to talk with. It's lonely, and I'll admit I'm a little confused."

"You, confused? Now that is odd. You want me to peddle reverse mortgages?"

"Certainly not. You're not cut out for that. I'll give you stock market tips. You can day trade. Make whatever you like."

"Insider trading?"

"Not really. Who would you know to give you inside tips?"

"No one. Tell me more about your confusion."

"Of course you know I'm two thousand years old, more or less. When I departed and left my band of buddies, I promised to return."

"We call it the second coming," I interjected.

"Call it what you will. The fact is I've kept my promise. I'm back. Is there something you know of I'm supposed to do?"

"I think it's all in the Bible," I replied.

"I've read that stuff. Not much of a job description. I don't know if I can make all those things happen. In fact I'm certain I can't."

This guy had me hooked. I was beginning to believe he was the real McCoy, the authentic Son of God. "I'm guessing you'd have better luck talking to a few Christian leaders."

Jesus smiled, like a father trying to humor his son. "Do you forget that I'm a Jew?"

CHAPTER TWO

So I found a cheap day trading service and Jesus gave me leads. We decided that I should lose money on every fourth or fifth trade. Regardless, I was rolling in money after the second week and hired an accountant to take charge of my records and insure that my taxes were paid promptly.

My schedule was simply to check my e-mails from Jesus in the morning, make a few trades, then have idle time until the market was about to close when I would sell and forward my profits to the accountant. Later we would start working the international markets, which would cause me to climb out of bed at an insanely early hour. But I compensated with well-timed naps. And sometimes I held onto the stock for several days.

This left me many free hours to chat with Jesus and show him the sights. He enjoyed people watching, and Asheville is the mother lode for that sport from early morning until past midnight. And there were the restaurants with a multitude of exotic and domestic cuisines. These were happy times.

Nevertheless Jesus was at a loss as to what his role might be. Long ago he had been nailed by the Jews as a fake messiah. The real one was supposed to do at least four things: build the Third Temple, gather all Jews to Israel, bring about world peace, and establish God as king of the world.

He had not done one of these things and, frankly, didn't know where to start.

Even the Muslims who hailed him as a prophet thought he would return toward the end of the world and that everyone would turn to Islam.

The Baha'i Faith believes that the second coming was begun by Bab in 1844. For the life of him Jesus could make no sense of this one.

We discussed Hinduism, which seemed to be more realistic. Those believers see Jesus as an Avatar and the second coming as the resurrection of Christ within you, an inner peace within the individual heart. Jesus could live with that one.

There were other beliefs, including theosophy, which had the vague notion that Christ would return sometime after 2025.

The question remained, should he make some sort of announcement and then attempt to sort out the various beliefs, perhaps by a simple statement of love thy neighbor? What to do? So we tarried on, me enjoying his company and freedom from want, but wondering if it was a mistake to get involved. It crossed my mind that I could wind up as some sort of icon in a new version of the Bible, a sequel perhaps.

I had learned that the second coming was sometimes called the Parousia and that Christ was to judge the living and the dead and that His Kingdom would have no end. But this was simply one of the scenarios. And there were other variations, twists and turns.

We both tried not to make his mission on earth a constant conversation piece. Sometimes it was like beating a dead horse. Him not knowing exactly what he should do and me not being much of an adviser. But little by little the past caught up with the two of us.

For instance, I asked him about John the Baptist, knowing that he had played a key role in his first earthly life.

"John was a good guy," he said. "A bit of a fanatic. He preached about penance, said the end would certainly come, and enjoyed baptizing folks. Of course that's how he got his name."

I asked if he lived in the wilderness and ate locusts and honey, such as was told.

"Yes and no. There was quite a bit of wilderness in those days, and many poor people ate locusts and honey and anything else they might find or be given. So John was no different in that respect. If you stayed in what is considered wilderness, there wouldn't be many people to preach to and very likely even fewer to baptize."

I mentioned that modern-day Baptists and other religions went for immersion, while the higher types keep it simple by sprinkling a few drops here and there.

"Baptism was nothing new in those days," Jesus said. "Of course we're talking mainly Jewish people here. Baptism is simply a cleansing technique very likely used since the earliest times. The idea was to cleanse the body and the soul. And it was a religious thing. You see, John was known as my forerunner, sometimes called the forerunner who was to welcome the Messiah, namely me. But no one would believe him."

"But you believed him?"

"Yes, I knew something was up. At some point I had certain communications with my Father. He wanted to put me on the right track. So after John dipped me in water I started my preaching career, but not in his territory. We came to an understanding."

I couldn't help but chuckle. "This is like two salesmen selling same product, splitting up their sales area."

Jesus nodded in agreement. "Very much. But let me interject here that many thought that another person who was considered a prophet, this one named Elijah, would be the forerunner, or precursor if you will. So it was this Elijah who cast my status into doubt. These things happen. After my baptism I left to preach in Galilee, while John continued his ministry near the banks of the Jordan River.

"You may have heard that John lost his head, and that is quite true. He became a powerful figure and had a growing following. He went too far in denouncing some very powerful individuals for their sins. An attractive dancing girl, Salome, egged on by her mother, asked for John's head and her request was fulfilled. There is also a story about what happened to John after his death, but that is sheer conjecture on the part of mortal man."

CHAPTER THREE

One place the two of us liked to go was Twelve Bones, a barbecue place on the banks of the French Broad River in the River Arts district. That district consists of old brick buildings, many of them warehouses that had been converted to art studios of pottery, painting, metal work, and other crafts. The area is actually a flood plain and occasionally suffers when the French Broad tops its banks.

The food there is good. We would have half a side of ribs with side dishes, a fairly common meal in the south. They also had a MLT, a mushroom, lettuce and tomato sandwich. Very good. We would then stroll around to the various art studios, Jesus commenting on art during the last two thousand years. He had a good eye and a great memory.

There was also an interesting eatery nearby called the White Duck, another favorite, where I enjoyed the fish tacos. On all these excursions away from the downtown area, I drove. Jesus did not have a driver's license. I'm not certain whether he could drive, although I imagine he could because he could do most things. Somehow he had faked a Social Security number. He pointed out that however he did it was not a sin.

Jesus' definition of sin did not tally with the popular definition. He pointed to that well know story, and he insisted it was true, about him holding a coin and telling folks to follow the laws of the government wherever they happened to be, but to also follow the law of God, who was the higher authority. He chuckled when he thought about the coin trick.

It was during such a discussion that I asked him to tell me about the Holy Ghost.

"That's always puzzled me," he said. "Of course there is my Father, and I am the Son, but just where the Holy Ghost enters the picture is a poser. I never asked my Father about that. Incidentally, I've had minimal contact with him for quite a while. He has other fish to fry. There are galaxies and galaxies and he seems to be the man in charge. To say he doesn't pay much attention to this planet would not be any type of falsehood."

"What about your mother?"

"Typical Jewish. She wanted me to be a doctor and make something of myself. But there simply weren't many doctors when I was young. So I picked the carpenter trade. Everyone needed carpentry, and few people were really skilled at it. I'm thinking maybe that's what I should be doing today."

"And give up reverse mortgages?"

Jesus smiled. "There you go again. Maybe carpentry could just be a hobby. Your day trading could easily support us both. I'm thinking of building up a stack of money so that the two of us might go on a world tour."

That thought was a bit troubling. Touring the world with Jesus had not been my number one dream. But I didn't have to worry about that right away. So I pointed out, "If I make too much money too fast someone might become suspicious."

"Oh, come now, Ishmael, you must be familiar with Wall Street bankers and brokers. They must use wheelbarrows to cart their money to those offshore islands."

"Totally true. But they seem to have some special protection that the rest of us don't enjoy. I've been striving to pay all my taxes. My accountant is an honest man."

"Special protection. I've got your special protection. Not to worry. Ever hear of a man named Diogenes, or Diogenes the Cynic?"

CHAPTER FOUR

Jesus knew I did not want to reveal my true identity, so he always called me Ishmael. Of course he knew who I was. Try hiding anything from him. Aside from Moby Dick, I had no idea where that name had come from, except it had a haunting quality.

He informed me that Ishmael was the first son of Abraham, fathered by the old man by his wife's maid because the wife failed to produce a son. Then the wife gave birth to a son and she became angry with the maid and Ishmael whom she had cast out into the desert.

In those days casting unwanted folks out into the desert seemed as easy as buying a Big Mac at McD's. I'm not certain just how it was done. But Jesus said the two of them became super thirsty, which caused God to produce a water fountain. Ishmael then lived to be 137 years old, which seemed not to be awfully unusual in those days. It seems that if you put "in those days" at the head of a sentence almost anything was possible.

Jesus was aware that he was responsible for the Christian religion. I told him how radio and TV preachers had grown vastly rich through him. Also, other evangelicals who founded huge churches and gigantic organizations, all of them engaged in making tax-free dollars. In almost every case this money was said to be collected to serve Jesus our Savior.

He knew or had guessed most of these things, but he enjoyed talking to me about it. I speculated that if he could get just a small cut of all the money made in his name we could tour the world from here to eternity. He thought that was great stuff, but was reluctant to interfere with anyone doing good work.

"My preaching was very simple," he said. "Love thy neighbor as thyself. Help the poor. I never got into government sponsored social programs, but I see now they are needed. Christianity is so diced up. Plus there are agnostics, pagans, atheists and what-have-you religions, most everyone looking out for themselves, so that government, and I mean good government, has to pick up the slack.

"In my day I believe the Romans meant well, but there were corrupt individuals. Today is not much different, although a body of law has grown up over the years to protect the poor struggler. Nevertheless, schemers can find ways to slip through the cracks."

I asked if these people, these schemers, would be judged and cast into hell.

"I suppose there might be a reckoning someday," he said. "That's pretty much up to God. I can do certain things, but just how they came up with this trinity business is beyond me. With your help, Ishmael, I'm hoping to work through this problem."

At this point I felt like a trapped animal, looking about furtively. And he knew that and sometimes laughed at me. I mean, he was two thousand years of age and I was about the age he appeared to be, about thirty-two. He simply needed a sounding board and I was it. Sometimes I felt absolutely stupid. But occasionally I came up with an idea that seemed totally brilliant. One of these was my suggestion that we go to church.

"I really never thought of that, Ishmael. Yes, by all means, let's attend services Saturday. There are synagogues and temples in town?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a Christian church. You are the founder of that particular persuasion. I'd be like a fish out of water at a synagogue, or a temple. Aren't they the same thing?"

"No, there's a difference. It slips my mind just what it is. The service is very likely about the same. But I'll follow your lead. Any particular church?"

"I thought Presbyterian. My parents were of that faith and I attended fairly often as a child. I never joined. We were constantly told that Jesus loves us. Indeed that Jesus loves every creature large and small. And that God is love. Also that God has his eye on the sparrow."

"The sparrow?" Jesus inquired. "What is this sparrow you speak of? An attractive woman?"

"No, it's a small bird, a very common bird. The phrase is meant to inform the listener that God knows about every little thing that's going on. If he watches a small bird, he must know everything."

"That really doesn't make much sense," Jesus observed. "Perhaps you've left out something."

"No, it tells us strictly that God knows every detail of everything happening on Earth. So you'd better watch out."

"That's a stretch, isn't it? We make a great pair, Ishmael. You reveal things to me that I don't know almost on a daily basis."

CHAPTER FIVE

Jesus was well aware that he couldn't simply walk around and tell whoever might ask that he was Jesus Christ. That wouldn't go down well at all and would very likely lead to his premature exposure as the messiah before he even had a chance to figure out what it is the messiah was supposed to do on his second coming.

So he took the name of Joe Crist. Joe or Joseph was his earthly father's name and Crist, well, that's clear enough. The initials were the same in case he wanted something embroidered on his shirt cuff. You might think such a thing would not happen, but Jesus had his way with styles and tried to keep up with the modern world.

For instance, the two of us played tennis on any one of several public courts scattered around the community. Jesus was a good athlete and must have indulged in sports previously. He caught on quickly and could beat me more times than not. He even talked of joining a private club. I didn't say anything at the time, but it bothered me a little because it would mean throwing more money around. At some point someone might wonder how I became a successful day trader when I had been struggling for some time as a freelance writer. Jesus even suggested I move in with him, which I resisted for a time, then finally gave up. He had a big place with two bedrooms.

Asheville is gay friendly to the extreme, and it had been mentioned from time to time that Jesus might be gay. I put little stock in this, but moving in with him caused me to wonder. Two adult men living together might indicate that we were a gay couple.

I'll get into that a little later, but first there's something about tennis I should mention. Jesus insisted that we both should have the very best rackets plus the latest tennis attire. We spent quite a bit of money suiting up properly. It occurred to me that two men seen together and dressed in the latest fashionable tennis togs might also give the appearance that we were a gay pair.

This really didn't bother me, but it made me curious about Jesus' views on the homosexual lifestyle. He had been around Asheville long enough to see plenty of same-sex pairs on the streets and elsewhere.

When I asked, he said that homosexuality was a natural occurrence in nature. "It seems to me that I've seen or heard somewhere that one of every ten individuals of both sexes either tends to be gay or is openly gay. Those who repress their homosexuality and lead what is considered to be your standard heterosexual life are probably doing ok. There are also bisexual folks."

It was apparent that Jesus had given this some thought, and he went on and on about it. "There are people who are born to be gay and those that drift in that direction. Take those couples who marry early and have children. In later life one or both spouses might find they are drawn to the gay lifestyle and each go their own way. Or they might swing both ways, as the saying goes. But on the other hand you would seldom if ever find a gay person becoming straight or heterosexual."

I assured him that I did know that that was the case and sought to drop the whole topic, a bit sad that I had ever brought it up. Living for two thousand years somewhere or the other, not certain just where, Jesus had accumulated a great store of knowledge and often seemed eager to share it with me. This was particularly true after we had a couple of drinks kicked off by the five o'clock hour. If we were out to one of the many drinking emporiums in the city, we would often have beer or maybe a mixed drink. If we were in the condo, Jesus always insisted on doing his favorite trick, turning tap water into wine. He could do both red or white and vary the alcoholic content at will.

It was during one of these cocktail sessions that he confided in me that he had more than one female companion before he was crucified and went to wherever it was he went. I was never quite certain what or where his destination had been and what sort of lifestyle he enjoyed during that long period of time. It was always apparent that the second coming puzzled him and that he somewhat regretted promising to return again. And I got the idea that he had been perfectly happy wherever it was that he was. But he did not seem to be in any hurry to go back there.

These chance encounters with random females seemed to take place while he was wandering about the countryside preaching. After all, one has to have a place to rest one's weary head. There were single mothers with children in those days, or even without children. It was often the woman who died early, carried off in childbirth or by some disgusting disease that no one had bothered to attempt to remedy. But at the same time robust young men were being abducted in broad daylight to serve as galley slaves, or in the military. The Roman legions were certainly not all Romans. In Rome there were bars that actually catered to that era's equivalent to draft dodgers. So anyway, Jesus needed some place to sleep, and there were households headed by single women here and there. Go figure.

It was during one of our cocktail conversations that Jesus suggested he would like to become a dog owner. He had just manufactured a carafe of white wine and kicked up the alcohol content so we could toss in a few ice cubes. We were snacking on cashews, some sort of tasteless crackers called Scottish rough cakes and a certain type of hoop cheese made locally.

The younger hippy types and a few homeless sorts seemed to have dogs. Of course there were other folks of all ages who enjoyed canine companionship. Some had two dogs, some of them quite odd: shaggy, or colored in peculiar patterns, or amazingly tiny, or much too large for the city. Anyway, he suggested he might find a black dog at the pound and name it Satan. He found that to be quite humorous, and I dared not tell him it lacked originality. Why spoil a perfectly good cocktail hour?

After pointing out that some dogs needed almost constant care, wanted to be your good buddy, and had to be walked outside at least twice a day, his fervor seemed to fade. We then discussed other projects, possibly the purchase of an abstract painting, or a statue of a dog or other creature done in clay by a local artist. I told him there were religious calendars that carried his imagined picture and also that of the Last Supper and other events during the centuries of Christendom.

This seemed to amuse him and he related an anecdote involving Judas Iscariot and a wedding party. The evening wore on with a second carafe of wine. We never did have more than snack food. But it was a fine social time.

CHAPTER SIX

This part of the book is about attending church, and I'll combine a pair of sermons, more or less. We had been to two services on subsequent Sundays, one Methodist and one Presbyterian.

I explained to Jesus that the Presbyterians were once known for their almost fanatical belief in predestination, which is the belief that no matter what one does during one's entire lifetime that person would still experience the same end and not always a pleasant one.

Jesus thought about that for a while and finally said he thought it was foolish to say something like that and make it part of your belief. I asked him why would that be so.

He replied, "To anyone, and this would be about everyone in the Presbyterian and Methodist churches, plus many more, excluding possibly the Unitarians and other fringe faiths, who believes in God, it's simply old hat."

I didn't quite get his drift, but he explained it to me like he was addressing a child. "All these people believe in God. Well, that's simply dandy. If you believe in God, then you must know that God knows everything. In truth, he doesn't. But he has access to that knowledge. He knows your hour of birth and your hour of death and probably most everything that happens in between. Of course to God, this is boring stuff and he probably doesn't pay much attention to it. He can reel back to any time he likes and find out what has happened anytime, anywhere and just who might be involved in any certain situation. Take that Japanese tsunami for instance. That might be interesting to watch."

To me a disaster on that scale would not constitute high quality viewing material. But again, God knows everything, so he might know what's in store for those unfortunate folks who perished, or perished in our way of thinking, and maybe it's not so bad. We simply don't know.

Also Jesus reminded me that God does not make plans as some folks believe. The fact is everything was planned out long ago, although the plans did not involve certain people as a rule. That is every "i" wasn't dotted and every "t" crossed. So us mortals might stumble into a distasteful situation willy-nilly so to speak and that might be the last thing we stumble into. Now the plans might include certain people in particular. These might be well known world, regional or local notables that had distinguished themselves in a certain way, like serial killers, or Genghis Khan, or Lord Nelson. This isn't to say that God can't intervene, or change a plan. He can. And I use that pronoun purposely. God is definitely male. I mean Jesus is His son. So that fact seems to stand out. However, if God happened to be a woman, which He is not, He still might have fathered a son because of having powers beyond comprehension. Just me actually having Jesus as a roommate is an example of the things we do not comprehend that come to pass.

Now I set out here to let you in on two sermons and how Jesus reacted to each one. In fact he was the centerpiece for both. The first has come down to us through the New Testament as the miracle of the loaves and the fishes.

Jesus was impressed by the service and particularly the singing. We did the Doxology, which consists of only four lines. The last one mentions the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. It was something to be standing next to Jesus while that was sung, who was still a bit puzzled over the Holy Ghost, but I'm guessing the preacher could have explained that one due to the time spent in seminary, maybe at Princeton. This was a Presbyterian church.

We also sang Rock of Ages. My take on this is that Jesus is the Rock of Ages because it mentions the water and the blood that is thought to have flowed from his side as a curative for the rest of us. That is, cured or cleansed of sin, yet we are all sinners. That's another puzzle. However in talking to Jesus about this he pooh-poohed the water and the blood. In this case, he said, God was aware of his execution and simply wouldn't allow his body to be unduly harmed because he was well aware that a resurrection was to follow. So why do undue damage to a perfectly good body that was to be brought back to life in three days. That is, if it were actually ever dead. Jesus wasn't totally candid on that point.

He would give me a knowing smile, then wink. I had tried to educate him on the Christian religion and he seemed to understand. But I wasn't certain that he understood that his rising from the dead, and I don't mean simply pretend dead, but dead-dead, was the absolute and only foundation of the Christian church. That is, it stated that we could live forever if we were marginally good, to dwell among the Heavenly creatures. Possibly with a harp, possibly with long, flowing snow-white robes. That Easter is the most important day on the Christian calendar I think he did understand because Jesus is no simpleton. Some of the stuff that has gone on in the last two thousand years, add or subtract a little, didn't seem to appeal to him as ripe for conversation. We've all had things happen that we'd rather not even chat about over cocktails. Being crucified isn't all that appealing.

I might add here that he enjoyed the song, "What a Friend We Have in Jesus." He was looking around and smiling at the congregation as if someone might recognize him. "Just being there," he said later, "might have a comforting aura to it. That I was there and they were singing about me."

That could be, and I'm certain he meant it. But it didn't have the least influence on what he might do now that he had returned to Earth. In fact he seemed less and less likely to do much of anything. But occasionally he would bring up the world tour thing again. I was beginning to think maybe that was the answer – to go all around the world and meet different folks, and then he might suddenly have a flash from above that would point out the way. What I'm talking about is like a lightning bolt, but very likely sent by God. I was half afraid to mention God to him. It seemed to me that God might be well pleased with him, but he wasn't what you might call a favorite son. Just what was going on, I was far from certain.

His favorite song from those two times we visited churches was "Just as I Am." I never knew the title before, but I read it on the church program. I always thought it might be called something like, "Lamb of God." That was the part I liked, the last line of every verse: "O Lamb of God, I come, I come."

The choir and the people would drag out that last "I Come" part. In fact the whole song would be fairly slow and even repeated because at the big camp meetings, or more recently in sports stadiums, it would be a song that invited folks to come forward and give themselves over to Jesus.

After the service, we were having coffee at the Atlanta Bread Company and I explained this to Jesus. He was puzzled about him shedding blood. But I reminded him of the story at the cross and the Roman soldier sticking a spear in his side. He said it was all theatrics, and I didn't quite catch his meaning, but he went on and on about the song.

"It's just the Lamb of God thing I don't understand because you say it invites people to come forward and give themselves to Jesus, which would be me. I do understand that because it is a symbolic gesture trumped up probably by my so-called disciples. Symbolic, but practical. There's not much difference in folks over the centuries. And coming forward like that and making a confession, or pledge, or whatever, it would help out at least in the short term. Then if they went back to their old ways a family member or friend might remind them of that vow. But then the song mentions God and give yourself to Jesus. Just who are we talking about here?"

I was afraid he might be talking too loud, and there were folks sitting nearby who had been in that very service. But I tried to explain the Holy Trinity once more, which of course I was unable to do because I didn't understand it myself. I could almost grasp the fact that Jesus and God were one, but that Holy Ghost thing kept getting in the way.

Well he seemed quite pleased with that service, and I actually felt he was progressing toward some solution. But I was enjoying myself and having a good time, except for the occasional worry that something might go wrong. It was like an invisible cloud hanging over our heads. When I mentioned something like that he assured me that everything was fine and that he had a few tricks up his sleeve and some special kind of protection. Then there was the money thing. I was raking it in with my day trading and losing some to make it look good. But with a world tour around the corner we would need serious bucks. Then he said he understood computers and that I could day trade anyplace in the world. Of course he was right on target.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I would like get back to the two church services we attended and Jesus' take on both. Not just the songs, mind you; they were an important part of his education and maybe mine too, but more of the on-the-bone meat of the services.

In the first one the preacher talked about the miracle of the loaves and the fishes. Four evangelists had mentioned that outing in their reports. Never mind that their accounts had come years after the fact and there was some question about their ability to set down words on paper or parchment, or whatever they used in those old days. Maybe you remember that Muhammad, the founder of the Muslim religion, could neither read nor write. Everything in their holy book was set down by someone else. And the Muslims seem justly proud that such an illiterate could create such a book.

Anyway, Jesus remembered such gatherings, but said there was no miracle involved, although he does admit to other miracles, like turning water to wine or making the blind see or bringing dead folks back to life.

What happened in a case like that where he was supposed to have five loaves and two fish was that everyone in the crowd had packed some food along, at least most of them. He preached love and kindness, which seemed to put the crowd into a sharing mood. And that's what he said happened on more than one occasion. So much for the miracle.

The next service we attended, the preacher went on about the Sermon on the Mount. The first thing Jesus said about that is that during his preaching days he had always sought to seek a high spot so the crowd might get a good look at him. But he didn't remember any mountain. There were just a few small hills around. Also he said the way that sermon was written it must have rolled several of his speeches into one, as well as adding quite a bit of material that he didn't say and wouldn't dream of saying. Also the crowd size seemed to be exaggerated, but no one really kept count.

Take for instance that thing about if the right eye offends you, pluck it out. He said he would never say such a thing. Anyway, how could your right eye, or even the left eye, offend you? He'd like to talk to the crackpot that made that one up. I'm not certain that that eye business was part of the Sermon on the Mount, but he had heard it somewhere.

Another thing he had heard, but didn't seem to understand was when judgment day rolled around the "quick and the dead" would be judged. He didn't understand the "quick" part. I told him it simply referred to living people. I had often repeated it in the Apostles Creed, some parts of which didn't make a whole lot of sense. But I had heard a preacher explain it more than once. Sometimes it was difficult for preachers to drum up topics. Religion seemed to be a little bit repetitive, everyone simply waiting for their reward.

Then he was supposed to have talked about adultery. He admitted that could have happened, possibly during a question and answer session that often followed one of his talks. He also confessed that he would have to take the stand that he was opposed to adultery. But then he asked, were Adam and Eve technically married? Knowing that we are all sons of Adam, descended from adulterers, with the exception being him as the Son of God, although there could be the hint of adultery in that relationship.

His actual stand on the topic he said was that he was not opposed to some sort of relationship between consenting adults as long as one of them wasn't pressuring the other into doing something they found distasteful. He acknowledged that he wouldn't generally make that part of his preaching agenda. There were certain private views one held that were not to be aired in public.

Then there were all those "Blessed are" that had been stuck in that sermon on the mound or somewhere. He swore that he would have run out of breath talking if he had said all those things. He singled out one example: "Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth."

"Now what does that mean?" Jesus questioned. "These people have the idea they're going to die and go to Heaven. So what use would they have of the earth, even if they could inherit it? And how many meek people are there? Would they have to share the earth? What about everybody else? I suppose they'd have to pay rent. It simply doesn't add up. And remember, I was a Jew preaching to mainly Jews. At that time there was no concept of the Christian Heaven. But I must admit I did speak of a heavenly home. Then there was the mix-up of precursors to further complicate matters. But, oh well. What's done is done."

I reminded Jesus of a passage about his founding the Christian church. He seemed quite surprised and said he had no idea.

"It's actually a quote, I suppose from one or more of your disciples."

"My comrades, or companions. Disciple sounds like they were employed by me. Believe me, none of us had any money."

"Well, the quote is that you told the one called Peter..."

"The fisherman," Jesus interrupted. "He just wasn't having any luck at his trade so he came along and stuck with me to the end. And you know what that was."

"Of course. Anyway, the story is you told Peter that he was a rock and on that rock you would build your church."

Jesus grinned broadly. He had an excellent memory for certain things and recalled the incident. "That was sort of a joke, or what you might call a pun. Peter means rock in Greek. So I joked that he was a rock, suitable as the foundation for a structure of one kind or another. The word church, or even the translation for church was unknown, at least by me. So maybe I said synagogue or temple, or something else. But we were just kidding around. We did a lot of that. Those were good times."

Well, you can bet we spent a lot of time chatting about Christianity. Then Jesus wanted to take me to a synagogue. He knew all about that and I wasn't particularly interested. I'd heard there was a high level of boredom involved in those services. All the time though, Jesus kept bringing up the world tour until I thought there was nothing to do but take one and enjoy it. I was a prosperous person thanks to Him. I had gotten the hang of day trading, but didn't know if I would do any good at all without his market tips. In the meantime he kept up selling one or two reverse mortgages every weekday to keep up appearances.

One thing that struck me, Jesus could go anywhere on earth he wanted and see and do anything he wanted. He didn't need me. Or did he? I think he just wanted a companion who more or less knew the ropes, someone to talk to and to bounce ideas against. Once in a while I was able to set him straight, and he could often do the same for me. I guess we paired up as a well-balanced team. But I was then and am now your standard run-of-mill person.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It would have interested me to know how Jesus had spent his time during the last two thousand years, but I didn't ask. I was afraid he might launch into a long discourse that would be something like a history lesson and a little boring, particularly if we both had a drink or two. He was not immune to the impact of alcohol. What I'm saying is he was a regular guy just like you and me, although he seemed to have the Indian sign on longevity. And at least in recent years he had kept his eye on what was happening here on earth.

I know this because he thought the world of Lucille Ball and also seemed to care a lot about Uncle Milty. I questioned him about diseases, famines, droughts, natural disasters, wars, pillage and disturbing things of that ilk. He tried to explain more than once that these were natural happenings, and we were put on earth to deal with such nonsense. The nonchalance of his explanation seemed to lack genuine substance, but there was little percentage in attempting to pursue it. I suppose God could spend more than full time trying to take a hand in resolving such things for the good of humanity, knowing full well that humanity itself seemed to create many of them and had taken few precautions to prepare for serious acts of nature.

"One thing seems certain," Jesus said, "people seem to make the identical mistake generation after generation. One would think there'd be a learning curve. How easy it is for a banker or a politician, or a preacher for that matter, to dupe the so-called educated public."

He was not excessively interested in the spiritual side of life; instead we went to a travel shop in the Asheville Mall and bought carry-on bags, plus sundries for our world tour. Then he insisted we see the sites of Asheville before departing. These included the Biltmore House and the Grove Park Inn, plus dinner at the Red Stag, a restaurant in the Grand Bohemian hotel. Then there was a drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway up to the Pisgah Inn for lunch, a rafting trip on the French Broad, in addition to a whitewater-rafting trip, and an exhausting tour of all manner of art galleries.

Frankly, I was happy when we got all that business out of the way since I had seen everything over the years and had been living with it. So we flew to Paris. I shouldn't have been surprised to learn that Jesus was fluent in French and every other language we encountered. I'm certain he would have been right at home with Sanskrit.

Jesus had somehow gotten himself a U.S. passport under the name of Joe Crist. Of course I had a passport under my name, Boyd Henry. Jesus would call me Boyd in public, but during private conversations often call me Ishmael. Little things seemed to amuse him. He was altogether a pleasant traveling companion.

Going on-line, I booked us into the Hotel de France Gare de Lyon Bastille at 12 Rue de Lyon. From the map it seemed to be in a central location. We were in no hurry, and spent a day and a half shaking jet lag, then walking for hours around Paris, a fine city for strolling. We found that the Bastille had apparently been torn down stone by stone early in the revolution. After a Gray Bus tour of the city, Jesus wanted to explore all the usual places. He had a travel guide. Of course we had to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. A whole day was exhausted exploring the Louvre. And of course circling the Arc de Triomphe several times on foot. From his book he had learned of Paris underground, which meant a day devoted to the sewers and catacombs.

In the meantime we had gained the acquaintance of a couple of American young ladies who were immersed in French lessons. They were in their mid-twenties, recent college grads, no jobs, and from fairly affluent families based somewhere near St. Paul.

For the first couple of days we took them to dinner. On the third day of our acquaintance we dined in their apartment on long loaves of crisp bread, cheese and bottles of red wine. Typical French fare from what they said. Slightly bleary eyed we spent the night. From then on the four of us squabbled each late afternoon on what sort of evening career best suited us.

I might mention that Margo was my bit of fluff, Hilda his. The four of us got along famously, and when it was time to move on Jesus insisted that they join us. Without reluctance or fanfare they consented. So off we went.

We were quite the happy foursome. Margo was the quiet one. She was around 5-3 and 110 pounds, with short blond hair, oval face and pensive. Hilda was outgoing, with a loud voice, lots of laughter. She was a 5-7 brunette with shoulder length hair, shapely, maybe 130 pounds, chiseled features, wide mouth, the term statuesque springs to mind.

It crossed my mind more than once that Jesus should have been on some sort of mission to sort out things here on earth, or at least to either counsel or seek counsel. But by appearances he was the international playboy, unfettered, a good word for everyone, the quintessential romantic where Hilda was involved. The life of the party.

Did I mention the women were Catholic? We had spent more than a day climbing all over Notre Dame Cathedral. Margo and Hilda, who seemed to know every inch of it, served as instructors. So when we left Paris by train, our first stop was Reims, the site of another great Gothic cathedral. There we stayed in a small hotel with a pool. Arriving late we followed our usual wine, bread and cheese agenda. At one point the wine supply ran low and Jesus manufactured more on the sly.

Just after midnight, Hilda noticed that there was no one in the pool and the entire establishment was quiet as the tomb. Nothing would do but the four of us had a nocturnal splash in the nude. Our late night revels ultimately attracted the attention of the night clerk who materialized at poolside on the order of the Grim Reaper. But rather than shushing us and shooing us back inside, he cheered us on. Margo remarked in her quiet way that his action was so French.

Let me skip ahead a few days here while still in search of our story. We spent several days in Vienna, which has a large circle thoroughfare surrounding the heart of town. At the center of this circle, among hundreds of other things, is a large Gothic cathedral. Of course we explored that edifice in detail.

Railroad stations coming into Vienna from various points of the compass are headers. That is, the train enters and stops, thus backing up as it departs. This has nothing to do with what might be construed as an amusing incident that I will relate. The four of us boarded a train for Venice and found ourselves in a six-passenger compartment along with a pair of German gentlemen.

They were prattling away in their own language when Jesus suggested they probably spoke English. Both spoke excellent English. And both were named Konrad. For that reason they introduced themselves as Konrad A and Konrad B.

The six of us had a good social time, and as the day wore on we produced the first of four bottles of wine we had brought along and offered them a swig. They declined, instead producing a bottle of schnapps. At any rate they called it schnapps, and it seemed of fairly potent alcohol content. The two of them took repeated slugs while we killed the first bottle of wine and opened the second.

Becoming pleasantly drunk as the train rolled south, Jesus struck up a German song much favored by American tourists. The title is "Muss I Den," but it's commonly known as the Wooden Heart song. It seemed everyone knew it and we sang it repeatedly for several miles, slugging down additional alcohol all the way. Then the Germans went into the Horst-Wessel song, which can be classed as a stirring martial number, once favored by the Nazi party. We all attempted to join in, although Jesus was the only one of our four who seemed to know the words. Incidentally, he has a beautiful singing voice.

Then came the untoward incident. Konrad B, seated next to Hilda made a pass at the lovely woman by grasping her leg in a provocative manner and attempting to kiss her.

This brought an immediate negative reaction from Konrad A, Jesus and Margo. I wasn't particularly interested. Konrad B seemed to be in a bit of a daze and attempted to continue singing. He was restrained by Konrad A while the five of us discussed what should be done. At that time we were progressing through the Austrian Alps. At the moment were on a fairly steep grade, which worked to slow our speed to a fast crawl.

It was decided to push Konrad B out the window. Margo opened the window, and whoever could manage it grappled our victim and started to shove him out headfirst. His wits about him, Jesus suggested serious injury might result. So we dragged Konrad B back inside. He was till mumbling some sort of song and didn't seem aware of his surroundings. But with some effort we managed to get his feet through the window and much of his body followed. But he hung onto the ledge with his elbows, sensing something was amiss.

It was good luck that he did such a thing because the train was passing over a long trestle with a steep drop to a rocky stream below. Wisely we held him dangling out the window. Konrad A suggested we might give him another drink, but it seemed a waste of good schnapps. When the train cleared the bridge and was nearing the crest of the grade we let Konrad B go. Jesus and Hilda craned their necks out the window and reported he tumbled slightly down a dirt embankment, and then slowly got to his feet.

This pleased everyone. We settled back in our seats and had another drink. I actually tried the schnapps, which I found to be a fiery, but tasty liquid. Then, as if in harmony, the five of us dozed off until the train was pulling into Venice. We said our goodbyes to Konrad A, who seemed in excellent spirits after an interesting trip, then went off to seek lodgings.

CHAPTER NINE

We had booked a suite in a hotel that might have been an old palace on the Grand Canal. It was costing us a bundle. Getting up fairly early, the Asian markets were still open, and I was looking over the stocks to begin day trading. With our high style of living there was a need to keep plenty of money flowing in.

Jesus soon joined me and got on the phone and called room service. He ordered bagels and lox, plus at least two pots of coffee, along with any financial newspapers that might be available. I didn't think bagels and lox sounded very Italian, but he said they were as good as anything. He seemed to know a lot about bagels, always calling them water bagels. He once explained that after making them and before baking them you placed them in boiling water, and when they rose to the top they were ready for baking.

I asked him if in the old days, when he was a child, bagels were available. He chuckled and replied in the negative, adding that there was also no lox, no smoked salmon and no cream cheese.

Soon we were sitting around in our skivvies drinking coffee and eating bagels while he glanced over the financial markets so I could get started on day trading.

Of course we were in the living room with a bedroom on either side. The women must have phoned one another because they emerged from their respective bedrooms at the same time, dressed in the height of tourist fashion.

"You two look like unkempt savages," Hilda remarked, slathering cream cheese and salmon bits onto an "everything" bagel. "Is this coffee any good?" she inquired.

Assured it was, she poured herself a cup, which she would have done anyway even if told the coffee was terrible. The women were still giggling over the plight of Konrad B, but Jesus assured us that he would be OK and should show up in Venice in a day or two.

Margo said the two of them would be spending the morning touring Venice. "We know how you two feel about playing the tourist. And there's St. Mark's Basilica to explore."

"But be of stout heart, lads," Hilda exclaimed. "We'll be home for lunch and our afternoon naps, rolls in the hay, or whatever you call them. Then after dinner the four of us will board a gondola for a wet tour of this wonderful city. There will be wine, and maybe a handsome gondolier will serenade us as we glide from canal to canal."

"Almost heaven," Jesus remarked. Despite some of the banter the four of us were getting on splendidly. Hilda and Margo were free spirits, totally independent. We could have parted company on the instant and they would have flown off totally happy. But who wanted that? Life was good.

When they were gone, I asked Jesus what he thought of all these great stone buildings, many of which took more than a hundred years to construct, all in the name of Christianity.

"Sometimes I think I've created a monster," he replied. "Do you know what a 'verger' is?"

"Some kind of church officer?"

"Exactly. Episcopalian, I believe. He is the first down the aisle, carrying a staff. Another person walks behind him, perhaps a bishop or whomever. What does this have to do with religion? Everyone dressed up like a million dollar trouper."

"It's part of the pomp and ceremony," I replied. "To impress the congregation that something worthwhile is in the works. Same reason they built those great stone churches while the peasants huddled in huts. It's part of the grand scheme of things."

"You've hit it, Ishmael, with the word 'scheme.' It comes close to being a racket, and is most definitely a racket in some cases. Take people who form religious organizations to avoid taxes. If we had a church, you and I, we could pour all our day-trading money into it and pay no taxes. Then we could give each other enormous salaries. Perfectly legal, all for the glory of God. Does God give a damn? Hell no. He left us down here to sort out our problems. Do we ever learn? Hell no."

"There's a story about you losing your temper and whipping the money changers out of the Temple. Seems to me that's the same sort of thing you're talking about, the corruption of religion."

Jesus smiled and said, "Actually not. And maybe yes. My parents, that is Mary and Joseph, had given me money to be changed, and that particular changer attempted to take advantage of my youth and cheat me. In a fit of pique, I did grab something like a whip and storm into the lot of them. It was chaotic. But the crowd managed to overpower me. But the truth prevailed and that particular changer was barred from the temple."

"You make it sound like money changers had a legitimate right to be in your place of worship."

"They did," Jesus countered. "You see this was a major place of worship. People came on what you might call pilgrimages to worship and make sacrifices. Money from these diverse places differed, yet only one type was accepted in the Temple. So the changers were a necessity. I'm not particularly thrilled by that fact."

"And the money was used for what?"

"Of course to support the Temple. And this might be done through the profit of selling animals for sacrifice."

"You were actually killing animals for the glory of God?"

The thought seemed to depress Jesus, but he replied, "Yes, I'm afraid so. Animals and birds. We weren't rich, so we'd buy a bird, maybe a pigeon or a dove. Probably they had chickens, but I'm not certain of that. Religions seem to start out well, but many end as a disaster. Yet probably more than ninety percent of religious people are good people, hard-working family folks, if that's any criteria."

The women returned impressed by both the genteel decay of the city, the progress being made and overawed by St. Mark's Basilica. As for Jesus, he had heard of Harry's Bar and wanted to go there. We ventured out of the hotel into the nearest drinking emporium and lunched on cicheta, which might be called bar snacks, pub grub, or high priced tapas. No matter about the price, we were set to make another day-trading killing, piling stacks of cash on stacks of cash. In truth it wasn't totally day trading. Sometimes two or three, maybe even four days passed before harvesting the profits.

CHAPTER TEN

We lingered in Venice longer than I thought we would. Long hours were spent by the four of us wandering the narrow lanes, crossing the occasional odd bridge, or sometimes taking a water taxi, or crossing a canal on a waterbus, all the occupants standing. Stopping for coffee, or in the late afternoon a glass of wine. Venice, or Lido di Venezia to the Italians, holds many charms.

And sure enough, Konrad B showed up. We got together with the two Konrads and the six of us went to Harry's Bar. We had a high old time exchanging stories, Konrad B going into details of his adventurous journey to Venice after exiting the train unexpectedly.

Toward the end of our stay in the bar we started to sing and were politely asked to leave. Jesus remarked that it was a first for him to be ejected from a bar. Of course we only called one another Jesus and Ishmael in private. In company it was always Joe and Boyd.

The women wanted to visit Florence, small towns in Tuscany, possibly Pisa and finally Rome. Jesus said if we visited Rome he would not set foot in the Vatican. I suggested that would be no problem as there were many other places of interest. Time seemed endless and money was abundant so there seemed no problem.

But at the same time Jesus confided in private that he was anxious to visit Israel, which he at times said was the Jewish homeland and at other times said it was not. He and I talked at some length about this and his logic, or non-logic. It is rather complicated and I would not attempt to set down the details of his account. But to sum it up, I'd say that today Israel is the Jewish homeland, but in the very old days the tribes of Israel originated from other locations.

We did the Tuscany bit, tramping around Florence, then renting a car and driving to the small, well-preserved ancient town of Lucca, a walled city with modern fast food shops forbidden entry. The stop there was idyllic, strolling the broad, grassy walls around the city, exploring the twisty streets, stopping for coffee and pastries. There was not only a cathedral, but also a church, San Michele in Foro.

We headquartered there for four days, doing the Pisa thing, taking gag shots of us pretending to hold up the leaning tower, driving the coastal area, and then it was off to Rome, bus tours of the city, tossing coins into fountains, the usual. The women said they wanted the better part of two days to examine the Vatican. Remember, they were good Catholics. Very likely it would take them that long to confess their sins.

For Jesus and I the time was well spent. We searched out sprawling sidewalk cafes and lingered over coffee and snacks. I had many questions. One of which was what stirred his emotions, the highs and lows.

"A beautiful flower. Do you feel something when your gaze encounters a lovely flower?" I asked.

"No more than you, Ishmael. We are very much alike. Goldfish, or koi, which the Japanese are said to admire, I see them in pools and they attract my attention for the moment, but there is no depth of emotion. A child cries out in the park. Perhaps in joy, perhaps a fall and a skinned knee. It's part of life. How about you?"

So he tossed it back at me. "Certain movies make me laugh and/or cry. But this is make believe. Then there is love. A woman's face, her laugh. A casual remark. That's something I've thought about. There are only four, maybe five times in my life that someone has said something totally unexpected, something that struck me as brilliant, a series of words linked together that were totally unexpected. Not like the punch line of a joke, but something that would stay with me. And usually it was from someone I didn't know, who I would have liked to get to know. And I never did."

"Four or five times?" Jesus questioned.

"Not really. Two or three times. For me it's been a very rare thing. Perhaps I simply haven't been around people who are intellectually stimulating. Maybe in some circles it's an everyday occurrence."

"I doubt that. But getting back to emotions, you have your bipolar people, sometimes known as manic-depressive. The manic phase can be the most dangerous time because then the person believes they can do anything. They are superhuman, looking over all they survey and beyond."

Jesus was getting off topic. The point was his emotions, what got to him, what would touch him. A random thought came to mind. "In church the congregation is asked to serve you. The money they donate is in your service. But you never see a penny of it. Tell me what you think about that."

"Very little. I know about it. It boils down to this. I am simply a symbol. The chalice is a symbol. The cross is a symbol. The Star of David is a symbol, American eagles. We could go on and on with this. To serve me is to serve your neighbor and your neighbor's neighbor. To be kind to other people, to love humanity, to love and respect animals, that is your service to me or to your church, or to God. He may be looking at a small bird, or maybe he is not. But to simply do the right thing, to be a good person. And we all know what that is. But it's good to be reminded."

"What about the desperate, those in poverty who may have a family to support and are driven to crime?"

"Reach out to them in any way you can. Serve them. Then you will serve me, but not the image people have made of me over the years, that calendar picture you speak of."

I asked him what he thought of the Hava Nagila."

Jesus smiled and hummed a little of it, moving his hands. "Let us rejoice and be happy. That's the idea behind it. And the song makes one happy. Not only Jews, but it's like a virus, spread to many others. You know that guy that used to sing the banana boat song, that day-oh, thing?"

"That touches you then. It does me. It makes me happy. Rejoice. And that may come when there is very little about which to rejoice."

"Truly. Yet there it is. I can sum up much of my philosophy in just a few words. If one does an act of kindness, say a good deed, it's like a stone cast into a still pool, radiating, rippling out from the center, infecting others to soften their lives and do similar acts of kindness, perhaps helping the unfortunate."

"But," I countered, "might an evil deed spread evil?"

"Let us hope that the average Joe would look upon an evil deed as evil and not do likewise. But to the contrary, can good come from evil? Take the legend of Robin Hood. That there was a man who exclusively took from the well off and gave to the poverty stricken. You might find a parallel in American politics; that is a lively debated concept. Should the rich help provide for the poor? You might question how the rich came by their riches. You enter an area of confusion, the so-called slippery slope. What is truth? What is justice?"

I was taken with his words, but sought to learn more. Probing, fumbling. At that time there was no doubt in my mind that this man was Jesus, yet he seemed to be much like me. But buried in there somewhere was something supernatural.

"I would think it difficult for the human brain or spirit to process certain information rapidly enough to respond with certain emotions. Take terror, anger, surprise, dread. Then with fear one must choose flight or fight in an instant. The situation can be summed up in the twinkling of an eye."

"I agree with many of those things," Jesus replied. "But the mind can process at leisure emotions such as remorse, regret, boredom, apathy, despair, envy, hope and maybe even jealousy, hatred and passion. What do you think of poetry?"

"I've always enjoyed straight up and down poetry. Some modern stuff I don't understand. But as far as deep emotions go, I would say no. One thing that has always drawn my interest about your background, Jesus, you may lack a slight bit of vocabulary here and there, too minor to mention, but you have a good grasp about what is going on and has gone on in the world." I chuckled and said, "Like you've mentioned an affection for Lucile Ball."

Jesus also smiled. "Yes, I love Lucy. I had only returned to earth a few weeks before getting in touch with you. You seemed the right person, and nothing has changed my mind about that. But there are certain things you would find hard to understand and I would have difficulty explaining. But yes, I've always had access to what's happening on earth. Nevertheless I'd rather not get into that at this time. I do enjoy our conversations, disjointed though they may be. In a few days we'll be leaving for Israel and I can promise that you and Margo will be perfectly safe."

"Safe?" I questioned. "Of course. Israel is a modern country, highly civilized. What could possibly go wrong?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Our plane settled down at Ben Gurion International airport (Hebrew acronym Natbag), serving the Tel Aviv metro area and also the gateway to Jerusalem. There was the usual taxi to the gate, standing in the aisle, clutching carry-ons until the doors open, then the first passenger off like the first olive out of the bottle, followed by a slow stream that emptied the aircraft.

Perhaps I mentioned earlier that the four of us traveled only with carry-ons, which simplified life to a degree. Margo and I had cleared customs and were waiting for Joe and Hilda when it slowly dawned on us that all passengers from our flight had long ago departed and our two friends were nowhere to be seen. Obviously they had both been detained. But for what purpose? Israeli security is notoriously tight and is said to be near perfect.

It took the better part of an hour to find the proper authorities and inquire after our friends. Then a long wait under the watchful eye of a guard until a serious looking plainclothesman showed up and pulled up a chair across from us. He said nothing at first except to demand our passports. After a lengthy examination he asked if we were traveling with Joe Crist and Hilda Armstrong.

Informing him that we were, I asked who he might be.

"Who I am doesn't matter. It's who you are that the Israeli government is concerned with."

Margo couldn't resist laughing. The man was so serious and he was holding our passports. I attempted to mildly shush her and pointed out that he was holding our U.S. passports.

"Yes, there are passports and passports," the man said.

Now I was moved to chuckle. "And those are our passports," I replied, pointing them out with my finger.

"You may be in grave trouble," he replied, deadly serious.

"Is this how you treat American tourists?" I questioned. "I believe we must still have an embassy here, despite your hostility."

His mood seemed to soften. "I'm only doing my job. Your friends have been detained. They are under suspicion. You seem to be who you say you are, yet there will be questions."

"My question is when are you going to inform our embassy that you are holding four American tourists? We had heard that Israel is a civilized nation. Were we misinformed?"

"Of course not. But Israel has many enemies and security is a round-the-clock task. We are surrounded by enemies. Now, if you will accompany me, we will go to a secure interrogation room where you will be permitted to tell your story."

"My story? My life story?" I inquired.

"If need be. We shall see."

We were taken to a large room with several desks and chairs. I was given a seat at a desk and Margo was seated at another some distance away. After quite a long pause, four people entered the room, three men and a woman, all with grim faces. A man and a woman faced Margo and two men took seats opposite me."

"Well, tell us your story." one demanded.

"In truth I will have a very good story once the embassy hears of this outrage and we are released. You see I am a free-lance writer with an excellent memory. Everything that happens to me today will be published in one or more American magazines. In fact I may be able to sell the story five times."

The second man frowned and said, "Nothing that transpires here goes beyond these walls."

"Bullshit. The only way you can stop me from writing this story is to kill me. You'll have to kill the girl too. American tourists in Israel, what a reception, what a story." I leaned forward and asked, "Will you kill me and bury me in the desert?"

The first man rose and excused himself, muttering something in Hebrew. We sat there in stony silence for fully a half hour. The two with Margo did the same. When the man finally returned he announced that the American embassy was sending someone over. He said nothing would be done until that person arrived.

We sat looking at one another for more than an hour. At one point Margo asked for a bathroom break and the woman accompanied her. It was growing late in the day and I wondered whether we might sleep in a prison cell or a hotel room on this night.

The embassy woman bounced into the room all smiles, identifying herself as Joanna Hill and flashing her ID for the Israelis. "So, where are our international criminals?" she asked. "And which one of you Mossad agents is in charge?"

The first man at my table stood up.

Joanna smiled broadly and asked, "What heinous crime are they accused of?"

"They are traveling with a suspicious couple. The other couple is also being held."

"Perhaps I should let the embassy in on that little secret," Joanna said. She took a chair, pulled out her cell phone and called her embassy, explaining that not one, but two American couples were in custody. Turning to the agent in charge, she said, "This has all the earmarks of an international incident. I suppose you have evidence. I believe you will be asked to share it with certain individuals at the embassy. Don't you agree?"

"We merely sought to question these two people. It's the other couple who seem to be non-kosher."

"Then you have certain evidence incriminating the other couple, whoever they might be."

"These things take time, Miss Hill. We don't want to cause trouble. If we can retain the passports of these two travelers, we'll release them into your custody after the proper forms have been filled out."

Joanna smiled and shook her head. "Lock 'em up, or let 'em go. There's no middle ground."

The first man gave her a hard stare and finally said, "They're free to go. But they will be on a no-fly list for the present."

"Perhaps we can spirit them over the border to Jordan or Egypt to carry out their nefarious mission," Joanna said, rising. She beckoned to the two of us and said, "Come with me, children."

How Margo felt at that moment, I don't know. But I was relieved. The Mossad is known as the world's most effective killing machine. And if you happen to be in their custody, all the easier. We were booked into the Hilton Tel Aviv hotel, complete with a view of the Mediterranean from our balcony, flat screen TV and all the comforts of home. I wondered where Jesus and Hilda would spend the night.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jesus and Hilda were kept in solitary cells overnight. The Mossad was puzzled by their passports. They seemed to be in order, yet there was something amiss. Israel is a tiny state in territory and has a smaller population than Ohio, yet its spending on security is gigantic.

Jesus was given a glass of warm water and a stale pastry for breakfast, then ushered into a dimly lit interrogation room. A tough-looking man with a two-day growth of dark beard sat across from him, staring silently.

Jesus finally asked, "What is your name?"

The man seemed to think for a moment, then said, "Jacob," in a harsh tone.

"Why do you lie to me?" Jesus questioned.

"I do not lie," the man shot back.

Jesus was silent for a moment, then replied. "Your name isn't Jacob. You are like a child, playing games. If you wish to question me, go ahead. You do not frighten me."

"You travel with a fake passport and a strange woman," the man said. "You should be frightened. We have laws in Israel."

"I have broken no laws. But you are treading on thin ice. Perhaps my name is Jacob. Perhaps I should be asking the questions. You are not worry free, are you, Jacob?"

"Your effort to confuse me is futile. I have lived in America, attended college there. I know your ways."

Jesus shrugged. "Our countries are allies. We work together. Israel is a rich country, yet we give you foreign aid. Probably more than any other nation. Now you imprison two U.S. citizens. For what reason? You have none."

"Your background is out of order. You might as well confess. I believe you are an American spy."

"Why would an American spy on Israel?"

"That's what I'd like to know. So please tell me. We do have assets in the States. We also work with your CIA, ineffective as it might be."

"If I were some sort of undercover agent, wouldn't I be an employee of the CIA? Why don't you ask that agency?"

"In due time we will get to the bottom of this."

"Let's start at the top. Why have I attracted your suspicion?"

"You have no background. We do not know exactly where you come from."

"I have a valid U.S. passport. Recently I've lived in Asheville, North Carolina. My business has been marketing reverse mortgages via the telephone. What is so secretive about that?"

"What is a reverse mortgage?"

Jesus sighed. "I'd rather not explain it. You can ask any American. It's a way for older people to increase their income."

"They increase their income by buying something?"

"Very definitely. First they buy something, then they sell something. They come out the winner, assuming they die on time."

Jacob seemed confused. "To make it work, they have to die?"

"Eventually, we all die, Jacob." He thought a moment, then added, "Most of us anyway."

"You may be making some sort of joke and trying to fool me. But time is on my side. We can keep you here forever if we like."

"I think you may be talking about Palestinians, or Arabs, or maybe even Egyptians or Syrians. But to keep American citizens locked up indefinitely for no reason may be a challenge even for the Mossad. Remember, our party consists of four members. It's possible the State Department knows even now about this peculiar incarceration."

"Spies are locked away all the time. You say your name is Joe Crist yet there is no record of a Joe Crist being born. So where did you come from?"

"My date and place of birth is on my passport. Surely you've checked my passport."

"Passports can lie."

"Just as you refuse to tell me your name. What sort of façade is that, Jacob? What are you afraid of?"

"I fear no man."

"Then you fear the Almighty."

"I am an observant Jew."

"I too am Jewish. So we are brothers."

"I doubt that. I don't believe you are a kosher Jew."

"Kosher, non-kosher. I remain a Jew. There's little that can change that."

"And you were born in New York City according to your passport."

"Brooklyn, the home of a great many Jews. Born at home in Brooklyn."

"At home?"

"Why yes. Not unusual. Sometimes events get ahead of us. At home. Does everyone in this region have access to hospitals?"

"Of course not."

"There you have it. My mother died when I was two. My father turned me over to social services. I was raised in a series of foster homes, some Jewish, some not Jewish. I'd be hard put to remember them all."

"Very convenient."

"Or inconvenient to my way of thinking. I'd prefer a warm, loving, permanent place where I might learn and thrive."

"And now you attach yourself to a woman, this Hilda, of questionable background."

"My friend and I met the two ladies in Paris. That's the first either of us knew of them."

"So you say."

"Yes, yes," Jesus laughed. "You should be able to at least find that out. They're from somewhere near St. Paul, Minnesota. You should know where that is, in the northern part of the country, far from any coast, not a good location for any sort of spy."

"We have ways of knowing many things. One such thing is that Hilda's birth name was Mohammed."

"In the States," Jesus said, "there are Muslim communities where members keep their Muslim names and customs, headscarves, even the full black outfit. Other families find it more convenient to change their names to blend in. It's no crime. That's the choice Hilda's father made."

"So you have been cavorting with a Muslim."

"I am a born Jew traveling with a born Muslim. Wake up and smell the coffee, Jacob. This is the twenty-first century. A two-state solution is the conventional wisdom, so why delay?"

Jacob suddenly stood and almost shouted. "You have revealed your true colors. You are the lackey of some foreign power, and we will soon learn just which one. You and your Muslim cohorts! There is an American who was accused of spying for Israel. He has been in prison for years. If you are lucky we might work out an exchange. But your Muslim girlfriend will not be so fortunate. So goodbye." He stalked from the room and the door slammed like the crack of doom.

Breakfast was the pits. Jesus wondered if lunch would be just as dismal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The guards placed Jesus in a cell with a man named Elon Silverman. It wasn't bad. There was a cot on either side of the small room, a toilet and washbasin. His first thought was that Elon was some sort of jailhouse stool pigeon positioned there to glean his true confession. After a couple of days he began to believe he was wrong.

Jesus liked the man and called him simply El. It seemed he had killed his wife during a moment of fury and was sentenced to death. He had been imprisoned for some time while his lawyer filed appeals.

"What did you do on the outside?" Jesus asked early on.

"Bagel maker."

"You had a shop?"

"More or less."

"More or less?"

"Yes. I had a small storefront, but my main business was wholesale. I sold to restaurants, fast food shops, breakfast brunches, but also had regulars who came to my shop. My wife kept the shop. My work was in the backroom."

"Too bad you wound up here."

"Everyone here has a sad story," El agreed. "With my wife gone, I don't mind it so much. Bagel making takes a lot of energy. One day I'll tell you about it if we're here long enough. This area of the prison is something like a death row, you know, for serious prisoners, serious lockdown. No fooling around."

"Mostly Israelis?" Jesus asked.

"Oh, sure. There is something like camps where they have hundreds, maybe thousands of Palestinians. We're the kosher lot. You Jewish?"

"Yes I am."

"Well, don't expect kosher food. And you won't get fat. We get to shower once a week, and I've never seen the exercise yard, but rumor has it that there is one. You're American, aren't you?"

"I am."

"I can tell by the way you talk. My accent is slightly German. In America I've heard prisoners have TV sets. Is that true?"

"I think so. Maybe in recreational rooms. I don't know about cells. This is my first incarceration."

"Mine too. First and last. I mean I'm marked for death, but I don't mind. I've lived my life. My wife really meant a lot to me. Killing her was just one of those things. A person has a long time to regret something like that. There's never any closure, at least in my case."

"We do what we do," Jesus said. He was supposed to be some sort of healer, a mystic, but he could think of nothing appropriate to say to El. And maybe there was nothing to say. The two of them were here together and they should make the most of it. "Did you have another cell mate?"

"No, Joe, you're my first. I'm looking forward to getting to know you. I do have some reading material, but I have no outside friends to bring me things. Do you have friends?"

"Yes." Jesus laughed. "If they haven't been jailed. There were four of us traveling together. The woman I was with is definitely in jail, another American, but it seems she was born a Muslim, but changed her name. Apparently that's enough to get you jailed in this country."

"We are a nation of paranoids," El said. "But the other two. You think they're at large?"

"I hope so. Can we have visitors?"

"Yes. Under supervision, of course."

"Might our cell be bugged? You know, hidden microphones?"

"Probably not. The budget is tight around here. No time for fancy stuff."

"But you see, I'm supposed to confess to something. I don't know what it is though. Maybe they'll tell me later on."

"Maybe so." El nodded and yawned. He took frequent naps. "Why did they nab you?"

"They got me and Hilda at immigration. Something about our passports didn't seem right. Then they turned up her Muslim name somehow."

"They're good at that. The Mossad costs this country a bundle. Too bad they don't spend a little more cash on prisoner food and rehabilitation. We're left here to rot. But they kept you too?"

"They had trouble checking my background. It's almost a blank far as a paper trail goes. I was almost a foundling, mother dead, father gave me up, tossed around like a football. So, big mystery. It seems they want to pin something on an American so they can exchange him for someone held in the States."

"That sounds about right. I was in the Israeli army and shot a lot of people with impunity, but then I made the mistake of killing my wife. Where's the justice?"

"I'm tired, El. I think I'll sack out. Wake me if any food shows up. I get half."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Boyd Henry and Margo called on Joanna Hill at the embassy, and a few days later Boyd was permitted a short visit with Joe Crist.

"Things are tight around here," Joe said, after the exchange of greetings.

"Tough getting to see you. And this will be a brief visit. These people are up to something."

"Anything new from the embassy?"

Boyd hesitated, but said, no. "They're aware of it in Washington, and I'll keep after them. They haven't tortured you, have they?"

"I suppose not if you don't consider just being here torture. But really, it's not half bad and I've got an interesting cellmate. Killed his wife, due to be executed when his appeal fails."

"When, not if."

"Fairly cut and dried. I've got an idea to keep the money flowing in."

"We're far from broke, Joe. But the hotel's about $300 a day. I'll look around for a cheaper spot."

"Don't bother. Here's my plan. Find the cheapest, dumbest shyster in town. Something of an oddity, a dumb Jewish lawyer. They can visit twice a week. Pay him to visit Monday and Thursday. Get the Wall Street Journal online and print out the Dow. He brings the printouts, I mark four or five, and you buy and hold for three days, then sell. There's our income."

"Won't somebody catch on?"

"What's to catch on to? If the Mossad finds out, they might think it's some sort of code and try to break it. Good luck with that. Let's try it and see what happens."

"Will the lawyer help you?"

"Probably not. Tight knit group here. They play the game. Sure, let him file something. But make certain he delivers the stock tables. Money talks."

"Globally," Boyd said. "The embassy lady, Joanna Hill, hopes to visit you. She's a corker. Got Margo and me out of the Mossad's clutches. I'm certain we're still being watched. They may be listening to us talk as we speak."

"Could be. But my cellmate, Elon Silverman, says there's so much shit coming down around here that they simply don't have the manpower to monitor anything bordering on the trivial."

"He's the killer."

"Not really." Joe glanced around to double check for listeners, even though he had nothing important to say. "He's a bagel maker. Killed his wife, a one-time crime of passion, in the heat of anger. That type seldom repeats. He'd be scared out of his skin to plan a murder. Yet he served in the army and gunned down a few Arabs. There's a difference when a heartless NCO is standing over you."

"Time," a guard shouted from across the room. Jesus tossed him a finger. "Good to see you, pal. Keep the faith."

That night, Boyd and Margo sat on their balcony, dipped seafood delicacies in sauce, sipped pinot grigio and discussed the day's events. He recounted his visit with Joe and said he thought he had already located a loser lawyer. "I've got an appointment first thing tomorrow. I had to stop him from coming here tonight. He'll be a jewel for our purposes."

The blue of the sky faded into shades of purple, shot through with flame. This was indeed the life. If only their friends could be here with them. But what the hey, seize the day. Margo had wangled a visit with Hilda, and she told of her drab lifestyle in a Palestinian women's ward, with bunk beds, and no one really paying attention to her. Simply warehoused.

"Joanna's working on it," Boyd said. He drained the last of the bottle and found a waiter's opener, preparing to crack a second. Room service was good. Early tomorrow he would copy the stock market tables and place them in the hands of his newfound friend.

Two days later Jesus was summoned to a meeting room where prisoners and their attorneys sat across from each other at tables.

"I'm Shapira Melamed," Joe's visitor said, shaking hands and introducing himself as his newfound attorney. "Boyd Henry employed me." They took seats at a table and Melamed pushed several sheets of paper toward Joe. "Mr. Henry asked me to show you these. They appear to be stock tables."

Jesus smiled. "They are. It's a game Boyd and I play. I'll mark a few of them. You have a pen?"

The lawyer passed him a pen and Jesus busied himself with the stocks. After five minutes Melamed said, "Shouldn't we discuss your case?"

"No need, the embassy's working on it. You might file a writ of habeas corpus though. Just pro forma. To keep my spirits up we want to continue our game. You don't mind, do you?"

"No. I'm at your service. It's not totally lawyerly, but I am serving my client's needs. That's good enough for me."

"Very well. Then I'll likely see you twice a week."

The following day Joanna Hill popped up for visiting hours, this time through the grillwork. Bright and full of smiles as usual, she asked how he was doing.

"Capital! I've got a great cellmate, Elon Silverman, a former bagel maker. He's good company. I could use some reading material. It does get a little boring, but all in all, I'm in good shape. I do worry a bit about Hilda. Of course they have no reason for holding either one of us."

"That's becoming increasingly evident, Joe. It's just a matter of time until they free you. The embassy has filed at least two formal complaints. Your lawyer either has served or will serve a writ asking why you are being held. These things ultimately must be answered. You are both American citizens. Israel may lock up Palestinians for no reason, but this is a horse of a different complexion."

Jesus nodded in agreement. "It is just a matter of time. I'm OK, but how's Hilda doing?"

"Not as buoyant as you are, but holding her own. She's in a Palestinian women's dormitory. She knows a few words of the language so she's improving her vocabulary. We are watching the two of you like hawks, and the Israeli government is well aware of it. They've stepped over the line this time."

At this point the guard shouted, "Time." Jesus scowled in his direction and they said their goodbyes.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A week or so after Joanna's visit, with the lawyer's visits going well and the stock market money rolling in, a seemingly odd thing happened. Jesus was asked to work in the kitchen. The guard said some of the trustees were ill and he seemed the best-suited prisoner to fill in. After all, he wasn't charged with any major or even minor crime. He spent all of one day and part of the next washing pots and pans.

Elon Silverman, the cellmate, said during his time in prison he had not known of another prisoner from this locked down section being ordered to serve in the kitchen.

But there seemed to be a plan afoot. Late one night guards came into their cell and took Silverman away mumbling something about interrogation. During the first day or two with Silverman, Jesus had thought the man might be a plant to extract confidential information. He had moved well past that point.

Toward dawn, the guards returned Silverman to the cell, but he appeared to be unconscious. They wrestled him onto his bunk and then left without a word. Jesus immediately sought to determine his friend's condition.

Just after dawn, with Silverman silent as the grave, the guards returned and this time marched Jesus out of the cell, down the hall to a large office where three prison authorities had gathered.

Sitting Jesus down in a chair across from them, handcuffing his wrist to an arm, the headman, or warden, announced that Joe Crist had murdered his cellmate.

"How can you make such an accusation?" Jesus inquired.

"Because it's true," the warden said.

"How could I kill anyone and why would I murder my friend, Elon Silverman?"

The warden shook his finger at Jesus and said, "Very likely in a fit of rage. Although it seems to be well planned out."

"My plan was to kill my cellmate?" Jesus asked.

"Maybe not. Maybe him, or maybe one of the guards. Your plan was to kill someone when you stole a long, sharp knife from the kitchen."

"You're saying I obtained a knife from the kitchen?"

At that point one of the guards picked up a knife from the desk and flourished it in the air." There you see it," the warden said. The very knife you hid somewhere on your person, the very murder weapon. We trusted you with a kitchen job and you betrayed us."

"Might I assume that Elon Silverman is dead?" Jesus asked.

The warden, his anger rising, almost shouted, "You plunged a knife through his heart. You know damn well he's dead. Lying in his cell on his bunk, dead, murdered while he slept, a cowardly act. Shall we go to the cell now?"

"One moment," Jesus said calmly. "If we go there with only prison personnel present, might someone suspect a plot? Why not have my lawyer and some embassy people accompany us? He will be a long time dead; I'm certain Elon will wait for us. We are talking about a crime scene."

"You make light of a poor dead man."

"A man who was slated for execution."

"Yes, to be killed by the state. But you do have a point. Witnesses from the embassy and maybe even your attorney, such as he is, would be welcome to witness your heinous deed. We'll make the calls and just hang tough, as you say in the States."

It took the better part of an hour to assemble the group. Lawyer Melamed showed up first, followed by three embassy staffers led by Joanna Hill. One grim looking man was fairly obviously the chief CIA agent on station.

The warden told his story with grim gestures, reviling Jesus as an evil cowardly murderer who should be damned to the lower regions of hell. He took real joy in displaying the knife and telling the sad tale about how it had been pilfered from the kitchen. The CIA man noted that it was evidence and might hold the murderer's fingerprints, which would be proof absolutely. The warden suggested that it had gone through too many hands and regrettably was probably useless for that purpose. Then the group set out for the cell with Jesus closely guarded lest he attempt to flee.

At the cell door the group paused while a guard produced a key. The warden graciously said the embassy people and the lawyer could enter first. There was not much room in such a small cell for such a group. Jesus would be held outside by a guard.

Shapira Melamed, the attorney was the first to enter. He called out that Elon Silverman "appears to be sleeping."

"A very long sleep," the warden said smugly.

Joanna Hill confirmed the lawyer's opinion. "He is sleeping."

The CIA agent said, "Not for long. We've awakened him."

"That's impossible," the warden sputtered.

"Impossible or not, he's sitting on the side of his bunk," Joanna shouted, obviously enjoying the moment.

"Let me in there," the warden said, pushing his way into the small cell. "Why aren't you dead?" he demanded of Silverman.

"I don't know," a dazed Silverman replied. "The guards tried to kill me. The last thing I remember is one guard shoving a knife in my chest. But here I am."

"Can you identify the guard?" Joanna asked.

"Of course. His name's Yonatan. He's always in this area." As it happened he was standing just outside the cell guarding Jesus.

"You mean the guards tried to kill you?" the CIA agent questioned.

"Oh, yes. They came after midnight and hustled me down to their guardroom. They had a big knife. Yonatan seemed eager to do me in. He said I was to be executed anyway, so why not."

"I asked him why me?"

"He said my cellmate would get the blame, the American, Joe Crist."

"Shut your mouth," the warden demanded.

"Why should I keep quiet? I'm already a condemned man. I don't know why they've kept me alive this long. Probably because they think this prison is hell on earth. The food stinks, if you must know."

"I think we've heard enough," Joanna said.

"I agree," the CIA agent said. "A total frame up, but they somehow missed his heart. How could they be so inept? Plunging a knife like that into a man's heart isn't all that difficult." He was about to examine the victim's wound, then thought better of it. There was something odd about this entire situation. Do the dead live?

When I first heard the story I knew exactly what had happened. I could have laughed my ass off. First the wine, then bringing the dead to life. I believe I could have found Jesus a good job in a general hospital, or maybe the county morgue. One thing seemed certain. They were going to have to let him go and probably Hilda too.

It took a couple or three days for the word to get around about the Mossad's plan and screw up. The story was almost unbelievable, but with Elon Silverman's innocent testimony before several witnesses in that cell, it had to be believed.

There was some talk of harsh punishment for Yonatan, the killer-guard, but upon reflection it was agreed that, like the good German, he was simply following orders. It was decided not to seek to find whose orders. Obviously they came from somewhere on high with the intention of exchanging Joe Crist for a high level Israeli spy who had been cooling his heels in a U.S. prison for some years.

Some of the story had been leaked to the media, and now Elon Silverman was something of a folk hero, and a commutation of his sentence seemed likely. There was a media clamor to interview the former bagel baker, but prison authorities were keeping him under wraps. His ultimate freedom would likely depend on his keeping his mouth shut.

But Jesus was released and restored to the warmth of his companions. Two days later Hilda was let go and dropped off by official vehicle at the door of the Hilton Tel Aviv.

The foursome cavorted in the outdoor pool, made use of the hotel's exercise room and later became pleasantly intoxicated while snacking on the balcony at sunset. Things were restored to normal and they discussed future plans.

"Of course we must go to Jerusalem," Margo announced. After her stay in prison Hilda would have soon shaken the dust of Israel from her sandals and headed for Jordan or maybe Japan. But she resolved to let the majority rule.

I suggested that whatever we did, we should do it together. The thought of getting picked off individually didn't appeal to me. We were free, but Hilda wasn't so far off target. Maybe we should simply travel to Jordan, and then fly away. We could fly from Israel, as we had been assured we were no longer on a no-fly list.

But Jesus insisted on staying a bit longer. "Wonderful hotel," he said. "The best food is available. The day trading will go on and the money will keep pouring in. And we can have losses to satisfy the accountant. And Margo is right. What's a trip to Israel without Jerusalem? That is the Holy Land, right?"

It was hard not to agree with Jesus. But the following morning there was an odd occurrence. Jesus went to the lobby to buy newspapers when he spotted a familiar figure seated on a couch, obviously watching him.

He approached the seated figure and bid him a good morning.

"You recognize me?" the man questioned.

"Of course. You are Yonatan, the guard who attempted to kill my cellmate."

"That's right. Sit down with me and we will talk."

"We have something to discuss?" Jesus asked, taking a seat on the couch.

"I was a ten-year soldier," Yonatan began. "When I left the military I took the job where you saw me, as a prison guard. It is not a good life, but I am a tough man, poorly educated. So I did what was expected of me, that is to do all I could to make prisoners fear me."

"I would say you were successful," Jesus said.

"I suppose," the former guard agreed. "As I just said, it's not a good life. If one begins to enjoy terrorizing people, it's even worse. I never got to that point."

"Deep down, you were a kindly guard," Jesus said in all seriousness.

"Yes. You can see that, can't you?" Jesus nodded. "But one thing I've learned through the years in the army and afterward is how to kill. In Israel at times it is necessary to kill one's enemy. I was told to kill your cellmate and then wipe the knife clean of prints and hand it over to the Mossad. Then tell the story you heard me tell. So I killed Silverman."

"But he lives," Jesus said.

Yonatan smiled. "Yes he lives. You may be some sort of magician, or the evil one, or the Messiah. Of those three choices, I would take the Messiah. That is why I have come to you. The Mossad is not through with you. There are at least two agents watching us at this very moment. They know there is something unusual about you, but they don't know what. You might guess the Mossad's legendary skills as the greatest undercover agency of all times is something of a joke. They think I'm a blundering idiot who can't even carry out a see-the-dog-run murder. They didn't think for a moment that you returned a dead man to life."

"Your story is quite interesting, Yonatan. Of course I'm aware I'm being watched. But you have something on your mind in addition to simply warning me to watch my step."

"Yes. I want to serve you. You need a man like me as a protector. I know things and I can perceive others. I feel this is an opportunity to break out of my shell, to perform some worthwhile service."

Jesus was thoughtful. This offer truly surprised him, but he felt he could see Yonatan's heart and that he was sincere. But how to pull such a thing off?

"One fly in the ointment, Yonatan. If you worked for me, regardless of Mossad's collective IQ, it might be decided that this was prearranged and that you purposely bungled the murder of Silverman."

"I've thought of that and I'm willing to take that chance. If you are the Messiah, I will happily die for you."

"Well, let's not speak of messiah. Let's simply say that I and my friends could do with two more eyes, someone steeped in Israeli lore. How would we work such a thing?"

"I know about your stock market game. It was obvious even though it had the Mossad chasing its tail. So you are rich, living in a rich place, and the money keeps flowing in. My needs are small, but I do need certain animal comforts. Food, a place to sleep, maybe a drink at bedtime. I'm not a drunk though. If you can provide that sum, I'll do the rest."

"Yonatan, I'm pleased to meet a man who can form a plan and then have the wisdom and good sense to carry it forward on his own. I'm guessing the watchers cannot hear our conversation. Let's not shake hands, but let me say that our bargain is sealed. With your stealth approach to this whole matter, the next time we meet, and you are assured we are unobserved, I'll pass you a sum of cash. Of course it will be known what you're up to, but let's not be impatient to give away the entire plan. The Mossad may try to recruit you."

"I know."

"No doubt you'll have to travel with us. Do you have a passport?"

The tough middle-aged man's weathered face was creased by a wide grin. "Of course. Everyone who qualifies has one. Israel is like a chicken coop. You bounce off one border, then hit another. Except for the money and luxury enjoyed by the few, one might compare it to a prison or a monastery. A lot of people really don't want to live here, but there's safety in numbers. Young men approaching draft age who have rich parents often flee to New York, which seems to be a gathering place for illegals of all races. It's great to talk about self-sacrifice as long as the other guy is doing it."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

That evening after dinner, as they sat contemplating the great sea of the ancients and the wonder of the sunset, Jesus informed the other three of bringing Yonatan aboard as security.

"Is such a thing necessary?" Margo questioned.

"Hilda and I have known the questionable joys of incarceration. The Mossad continues to keep its many eyes on us, possibly for nothing better than to vitalize its humdrum days. Maybe they're running out of folks to execute. So Yonatan is an ex-soldier and ex-guard and an old Israeli hand. He will serve us well."

"Can he be trusted?" Hilda questioned.

"I believe so. I had a heart-to-heart talk with him in the lobby. Now it's true he sought me out. But he knows we are being watched, and he believes our mission is as it seems, four tourists out to see part of the world. Like us, he's looking for a change."

"But what will become of him when we are gone?" Margo asked. Sitting by and sipping white wine, I was content to let the women carry on the conversation. My trust in Jesus was complete. We had a spread of goat cheese, crackers and ripe olives.

"I look on Yonatan as a permanent part of our party, you might say as my son." Jesus smiled and popped a pair of ripe olives into his mouth.

"He is younger than you."

"Yes and no," Jesus replied. "Let's lay the matter to rest, and when you meet him, as you soon will, make him welcome. Soon we will be in Jerusalem, a mishmash of religious symbolism, meaning a hundred different things to a million people."

"You seem to know a bit about religion," I said, attempting to change the subject for good. "Do you believe in hell?"

Jesus flashed a winning smile in my direction. "There are a lot of pathetic religions in the world. Take those people who wander around attempting to convert others to their way of thinking."

"Mormons?" Hilda asked. "I've seen those young men, always in pairs, always well dressed, they call themselves Elders."

"That's something of a joke. They're actually juniors. But I didn't mean them. That's a fairly wholesome part of their religious training. Sent out into the world for two years, learning how to comport themselves, how to speak to strangers, how to be polite and accept rejection. They come from a solid background and are on their way to becoming solid citizens for as long as it lasts."

"For as long as what lasts?" Margo asked. Jesus pulled another bottle of wine from the ice chest and handed it to me as the official opener. I wondered if our finances would fall to the point where he would manufacture wine in his mystical way.

"As long as life on this earth lasts."

"Which brings us back to hell," I said, tugging out the cork.

"I'd like to get polygamy and women's rights out in the open," Hilda said, with some emphasis, like she was spoiling to defend her position, whatever it might be. I was hoping the conversation would descend into drunken confusion with everyone talking at once. It had happened.

"Forms of polygamy are everywhere," Jesus said. "Certainly the Mormon thing hangs on. It might take the form of prostitution. Jewish men often have women outside of marriage, usually non-Jews. They even have a name for them. Italians have mistresses quite openly. Japanese men frequent the soap lands, their name for brothels. Muslims have multiple wives. In most of these situations the woman's role is subservient, although in most cases women have carved out a life of their own. They rule the house, they have their own set of friends, some have outside lovers and so forth."

"Yet they are subject to abuse, even murder," Hilda said with some bitterness.

"Sadly, yes," Jesus agreed. "That they make babies and have that baby-making equipment is a blessing and a curse. During the cave-man period the woman would have babies, take care of the children and the cave, and the man would kill different animals, catch fish and so forth. That's the idyllic vision. So it is today, only different."

"It's still the same old story, a fight for love and glory," I tossed in, beginning to feel the wine.

"We're all relatively young adults. We all know what's going on. We have the wherewithal to carry on our hedonistic plan, so let us live for the moment," Jesus said.

I was a bit surprised by that philosophy coming from Jesus, yet I wasn't surprised at all. Hoping to goad him on, I asked him again what he thought of hell.

To my surprise he stood and went inside our suite, emerging a short time later with a book, a novel authored by James Joyce.

Jesus stood as if to address the multitudes and announced that he would give us Joyce's version of hell, as he was incapable of scoping it out on his own. But he didn't stop there, he further announced that each person may have their own competing visions of the darker regions, and many individuals might believe that they experience hell right here on earth. Finally, as we were tiring of all this verbiage and I refilled the glasses, draining the second or third bottle, he began to read from the soft cover book:

"Hell is the center of evils and, as you know, things are more intense at their centers than at their remotest points. There are no contraries or admixtures of any kind to temper or soften in the least the pain of hell. Nay, things which are good in themselves become evil in hell. Company, elsewhere a source of comfort to the afflicted, will be there a continual torment: knowledge, so much longed for as the chief good of the intellect, will there be hated worse than ignorance: light, so much coveted by all creatures from the lord of creation down to the humblest plant in the forest, will be loathed intensely. In this life our sorrows are either not very long or not very great because nature either overcomes them by habits or puts an end to them by sinking under their weight. But in hell the torments cannot be overcome by habit. For while they are of terrible intensity they are at the same time continual variety, each pain, so to speak, taking fire from another and reendowing that which has kindled it with still a fiercer flame. Nor can nature escape from these intense and various tortures by succumbing to them for the soul is sustained and maintained in evil so that its suffering may be the greater. Boundless extension of torment, incredible intensity of suffering, unceasing variety of torture – this is what the divine majesty, so outraged by sinners, demands, this is what the holiness of heaven, slighted and set aside for the lustful and low pleasures of the corrupt flesh, requires, this is what the blood of the innocent Lamb of God, shed for the redemption of sinners, trampled upon by the vilest of the vile, insists upon."

Finally, he closed the book and we all breathed a sigh of relief. To question Jesus or Joe Crist about religion was not a good thing, particularly while attempting to enjoy a sunset and a glass or two of excellent vintage.

Jesus then raised his glass and said something in a tongue none of us understood. "What might that be?" Margo inquired.

"A famous Eastern European toast," Jesus responded, "from the Ukraine."

"And it means?" Margo asked.

"We will meet under the table."

We called it a night.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Often Jesus and I would rise while the women were deep in slumber. We had tried ordering large pots of coffee and pastries, but by the time those two returned to the living the coffee was cold and the pastries might be stale. These were not your typical Midwestern farm girls who went to bed with the chickens and rose hell bent on milking the cows. I made a note to check out St. Paul one of these days.

So the two of us would hop the elevator to the mezzanine and pop into the breakfast room, also the dining room on other occasions. We sat off to one side to permit private conversation, and on this morning shared coffee, croissants, butter and strawberry jam.

"Would you believe what Joyce thought about hell," Jesus joked. "Or maybe he was simply rambling on. Exquisite torture, always getting worse, through eternity, with no escape. I'd rather live the life of a flea or a rag doll. Both are sin free, believe me."

"Lower animals know no sin," I suggested.

"True. Man has the option on that territory. And what is sin? Lust? Animals may lust after this or that for whatever reason, but no one thinks of it as sin. It seems natural. Sin has become so complicated, so double domed. The Catholics have even divided it into minor and major categories. So much so that your everyday supplicant has to inquire into which category he or she falls. The confession stalls are flooded with Monday morning confessions after wild weekends."

"Do priests enjoy hearing all that sexual stuff?" I inquired.

"I don't know," Jesus said. "But say a girl falls victim to date rape over the weekend. She confesses, and the priest asks for details. Is he enjoying her dilemma vicariously? And of course she's confessing because she may think she's partly to blame. And then there's the morning after pill. What a mess. And I'm supposed to fix the world?"

Glancing around the room, I noticed Yonatan seated alone at an out-of-the-way table. I asked Jesus if he had seen our security man.

"Yes. Also a pair of Mossad agents, both seated separately. Everyone is watching everyone."

"What's the Mossad up to?" I asked.

Jesus shrugged. "It might simply be that they failed to involve me in a murder. But they do believe there's something strange about me. My background doesn't hold up. Growing up friendless on the streets of New York isn't to their liking. Anyway, what will be will be. I see Yonatan's off to the omelet station. Let's join him."

"I'm really not up to an omelet."

"No matter. Let's keep the chickens busy."

We were next in back of our security and Jesus said softly that we would soon be going to Jerusalem and he would stay with us at the Mamilla hotel. "Pack light," he intoned.

"I needn't pack at all," he whispered. "We could walk to Jerusalem."

The conversation ended when a Mossad man lined up behind us and Yonatan began a complicated order for an omelet.

Jesus turned to the Mossad man and asked, "Did you hear the one about the two Mossad agents who walked into a bar."

The man looked a little sheepish, but nodded in the negative.

"One said, 'Things have changed. I never slept with my wife before we were married. Did you?'

"'I don't know,' replied the other, 'What was her maiden name?'"

The agent managed a sickly smile.

"I'm going to do the Zen master bit when I get to order," Jesus said. "Make me one with everything."

The Mossad man looked puzzled, but finally said, "I can't do onions or green peppers. I have a delicate stomach."

Back at our table, I picked at my omelet. Jesus dug into his with a will. "I don't think these things are totally kosher," he remarked. "Mine has bacon bits and I think there may be dairy products. What do you think?"

"I'm a Presbyterian, but I'm certain a nearby rabbi will forgive you."

"I don't think they do that. A rabbi is a teacher, but in our faith every man is his own priest, or whatever term you might use. So I am responsible for my own actions. Which means what?"

"It means you can make up your own rules. Weren't you supposed to be the King of the Jews?"

"I think that was more of a Roman gag. Those guys had quite a sense of humor. Crown of thorns, all that show biz stuff. But that was long ago. So bygones are bygones."

"The Romans are also gone."

"True. And that troubles me. I promised to return and here I am. But the world has changed. I'm still searching for some constructive role. I'm supposed to do something apocalyptic, but I don't know what it might be."

"Does God know?"

"Hah, that's a laugh. Ever since he nailed my Mom he's left the earth up to me. He may be watching that small bird you speak of, but he ignores me as much as possible. Not that he doesn't care for me. It's just that after two thousand years he thinks I should show some maturity and do things on my own. It's frustrating. But we're on a learning curve, the four of us, now five with Yonatan."

"He seems to have it all together."

"He does for what he does. And that's to watch our backs." Jesus finished his omelet, drank the last of his coffee and pushed his plate away. "I'm ready for a shower, and maybe we could order more coffee in our room. There's a lot we haven't seen here in Tel Aviv. We should do some walking today and maybe tomorrow, then off to Jerusalem."

"Should I tell the Mossad our plans for the day?"

"No. Let's feed their spirit of adventure. Let's take the shampoos and bars of soap from our rooms and pass them to mysterious-looking strangers."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I remarked to Jesus that our hotel reservation for the Mamilla was less than a half mile from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher that many believe is the site of the crucifixion. He didn't reply immediately so I asked him for his thoughts.

"You know how it is," he commented. "Something happens and you go away for two thousand years, then come back. Everything's different. I couldn't even begin to count the ways."

We had walked around Tel Aviv most of the morning, had pizza for lunch, and taken our naps. The women were off to the nearby mall to shop and send post cards. The two of us were at a sidewalk café drinking iced coffee with added scoops of ice cream. I was a little concerned about my weight. The walks were good, the weather was warm, but we had been eating at a high caloric clip.

I suggested that many looked on Jerusalem as the center of the world and that Egyptians, Greeks and Romans had governed it for one time or another.

"Now it seems nobody is governing it," Jesus mused. "But the River Jordan is still there, depleted as it is, and it still flows to the Sea of Galilee. Then there is the Dead Sea with the lowest point on earth. Certain geographic landmarks don't change. Peoples' passions, hates, dislikes, loves, indifference, do. There was a time when making a living was the most difficult and most important thing in life. Food for the family, celebrations, friends, the rhythm of the seasons. The slow melody of life with the passage of time.

"You might visit the next village, maybe have a friend or two who traveled to a distant city, but generally one stuck close to home. In the larger towns or cities everyone was employed or there was no reason to be there. No one just hung around and caused trouble. No one thought globally because no one knew the earth was round. Of course there were beggars, cripples, people who couldn't work. There were large families and many didn't live to maturity. Everything revolved around the family." Jesus seemed to sigh. "It's not all gone, but change is inevitable."

He turned and slapped me on the back. "Really, Ishmael, I do look forward to going to Jerusalem."

"Your description of ancient family life was touching, but you left out the captains and the kings."

"Yes, it was too simplistic, wasn't it? What you're referring to likely began in cave-man times when gangs of bullies roamed the forests and preyed on solitary families, killing, raping, sacking for the few worthless possessions. Then came governments and taxes, nobles, kings and captains. Bands of armed men stalked the land, bringing order and looting where they could, enslaving the peasant class, demanding a portion of the humble wealth. Now we see it on a global scale. Robber barons.

"In certain countries, America among them, the division between the rich and the poor has widened. Opportunities for the poor dwindled to a trickle. If that continues, of course, the poor, whose lifestyle is diminished, but whose burden increases, will rise up as a body and not only burn the cities, but seek out the rich in their pleasure domes and do them in. Then we start over. We rise from the gory ashes, seemingly not to profit from past missteps."

"Enough gloom and doom," I suggested. "Let's get back to the hotel, have a drink with the women, then plan a fabulous dinner and drown ourselves in the brilliant Tel Aviv nightlife."

As we returned to the hotel, Jesus pointed out one Mossad agent reading a newspaper on a park bench and another feeding popcorn to a gathering of pigeons. "You know those pigeons might choke on the popcorn," he remarked. "That's definitely the wrong thing to feed to pigeons. And look, there's Yonatan leaning against a tree smoking a cigarette, looking out for us."

"Maybe there'll be seven of us traveling together from now on. You, me, the killer guard and the Israeli secret service. Why are they so interested in us?"

"For years they've tried to nail an American for some heinous crime. They want to exchange him for a man who slipped them classified U.S. information on a grand scale."

"A Massad agent?"

"No. An American citizen loyal to Israel. Not uncommon. Our culture runs deep."

"You would forgive such an act then, to betray your country to a foreign government?"

"Don't be silly, Ishmael. I forgive everything. You know that. Every action has a reason and every sin demands forgiveness."

"But you do consider betrayal of country a sin?"

"Oh, yes. And so does the betrayer. You see what you think is a sin is a sin. If you think it's not a sin to rob the aged, maim children or corrupt the innocent, then it's not a sin. But to do these things outside of sin one would have to have a certain upbringing, an uncommonly sordid upbringing, I'm guessing. Hard to imagine, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. But I don't think everyone believes as you do."

"You'd be surprised. We'd have to go a bit deeper into this subject to fully explain it. But if you ponder you might reach certain conclusions. A key would be to block that sordid type of upbringing. Just eliminate it. You see, I've given it some thought and I'm beginning to see a small spark of hope, a reason why I have returned and what sort of path I might follow. The path would be narrow and rocky and the journey perilous."

"You have a clear picture?" I questioned. Maybe we were getting someplace.

"No. Still nebulous pie in a stormy sky. But I am thinking of a surprise of sorts for the Israeli agents. Perhaps that might bring us all together in common cause."

"You mean the two Mossad men who dog our footsteps?"

"Yes, I feel they're good-hearted individuals. And the only reason Israel wants to nail me is to offer me up for barter for the U.S. spy wasting away in an American prison. The authorities over there dealt harshly with him because he was an American citizen, but devoted to Israel. Now if we could simply free that man from prison, a lot of these animosities would simply dissolve like early morning mist in the wholesome rays of the sun."

"Of course that's not our job, is it?"

"Our job is to do good and spread joy. Or else keep our heads down and stay out of trouble. It's multiple choice. But time will take care of the man in prison as it does other questions. He will pass on and be forgotten with the rest. In the meantime the spiritual quality of his life should prosper. He will come to realize that he has found a home behind prison walls with all the advantages and disadvantages coming clear."

There we were, Jesus and me, right back where we started. Or were we?

That evening we were all anticipating our move to Jerusalem. After a light dinner of salad topped by fruit salad we moved to the balcony for drinks. We had consumed wine with the meal and now favored gin and tonic with slices of lime. It was a warmish night, perfect for that drink, and we had a bucket of ice.

Somewhere along the line, out of the blue, Hilda said, "This is the Holy Land, isn't it?"

"To many," Jesus replied. "Jews, Christians and Muslims, a short distance away in Jerusalem, but I think this would qualify in general terms."

Hilda was silent for a long time while she finished her drink. From her initial statement, I thought she would say something related to religion. I replenished her drink and she resumed her talk in a startling way. At least I was startled. Jesus seemed unfazed and Margo apparently was already aware of the incident.

"I killed a man," Hilda said quietly. "I thought this might be a good place to reflect upon that deed and possibly share."

Frankly, I would have been pleased if she hadn't shared. Something of that sort shared would seem to implicate the listeners.

But Jesus said, "Tell us about it."

"I was a teenager, at home alone. Dad and Mom were both working. It was late July or early August. People dress casually in that weather. I was wearing shorts and a cotton shirt, no bra. A man came to the door, a teacher from school. He was a coach. But I had had him for some simple science course. I forget just what. Anyway I told him my parents weren't home, and he asked if he might have a glass of water."

"You invited him in," I said.

Hilda frowned and said, "Of course. What else could I have done? Anyway he was always a little creepy, eyeing the women. You know the type. He seemed a little odd and suddenly announced he'd like to have sex with me."

"Right to the point," Margo said, but very seriously.

"I laughed and said 'no thanks' and told him he'd better leave. He ordered me to take off my clothes. Of course I refused and shouted for him to leave. He slapped me, which knocked me halfway across the room. Then he stood over me and told me he'd break every bone in my body if I didn't do as he said. So, I removed my clothing and stood there nude while he fondled me."

I felt tension mounting, but Jesus and Margo seemed to think it was just cocktail time small talk.

"Of course I was panicky, but submitted. He pushed me into my bedroom and began to remove his clothing. I knew if I ran he would simply beat the hell out of me. He was almost undressed when my Mr. Peanut bank caught my eye. It was something of an antique, made of iron, quite heavy and loaded with small coins, mostly pennies, I had put in over the years."

Margo smiled and said, "Mr. Peanut," drawing out the two words.

Hilda nodded. Maybe ten inches high, he wore a top hat, carried a cane, his body a peanut, his legs black. Mr. Peanut was lettered on his hatband and the word Planters on his base. Of course he was an advertisement for Planters Peanuts."

"And this little man had a role in the assault," I suggested.

"Big time. Hilda agreed. "My panic must have helped because I snatched him from his perch and smashed that hefty little man on the teacher's skull, right between his eyes. He fell at my feet, blood streaming from his head. I moved like in a trance, dialing 911, telling my story to the operator, repeating my story. And there was the old coach, lying still as death on the floor, a small pool of blood around his head. By the time the police and an ambulance arrived, I had dressed. It was over."

She smiled and gulped half of her drink, then scooped a few cashews from a snack bowl.

"That's it?" I questioned.

"Not everything," she conceded. "The coach was dead. We lived in a relatively small suburb where, I don't know how to describe it, but certain things were taken in stride."

"Like rape and murder," I suggested.

"Those two, yes. The 911 operator had my story. Apparently there had been complaints about the coach. I don't believe I was his first victim. So nothing else was said and the media wasn't informed. The death was listed as some sort of home accident. As a Catholic I went to confession and spilled my story to the priest. A fairly young man."

"What did he say?" Jesus finally entered the conversation.

"He asked me how it felt to be totally nude and have a man fondle me."

"And what did you tell him."

"I told him I was often nude. I showered in the nude. Sometimes I slept in the nude. But generally no one was fondling me."

"Of course I couldn't see him, but I knew who he was. You know how that is. He seemed perplexed and told me I acted in self-defense and there was no sin. Go in peace."

"But you have thought of this from time to time, and you're not certain the priest's forgiveness is the total absolution. You, the victim, feel some guilt. Do you think it may have been better to let the man rape you than for you to have killed him?"

"Honestly, Joe. I don't know." At this point she did seem a bit shaken.

Jesus embraced her, and then placed his hands on her head. If I didn't know him I'd think he might have said some sort of prayer. When he released her, she seemed to have brightened and asked, "What were we talking about?"

"Just cocktail chatter," Jesus said. "Right, Margo?"

Margo agreed, then turned to me and slapped me on the leg. "I'm ready for bed."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I tried to understand Jesus, and I think I did up to a point. He usually enjoyed a cup of coffee in the morning, sometimes two. He used just a little cream. He was not an observant Jew, and enjoyed eggs benedict and any other non-kosher dish that appealed to him. He claimed not to understand all the rules of Judaism, in fact was unaware of many of them. He also didn't understand the factionalism in the Vatican, backbiting and petty rivalries. Also it seemed to him that Christianity was solely based on his rising from the dead, yet maybe half the Protestant ministers and possibly more than half of the Catholic clergy did not believe in the risen Christ.

The clergy of all faiths did not in their hearts believe in miracles, according to Jesus, yet they referred to babies being born as the miracle of birth. Take one female egg joined with a male sperm, add a period of gestation and out comes a newborn.

He marveled at the belief that the child had been inside the woman's body, knowing full well that it's difficult to penetrate the human body except with a knife, or a gunshot. Maybe tossing someone off a cliff onto sharp rocks might breach the body. Even the appendix is not inside the body. If it bursts it releases its poisonous fluid into the body cavity. The body itself is like a sewer pipe.

He once told me that if anyone wanted to witness a true miracle they should visit a cornfield. There was the corn silk and the pollen. Each kernel of corn was given life. He imagined how many kernels were on an ear and how many ears were in a field, say a half-acre field. Each kernel was capable of producing a stalk of corn containing multiple ears. If somehow each of these might be sown in even reasonably fertile soil, even with a minimum of rain, the fields would go on and on taking over the entire earth.

I emerged bleary-eyed from the bedroom to find Jesus in the living room. "Hey, Jesus, is there more coffee? What a night, eh? This is the day we pack for Jerusalem." I poured myself some coffee and flopped into a chair. "Any news on the tube?"

This was a weekday and Jesus loved weekdays, a time when the world came alive and got moving. Things tended to slow down on Friday night, then Saturday moved at half speed and Sunday was the pits. But come Monday morning that was when the blood coursed through the body at flank speed, to live again.

"I love this life, but sometimes I think I should be trying to make my mark in the world," I commented, while placing a dash of cream in my coffee. Fully awake now, I eyed a freshly baked croissant. Who said Tel Aviv thrived on bagels and lox?

"What mark, what world?" Jesus questioned. It was not just a "make conversation" kind of question. I could tell that he was serious.

I had to think a minute, get my thoughts together. "Do something significant to make the world take notice," I finally announced.

"Your world now is just the five of us, plus the two Mossad agents. Is this who you'd like to impress? And in what manner?"

"It's too early for such philosophy," I replied. "It's an expression. I suppose it means something in your own mind, a perception. If you perceive you are somebody, then you are somebody."

"What is this somebody?" Jesus asked.

"Someone a cut above the masses."

"You have more money than most. Have you achieved that level?"

"For one thing, I didn't do it on my own. It's your insight into market trends that has resulted in the funds that bring us this lifestyle."

"What if we were barefoot wanderers, accepting the charity of villagers and passersby. Would you have made your mark?"

"Well, we would not have the women to worry about, not that they're a problem. We might go hungry at times, be exposed to the elements, be candidates for incarceration. Made our marks? Hardly?"

"Yet that is what the world thinks of me, and I seem to be internationally acclaimed."

At this point I poured myself a second cup of coffee and buttered a croissant. Jesus found it a simple matter to tie me up with words. I sought to change the subject. "Have you noticed that Margo reads a few pages of a book now and then?"

"Yes, she doesn't seem to be a constant scholar. I've also noticed that you've questioned her about that small paperback. She seems to have dodged your inquiries."

I had to laugh. "It's not a serious matter, but she seems to be playing cat and mouse. She never leaves it lying about. She somehow conceals it so I can't have an idle look."

"What does she say about it?" Jesus asked.

"She says it's a 'chick read' and I wouldn't be interested."

"A chick read?"

"Something of interest to women, usually involving a romantic affair."

"You've seen the cover?"

"Yes, it's odd." Of course that's what had drawn my interest, the cover. "Dark tones, grays to sepia. Gothic print. The author's name is small and seems to be in script. Nothing that would normally attract the attention of a person looking to buy a book."

"You think she bought it?"

"No. I'm certain she didn't. During our travels we've stayed in B&Bs, small hotels, even a hostel once or twice. People leave books, usually in a central place, pick-up books." I was almost certain she had picked up the book somewhere along the way. I had only recorded certain of our travels. Many days, perhaps weeks, passed without incident.

"So you know the title?"

"Of course. It's 'Hoodlums in Love'."

"It probably is a chick read as she has described it."

"Very likely," I replied. "But a book solely based on hoodlums, maybe common thugs, and their love life? How many hoodlums are we writing about? And are they hoodlums of both sexes? In fact are there female hoodlums? I've always thought of the word as male oriented."

"You have a point there, Ishmael. Because she uses the word hoodlum in the plural, one would gather there might be two or more, even a fairly large group of hoodlums involved. Of course it might be just a man and a woman, both hoodlums, then the plural would be appropriate. But the possibility exists that this is not a chick read, that it is a scientific study of hoodlums, not only in modern times, but throughout history, who fell victim to Cupid's arrows, thus a type of documentary."

"I agreed that was a possibility." The options he raised had led only to more confusion in my mind as to what type of reading Margo had engaged in. And could it be that she had sensed my interest and was having a bit of sport at my expense? At this point, with my cup empty and only a crumb or two of my croissant uneaten, Margo emerged from our room fully clad and in need of sustenance. As per the day's agenda, we were to move to Jerusalem. Margo did not carry her book.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It didn't take long to move from Tel Aviv to the Mamilla Hotel in Jerusalem. We were booked into an executive triple room, which cost big bucks, or big ILS, the local currency. Yonatan occupied the third room, so the five of us were finally together. The two Mossad agents had tagged along and parked their car nearby, very likely wondering where to hole up.

After checking in we explored the hotel until lunch, ate corned beef sandwiches slathered with mustard on flat bread, then walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and looked around.

The place is storied to be Golgotha, the Hill of Calvary, where not only the crucifixion took place, but also the burial (sepulcher) and the resurrection. There is a rival for these honors not far away, the Garden Tomb. We did tour the church and saw many things including a large mosaic, Christ Pantocrator.

To me, the odd thing was that Jesus had as little interest in these things as your typical tourist, maybe less. I suppose during two thousand years this spot had become somewhat old hat. Yonatan, who always trailed out of earshot slightly behind us, showed more enthusiasm about the place. For the women it was like "seen one church, seen them all." Although they were interested, just as they had devoured European cathedrals. We were hardly ever out of sight of the Mossad agents who, from our vantage point, showed little emotion about the holy site. They seemed to be chatting between themselves in a bored fashion.

With lunch and the initial tour out of the way, we returned to the hotel for our naps. Jesus observed that he had little interest in the remaining sites, which he said he had viewed via the web. He asked Yonatan to guide and look after the women during the next few days. After that he would uncap the plan he had been mulling for some time.

Jesus had intentionally left me out of the Jerusalem tour. I supposed I could check it out on the web also. In fact, I could see a lot of it from our hotel windows and balcony. But he enjoyed just the two of us in quiet conversation. Sometimes we talked about celebrities of the recent past. Charlie Chaplin was one of his favorites. He chuckled as he described how Chaplin, dressed in his black suit and bowler hat, had manipulated his cane behind his back to make his hat rise in the air. He liked these non-verbal tricks. He had also been a fan of Jack Benny and his humorous gestures. The world he described as a thorny flower, laughter and tears.

A figure he identified with was Woody Guthrie, the protest singer of the Dust Bowl and beyond. Jesus said he had done the Guthrie bit two thousand years ago, and it had been a road to his execution. He had wandered the Galilee area, preaching, sharing his thoughts, gathering followers. The established power structure of the times came to view him as a threat to the status quo, which supported their riches. The Roman rulers, far from Rome, were not interested in stirring up trouble. So it became a simple matter to execute a potential troublemaker.

"Woody, that wandering balladeer, brought attention to the critical issues of the day. He always sided with the oppressed and opposed the rich, an angry vigilante. Tell-it-like-it-is songs for downtrodden folks. Hard-hitting stuff." Jesus paused and smiled slightly. "Ishmael, do you look on me as a rowdy, carefree rabble rouser?"

The question surprised me, but I had to say, "Frankly, no, far from it. You are a man of peace who preached love thy neighbor."

"I tend to agree," Jesus responded. "But creative dissent will never die. I see it everywhere today. In music, in politics, in crazy bigoted religions, in the persecution of the poor and oppression of women, in civil wars, drug wars, battles for water rights and natural resources. Greed is a terrible thing. Are we greedy in playing the stock market and living this high life? Are we, Ishmael?"

"No, Jesus. We're not hurting anyone. The other players are just like us. We could start giving to charity, but it would be like tossing a glass of water in the ocean."

"That's the wrong attitude, Ishmael. It's like saying my vote won't count. Anything given to a true charity that will help the desperate should be given. But you are also correct that our contribution would make little difference. But what to do? Why am I here? God knows what's going on. He wants me to find a purpose, and I think I have found one." Then he fell silent, possibly unsure whether he should reveal his plan, or uncertain that he had a plan.

Apparently he decided to think over his plan a bit more because he simply resumed our previous conversation. Such idle unhurried talk was always a joy to him. It would extend through cocktail hour and dinner and then be picked up with morning coffee. I too enjoyed the conversations.

"Your Shakespeare, what a brilliant man, a truly gifted person."

"A Brit, not an American and long dead."

"Not to my way of thinking."

"What? Not a Brit, or not dead?"

"Possibly dead to you, for the present anyway, but America is an extension of that misty isle."

"Yes, our founding fathers were mostly, maybe totally, of English extraction."

"Once again you miss the point, Ishmael. America is an extension of every country on earth. Every nationality is tossed together, and they must learn to get on with one another."

"They have a long way to go."

"It takes time." Jesus looked on the dreamy side when he said, "One cannot buy time. Time exists. Time is free. Isn't that amazing? One of, possibly, the most precious things of all, time. And it's free."

"More precious than diamonds, more precious than gold," I replied with some irony. "It flies by when we enjoy life, but it drags like the tail of a lizard for those locked away in prison. Why did you mention Bill Shakespeare?"

"The so called Bard," Jesus said. Because it took a genius to write, 'Nothing is good or bad, but thinking makes it so.'"

"I suppose. If you buy a meal and it's not so good and you don't think about it, it's OK. Not to say that it's good. That's a bit indifferent, isn't it? Give me a minute and I'll find a better example."

"Once again, Ishmael, you miss the point. There is a higher meaning here."

"Enlighten me, Oh wise one."

Jesus rolled his eyes, but continued. "It is life's lesson. It doesn't mean a cup of coffee, or a ham sandwich. It refers to the more important things in life, like a traumatic experience, or a long-term goal, or an interpersonal relationship. Shakespeare was the wise one, but was often misunderstood, his words trivialized."

"I get your point. At the risk of making a fool of myself, let me say that now and then something will come along that is a total disaster, or seems to be. It may be life changing. Later on you find it is a blessing, possibly the finest thing that ever happened to you. Now please tell me what is important about Jerusalem. I mean, here we are."

"Shall I sum it up to you in a brief capsule?"

"Please do."

"There are seven gates to Jerusalem, and then there is the Western Wall where it is believed Abraham prepared to sacrifice his son."

"Not Ishmael?"

"No, no. The bona fide son. You remember Ishmael and his Mom were cast out into the desert. So, what else would you like to know?"

"Your plan."

"My plan would do a certain thing. But I don't know if we should devote ourselves to such a plan. But it is a plan that is better than wandering aimlessly across the face of the globe. When we leave here we will travel to Jordan. There we will deal with the Mossad agents. Then I will relate what there is of my plan to the group. We must work in concert."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

We rented an SUV with a driver to carry us to Amman, Jordan. We had no difficulty at the frontier crossing, nor did the Mossad agents who trailed us by a hundred yards.

Our driver delivered us to the door of the Grand Hyatt and then said goodbye. Of course Jesus tipped him generously. He was that kind of caring guy. The rooms were OK, but showing signs of wear. There simply didn't seem to be very many folks visiting Amman. A big asset to the Hyatt was its location, near Rainbow Street with its many shops and restaurants.

Amman itself is a ragtag patch of curvy streets, which from above would appear to be casually tossed spaghetti. Of course it is a modern city. Once again, Jesus sent Yonatan out with the women during the day to shop and explore the city. Did I mention that the women did shop, but anything purchased that couldn't fit in a carry-on bag had to be shipped home.

On those excursion days with Yonatan the five of us had breakfast together, and everyone was in the hotel for afternoon naps, followed roughly by a cocktail hour that was interrupted by dinner.

On the morning of the third day Jesus and I, with the help of the concierge, rented a car. He insisted on a top-of-the-line Mercedes microbus. Why such a large vehicle baffled me. He didn't have a license to drive, so I was the one charged with that task.

We set out after breakfast the next day, circled the block several times to insure the Mossad agents were on our tail, then headed east, roughly toward the city of Azraq. After a few miles Jesus told me to pull over. He wanted to take the wheel.

"You don't have a license and you've never driven anything, maybe a donkey or camel," I said.

"Don't alarm our passengers with your bad jokes," Jesus replied.

"I'm sorry," I retorted. "Of course you can drive. I was simply enjoying the open road." I had no choice but to let him take the wheel without protest. He would win out, and to argue further would have alarmed Yonatan, Hilda and Margo. As it turned out he was quite the good driver, how good I was soon to learn.

He kicked the speed up to well over seventy and spun the car south and then a bit to the west on a dirt road. Wide-eyed I hesitated to look back to see how the other three passengers were weathering the trip. If anything, the unkempt road became narrower and there were occasional sharp curves. Jesus kicked the speed up to almost ninety.

There were no complaints from the rear seats. They were likely frozen with fear. The car lurched one way, then the other, fishtailed as we rounded curves, but it was a Mercedes, thank God for that.

Then Jesus slowed the car to a stop. He was smiling broadly.

"Did something happen?" I questioned.

"Yes, I had an eye on the rear view mirror. The Mossad boys failed to make the last turn. Their car rolled over several times into a farm field." Then he laughed out loud.

"That's cruel," Margo sat from a rear seat.

"Not cruel," Jesus replied. "Simply justice. We'll go back for them. I don't think they're badly hurt."

"I don't know how you can know that," Hilda said.

He wheeled the car around and said, "We'll see."

When Jesus stopped at the edge of the field, the three of us, the men that is, sprinted to the battered car. A slight moan came from the interior. The car was on its side, but Yonatan and I managed to drag the moaning man out and lay him on the ground. There was a little blood, and his clothing was torn, but he didn't seem in bad shape.

The second man was definitely either dead, or knocked out. Yonatan and I struggled, but finally dragged him from the car and dropped him on the barren field. Jesus bent over him for a long moment and finally announced, "He's OK. Let's get them both into the back of our bus. There were two seats unoccupied at the rear of our microbus.

Of course Jesus supervised us lugging each man, heels dragging, to the vehicle and more or less stuffing each one inside while the women stood by intently watching and making snide comments.

Then with the seven of us on board we resumed our journey, this time with me at the wheel. The three of us breathed a sigh of relief with that turn of events. The two in the rear were damaged and semi-conscious.

At a small village Jesus alighted and inquired about medical facilities. He was told there was a clinic in the next village. If a hamlet is smaller than a village, these were hamlets, small collections of homes, maybe a store or two, and goats wandering about.

Eight or nine miles farther along we came to the next small settlement and found the clinic. There was no doctor, or nurse, but the equivalent of a physician's assistant, an older woman who could serve as a midwife, console the inconsolable and bandage cuts and bruises.

She was soon bustling about treating the seemingly minor injuries to the pair of Mossad agents, and they gradually joined the living. We learned that their first names were Seth and Sheldon, although I never got a handle on which was which. Later I found that either would answer to either name.

One of the two, after imbibing in a cup of strong tea, suddenly asked, "Where's our car?"

I told him it was some miles back down the road, and he seemed agitated and blurted, "We gotta get our stuff out of there."

Jesus, standing by, said, "Spy stuff."

"Yeah," came the reply, "it's spy stuff and also our bags. Is the car OK?"

"It's totaled," Jesus said, "but Yonatan can go back and get the stuff. You two should rest."

"We should report in."

"Do you mind if we call you both Sheldon?" Jesus asked.

The man thought for a moment and said, "No, that would be alright. He added, "I doubt if my cell phone would work out here, wherever we are."

"You don't have to report in," Jesus said. "You're working with us now."

"You don't know what you're saying," Sheldon shot back. "We work for a super-secret, very powerful agency. You might say we have a license to kill."

Jesus smiled. "You came very close to killing yourself back there on the road. I'll explain what the seven of us plan to do later on. Meantime the boss medic here tells me you can sleep on these cots for now. That is, for a price. The rest of us will bunk in a large family house nearby, also for a price. Tomorrow, Yonatan will have checked out your wrecked car and we'll all move on together."

Jesus seemed to have a calming effect on the two Sheldons, and they didn't protest. The boss medic said that she would see that they were fed. I paid her off and the rest of us moved on to the big house, occupied only by a widow who welcomed both the company and the financial benefits. I gave her a bundle of money for food and board, and Yonatan drove off to salvage what he could from the wrecked car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The following morning, with the Sheldons in the rear seat, the seven adventurers set out for the Dead Sea.

Jesus had given the two agents their personal possessions, but kept their spying apparatus and their cell phones in his bag. He had warned them not to contact their agency and told them he would explain the project after they reached the Dead Sea and checked into a hotel.

Of course the Dead Sea is a famous spa and health resort area. It is the lowest point on earth, 400 meters below sea level, set on the edge of the hot and barren Judean Desert. To soak in its waters is said to restore health. The bromide in the air is indeed wholesome and there is black mud on parts of the bottom that is restorative if smeared on the body. There is animal life such as deer and birds of prey.

The drive was uneventful, a brief stop for lunch at a dusty village with the usual goats, then late in the day we arrived at the Kempinski Hotel, still in Jordan. It offered a spa, sea mud and sea-salt treatments. The sea, so salty it does not support life, is half in Jordan, and much of the remainder is on the West Bank, plus a portion in Israel where many of the luxury spas and hotels are based.

The four of us checked into a two-bedroom suite while Yonatan and the Sheldons shared a large room. Yonatan advised them that they may have been near dead when pulled from the car, but that he had observed that Joe Crist had some almost supernatural restorative powers, and they should thank him for escaping with a few cuts and bruises.

We were all tired after the day's drive and the excitement of the previous day, so Jesus decided to wait until after breakfast the next day to reveal his plan. In mid-morning the seven of us assembled in the living room of the large suite. Were we the seven dwarves or the seven samurai?

"The Dead Sea Scrolls were found near here," Jesus began, "the oldest Hebrew text. They are still being studied and likely will be for a century or more. But a far more precious and meaningful artifact to the Jewish people was recovered and is at least partially missing. It is the Aleppo Codex, and I am proposing here this morning that the seven of us track it down and return it to the people of Israel."

It was the elder Sheldon who spoke. "I'm aware of those missing pages, and our agency has chosen not to pursue the matter."

"May I ask why?" Jesus questioned.

Sheldon shrugged. "The idea came from the top."

"Yes, the top," Jesus continued. "But does that serve the people of Israel? There are powerful forces at work here, powerful people backed by big money. So the pages are in the hands of a very rich and greedy collector with friends in high places. Is that the case?"

"Very likely," Sheldon replied. "Israel is as corrupt as any other country."

"One moment," Hilda broke in. "If we're being asked to find something, I'd like to know what it is?"

Hilda's thought was valid, but may I interject what had dawned on most of us, if not all. Not only did we have trouble differentiating between the Sheldons, but also they had been a team for such a time that they too weren't certain which was which. Jesus solved the problem with a simple solution satisfactory to all. He designated the older Sheldon, Sheldon A, and the younger, Sheldon B. An age differentiation was easily observed, although there was a marked resemblance as if they were blood relatives. So, on with the story.

"The Aleppo Codex," Jesus began, "the oldest, most accurate and complete text of the Hebrew Bible. The story of its journey to Israel involves a cultural collision between the Jews from Arab lands and European Jews, or Ashkenazim, who ruled Israel during the early years. So 200 pages of the Codex is missing, a profound mystery that haunts Israeli scholars and casts a long shadow over the nation as a whole."

"You say pages, not a scroll," I noted. "How much of this book would that number of pages constitute?"

"Maybe forty percent," Jesus replied. "Imagine that. And more importantly, the bulk of the book was in Israeli hands and was doubtless stolen by a reliable officer of the realm."

"These are parchment pages?" Hilda questioned.

"Animal hides, stretched and bleached, and written out in beautiful, painstaking calligraphy using powdered tree galls blended with black suet and iron sulfate. The Codex was guarded by Jews in Aleppo, Syria, for 600 years." Jesus smiled when he said, "There is also a curse on the head of anyone who steals or attempts to sell portions of the Codex."

"Death or misfortune," Margo said.

"Something along those lines," Jesus replied. "Some messages in the Codex were believed to come directly from God and contemplated the essence of existence. It was thought an inaccurate transcription might result in the loss of vital information. So we have one text, one people, bringing them together be they scattered around the globe."

"If true believers believed in this curse, why would anyone steal the thing?" I asked.

"The Jews of Aleppo, who by the way did not give up the Codex without a struggle, believed even a small piece of the Codex would bring good health and possibly honor to the person possessing it. There are stories of fragments actually preserved and carried on the person of certain individuals."

"There must be clues as to who might have it," Hilda suggested.

It was the younger Mossad agent, now known as Sheldon B, who spoke up. He said that anyone who has it or wants to get rid of it has reason to fear for his life because of his evil involvement. But when found it should be delivered to the Shrine of the Book in the Israel Museum in Jerusalem.

He added, "A man who was a leading collector of sacred books worked as the director of the Ben-Zvi Institute, but no longer held the job after 1970 – some called him 'The Thief of Baghdad' because he was suspected of stealing precious manuscripts. Donors became suspicious when they were denied access to inspect their donations. There were power struggles within the institute and even friction over where the agency should be ultimately located. An orderly catalog of manuscripts was nonexistent. A perfect setup for mischief."

We were all surprised and delighted with Sheldon B's explanation. Because we had heard little from the two agents it might be thought that they were morons. Sheldon A seemed more inclined to keep his own counsel.

Jesus commented that there were religious and there were secular Jews and the secular variety might view early documents simply as commodities to be bought and sold. Collectors might prize them as religious articles, or simply for their financial worth, a value that would steadily increase because the supply was either static or decreasing as treasures deteriorated, or disappeared.

Yonatan pointedly asked Jesus if he thought God might know where the Codex was hidden.

Jesus was thoughtful and finally said, "He might, but He wouldn't care one way or the other. I don't believe God thinks much about what is written in so-called sacred books or other printed material. It is what is in the heart that God treasures. So you see, in seeking out the Codex we are on a mission, but it is a mission for the Jewish people, not for God nor for religion, but to bring joy and possibly a stabilizing force to a relatively young nation. I believe it to be a worthwhile project."

As far as I could tell, everyone seemed to agree.

At this point Jesus said he had arranged for a tour bus for the women, Yonatan and the Sheldons. It would see them through lunch and into the evening. He and I would remain in the hotel laying plans for our quest, which would begin tomorrow, and doing a spot of moneymaking on the world market. Why would anyone dabble in historic or sacred documents when making money in the various stock and bond markets is as simple as picking fruit from a tree.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The following morning we all gathered for breakfast in our suite and Jesus announced that a redheaded dwarf who had been residing at the Gstaad ski resort in Switzerland might well have the Codex. If so, our task would be quite simple. First, learn if he has it. Second, take it or purchase it.

"The Codex would be worth many millions," Sheldon B tossed in.

"Truly," Jesus replied. "We are well fixed, but not at that level. However, if he has the actual missing pages it would be no problem raising twenty-five or even fifty million dollars. There are people in Las Vegas and New York who might consider that chump change, or small potatoes, whichever slang expression fits."

I thought they both might fit. But Jesus went on to say he wanted Yonatan and Sheldon A to go to Gstaad and attempt to interview this dwarf.

"He is Jewish?" Sheldon A questioned.

"Yes, his name is Binyamin Kadima, he has red bushy hair, and I am told he has nervous hands that seldom stop moving. Also, he is seldom without four or five beautiful young ladies who are supplied by escort services in various European countries. For some time now he has resided at the Chalet Gruben at Gstaad. It is a large, very expensive chalet, but I doubt that he has his collection there."

"He collects Hebrew manuscripts?" Margo asked.

Jesus had been busy refilling his coffee cup, a half piece of toast smeared with peach jam on his plate. Now he used a napkin to wipe sticky jam from his fingers before answering. "He collects manuscripts. He has writings from Hemingway and Fitzgerald, possibly other Lost Generation characters, material from Mozart, Beethoven and Goethe. It runs the gamut. And there have been rumors that he either has the Codex or knows where it is. He would be one of the go-to guys if you had something like that and wanted to put it on the market."

Always a hearty eater, Yonatan had cleaned up a pair of "everything" bagels with cream cheese and lox; now he finished a third cup of coffee and asked if arrangements for their trip had been made.

"Yes," Jesus replied. "There are electronic tickets, plus you're booked into a type of chalet B&B. If you're unable to meet with this Kadima at the Chalet Gruben, I suggest you attempt to set up a meeting at the Waldhuus, a restaurant on Wispilenstrausse. I mention it because it's famous for raclette and fondue and even Saanenland cheese. Of course any place will do, and I have absolute faith that you two are up to the task."

And so was set in motion a seemingly simple plan that would harvest strange and depressing fruit.

The two men took a night flight from Jordan to Frankfurt and were in Gstaad by the next afternoon, too late to even try to contact the dwarf. They did dine that night at the Waldhuus, trying the raclette, which is both a cheese and a method of eating cheese, which involves heating it on a metal surface, then scraping the salty bits off and devouring them.

In the meantime, we back in the Holy Land decided it was time to make a move. Greece was suggested, but Sheldon B said the Greeks were anti-American and also anti most foreigners and were not very good at hiding it. The French on the other hand hated everyone, even each other, but were extremely charming in their expressions of such feelings, very close to parodies of themselves.

After kicking the question around, it was decided that we move the show to Italy, but not to a genuine Italian city. The decision was made to go to Trieste, which was once the port city of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, thus with a non-Italian heritage. Although it is at the head of the Adriatic and not far from Venice, Trieste is not much of a tourist town. So it was decided, and preparations were made for our departure.

Meanwhile, back in Gstaad, Yonatan and Sheldon had checked out Chalet Gruben and found they couldn't get past the guardhouse, a quarter mile from the building. The chalet was a rental, and by going through the rental agency they managed to find a phone number and called the chalet. A secretary answered and Sheldon explained their mission. They were seeking the Aleppo Codex and would gladly pay a high price for the missing pages. After quite a while on hold, the message came back – remain in your hotel room and an envoy will meet with you.

After he hung up, Sheldon looked at Yonatan, explained what was said, then added, "Suppose it is that easy? Just come to Switzerland and ask for the Codex?"

Yonatan smiled slightly and replied, "If elephants can fly. I think I'll have a taste of wine." He went to the bathroom and got a plastic cup, then popped the cork on a bottle of Prosecco he had sitting on the window sill. Asked if he wanted a glass, Sheldon declined. "I'd like to keep my wits about me." Opening the refrigerator he helped himself to an Appensell beer.

It wasn't long before there was a loud knock on the door. Sheldon answered and three rough looking men pushed their way into the room. A man with a large baldhead and no neck, arms heavily tattooed from hands to the shoulder of his sleeveless shirt, growled harshly, "So you two bright boys are looking for the Codex?"

"That's correct," Sheldon said, attempting to be polite.

"Well, you can haul your fat asses out of Gstaad and out of Switzerland and don't ever think of coming back."

Visibly irritated, Yonatan shouted, "Don't try to bully us."

In reply, the neckless man smashed Yonatan in the stomach with a blow that sent him across the room and sinking to the floor. "Alright, my bully boys," the bald man growled with a smile, "You can leave Gstaad on your feet or feet first, which will it be?"

Yonatan was still gasping for air and clutching his stomach. Sheldon said, "We don't want to make trouble. We will steal away as silently as church mice."

"You're a smart man," no-neck grinned. "Come on boys, let's hit the bar on the way home." The meeting had taken less than five minutes.

Yonatan crawled to the window, took a swig directly from the bottle, and then managed to get into a chair. "That was some hit. I suppose we'd better leave first thing tomorrow. Those birds mean business."

Sheldon shook his head slyly. "I have another string to my bow. There's more than one way of skinning a skunk. You drink your wine, and after dark I'll have a go at this on my own."

"This redheaded dwarf," Yonatan said when he had regained his composure, "this Binyamin Kadima, he likely has a small army of heartless thugs. The man is a billionaire. He's bad news. He calls the tune and everyone else dances."

"You forget, Yonatan, I am Mossad. We don't give up that easily."

"What we're doing isn't worth risking your life, Sheldon. It's almost a make-work project. Just something to occupy our time until something else shows up."

"We'll see. Just give me a few hours. I'm a reasonable man. If we fail, we go. What have we got to lose?"

Yonatan poured himself more wine and thought that one over – just their lives.

Just after eleven that evening, Yonatan decided to flip off the TV and hit the sack. He had ordered a corned beef sandwich from room service, finished it along with two Appensell beers and the better part of a second bottle of Prosecco. Sheldon had yet to return from his mystery mission.

The following morning, still no Sheldon. Yonatan had breakfast in the mezzanine restaurant, had the omelet chef fix him one with the works, drank two cups of coffee and polished off a couple of rolls oozing sugary icing. Then he returned to his room and tuned the TV to CNN.

Just after nine there was a polite knock on his door. He assumed the maid was lurking in the hallway, but he was surprised by a well-dressed middle-aged man in shirt, tie and business suit. "May I come in?"

Eyeing him for a second and deeming him relatively harmless, Yonatan backed away from the door, and he entered the room and plopped down in the chair.

The man's first words were, "Do you know what a crevasse is?"

A strange way of introduction, but Yonatan said, "Yes, I believe so. I'm a ten-year soldier and somewhat acquainted with geography. Who are you?"

"My name is Diskin and you might say I'm the chief assistant, or you could call it secretary, to the notorious Binyamin Kadima. You may know him as a redheaded dwarf."

"I'm familiar with the gentleman. He has an interest in me?"

"Not really. He has an interest in calming the waters, not rocking the boat so to speak. You arrived in Gstaad in the company of another man."

"Sheldon."

"Yes, Sheldon. And your purpose is to retrieve the Aleppo Codex, right?"

"Yes," Yonatan replied. "Our small group would like to restore it to the people of Israel, to see it safely into a museum where it belongs."

"Your friend, Sheldon, had his own agenda. He attempted to sell it to Mr. Kadima."

"How could that be? I don't believe he has it, doesn't know where it is."

"This Sheldon was certain your group would find the Codex. At that point he would steal away with it and peddle it to Mr. Kadima for twenty million U.S. dollars."

"I'm completely taken aback," Yonatan replied. "Sheldon was a member of Mossad, maybe still is, though they might think he and his partner have gone rogue. He seemed honest enough."

"One cannot tell a book by its cover, Yonatan, I was a member of Shin Bet (Israel's FBI) and have known this Sheldon by reputation. He was a bad egg, a rotten apple."

"You seem to refer to him in the past tense."

"Yes, he is resting in a crevasse." The man rose and walked to the window. "Enjoy the view of the magnificent mountains. If you know the Alps, if you are familiar with a crevasse, you know how deep these splits in the earth, or splits in the ice can be. Sometimes they even close. That any mortal will come in contact with Sheldon again is quite, um, what should I say, probably impossible."

"Was that necessary?" Yonatan asked. He stood and joined Diskin, both gazed out toward the towering, craggy, snow-laden peaks.

"The dwarf is an Israeli patriot. Sheldon breached the chalet wall and made it into his presence. But the idea of stealing the Codex from the people of Israel as a private collector repelled him. He was highly irritated, you might say irrational."

"I think I get your drift."

"So, I have come here merely to keep the peace. To see that nothing out of the ordinary is made of this flawed human being dropping from sight."

"I'm not one to make a stink. As I said I'm a ten-year soldier, then a prison guard. I've been employed by these people to help with their quest. It seems Sheldon was out to betray them. Good riddance, I say."

"And good riddance it is," Diskin said, grasping Yonatan's hand. "Tell me, might you be in town for a day or two longer?"

"As a matter of fact, Sir. I must stay. I got a call today that the group is moving to Italy, and they'll tell me when they're settled in and I'll join them then. We don't lack for funds."

"You'll be on your own here in this rather commonplace hotel room. How will you get by?"

"I'm used to that. Soldiering in inhospitable places, guarding the dregs of humanity. There's TV and maybe a drink or two."

"You might have heard that my employer enjoys the ladies and usually has four or five of them available to him."

"This is not his home, is it?" Yonatan asked.

"No. He travels. His real home is a castle overlooking the Rhine. That's where his collection of manuscripts and other assets are closely guarded. Gstaad is one of his favorite spots. He enjoys simply gazing at the magnificence of nature, raw, rugged mountains. Mother Nature's icebox. Anyway, about the ladies, he tires of each individual after a time and enjoys replacing them. There's an every-ready supply for the price he pays. So we have one ready to go. A real beauty named Savannah. In view of your loss of Sheldon, he'd like to let her amuse you for the remainder of your stay."

Yonatan blinked a time or two while he thought that one over. "And this would cost me how much?"

"Not one Swiss franc. In fact your room service and hotel bill will be taken care of, you might say from an insurance policy bequeathed to you by Sheldon, God rest his bones."

"Sounds OK by me, but will she like a simple person like myself?"

"She's being paid handsomely. If she balks, send her away and she's off the payroll. Just give me a call. Her agency will bring the wrath of God down on her. Of course, if she stayed here, she'd just overcrowd the harem. Her replacement arrives this afternoon."

"I'm in."

"More than you know. Occasionally one of these ladies will try to take the upper hand. Under the terms of agreement you can beat them, but try not to bruise them. A damaged product loses value."

"I think I can handle a woman."

"It can be difficult. We're talking real beauty here and maybe a strong will. If she should take the bit in her teeth, simply run the bathtub full of water and let her know what you're doing. Cold water. If that simple act doesn't bring her around, place her in the tub and hold her under for thirty seconds. Then offer to hold her under again. She'll likely come around."

Yonatan chortled with suppressed laughter. "What if she drowns?"

"Call me. The Alps are blessed with crevasses."

"OK."

Diskin went to the door. "I'll send her up. She's having coffee downstairs. Probably attracting a crowd of panting virile gentlemen. And just one more thing. Mr. Kadima wanted me to tell you there's a nutcase Jew in Vienna, a Mofaz Moreh, who has been after the Codex." He waited while Yonatan scribbled the name. "Call me in a few days. Let me know about Savannah and how the quest is going. Maybe we can help."

Moments later, a soft knock sounded on the door. He opened it wide and in walked a drop-dead vision, maybe 5-5, 120 pounds, long silver blond hair with black highlights toward the ends.

"I'm Savannah," she announced.

"I'm Yonatan."

"I've heard you're an old soldier," she said almost breathlessly. "Maybe we can do some military maneuvers."

"I'm ready for action," he replied.

"But first a few ground rules."

Yonatan immediately caught her meaning. She was taking charge. He slapped her hard on the cheek. "Any rules around here will be made by me."

"Of course." Immediately submissive. "Do you want to do me now, or should I do you?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Melancholy Trieste, yesterday's grandeur long gone, yet there was a lingering feeling of subdued exaltation. The Jesus group set up camp at the Grand Hotel Duchi d'Aosta in the city center, a spot that had held a hotel of sorts since Roman times. The hotel itself adjoined the storied and ritzy Harry's Bar.

Frankly, I was impressed. But Jesus would have only the best. Our earnings from stock trading had grown to the point that interest from investments made up a growing portion of our income. It was easy to see how the superrich had difficulty keeping from becoming richer if they had an ounce of investment sense.

Yonatan had checked in with Jesus and said he would be joining us soon. He gave him the name of a perhaps unstable moneyed man who resided in Vienna and who might know something about the Codex, a welcome lead. He said the redheaded dwarf, far from holding the Codex, would do what he could to help us find it and return it to Israel. Yonatan added that Sheldon A had met with an unfortunate fatal accident, his body unrecoverable.

So for a brief time the five of us were enjoying one of the premier hotels of Europe, an edifice that had hosted Admiral Nelson, Casanova and Bob Dylan. Sheldon B, now known as simply Sheldon, squired the women around to the few historic sites in Trieste while Jesus and I engaged in desultory conversation and enjoyed global stock markets, which had become something of an addiction with us.

We welcomed the relaxation and the new digs. There was also a favorable change of menu to be savored. Jesus delighted the women in promising an overnight trip to Milan, the fashion capital of Europe.

Then one evening, just after dinner, Yonatan showed up with the knockout woman Savannah in tow. There was almost an audible gasp when she entered the sitting room between our two bedrooms. She was turned out in full hooker array.

Yonatan introduced her and remarked that they had met in Gstaad, hit it off, and decided to become something of a pair. Jesus rose and hugged the newcomer with a cordial word of greeting. Others followed suit.

"It wouldn't be right for the two of you to sleep with Sheldon," Jesus remarked. Sheldon smiled and nodded in agreement.

Arrangements were made for another room and the seven of us bedded down for the night, each with separate thoughts on the new arrangement, some with severe misgivings, others with simple curiosity. How had a gruff old soldier like Yonatan landed this lovely and poised woman? What evil might lurk behind such a situation?

Morning came and, as planned, we dribbled down to the hotel's breakfast room. Jesus huddled with Savannah and Yonatan and said he needed to talk with the woman in private. Yonatan understood perfectly. Rather than go back to the rooms, the two of them left the hotel and found an outdoor café. The morning was pleasant, birds sang, soft breezes caressed the trees, a fishing boat could be seen out in the Adriatic.

After the coffee was delivered, Jesus said, "What should we discuss?"

Savannah smiled. "Yonatan, I suppose. His odd relation with you."

"Odd?"

"Yes. It's almost as if he serves you, like a form of worship."

"He told you that?"

"Of course not. I've been around the block a few times. I can sense things just as you can."

Jesus smiled and sipped his coffee. He made a mental note to buy a local paper. "You are likely a good judge of human nature, but you can make mistakes. You aren't religious?"

"Not tied to any faith. My father was a lapsed Catholic, my mother slightly Lutheran. I've never been serious about religion."

"Yonatan and I are both of the Jewish faith and of the Jewish race. You know what's happening in Israel?"

"I do indeed. I've known a number of extremely wealthy Jews. They talk about Israel without relent. I can join such conversations with some fluency, but little conviction."

Her speech amused Jesus, but he continued. "Yonatan and I and the others are on a quest to find the Codex and return it to the people of Israel. I suppose he's told you what the Codex is."

"The Aleppo Codex."

"Yes, named after a town in Syria where it was treasured by the Jewish community for six centuries. A large portion of it was stolen and we are committed to unearthing it and returning it to Israel. For various reasons I am the head of this project. So Yonatan looks to me. Once the project is complete, everyone goes their own way if they so choose."

"And will Yonatan go his own way?"

"I see no reason why not."

"And you have no reason to oppose my accompanying him?" Savannah had become suddenly serious.

"That depends. I don't want to see Yonatan hurt. You are somewhat above his pay grade. That the two of you are together raises certain questions. Say, if you and he were seated here where we are seated, what would people think?"

Savannah forced a smile. "That we wanted coffee."

"That's an option. You are obviously a woman alone, how do you survive?"

"Up 'til now I've worked for an escort service, you might say the sex trade."

"So if you are well into that service and have good management, you should have considerable money in the bank."

"I do. I'm tight with the owner, a woman who started just as I started. She can envision me taking over some day."

"But you want to opt out."

"I do. I paint up my face, do my eyes, do my hair, perpetually diet, get all fixed up, but I'm aging. Over thirty is over the hill. Yonatan and I hit it off, we clicked so to speak, our poems rhymed. This is a chance for me and a chance for him. Can we make it?"

"I'll say again that I don't want to see him hurt. Do you think he can take you just as you are without the bells and whistles?"

"I think we see each other's soul. You understand we are all equal when we're dead, but maybe we're all equal in bed."

"Touché. I can't bring Yonatan up to your level through cosmetics. But I can bring you down to his. Your hearts and souls would remain intact. What are those things on your feet? Stilettos?"

"I believe that's what they're called."

"Can you wear flats?"

"Of course. I enjoy going barefoot."

"So a few thoughts off the top of my head. Scrub your face. No makeup. Have your hair cut short, not stylish, but short. Wear dark-rimmed glasses whether you need them or not. Cut your nails and eliminate the polish. Change your wardrobe to baggy housedresses. Start eating. Can you do those things?"

"With pleasure."

"If so, Boyd and I will teach you how to take the money you have put aside and build it into something that will last you a lifetime. For you and Yonatan."

"You'll teach me to do that?" She seemed skeptical.

"Not really. We'll teach you not to gamble. But we will supervise your market strategies so that you will become rich. And wedding bells are involved."

"Yonatan and I have already made that agreement."

The waiter hovered nearby offering more coffee and possibly breakfast pastries. "I'd say this has been a thoroughly productive session. The women will help you with your downgrading. Let's have a ceremonial burning of the stilettos."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In the next couple of days, Margo and Hilda, scrubbed Savannah down, chopped her hair and generally downgraded her appearance.

Then the seven of us set off by minibus for the fairly short drive to Milan. As usual, Jesus had booked us into the finest and most expensive hotel, the Four Seasons Hotel Milan on the Via Gesu. He liked to say, "you only live once." I think he enjoyed the irony.

Milan is not a huge tourist town, but it has La Scala opera house and Costello Sforzesco, plus canal-side cafes and old time gelaterias. But it is a Mecca for fashionistas. Think Versace, Prada, Armani, Pucci, Gucci – they all blasted off here.

At the same time as Margo and Hilda were giddy over Bottega Veneta, Salvatore Ferragamo and Carlo Pazolini, Savannah was ferreting out frumpy, shapeless house dresses. There was also the Italian stock market. Seriously frumped up, Yonatan escorted his newfound love to that facility for a glimpse of their future fortune. Both enjoyed pigging out at canal-side bistros. Life was good.

After three days of shopping and dining, the seven returned to Trieste where Yonatan and Savannah enjoyed a secular vow exchange. The bride wore calico and carried a gin martini. This sparked a two-day celebration capped by an evening boat tour of the harbor where a barefoot Savannah ceremonially tossed her two pairs of spiked heels into the Adriatic, accompanied by sparklers and bottle rockets.

After the shouting and the tumult died, Jesus and I were discussing how to approach Mofaz Moreh in Vienna. We were seated in our usual Trieste sidewalk café, the others still sleeping it off in the hotel, and going over the report from the private eye company. We overheard a waitress talking to a pair of young travelers at a nearby table saying that she talks to God. The young travelers possibly rolled their eyes, but did not choose to pursue the matter.

The time was early and the young travelers were the only others in our part of the café. Jesus hailed the waitress as she passed and inquired, "What's the recent word from God?"

"Ah, another scoffer," the young woman replied.

"Not at all," Jesus replied. "You're an American, right?"

"Yes, from North Carolina."

"We're from Asheville. Touring, just as you might be."

She laughed. "Chapel Hill. I'm working my way through Europe. You know what I'll be when I complete this tour?"

"No."

"An old woman."

"Anyone who can talk with God is never alone. But I'm curious. How do you do it?"

"Training. It's a learning process. Before I began with God I fell in with a coven of witches and learned their craft. There is such a thing as witchcraft. There are witches. I saw things, I really did."

"Were drugs involves?" Jesus questioned.

"No, but that's a good question. If you desire visions, like talking to spiders and visiting a host of angels, try drugs. That's the fast way. The slow way is training, getting the hang of it."

"Let's go right to God," Jesus said. He laid a twenty euro note on the table. "That's for you."

"I shouldn't take it, I'm not your wait person. Angelo is."

Jesus laid another twenty euros on the table. "That's for Angelo. Now tell us about God."

"Well, OK. You wonder how an educated person, and I am a college graduate for whatever that's worth, can believe in an invisible being when all around is a sea of non-believers. Think of church and prayer. Carry it a step forward and begin holding conversations with God. It's all in your head. But you speak to God as if you were talking to a friend. You unload your problems and imagine what He might say.

"It takes training, just as an athlete might train. It takes time and earnestness. I had similar supernatural experiences when I was in the advanced stages of witchcraft experimentation. I have come to know God. I find that a substantial number adults have gone with non-mainstream type churches in order to have a personal relationship with God." She looked Jesus squarely in the eyes and asked, "Do you believe?"

"Do you want the truth?"

"Even if it hurts."

"I do."

She laughed. Her name was Edna according to a tag on her apron. Jesus picked up her twenty from the table, added a hundred to it, and handed it to her. "Here, Edna. This will help you on your physical and spiritual journey. Keep the faith."

She nodded and moved on.

The experience had been an interesting one. She had just told Jesus about talking to his father. She seemed to be closer to the spiritual world than he was. One tends to be concerned about a young lady like that alone and working her way through foreign lands. But was she alone? We can't assist everyone. God watches the sparrow.

We had learned that Mofaz Moreh was a former paratrooper and a vodka drinker. He was just over five feet tall and pudgy and briefly headed the Mossad. He distrusted America and was said to have killed many Palestinians, and not just in his military role. His job in the Israeli government ended because of his hawkish desire to attack Iran, not today, but yesterday. He was also superstitious and very likely believed in the mystic powers of the Codex.

Sheldon had easily learned in Vienna that Moreh owned and operated a large antiquities bazaar that specialized in ancient documents, a perfect setup for a type of spy operation. It went without saying that the man was an eccentric on top of his other virtues.

Together, Jesus and I decided to go to Vienna and visit Moreh in his antiquities shop. We took the train, leaving the women, Yonatan, Savannah and Sheldon in Trieste.

We had a fair journey and talked at length. Jesus wondered if Hilda and Margo would grow weary of this sort of life and return to near St. Paul, possibly to attend school or search for husband material.

"You don't think we are husband material then?" I questioned.

"Not to belittle you, Ishmael, but you haven't seemed to rise to that level of responsibility. Please, give me your innermost thoughts."

"You have something there. I had never dreamed of marrying a girl from Minnesota that I picked up in Paris, but such things do happen. We are maybe ten years their seniors, so not too bad. Of course they will catch up with you, but I shall continue to age unless you can lay some magic formula on me that will render me forever young."

Jesus smiled a thoughtful smile. "It seems to me I saw a product on TV guaranteed to either take years off your life, or freeze you at whatever age you might enjoy. The cost was not excessive except for shipping and handling."

"I saw that ad and I'm giving it serious consideration. I might have a little news for you. Yonatan and Savannah have cooked up a scheme to hook up Sheldon with Savannah's sister, Naomi."

"Holy shit," Jesus exclaimed, "we're becoming matchmakers.com. Who is this Naomi?"

"Another aging sex industry queen a couple of years older than Savannah. You see, Savannah was scheduled to take over the agency, as the older woman who heads it is retiring. Now the agency will close. Naomi apparently isn't as bright as Savannah so she is not a candidate to take charge. So what to do with Naomi?"

"And what to do with Sheldon," Jesus said. "Maybe we should send them all to Minnesota and they could start some type of commune. There is some sort of industry up there, isn't there?"

"Probably cheese. Much like Wisconsin, I'd guess. But I've never spent much time in that part of the country. It might be a bit boring, but there are large cities, civic pride, shopping malls, churches, organizations. There must be some level of higher education, but I haven't a clue what that might be." The train had moved through the Austrian Alps and came nearer to Vienna with every turn of the wheels and click of the tracks. "Do we have a place to stay in Vienna?"

"A place called the Hotel de France centrally located on Ringstrasse Boulevard."

"I suppose it's the most expensive."

"Not at all. Many are more expensive, take Le Meridien, but it's very modern. Our hotel has the patina of age and authenticity, built in 1872."

"Hardly old for Vienna," I countered, "But what the hell."

"You did want running water and indoor plumbing, didn't you?"

He always got the last word. So we were pulling into Vienna with its waltzes, bright and sprightly on the surface, but always with an underlying note of sadness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

There was still time to call the wily ex-spy chief after checking into our hotel. Jesus knew enough to be upfront about our mission and told him we had come to Vienna to discuss the Codex.

Mofaz Moreh asked our purpose.

"We would like to restore the Codex to the people of Israel. It is a sacred document."

Moreh very likely took that statement with a grain of salt, but said he would call back and arrange a meeting.

After hanging up, Jesus turned to me and said, "Now he knows where we are."

We grabbed a snack at a fast food shop, purchased a double bottle of wine at what passed for an Austrian 7-Eleven and returned to our room.

We were on our second glass of wine and watching an NCIS rerun in German when there came the ominous knock on the door.

"Answer it," Jesus said quietly, "But keep the bar attached." To my great surprise, he added, "I have a pistol."

I cracked the door. A white-coated man in the hall with a trolley said, "Room service."

Jesus grinned and removed an automatic from his pocket. He gestured for me to let the man in.

Opening the door, the man pushed his trolley into the room. Jesus slammed shut the door, barring others, if there had been others, pointed the pistol at the waiter who had turned abruptly when the door slammed. Apparently he ordered the man in German to hoist his hands because that's what the man did.

So there we were, Jesus, the man of peace, holding a gun, me standing by, and a tough looking waiter with his hands in the air.

Jesus ordered me to move carefully behind the man and pat him down just as they do at the airport. "If you get in front of him, I'll have to shoot you both." Jesus seemed quite cheerful, pleased with the way the evening was unfolding.

Patting him twice over, I could find no weapon. But at the request of Jesus, I removed the man's wallet and placed it on the trolley. Speaking English this time, Jesus ordered the man to go into a corner of the room and lie on his face. The man seemed to snarl, but complied.

A silver dome was placed over a platter in the center of the trolley, the type that would cover a warm meal. Jesus nodded toward it and I removed it. A pistol, the same type as Jesus held, lay in the center of an empty plate.

"You seem to have the same taste in weapons," I tossed in.

"It's the current weapon of choice for both criminals and lawmen, the Glock, large magazine, minimum weight. I have the G23 Gen4. He may have the same, although there are several models. They all look alike. Take a look at his wallet."

His driver's license said Hans Bergman, and he lived somewhere in Vienna. His photo seemed to match his face. "No occupation given on his license," I said, "I suppose he's a criminal. Do you think a murderer?"

"I don't think he was sent to kill us. But this Moreh plays rough. He has a lot of blood on his hands. If he thinks Hans here fucked up, he might kill him. What do you think of that, Hans?"

No answer, but maybe a growl.

"Come now, Hans," Jesus said. "Turn over and have a seat on the floor. You can lean against the wall."

No movement.

"OK, Hans, you can talk to us, or you can talk to the police. Which will it be?"

Slowly, Hans turned over and leaned against the wall. Jesus told me to take the Glock from the trolley and put it in my pocket, promising to show me how to use it later.

Jesus asked Hans to tell us his story.

His English was good, but not perfect, something like a former governor of California. "I was asked to hold you here and then call a certain number. Others would come for you."

"Do you know why we're the object of someone's attention?"

"No, I don't."

"Are you a full time employee of Mofaz Moreh?"

"I don't even know the man. I'm a contract employee."

"Do you kill people?"

"I do what I have to do. I have a wife and family to support."

"Do you think I should kill you?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"What do you think we should do under the circumstances?"

Hans raised his hands as if he had struck on a logical solution. "Give me my gun back and let me be on my way."

Jesus seemed to sigh when he asked, "You didn't kill a waiter, did you?"

"Certainly not. No one's paying me for killing waiters. These coats and carts can be found everywhere. I got the coat from a locker room and found the cart out in the hall. Those dishes, you might note, are filthy."

"Give my partner the telephone number." Hans dug a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. I read it off to Jesus, and he seemed to think it was the same one he used to call Moreh, probably a cell phone.

"Well, Hans, we're keeping your Glock and driver's license, but you can go now."

The man struggled to his feet. "The gun's my livelihood, mister. You're taking the bread from my table. Think of my family."

"You look good as a waiter, Hans. Maybe you could become a gospel singer, or a circus clown. It's a big world out there. If we see you again, or if there is any attempt to harm us again, your weapon and your driver's license go to the police. You do know what forensics is, don't you?" Hans started to slink out of the room, but Jesus called him back and made him take the trolley with him.

Jesus poured us another glass of wine before dialing the number. He recognized Moreh's voice. "This is Joe Crist calling, Mofaz. I know you want to meet with us. How about we come to your shop about ten tomorrow morning?"

"That sounds good. I understand there are two of you."

"Yes, my friend from America. He's a freelance writer, magazine stories, but he's not working now. Just enjoying ourselves, trying to see a bit of the world and hoping to return the Codex to Israel."

"Was it ever in Israel?" Moreh questioned.

"You know that, Mofaz. There was a man called the Thief of Baghdad in charge of such priceless documents. Perhaps he took it, perhaps someone else did. But it belongs to the people of Israel."

"Your goal is a noble one."

"And you may help us accomplish that goal. Incidentally, your agent was here earlier. We had a nice chat and he went on. I hope you pay him whatever his fee might be. He said he has a wife and family."

"Whoever you're speaking of, I'm certain he will be well compensated. See you tomorrow."

When the phone was hung up, I said, "So it was Moreh who sent Hans."

"Yes, and he is a very dangerous man. But he knows that we know, so the meeting tomorrow in his shop should not place our lives at hazard. But let's carry weapons, and I will show you how to point and fire the Glock."

Keeping my own counsel, my thoughts turned to hopping a return train to Trieste, the sooner the better. This Moreh character probably had a screw loose.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The following morning we were early risers as usual. Jesus wanted us both sober when he instructed me on the Glock. Then we ordered breakfast in our room and whiled away the time with CNN playing in the background.

Jesus would do odd things occasionally, not idiotic, but you might say playful. He had picked up a fashion magazine in the hotel. Three of the pages advertised cologne for men. A portion of the pages were folded and when pulled open one was supposed to smell the fragrance.

Jesus did this for some time, attempting to sniff one after another while killing time before our appointment. Then he insisted that I try it. Of course I did. Why not humor him.

The samples were accompanied by dramatic photos of serious looking handsome men who might be thought to either appeal to women, or gay men. The first cologne was Bleu de Chanel, the second Mont Blanc and the third, Terre D'Hermes. I sniffed each one in turn, but really had no reaction. Perhaps my sinuses were jammed. Jesus insisted I try again, which I did with the same reaction. Then he gave it a go for the fourth or fifth time. Each of us smelled something, but it was more like paper or glue. Finally, Jesus said, "Maybe it's an old magazine," and cast it aside.

We finished off the pot of coffee and departed for the antiquities shop. To our surprise, Hans Bergman was waiting in the lobby. He stepped rapidly toward us and seemed overwrought. His first words were, "You've got to help me, at least give me the gun. They're trying to kill me."

"Who?" I questioned.

"I screwed up the job and they've put an open contract on my life. Whoever kills me gets two thousand euros."

"That's incredible," I said. "This is Vienna, not New Jersey. Things like that simply don't happen in Vienna. It's almost Germany with its law and order."

Hans was serious when he said, "Every country has a criminal element. I should know. At least let me defend myself."

"You can come with us, Hans," Jesus said. "But you've lied to us. You said you had a wife and children. Not true."

"Yeah, I never was a good liar. I live alone in a dumpy room, eat rotten food, associate with rotten people. But I enjoy my life. I'd like it to go on for at least a year or two. You know, I could make something of myself."

"Maybe," Jesus said. "That's a long shot. But we won't let you die this morning. Come along."

The three of us boarded a cab and set off for the antiquities shop and our meeting with Mofaz Moreh, the man who may have attempted to engineer our demise last evening. At the time we didn't know his intentions.

The shop was open and there was an older man seated at the front counter. The room was large with displays of antiquities and memorabilia spotted artfully here and there. Toward the rear were shelves of books and what appeared to be large manuscripts, or oversized volumes.

I said we had come to meet with Mr. Moreh.

"I don't believe he's here, Sir," the man replied. "But his head bookkeeper said she would speak with you." He directed us to an office at the rear of the store.

The bookkeeper's name was Mrs. Epstein and she said Moreh had left town rather hastily.

"You mean he's run away?" Jesus asked.

"You might say that. You know he's a bit eccentric. This store is something of a hobby. He inherited the family millions earned in the mining business, African diamonds. So he does what he pleases and spends what he wants without rhyme or reason."

"You don't seem to be particularly sold on him," I interjected.

"Why should I defend the old goat? Years ago we planned to be married, but he backed out. He fears me. I know too much."

"Why doesn't he just have you knocked off?" Jesus asked. "That seems to be a common practice in these parts."

Mrs. Epstein laughed. "I have friends and I have documents squirreled away. He fears me."

"But you are married," Jesus said.

"Was," she responded. "My husband disappeared shortly after we were married. I think Moreh was jealous. You never know what he might do, but so far he's done nothing in my direction. I make a handsome salary and live like a queen. An apartment in Berlin, another in New York. I lack for nothing except romance."

"With those assets you should have little trouble attracting a romantic interest," I said. She was a handsome woman, middle aged, appeared to be fairly tall, although she remained seated. Attractive breasts with some cleavage showing, not overweight.

"Moreh has me watched. The purpose is to discourage lovers. He wants to remain unattached and wants me to do likewise. That man," she indicated Hans Bergman, "he was hired by Moreh yesterday to bring the two of you to a hidden meeting place. He failed to do his job, so Moreh has contrived to eliminate him. Moreh is vindictive."

"How do you know Hans?" Jesus questioned.

"We were shown pictures of professional criminals. Hans was well recommended as a lowbrow type who would do anything for money and would be dedicated to that cause." She seemed to sneer at poor Hans, then added. "How wrong we were."

"You're confessing you were in on planning a murder?" I asked. It seemed a startling revelation.

"I confess nothing. In truth, Hans was hired through a criminal agent. It is that agent who now threatens Hans' well-being. It's out of my hands."

Jesus shrugged. "Hans well-being, Moreh's location, we really care less about things of that nature. What we seek are the substantial missing pages of the Aleppo Codex. Perhaps you can help us."

She looked at me and asked, "Are you two Jewish?"

"I'm not. Joe is. He's more of a secular Jew, but definitely Jewish."

Her gaze turned to Hans. "You're nothing but a Vienna thug, a tough guttersnipe. I'll help you get out of town. Change your name and join the criminal element in Frankfurt or Berlin. For now go into the other room and look at books. I'll get to you later."

Hans scowled and slunk out of the office.

Jesus seemed amused. "Perhaps you can help us either find Moreh or tip us off to where the Codex might be."

"I cannot. Moreh knows something about those pages." She stopped as if considering her words. "He may know why they are missing. He may even have a clue as to where they are, but he has flown like a wild bird. He could be anywhere under the sun."

"How did he go?"

"Not certain. He often charters planes. The company needs less than three hours' notice, generally quite a bit less. I wouldn't count on finding him. But he'll pop up in a few weeks, cheerful and loaded with tall tales of derring-do."

I asked if he was a braggart.

"He likes to talk. So, gentlemen, he called late last night and asked me to be here today to chat with you. This is a crappy job in a failing business so I spend as little time as possible here."

"All we wanted to do is talk with Moreh about the Codex. His running away seems slightly on the weird side," Jesus said.

"Weird is one term that can be used to describe Moreh. There are many more of a similar nature. He is fascinated by those missing pages. He and others. There are feelings that they are cursed, that whoever possesses them will be cursed. Then the opposite is true, that they bring good fortune and long life. You likely know that some of those pages have been torn into scraps and some men carry them as good fortune charms.

"Do you have any idea what the pages contain?" Jesus asked.

"Ah, there you have it," Mrs. Epstein said, nodding mysteriously. "Possibly the end of the world as we know it. That is, the end of the human race."

"Judgment day," I said.

She grinned. "You mean like that second coming, or the apocalypse, some nonsense like that? No. They have their own nonsense. You know that redheaded dwarf is in on it."

At that moment there seemed to be a ruckus in the bookshop or beyond, a series of noises. Mrs. Epstein picked up the phone and buzzed her clerk. A long moment elapsed until he responded. Then machinegun-like conversation back and forth. Finally, she hung up the phone.

"Hans has been shot, probably dead. Murdered."

"How?" I questioned.

"He stepped into the street for a smoke. A car was waiting. You must have been followed." She shrugged. "OK, this is a shock, but we'll get over it. Now let me ask you, Joe, are you a Zionist?"

"You mean do I want all the Jewish people from around the world to jam into Israel?"

"Something along those lines."

Jesus smiled. Hans' death had no impact on him. "It's a thought, but there may be a more thoughtful solution."

"Exactly. But those pages of the Codex were not stolen at random. It was, or is, those pages that contain the key to the end of the world as we know it, not the earth's explosion, but the death of the human race. So you might call Moreh and that wretched redheaded dwarf and their allies, the neo-Zionists. Their plan is to let the rest of the human race perish and save Israel."

"Quite an order," Jesus said.

"Insane," she replied. "But look at me, running a business that loses money every hour, every day, every week it's open. Yet we have worldwide investments that are not just the gentle rain from heaven, but a monsoon of money pouring in on a daily basis. If you have money and invest it, not even wisely, you can't lose."

"So let us in on the end of the human race," Jesus said.

Hans was gone. It was something of a relief. The three of us were in intimate conversation, enjoying it. Mrs. Epstein asked her clerk to bring a pot of coffee and the conversation continued.

"It's all mathematics," she began. "Many years ago, you might say somewhere near the dawn of humanity, there was at least one brilliant mathematician. I'm talking Einstein, Euclid and a few others rolled into one. A savant whose powers came from God knows where."

"Not God," Jesus quipped. "He can hardly add two and two."

Mrs. Epstein gave him a look, but ignored him. "What is written in the missing pages is complex. Through mathematics, family groups and extended families were analyzed. Math and physics, blended with biology. Each individual was generally to have a real relationship with only four to six people. Regardless of its size, settlements are subject to mathematic certainties. That is, the size of a community sends a message and this message is true for community after community.

"To get to the point, resources are limited and civilization will hit that limit and collapse. The reason it hasn't done it so far is that innovations continue to pop up, such as a new fuel discovery, or a different food source. Each new development extends the life of civilization, but that will end. It will boil down to clean water, food and energy triggering social unrest in the most deprived areas, which will be the beginning of the end."

"Do you believe this?" I asked.

"Not entirely," she said. "But there is some truth in it. Another factor is human immortality, which is leading to too many people cramming the planet."

"But we are not immortal," I said.

"No. But getting there. Right now a major cause of death is old age. Years ago there were many other reasons. Stem cell research and other such projects may hit on some type of immortality. And incredibly these things are all laid out in the missing Codex pages according to several sources. And now it's happening. Population overload is snapping up our resources, pushing us into a spin, headed for socioeconomic collapse."

"And there is no other path?" Jesus questioned.

"Of course there are many paths," she said. "If any of what I have told you is true, and Moreh and that wretched dwarf are believers along with their several associates, the answer for the globe has not yet been worked out. But Moreh and his friends hope to save Israel and let the rest of the world go by, that is, perish, fall under its own weight As a younger man Moreh was both brilliant and brutal. As he ages he is becoming a fruit cake."

"The question remains," Jesus aked, "where are the missing Codex pages?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Epstein said, "and I don't believe Moreh or the dwarf know. A person of interest is called the Doctor. He seems to be in his right mind."

"Where might this person be found?" Jesus asked.

"Not so far away. He lives and works in Prague. He is not a rich man, but makes a fair living forging documents. We buy and sell ancient documents here and do bring in some money. So we are active in the field, and the Doctor from time to time helps determine the authenticity of certain items."

"And can you give us this man's name and address?"

"Certainly, he has a card."

"A forger has a card?" I questioned.

She opened her desk drawer, rummaged around, found a card and handed it to Jesus."

He examined it, then remarked, "Our mission remains the same, find the Codex and return it to Israel. Let everyone have a peek at it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

On the train returning us to Trieste, I remarked that we had attempted to contact a weird dwarf, a possibly demented ex-Mossad chief and now someone called the Doctor who resided in Prague, not really too far away.

"We follow where the trail leads," Jesus said.

"What might the Doctor's real name be?" I asked, knowing that Jesus had this forger's card.

"Angus Wallace."

"Remarkable, a Scot."

"Are all Scots honest?" Jesus questioned.

"Not at all. I simply didn't anticipate a professional forger living in Prague to be a Scot."

"Would you prefer Chinese or Brazilian?"

"There are few honest men, Jesus, even in China or Brazil. You are supposed to be the only perfect man according to the Christian community, yet you engage in adultery. In some cases adulterers are stoned to death."

"But is adultery a sin?"

"The Catholics deem it such," I replied.

"You continually forget, Ishmael, that I am Jewish. You very likely remember hearing of Adam and Eve."

"Adulterers both."

"Truly, yet not. A man takes a wife. In the old days a man might take many wives, as many as he could support. Of course there were advantages. It was cheaper than hiring servants. This might be done without ceremony."

"Today a man might seek a wife who can support him."

"Things have changed as the centuries roll by. A man once had to tend animals, or grow things, although the wives have always worked and borne children, who were also expected to help out. That thing about the predictions in the Codex is likely at least partially true. An overpopulated world, food and natural resources diminishing, chaos. Maybe that will solve all my problems."

"How so?"

"No judgment day. No grand return to earth with bells, whistles and flourishes. Problem solved."

I let that one go by. We were in the Austrian Alps and I admired the scenery. Jesus began reading his magazine, the one with the male cologne pages. I did have a question for him, something that had been puzzling me.

"You're more or less from that sandy, hot region, Jesus. There's a poem with these lines: 'And the night shall be filled with music, and the cares that infest the day will fold their tents like the Arabs and as silently steal away.' I suppose the Arabs, and maybe these are the ones they called Bedouins, traveled in a nomadic fashion by camels. So they made camp, maybe even had fire, although where would the wood come from, but in the morning they would silently steal away. So they seemed to have no means of support. How or where did they get their livelihood, their food and drink?"

Jesus was thoughtful, and then a capricious grin crossed his face. "It's this way, Ishmael, they have oil wells."

I returned to staring out the window and wondering what sort of person the Doctor might be and where the next wild goose chase might lead.

As always we faced logistical problems on our return to Trieste. The decision had been made to move the show to Prague, not so far away. Europe is rather small after all. But we did need to launch Savannah's moneymaking ability. She had salted away more than fifty thousand euros. It was decided to permit her to make money playing the market with two sums of twenty thousand each. Jesus would pick the stocks, as usual, and I would guide her purchases and sales. A third sum of ten thousand would be used to lose money in order to show she was not getting inside information, although we were moving targets, and inside trading might be quite acceptable in some countries.

At the same time I would continue to play the market and pile money on money, investing the surplus to bring in an income. Soon the two of us would have enough invested so no further speculation would be necessary.

A fly fell into the ointment when Margo and Hilda learned through Savannah that we were making something of a killing on the international markets. They wanted a piece of the pie. Now their families, who lived somewhere near St. Paul, were well off. But money loves money. Of course we let them have their way and remained in Trieste for more than three days while everyone was getting into the swing of things. Then it was off to Prague.

Once in Prague, or Praha as they call it, the women forgot about playing the market, at least for the present. After all, Prague is the historic pearl of Europe. The group of us was housed in the Radisson Blu Alcron Hotel, just a football field away from Wenceslas Square. We all remembered the good king who stepped up to sainthood posthumously.

There was the Charles Bridge, the Old Town Square and the six hundred-year-old astronomical clock to explore. Also our hotel had a couple of fine restaurants, the Alcron and La Rotonde.

The Czech Republic had much to offer, so much so that we made no attempt to visit the Doctor for the first few days. I often wondered whether Jesus had some foresight into our quest. He had mastered the rhythms of the international stock markets. He never said and I never asked. It seemed best simply to go with the flow. We were living the high life, and each morning brought a bright new day.

Jesus and I set off by ourselves after breakfast one good morning to find the Doctor. It was only a short cab ride to his domicile, which turned out to be a small rooming house. In fact he was the only lodger in the old dwelling owned by a widow. He had a shop in the garage behind the house, which is where we found him.

He was a thin man, darkly handsome, male pattern balding well advanced, a feeling of vitality about him, the wiry frame of an athlete, standing just under 5-9. He had been expecting us. Both the dwarf and our contact, or lack of it, in Vienna, had checked in with him.

"That lot," he said derisively, "they think I know where the Codex is, but I'll not give it away."

"We've heard you're a forger," I said.

He gave me a sharp look. "They call me a forger, they call me a thief, the next thing they'll call me is a bloody Indian chief." He broke out into a large grin. "I should be the poet laureate of Praha, but here I am stuck in this dismal garage, grinding out a bare living, most of my money going to Whisky Mary for room and board. But I'm no a forger. You've likely heard I'm a doctor. What I do is doctor documents, that is, rehabilitate them. Not forgery."

"You've worked on the Codex," Jesus said.

He looked around again. His movements were quick, catlike. "I have."

"What did you think of it?"

"Beautiful ancient work. Stretched and dried animal hide, probably goat. Artful calligraphy, fading here and there. Of course I saw a limited number of pages. And I couldn't understand a word of it, not that it would have made much sense if I could."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"They were ancient writings, like the Bible, maybe it is the Bible. The Bible was written by men for men. So what's novel about that? Robert Burns, Shakespeare, they did the same thing, maybe even better."

"So you know who has the Codex," Jesus said, "but you're not telling."

"So far. Ever since I heard you would visit, I've been thinking. Maybe I want to deal. You, or your group, you seem to be well funded."

"You're talking money then," I said.

"Yes and no. I may want to get in on the deal. I'm a thoughtful person. I try to take everything into consideration. I've mentioned scraping out a meager living here. I am a craftsman and might end up as a curator in some museum somewhere. Meanwhile I'm thinking of a lifestyle change."

"You want to join our group," Jesus said.

"That would be it, but I need a couple more days to think about it. Which gives you a couple more days to think about it. Then possibly, a meeting of the minds."

"Why would you want to join us and not ally yourself with Mr. Moreh or the dwarf. They both seem to have money to burn."

"I dislike their motives," Angus said. "I've heard you want to return the Codex to the people of Israel where it belongs, where it would be almost complete. It means something to those people. Despite what they say, I believe the dwarf or Moreh would do something quite different with the Codex. It would place them on a pinnacle of grandeur, which would mean great power and possibly respect. Moreh is known now as a killer, and the dwarf is simply a miserable human being. Both thirst for power and the respect that accompanies it."

"I understand totally," Jesus said. "Shall we return in two days?"

"Do that," Angus said, with an almost furtive look. "And have a care. You can bet we are being watched. I'm the bait and you are the mice. If we move in the wrong direction the trap might be sprung. I'm not even certain that this place isn't wired." He passed Jesus a note that I learned later said that our next meeting should be outdoors, possibly on the Charles Bridge. For those not in the know, the bridge is not used as a bridge, but carries a series of small shops and street vendors and amounts to a major tourist attraction, particularly on New Year's Eve when the popping of champagne corks sounds like small arms fire.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

When we returned to the hotel Margo drew me aside and said that Sheldon and Naomi had agreed to become a pair.

It puzzled me for a moment, but then it dawned on me, "Oh, Savannah's sister, Naomi."

"Yes, isn't it wonderful? Sheldon needs company now that Yonatan and Savannah are married."

"Then there'll be another wedding. I know that Jesus was in on the deal, but somehow didn't think it would happen. It is odd, a couple of strangers. An aging prostitute and an escapee from the Mossad."

"But there will be no wedding," Margo insisted.

It took me a split second to process that, but I agreed, Jesus and I had a pair of female companions and remained unmarried, without benefit of clergy so to speak. When I shook my head as if I understood, Margo gave me a certain look, the look that meant I might be the village idiot.

"It's that Sheldon is gay," she said bluntly.

I shrugged and asked, "Why would they become a couple?"

"Because Sheldon can use a companion, and Naomi said she is tired of all that sex business, men, some of them kinky perverts fondling her and making odd and outrageous demands on her body. She's had it with sex. And then Sheldon has bought into all that drivel from the evangelical right that says homosexuality is an abomination. He's filled with doubt and self-loathing. It's a perfect match."

"No doubt made in heaven," I observed. Like Alice in Wonderland, things get curioser and curioser. All we needed to round out our group was a spotted bull pup, or maybe a wily Scot whose specialty is preserving ancient documents. Time would tell.

Naomi was due to arrive the next morning. That evening we all gathered on the Charles Bridge to watch the sunset and drink Baja Blasts. Just why Baja Blasts are peddled in Prague is another mystery unsolved.

As it turned out Naomi was not turned out as extremely as her sister had been. Yet the women, along with Savannah, scrubbed her up, got rid of the spike heels and took her shopping for earth-toned clothes. After that she fit right in with our variegated assortment.

I rented a car, Jesus remained unlicensed, to pick up Angus Wallace in Saint Wenceslas Square. He wanted to drive, but this time I put my foot down. He had scared the shit out of us during that chase in the Dead Sea area.

The document doctor was waiting at curbside and hopped into our car. I sped away with an eye on the rearview mirror to see if we were being followed. The dwarf and Moreh hoped we could do what they had failed to do. They had apparently feared getting tough with the Scot – believing their thugs might do him in. He seemed to be the only link between them and the missing Codex pages.

Driving into the Czech countryside, I stopped on a lonely farm road and the three of us walked into a pasture, avoiding the cows and hoping there was no bull. I made the old joke – the farmer will let you cross his pasture for free, but the bull will charge – no spontaneous laughter!

We entered a woodlot and sat on felled trees. "I'll want to accompany you on your quest," the Scot said.

Jesus said that would be possible.

"I'll need a small amount of money for odds and ends, plus you'll have to pay travel expenses and room and board."

"No problem," Jesus said.

"I will trust you up to a point," Angus answered. "The pages are in the hands of a man named Judd Shlomo. His objective seems quite wholesome. That's the reason I didn't rat him out to that evil dwarf or the killer Moreh. God knows I need the money and hope I can earn a few coins during our excursion."

"We will be more than happy to compensate you," Jesus said. "We are stock market sharpies and clever investment moguls. The money rolls in and it will be there for all of us. Now this Shlomo, where might he be found?"

Angus was thoughtful, staring up at the sky through the tree branches. It was a beautiful day and the sun was shining. "He hopes the Codex will help him establish a colony, or a commune, whatever you might call it, a group of people, families in common cause."

"He has money then," I suggested.

"Plenty of it. Everyone seems to be rich, but me. And maybe Whisky Mary."

"You aren't planning to drag Whisky Mary along with us, are you?" Jesus questioned.

"Oh, hell no. Let her find another victim. She has a bit of cash hidden away. She's a sly one, even with that haze of strong drink."

"Where might Mr. Shlomo and his colonial aspirations be found?" Jesus asked.

"In Australia."

Jesus seemed not the least surprised, but simply commented, "Big country."

Angus laughed. "Huge, like a donut, settled around the edges, empty in the middle."

"But you know where he is?"

"I know where to begin the search. That is, I know where he was. That's our starting point."

"Very well," Jesus said, "it seems the game's afoot. We should hallo our hounds to the chase!"

"The sooner the better," the Scot responded. "I'm already packed with one small carry-on."

"We have a more cumbersome crew with one new addition. So we need a bit of lead-time. Say the day after tomorrow. Possibly I should know our destination in order to facilitate the purchase of tickets."

"Perth."

"Not the pick of the litter, but it would seem to be a jumping off point into the outback."

So it was settled. This time a leap halfway around the globe. We'd been able to travel by train or car before on relatively short hops. Jesus seemed aglow. He was pumped up by the thrill of the chase. Was that the only thing of interest to him? What would become of us if our mission proved a success? I simply couldn't imagine a depressed Jesus.

At this juncture our group consisted of me, Jesus, Margo, Hilda, Yonatan, Sheldon, Savannah and Naomi – eight total and we were adding the Scot. So nine mouths to feed, nine souls traveling as one, nine freewheeling personalities attempting to get on with one another. What were the odds?

CHAPTER THIRTY

I mentioned to Jesus that we wouldn't be able to take our Glocks along because of airline regulations. He said he thought he could take them. I had learned not to argue with him. As it happened he stuck them both in his back waistband, beneath a jacket and walked right through security. No telltale bing or buzz. He seemed human, but looks can be deceiving.

It was a long flight, which gave me a chance to go over a Western Australia guide book. What a vast expanse. From north to south, there's the Great Sandy Desert, the Gibson Desert, the Little Sandy Desert and the Great Victoria Desert. And there's still room for much more.

Landing in Perth, our group boarded two taxis for the twenty-five minute ride to our hotel, the Crowne Plaza on Terrace Road. From our rooms one could see the Swan River and Langley Park nearby. We were slightly removed from the central business district, but there were advantages – an outdoor pool, the Gusti Restaurant, good Australian beer and Margaret River wine. It is said that Australia floats on beer. It's true.

We were a herd of tired cowboys after that long flight. So it was early to bed after a few drinks to help adjust to the time change. There are various formulas to avoid jet lag and alcohol usually isn't one of them. We were still dragging the following morning, but managed to get together for lunch in the Gusti eatery.

During a post luncheon walk in Langley Park, the Scot told us how we might find our man, Judd Shlomo. "He is about 6-4, very tall and extremely thin. He has rather bright green eyes, big ears, large hands and feet. Also he is totally bald."

"Does he shave his head?" I questioned.

"No. He's naturally bald if such a thing is natural, a cue ball."

Jesus opined that we would have to get some locals to help track him down, maybe a detective agency. "I'll attend to it. Meanwhile let's explore Perth. I understand it's the capital and the largest city in Western Australia. Maybe approaching two million people."

"I wonder what they all do here?" Naomi asked.

"Probably the same as anywhere," Margo suggested. "Feed off one another, buy and sell things, banking, commerce, fast food, entertainment, what-have-you."

For the next two or three days everyone went their own way. Yonatan bought an Australian bush hat, the kind seen on most men when they packed the bars for early evening beer. Margo and Hilda bought a few exotic items and mailed them home. We all bummed around the streets of downtown Perth. It turned out to be a pleasant city with certain areas populated by teen-aged prostitutes.

Jesus had acted with alacrity in engaging a detective agency. They had been quick to learn that Shlomo had actually spent a week in the Crowne Plaza, our very hotel. The concierge had known him well. He had asked a million questions about other towns and areas of Western Australia.

It seems that Shlomo's interest before he left Perth focused on the Shark Bay area, possibly a town called Denham quite a ways up the coast. We assumed he was casting about for a location for his commune or religious gathering, whatever it might be called. We also became aware that others had been there asking after the whereabouts of Shlomo. Yonatan confirmed that our party was being watched, but had not been able to pin down an individual. He and Sheldon would be the watchers.

In the meantime, Angus seemed to be enjoying the trip more as an enjoyable excursion than a serious quest. He had obtained some sort of a Southern Cross kit from a tourist store and was determined to locate that heavenly body.

The Australians have always made quite a fuss over the constellation, as something they possess that northerners do not. There are songs about it, slogans – Under the Southern Cross – it even appears on their flag. However, an astronomer in Japan claimed to have seen it from the home island.

At any rate, after dinner, with wine bottles and glasses in hand, the nine of us had a rowdy time on the roof of the Crowne Plaza in search of the Southern Cross. In truth, if we had persuaded a local to tag along with us we might have found it. As it was, all we accomplished was gaining the attention of a hotel security person who suggested we go to our rooms and call it a night.

Jesus had been tipping the concierge heavily, and the man had continued to feed us information about Shlomo, some of it likely bogus in an effort to keep the tips rolling in. Always watchful, Sheldon surmised that the concierge was also being paid off to give information to those watching us. So, whom could we trust? We were almost certain that Mifaz Moreh and the dwarf had combined forces to find Shlomo. As we were being actively shadowed, their efforts so far must have failed. But they might have agents farther north beating the bushes.

The morning we set out for the north, I rented a minivan. I was reluctant to drive on the left side of the road, but Angus Wallace had grown up in Scotland, and it was second nature to him. Jesus was anxious to drive. It seemed to be one of his pleasures even though he was unlicensed. Rather than argue with him I held the thought that if I were killed in an auto crash he could restore me to life. In reality he seemed to be an excellent driver, apparently equipped with a sixth sense. So off we went, headed for the Shark Bay area with thoughts of stopping at Denham.

Of course we should have brought a local with us, or at least done a little research instead of glancing at a rather crude map. Let me repeat: Australia is huge and Shark Bay was farther than our unmotivated party was willing to ride in one day. We did make 370 kilometers, ending up in the fairly large city of Geraldton.

We found lodging at the quaint Weelaway on Gregory, an odd name, but located in the heart of the city. Jesus and I and the women took a two-bedroom cottage while the others found rooms in the lodge.

We decided to stay in the city for two or three days for a couple of reasons. A major one was to let Savannah and the others pile up money on the global stock markets. Further north computers would be useless in many areas. Then we would spread out and simply inquire if anyone had seen Shlomo.

As a Scot, Angus was totally accepted in Australia. Remarkably, Jesus had mastered an authentic Aussie accent, even fine-tuning it for regional differences. The rest of us were treated politely, subject to a few curious looks. Western Australia is not overrun with foreigners.

Comparing notes at the end of two days of sidewalk polls, we came up with three Shlomo sightings. The major features included his height, gangly frame, big ears and large hands. His eyes may be green, but they weren't spectacular. As for his baldpate, he wore a bush hat like the one Angus had purchased and like legions of other Aussies wear.

He had apparently remained in town for the better part of a week. This we learned from the hotel where he had holed up. He had purchased supplies and was traveling in a four-wheel drive vehicle capable of off-road travel. And he carefully protected the large case Angus had described, which was needed to contain the Codex pages.

Then one bright morning we were off to Denham, now understanding it was well over five hundred miles north of Perth. Also noting that it was not on the Coastal Highway. As we drew near we hung a left at the Overlander Road House on a minor road leading out on a peninsula. Denham, a hamlet of less than a thousand people, is the administrative town for the Shire of Shark Bay. It is also the westernmost town in Australia and the gateway to tourists who come to watch the dolphins at Monkey Mia, another hamlet across the peninsula. These odd facts we learned at a filling station-convenience store.

Despite its small size Denham has motels and tourist homes to accommodate those folks headed for Monkey Mia during the season. Each community also boasts beaches and jetties.

We had definitely not hit Denham during the high season because accommodations were plentiful, as was beer. A peaceful feeling pervaded the whole area, and by mutual agreement we decided to drop anchor for three days of lollygagging and tippling beer. Also hearty meals and good talk with the natives. Apparently Shlomo had not ventured onto the peninsula.

Jesus seemed in his glory in the largest bar in Denham. The locals would start drifting in just after four p.m. and the place would be busy until close to midnight. Jesus would stand at the bar and chat up all comers and out drink them all. The rest of us had long been asleep by the time he returned to our lodgings. And it was not just garrulous talk, he was tucking away in his brain a storehouse of information about Western Australia. By the time we were set to depart that small town, he had developed a theory of where Shlomo might be headed and what his objective might be.

We departed Denham early one fine morning, heading first to the Coastal Highway and then north to the Pilbara, a large, dry, thinly populated area known for its aboriginal people and stunning landscapes, red earth, coastal plains, mountain ranges, cliffs and gorges. Also vast mineral deposits, oil and natural gas, but mostly iron ore.

As we hit the Coastal Highway and headed north, Jesus led us in singing Waltzing Matilda, the unofficial Australian national anthem. He had a beautiful singing voice, often a whisky tenor, but he could vary it depending on the song. He seemed always in a good mood despite the puzzlement over what his exact mission might be. Obviously he could not solve the problems facing the world, nor to his way of thinking, could God.

After hanging out in the hamlet of Denham, we were surprised and delighted on our arrival in Port Hedland, a bustling city, and the major iron ore port of the Pilbara. The town jutted into the ocean. There were large vessels in the harbor plus a railroad and huge double and triple bottom trucks.

Our hotel, All Seasons Port Hedland, brought another plus. It included a wireless Internet hot spot for a price. There was also a bistro, outdoor dining and two bars. It was late when we arrived, so it was agreed simply to grab a bite and score a full night of rack time. The morning brought the usual hardy Aussie breakfast, after which Jesus passed out stock tips, and the greed heads busied themselves with their computers, buying, selling, building capital.

That evening as we sat with our beer on a terrace overlooking the Indian Ocean, Jesus told us about what he had learned and what he had surmised about Shlomo's plan. He was convinced our quarry was headed for the Kimberly, the next region north.

"At the risk of boring you," Jesus began, "you may know what the words Hasidic, Hasidism, Talmudic, Yeshiva and Oriental Sephardi mean. I'm talking ultra-orthodox Judaism. Sometimes mystical Judaism. There are many Hasidic groups, but they often share worship practices, dress and songs. So much for today's lesson."

Pausing, he lifted his beer mug and took a long draught. "Some of you may also know that orthodox Jews in New York are engaged in the diamond trade. Well, the Kimberly has diamonds and that is where I believe Shlomo is headed, determined to attract a band of conservative Jews, bound together by his Codex pages, to thrive on the diamond trade."

Sheldon remarked that he hadn't seen a conservative or orthodox Jew since we arrived in Australia.

"True," Jesus replied. "And why Shlomo picked this route, I don't know. Maybe to get oriented to the country. Of course the orthodox species is easily spotted with their black clothing, locks and black hats that never seem to fit right. What motivates them is a mystery to me, but they must make a living. And controlling the diamond trade is a way to do just that. You see, there are millions of diamonds in this world. The trick is to make people believe they are as scarce as hen's teeth to keep the price up."

"Well how would these conservatives arrive?" Naomi questioned.

"By plane," Jesus said. "We are in the midst of a very modern and very primitive civilization. The Kimberly is large, about three times the size of England. The population is less than fifty thousand, and a third of those are of aboriginal descent. It has the Indian Ocean on the west, the Timor Sea on the north, the Great Sandy and Tanami Deserts on the south and the Northern Territory on the east. There are salt water crocodiles fully capable of eating a man, plus many think the climate is unbearable."

"A virtual paradise on earth," Hilda quipped.

"For some," Jesus said. Particularly for those fleeing civilization as we know it. The town of Broome, as well as others, has a flourishing pearl industry. There is also gold mining."

Angus Wallace spoke up and said he had an announcement of his own. "I'll stick with you good people until the Codex is found or the quest abandoned, as long as it's in Australia. But I intend to stay here. It's difficult to attract workers, and the wages are high. I'm a working man and I can make a life here."

"Well spoken." Jesus said. "I'll see to it that you get a good stake when you say goodbye."

"God bless you," Angus replied.

Jesus smiled and nodded. Then he ordered another round of beer.

Naomi seemed to brighten. "This sure looks like a boom town for men. I'll bet a hooker could do well here. The money is flowing, and I'll bet the boys are throwing it around."

Sheldon gave her a hard scowl. She looked at him and said, "Oh, silly," and patted him on the knee.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Then came the day we loaded in the bus and headed north from Port Hedland bound for the Kimberly. We were well along toward noon when a phone rang, a distinctive tune, Waltzing Matilda.

"I didn't know cell phones operated in this area," Yonatan remarked.

"It's spotty," I said. "Whose phone is that?"

Jesus was driving and Hilda was with him in the front seat. "It's coming from the glove box," she said, opening it and extracting the instrument. She gazed at it a moment, then said, "I've never seen it before."

"Better answer it," Jesus said.

The phone was set on conference and a loud voice said, "Pull off the road now. Your lives are in danger."

Jesus did as he was commanded, pulling off on the left side.

There was a pause, then the voice resumed. "Did you think you would be permitted simply to come the Australia, grab the Codex and do what you would with it?"

Jesus took the phone from Hilda and answered. "Our goal is to return the stolen pages to Israel where they belong. We have no hidden agenda."

"Hidden, not hidden. Israel has sixty percent of the Codex and in fact never missed the stolen pages for years. It means nothing to those people."

"It's an important part of their heritage."

"I don't think we can agree on that," the voice said. "At any rate, I have no interest in killing you all. I'd simply like you to all go back to wherever it is you come from and live out the remainder of your lives in peace. Quite simple, isn't it?"

"I suppose you have a plan to discourage us," Jesus said.

The voice gave a slight laugh. "Yes, a plan. It begins here, but does not necessarily end here. In a very short time your vehicle will be blown to pieces. Anyone remaining in it will be killed. So I advise you all to step out on the highway and walk or run far away from that doomed bus. Do it now."

"Let's go," Jesus said, alighting from the driver's side, "grab your bags out of the back." He kept the cell phone. We all followed his lead and trotted south in the direction from whence we had come. When we were at least fifty yards from the bus, Jesus spoke into the phone. "We're well away." The highway was deserted, not a vehicle in sight.

There was a gigantic blast. Pieces of our bus were thrown far into the air and came raining down, some just a few feet from where our little group stood.

Jesus smiled and said, "Good show" into the phone.

"I hope you learned your lesson," the voice said.

"Do you mind telling me who you are?" Jesus asked.

"I do. The less you know the better off you are. This is simply a foretaste of what you will get if you continue your journey. You now should be fully aware that you are simply weak sisters caught up in a no-win game. You are at my mercy, at our mercy. And that supply of mercy has its limits."

"I understand your position, Jesus said. "And believe me, we will talk this thing over. We are not simply reckless adventurers."

"A good start down the proper path. You all have lives to live and can do very well without fretting about the Codex. It means nothing to any of you. Now throw the cell phone as far as you can. It will explode on impact."

Jesus heaved the small instrument away, and it self-destructed as advertised. We stood on the lonely road, gazing at one another, wondering what might come next. We did pull a few larger pieces of the vehicle from the highway. There was occasional traffic on the road, and an old couple even stopped to ask if they could help. Of course they couldn't. But eventually a long haul bus came along heading north. We managed to flag it down and there were seats for eight. Sheldon sat on the floor between the seats. It was a long haul to Broome, but there was a rest room, snacks and drinks aboard.

We didn't reach Broome until evening. It is located well into the tropics with its distinct wet and dry seasons, an annual rainfall of 23 inches, much of it from January through March. In truth Post Hedland is tropical, it being well north of the Tropic of Capricorn. Some think south Florida is tropical, but it is actually subtropical. Although many tropical climates do not seem to know how to behave. Some are chillier, some dryer. Perhaps it depends on land mass and ocean currents. Ask your neighborhood climatologist.

From the bus station we took a pair of cabs to the Moonlight Bay Suites on Camarron Street. I'll explain Moonlight Bay later. First, I'd like to clue you in on Broome. It's fourteen hundred miles north of Perth, a city of fifteen thousand permanent inhabitants, triple that in tourist season. The pearl industry is big, and before World War Two many Japanese pearl divers were hired and many died in that most dangerous occupation. In fact the annual pearl festival carries a Japanese name – Shinju Matsuri.

The Japanese weren't so popular during World War Two, they bombed Broome three times, the worst raid killing 88 people. Just over four miles from Broome is Cable Beach, with its white sand and crystal clear turquoise water, and there's a nudist beach and sunset camel rides. I don't believe the nudes ride camels. Also there's a place called Gantheaume Point where about a hundred feet out to sea dinosaur footprints are visible at low tide. These were made about a hundred and thirty million years ago.

I might as well describe Moonlight Bay, which can be viewed from our hotel. The city juts out into the ocean, and we were located on the east side of town. The rising moon and a receding tide create a phenomenon called Staircase to the Moon. As far as I know this never happened during our stay, not when I was sober anyway.

We were totally pleased with the hotel. It had wifi, and there were suites, which meant that two couples could share a suite with private bedrooms. There were kitchenettes, a Chinatown shopping area nearby and shuttled service to the airport.

After watching our minibus explode and the cell phone self-destruct, plus the long wait followed by the bus ride, we were all bushed and toddled off to our designated beds. Jesus had been thinking the entire situation over and at breakfast gave us the benefit of his thinking.

"As titular leader of this group due to whatever pops to mind," he began, "I believe without fear of successful contradiction that we should remain here for the better part of a week. During that time we might enjoy ocean or pool swimming, evening camel rides and so forth. But more importantly, there are stock markets open around the clock around the globe and we want to take full advantage of piling up money.

"As you might have guessed I have something of an insider's view of the markets. It might seem easy to you to make money using my tips, and it is. But please don't become over-confident and gamble on your own. If for some reason you can't keep the hours necessary to buy and sell around the clock, you may turn your computers over to Boyd and me and we will take shifts and do marketing for you. I stress this because it may be your last chance for small killings."

"The group is breaking up?" Angus questioned.

"That's a possibility. It would be better to break up than be blown up. Some of you should still be in a state of semi-shock when you envision how easy it would have been to blow us all to hell yesterday and be rid of us for good. But mercy prevailed, and for that I'm truly thankful. But we were warned, and forewarned is forearmed. We were told what might be in store for us. We face a clever adversary. Death in the Kimberly, far from home, is an unpleasant option. Boyd and I will talk. In less than a week you will know our minds in full."

A murmuring among the group, but general acceptance. No one was anxious to die. Particularly, no one was eager to die for what might be a lost cause, a cause of which most Israelis were not aware.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

During the day, while the women and the others did the town, Jesus and I walked on the beach and he laid out his plan. "We will send the others away and the two of us will go on together."

"You mean continue the mission?" I asked. This turn of events was a bit unexpected.

"Of course. Our grand adventure. Don't you feel the blood rushing through your veins? Now we see things clearly, our emotions are on edge. We have faced our adversaries and we know their hearts."

"That seems a possibility," I replied. "We are also at their mercy, whoever they are. And we might have been blown to smithereens."

"Yes, that would have been tragic," Jesus agreed. "We would have all been in my world. I could never have stitched those bits and pieces together. But it was a heads up, you see. How they did that was obvious. Now we become the artful dodgers."

"Maybe obvious to you. I haven't the foggiest notion."

"They followed us from Perth and probably at the first service station sneaked a homing device on our bus while we were enjoying a ploughman's lunch. From there it was easy. They could map our every move. You know that dwarf is not a millionaire, but a billionaire. Mifaz Moreh also has money. I believe they're in this together and plan to split up the pages. Some believe a substantial part of that document might be the key to immortality."

"Are they that foolish?" I questioned.

"Men growing old, rich men, will snatch at any straw. Now here's a one-up they have and this isn't science fiction. I'm certain they have a small drone and can look down on us from above. Such a device can be housed and controlled in and from a panel truck. If there is a sliding sky roof it can easily be launched and retrieved."

I think my eyes widened at this revelation and I had no reason to doubt Jesus. "Could such a drone be armed?"

"Very unlikely. Such devices are being tested by TV stations to cover accidents and other disasters. They are available as observation posts, but to arm one would be difficult and of dubious benefit."

"What about the women," I said. The idea of ditching Hilda and Margo was somehow unappealing.

"To coin a phrase, there are other starfish on the beach. And we have had many adventures with those two. I believe they are ready to return to somewhere near St. Paul regardless of what they might say. During the week we will let them in on the plan. I'll also talk with Yonatan. As you know he thinks I am the messiah and would like to serve me. But his life is with Savannah. They make a splendid pair."

"We have a lot of explaining to do," I remarked, accepting his plan. The thought of being blown into small bits or devoured by a salt water shark haunted the back alleys of my mind. Perhaps I would become a student of Zen. Any port in a storm.

"Then you're with me on this plan," Jesus said.

"Yes."

"Good. You tell Margo and she can break the news to Hilda."

Words failed me, but not totally. "Maybe we should stop for coffee and a shot of brandy."

"You have the best ideas."

As it played out, I did tell Margo. She pretended to protest, but Jesus was right, both were eager to get back to that place not far from St. Paul. Over our time together they had done considerable shopping, some at our expense, and always shipped their purchases home. They should have a heap of high fashions back there, wherever it was. I often wondered what people did there, but I never really asked. Both Margo and Hilda seemed to have perfectly normal childhoods, so that was a plus.

During the next few days Jesus talked to Yonatan, Sheldon and Angus, getting all our ducks in a row. He also made it generally clear that he would continue to send the occasional stock tip via e-mail, but would not overdo it. He felt confident they would attempt to play the markets on their own and thus lose enough money to make them appear to be slightly above average players.

The day of departure arrived and Jesus had booked the six of them on the same flight to Perth, from there to go their various ways. Angus Wallace was off to the bus station to return to Port Hedland where an assortment of jobs was waiting.

Eight of us piled into the airport shuttle and were whisked away. We shed a few tears, warm embraces, and then they went through security. Jesus and I were left standing there with nothing between us and eternity than the Glocks in our waistbands and brave hearts. At least Jesus had a brave heart. We rented a car and returned to the hotel.

For two days we rambled around town on foot, snacking, drinking, chatting with tourists and natives alike. In truth a fine social time. Then one morning, Jesus said, "Let's go for a drive." I had no idea what his plan was, or if he had a plan. He seemed to be rudderless.

We drove to a service station and Jesus asked the attendant, "How much to put the car up on the rack."

"Any particular reason?" the man asked.

"Would thirty dollars be a good reason?"

"Fine by me."

Once elevated on the rack, Jesus asked the attendant to help him look for anything unusual. It took us almost no time to find two things attached by powerful magnets. The smaller one Jesus hefted in his hand and said, "This is a homing device, a tracking mechanism." The larger of the two he handed the attendant and said, "This is a bomb. When we're gone, please call the police and give it to them. Do not give them an accurate description of us, or what kind of car we're driving." He handed the man a hundred dollars.

Driving back to the hotel, he said, "Did you think they'd try the same trick twice?"

"It worked the first time."

"This time they would have used the bomb once we were on an empty highway. You'll find no cell phone in the glove box."

Of course he was correct.

Later on I asked Jesus if he didn't trust any of our seven companions.

"Well, Ishmael," he said, "the women were trustworthy beyond a doubt, all the women. It's an adage, isn't it, that prostitutes have a heart of gold."

"I've heard that."

"Yonatan was certain that he killed the bagel baker. He could feel the knife pierce his heart. He would have left Savannah to stay with me, but that wasn't in his best interest. The Scot simply wanted to find a new line of work and get a comfortable set up. He helped us, we helped him. Sheldon was another matter."

"How so?"

"He couldn't have helped to be close to his Mossad partner who wound up in a Swiss crevasse. Even though his partner was playing his own game for his own personal gain, he must have had mixed emotions. He had doubtless learned to trust and lean on his partner, possibly his only friend."

"I can understand that. He wasn't a great talker."

"Of course he is gay and that's the root of his problem. He seems to have been half in and half out of the closet. Now your wing-nut Christian has dug up something in the Bible that says homosexuality is an abomination. That same Christian has bought into the seven-day creation, Adam and Eve, the ark, the whole ball of wax."

I marveled at how Jesus used American slang and idioms. I'm certain he did for every language that he spoke, and he spoke all of them.

Then he continued on the same theme. "It's a wonder then why they doubt that the Creator created gays. Why would they doubt that God, the creator of all things, hadn't made allowances for gays? Remember Alexander the Great and his total army. Almost all of them engaged in what are considered homosexual acts. Perfectly acceptable at that time. And in other societies, I might add."

"Would the creator have permitted genetic flaws?"

"And perhaps, Ishmael, the well-meaning bigoted folks simply don't think. They listen to words coming from the pulpit, from the mouths of individuals who submitted to brainwashing in various seminaries. If God chooses, He can do what He likes."

"Well what about pandemics, destructive natural things such as great floods, fires, tsunamis, even wars. Why does God tolerate such things?"

"I suppose these things you mention and others are simply natural. You get down to the question of what is the human race doing on earth? Why are they here? What is their purpose? Is it to build cars or fly to Mars?"

I gave Jesus a quizzical look and asked, "Are you going to tell me?"

"And spoil the fun? Of course not. But most of the things extreme right Christians bellow about, such as abortions by women who have no need for a child, birth control, the list goes on, God doesn't give a rat's ass about such things. They seem to enjoy being self-righteous and stirring up trouble for others."

Traveling further down this road seemed futile. At times Jesus liked to let off steam. Possibly that's what happened during the moneychanger incident. So I suggested he tell me if we had a plan.

"We do. I've talked to a lot of people along our journey north and some have let drop bits of information. Some believe they have seen Judd Shlomo. We're a sideshow; the main event is farther north. Maybe one or two people have been left behind to try to thwart us, eliminate the competition so to speak. I still believe Shlomo aims to get his group together in the Kimberly, but for now his job is to protect the Codex."

"Whomever is working with the opposition seems to be doing a great job," I tossed in. "They could have blown us up."

"Yes, and aroused police suspicion, which they wish to avoid. My thought is Shlomo has gone to ground in the Northern Territory, not far from Darwin. And from what I've learned I think he is guarded by a good sized group of aboriginal people, native Australians."

"And you think we can find him and outwit the dwarf and Moreh as well as the aboriginals?"

"Of course we can. We're as clever as they are. And we have our Glocks."

The thought of using the Glocks was totally unappealing. And each of us had only the clips that were in the weapons. I had enjoyed my time with the lovely and shapely Margo and almost wished I was in a Perth hotel room with her now. But I would soldier on. Jesus and I were the best of friends. Our rented car had been sitting outside. I asked what would happen if our watchers had been on top of us and knew we had found the bomb and locator.

"You know, I've been bribing the concierge. I don't think the others have. They've kept their heads down. There's a salesman in the hotel from Darwin. He comes this far south every couple of months and makes the rounds and enjoys a golf game. He will play the day after tomorrow, then head back for Darwin, driving that black Ford that is parked next to us. There's our opening." Jesus looked around as if someone might be listening even though we were seated in a sidewalk café guzzling beer. He nodded wisely and said no more.

Jesus loves Lucy and he also loves a mystery. I shrugged and started pointing out the lovely young ladies walking by, some quite scantily clad. Jesus seemed to think this was great sport and we made up stories about them as the day was swallowed by the night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

When the day came for the salesman to return to Darwin, we slipped downstairs early and Jesus removed the locator from our glove box and attached it to the undercarriage of the salesman's black Ford. Later, he called our rental car agency and told them he didn't like the Chevrolet they had given us. He wanted a more fuel-efficient model, maybe a Toyota. He managed to talk them into bringing the car to our hotel. The papers were signed and the exchange made.

Then there was nothing to do but wait for the salesman to make his move. We pulled out just behind him and followed along up the Coastal Highway north. About ten miles out Jesus put the hammer down, passed him and we were gone.

"Do you suppose they'll track him all the way to Darwin?" he asked.

"They might be surprised when he doesn't explode."

"Confusion to our enemies," Jesus smiled. "The quest endures!"

The first day we got as far as Wyndam, the northernmost city in the Kimberly. The area is known both as the Gold Coast and Australia's playground. You might also add surfer's paradise. Some town. I must say the Wyndham Grand Collection where we booked a room can only be described as breathtaking. Palm tree studded manicured grounds, pristine beach, fabulous lobby, words fail.

The idea of stumbling onto something like this two thousand miles north of Perth was inconceivable to me. The price was such that I buckled down to making certain our financial position was sound. By that time we were rich beyond my dreams, and I had stashed money away in a dozen places around the globe. Also, I had been mindful to touch bases with my accountant in Asheville to insure that my taxes were paid.

We lingered here in regal splendor for two days, then exchanged cars once more and headed for Darwin.

As we drove, Jesus told me about Darwin and about the native people. Almost ten percent of the people in Darwin were aboriginal, and the true natives to the area were the Larrakia people, who formed the Larrakia nation. It was these who Jesus thought Shlomo had recruited as his protectors. They would probably be somewhere out in the bush guarding Shlomo and the Codex. All the while he would be gathering his conservative Jews to organize his colony.

Darwin itself is a fair sized city, about 130,000 people, certainly the largest in the Northern Territory. The Stuart highway begins here, ending in Port Augusta in South Australia. Oddly enough the city is closer to five other capitals than it is to the Australian capital. The climate, with its high humidity and wretched heat, is not appealing. One reason for a youthful population is that retirees choose not to live in the area. The abundance of salt-water crocs is less than inviting.

I was able to add one bit of knowledge. The U.S. stationed a small contingent of Marines in Darwin that seemed more symbolic than useful. They were out of range of Chinese and North Korean missiles.

Once in Darwin, Jesus seemed to know exactly where he was going. He drove to the waterfront, then to a modern hotel called Mantra On the Esplanade. Our room overlooked the Clarence Strait and the Timor Sea. A lovely green park stands between the Esplanade and the water.

It was late and we ordered thick barbecued sandwiches and bottled beer from room service. Jesus flipped on the TV and watched the news until bedtime. We could see the lights of one or two boats moving on the dark water. Tempted to hit the shower, I was too tired and tumbled into bed.

In the morning, Jesus was up before me. He had ordered coffee with English muffins and jam. There was also honey. He seemed intent on watching news from a local station. After a traffic report from an Aboriginal girl named Shelly, he switched it off. "She's our baby," he said, almost to himself.

I wondered why this attractive dark skinned girl could be our baby. But just after nine, with the news out of the way, he called the station and asked for Shelly. After quite a wait she was on the line. I could hear both sides of the conversation.

"How would you like to make an easy two thousand dollars?" he asked.

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"Name's Joe Crist. I'm new in town. Thought you could help me."

"Does this involve me taking my clothes off?"

"No. Not that you're not a lovely young lady, but it doesn't. I simply need information. Nothing illegal."

"You might call the Chamber of Commerce."

"True. I could. But I need information on the Larrakia people."

"You guessed that I'm one of them?"

"True. Is that a racial slur?"

"I can't hide my face, or my race. But there's plenty of information about my people all over town."

"I don't need their history." Jesus paused for a second and took a swig of coffee. "I can search the Internet for that."

"I don't know if I can help you.

"Two thousand cash whether you can or not. My partner and I can be having coffee at the Mantra anytime you say."

"That does sound appealing. Sit outside on the terrace. How will I know you?"

"We'll both be wearing blue shirts."

She laughed. "Are you twins?"

"No. Not even related. Just good friends."

"I'll be along at ten, or ten-fifteen."

She arrived a minute or two before ten. Jesus had an envelope stuffed with money and handed it to her. She hastily placed it in her purse, then said, "Pardon, I'm supposedly an unbiased news person. If this has anything to do with the station or news, I'm out of here."

"It doesn't." He introduced me, then said, "I believe a tall man with big ears and big hands named Judd Shlomo is being protected by a band of the Larrakia people. I mean this individual no harm, but I need to talk with him. Others may not be so benevolent. The man has something others want, and they are not opposed to violence of the worst sort."

"I suppose the worst sort might be murder?"

"If it comes down to that," Jesus said. "But I offer an intervention and can keep the peace."

"I don't understand my role in all of this," Shelly said. She was a perky young lady, mahogany skin, dark, flashing eyes, maybe five-six and possibly topping 125 pounds.

"As a knowledgeable person, trusted by your people, you can ask around, maybe get a fix on this man Shlomo and set up a meeting."

"I should be able to do that. This is not a big town, and the Northern Territory is sparsely populated. It seems harmless enough."

Jesus gave her our room number, and she jotted down our names. For a task well done, Jesus promised a bonus. How easy it was for us to make money. I wondered if he would have much luck in the gambling halls, or at the track.

I had a theory that if you get money, someone somewhere must lose that same money. But I had revised that theory in the case of the stock markets. Stock, simply numbers and words on paper, could grow on its own. This growth was in the imagination of buyers and sellers. Thinking about this set my mind buzzing. At moments like this I tried to think of other things, such as my favorite foods or fly-fishing in mountain streams.

As it came to pass, Shelly was back in touch with us two days after our first meeting. She phoned early one morning to say she had gotten through to Shlomo, and he was willing to meet with us. Apparently there had been an unpleasant incident with someone attempting to intrude upon his privacy, but his Aboriginal guards had prevailed.

The meeting would be the following day, and Shelly would hand us handwritten instructions as we were about to depart. She would call for the time and place.

Things seemed to be going well, but Jesus said there might be complications. As usual he had gotten around, chatting with the concierge and others. He was certain the opposition was in town and perhaps had contrived to wire our room, or tap our phone. "We have been lulled into a sense of false security," he suggested. "We must be vigilant."

I asked if we should change our room, or find another hotel altogether. He said it was too late for that, we should simply be on our guard.

Of course he was right. We had taken our usual siestas after lunch and were planning to walk along the strand when the phone rang. Jesus talked for several minutes. He announced we were invited to an afternoon meeting on the terrace.

"Finally, Ishmael, we meet the principals. Mifaz Moreh, the former spy chief, and Binyamin Kadima, the redheaded dwarf, desire the pleasure of our company. As suspected, they have been following our movements with some precision."

"They have given up the idea of killing us?" I asked.

"For the present. I think they need a go-between, an honest broker."

We met the two of them on the terrace in just over an hour. Two tables away were a couple of tough looking thugs keeping their eyes on us. After introductions and handshakes all around Jesus asked if the two criminal types belonged to them.

"It takes all kinds," Kadima said, his smile almost a sneer. Just as advertised he was a nervous dwarf with bushy red hair. I imagined he had to pay an awful price for his escort services. No human being would welcome his touch. But he was clever and was said to be a great fan of Hemingway and Fitzgerald.

We ordered coffee and settled in for a long talk. From what Shelly said, Jesus guessed these two had already sent their thugs up to wherever Shlomo had holed up to seize the Codex. He asked them point blank.

"Of course, that is why we are here," Moreh said. "You seem to have found an inside track."

"Kindness sometimes works better than brute force," Jesus replied. "Tell me, did you send those two?" He gestured toward the two lowlifes a table away.

"No, but men much like them. The ones we sent remain with the Larrakia people." Moreh broke into a short laugh. "Perhaps they are honored guests, perhaps not." He grinned broadly. "I'd say they are off the payroll."

"Judd Shlomo seems to be well protected. Apparently he knows what he's doing."

"We could have killed you two," the dwarf said. "We still could. So have a care."

"Have a care yourself," Moreh said to the dwarf. "We're here because these men are going to help us. They know we have tried and failed. Senseless killings are, well, senseless. So let's state our case."

"We can try again and not fail again," the dwarf said, his manner menacing. It seemed to be a good-cop-bad-cop routine. Jesus seemed to be enjoying it.

I didn't really like these two, or the two thugs. "What's the deal?" I asked.

Moreh shrugged. "You two have access to Shlomo. Go see him, tell him we mean business and intend to leave Australia with the Codex. Let him know he can't win. Arrange for us to get the Codex and everyone lives happily ever after. It's as simple as that."

I started to object, but Jesus stopped me. "Sounds good to me," he said. "I'm certain you know we're going there very soon. So when we return we'll have a message from Shlomo. Agreed?"

"It better be a good message," the dwarf said.

Moreh scowled at him. Obviously his partnership with the evil dwarf wasn't to his liking. "It's all we can expect."

After forced smiles and handshakes, we departed. Jesus and I walked on the beach and I suggested they might have bombs planted in our room and in our car. Jesus thought that was highly likely. We agreed not to talk about anything of substance in our room or on the phone. I was confident Jesus would come up with a plan. I was also confident he would not confide in me unless necessary.

The following morning we were up early, had a light breakfast on the mezzanine, and became aware that the two thugs were tracking us. Grabbing a cab outside the hotel, we had the driver circle around the city, then to the airport where we rented a second car. Jesus gave the agent enough money along with the keys so our original car would be picked up at the hotel.

Then we were off to meet with Shelly. Jesus succeeded in having her hop in the car with us and explained the situation as I drove around town, a relief from his driving style, although I wasn't totally comfortable on the left side of the road. Won't somebody establish international rules!

We dropped Shelly off at a cabstand and headed for Larrakia country with the assurance that we wouldn't meet the fate dealt to the dwarf's thugs. We passed at least two obvious checkpoints and one or two not so obvious according to Jesus. Shlomo appeared pleased to see us. He was indeed extremely tall and gangly with big hands and ears and a baldhead that seemed almost pointed. His eyes were green, but not as bright as I'd been led to believe.

"So you've met with the evil ones," were the first words out of his mouth after introductions were made.

"We have," Jesus said, glancing around his rather palatial country-style dwelling. While we stood, an aboriginal maid brought a pitcher of lemonade and sandwiches. "Hey, food," Jesus said brightly. "Glad we came." He seemed always in good spirits.

After the good chicken and chutney sandwiches, after the refreshing drinks, Jesus got down to business. His main point was that the Codex, for the most part, belonged in Israel, and that one of its pages seemed to be as beneficial as all the pages. Also, obviously Shlomo had only a minor portion of the whole. On top of that the mad dwarf and Moreh had unlimited resources and would stop at nothing to get their hands on the documents.

"This might even include commando-style air attacks," Jesus said.

"What is your solution?" Shlomo asked. He seemed to trust Jesus as most people did. There was a certain charisma about him.

"You keep a page and give the evil pair a page. You both have whatever mojo, or psychic power might be contained in the Codex."

"They might want two pages," Shlomo said.

Jesus shook his head. "They can split one page, or better yet, maybe kill one another. Moreh seems reasonable, but both these men are totally ruthless killers. They didn't blink when the thugs they sent up here never returned. They simply changed their plans."

There was a garden at the rear of the house, and Jesus locked arms with Shlomo and the two of them took a stroll. Once again I was kept in the dark, but not for long. Jesus explained my mission as we drove back to Darwin. He dropped me off at the airport where I rented a car and was on my way.

Back at the hotel, Jesus called Moreh and said he would like a meeting with the two of them the following day to lay out Shlomo's plan. Moreh wanted an instant meeting, but Jesus declined. He was in the driver's seat. As a diversion, Jesus hired an attractive escort and spent several hours in the hotel restaurant over soup, oysters on the half-shell and lobster, finally ending with Bananas Foster fully flamed. They had gone through a couple of bottles of champagne and were working on a double bottle of Chablis when the girl seemed on the point of collapse.

Jesus gave a note to the waiter who called her agency. A couple of men arrived to escort her to whatever she called home.

The waiter nodded gravely as he watched her stumble out. "What a way to end an evening," he said mournfully. "She's such a lovely girl."

"And very good company," Jesus added. He looked around until he spotted the two thugs who were watching him. "See those two criminal types over there? Send them a good bottle of wine and put it on my bill. Tell them I'm going to bed, but will see them first thing tomorrow."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Jesus met with the two at breakfast, with the thugs sitting nearby. He excused himself and went to the omelet station, probably simply to antagonize the dwarf. When he returned he was careful to salt and pepper his egg dish thoroughly.

"So what happened?" the dwarf questioned.

"Shlomo is willing to give you one page of the Codex. He will keep a page, the remainder will go to Israel where it belongs."

The dwarf's eyes almost popped out of his head. Jesus could sense his blood pressure and anger rising. "That's totally unacceptable," he hissed through his teeth, aware of others seated nearby.

"That's what he said. What am I to do?"

"Go back and tell him he's flirting with disaster," the dwarf said.

"Yes," Moreh agreed. "That's unacceptable. One page. What would we do with it?"

"He thought you could split it. You see the Codex seems to have some unearthly power, possibly the key to eternal youth. One page taken care of is as good as the entire volume. In truth, there is no entire volume. Pages have gone missing through the years. Some people have small scraps of the Codex that they carry with them. It's a spiritual thing."

"We want every page he has," the dwarf said angrily.

"I can tell him that," Jesus said. "But he seems well protected. He's surrounded by the Larrakia nation. There are some pretty tough hombres down there. What if he decided to send them after you?"

Moreh hesitated. That hadn't occurred to him. They and their thugs, along with a couple of high tech helpers, had been in the driver's seat. Jesus had guessed there must be bomb experts and others hidden somewhere.

"Tell him we want it all," the dwarf demanded. "He can't stay with the aboriginals forever. His little cadre of conservative Jews is gathering farther south. We know about them. They're crazies, you know. Tell him that. We have two, maybe a dozen, strings to our bow. He cannot win."

"It's not a game," Jesus said.

"Perhaps not," Moreh agreed. He looked at the dwarf. "What if we let him have his one page and he gave us the rest. That seems a fair compromise."

The dwarf exhaled. He was seething with rage, but nodded in agreement.

"I'll tell him," Jesus said. He got up and left the breakfast room. He had not touched his omelet.

After a long, steamy shower, Jesus made a couple of calls in Darwin, then headed south to Larrakia country. He had decided to spend the night with Shlomo and drive back the next day. Shelly and I had been on our own mission.

It was noon the following day when Jesus returned to the hotel, carrying the case that Shlomo had used to house the bulky pages of the Codex. I had been in the room since early morning. Jesus made the call to Moreh and Kadima, agreeing to meet them on the terrace in the early afternoon.

When we arrived, the two of them seemed pleased to see the case Jesus was carrying. They guessed at the contents.

"Mission accomplished," Jesus said, opening the case. "Here is your one page of the Codex. Shlomo has his page."

His words, him brandishing the single page, stunned silence. Then the dwarf almost exploded, sputtering obscenities.

"I'm sorry," Jesus said calmly, "but we must face facts. The bulk of the Codex belongs in Israel. That's where the other pages Shlomo possessed are now. With the chief rabbi."

"How could that be?" Moreh questioned.

"They were FedExed two days ago. We checked the tracking numbers to make sure they had arrived. They had. Nothing can be done about it unless you want to attack Israel. The importance of the Codex to the people has finally been realized."

The dwarf spouted more obscenities and threats.

"By the by," Jesus said. "Your two thugs are in police custody. The authorities were curious what a pair of Israeli criminals were doing in the Northern Territory. They're being held in separate solitary cells, subject to questioning. If they give you up, you'll be next. You likely have a few hours to charter a plane and crawl back into your holes."

The dwarf fell silent, but cast a troubled glance at Moreh who asked, "What are we supposed to do with one page?"

"Cut it in two. Share and share alike. I believe it contains the full power of the complete Codex. Shlomo thinks his page has the power to rally his small colony."

The dwarf asked Moreh, "What if they're lying to us?"

"I don't think they're bluffing. This man, this Joe Crist, there is something almost spiritual about him. We would best divide our page and depart Australia. Good day."

Back in the room, I called Shelly and then Judd Shlomo to let them know the game was done. We would drop off Shelly's bonus at the station as we departed the city the following day.

It was our plan, of course mandated by Jesus, to take the Stuart Highway south to Port Augusta in South Australia. What a long drive, directly through central Australia via Tennant Creek and Alice Springs, almost 1,800 miles, often called simply the Track, daunting distances and barren plains. The Royal Flying Doctor Services used sections of the road as landing strips.

Setting off in high spirits, Jesus insisted we sing Do You Ken John Peel at the top of our lungs. It is one of his favorites and he seemed to know all the words, including the names of all the hounds involved.

Days later we would stop at Alice Springs and do the loop to Ayers Rock and Kings Canyon. Then it was on to South Australia and a flight to LA. I had kept in e-mail touch with our original party, including our ladies fair, Margo and Hilda.

We had booked passage to St. Paul. The women lived in a small town called Mendota Heights. They picked us up at the airport, and the four of us traveled to the White Bear Country Inn at White Bear Lake. It was a beautiful resort hotel with an indoor pool and every convenience imaginable.

The women said that Hilda had a line on a possible husband and that Margo had half a dozen prospects. We spent almost a week there, always in high spirits, then they dropped us off at the airport and we returned to Asheville and our condo at the Grove Arcade.

Jesus had made me quite wealthy with stock tips and I thought it my destiny to remain with him for the foreseeable future although it bothered me that I would age and he would not. Possibly there was some way around that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

After a week or so in Asheville, Jesus suggested we should seek a new adventure. He said he had heard of something called the Holy Grail, knew that it was sought after, but didn't know exactly what it might be. He thought we might seek that out.

I told him there was some doubt as to whether it existed at all, but that it was reported to be the cup he used at the last supper. "You know that dinner you and your cronies had before your execution."

"Oh, yeah. You know the food wasn't all that good. It was either lamb or goat. I prefer lamb myself. Also a lot of bread. Back then there were certain diseases and no refrigeration, no ice. There were quite a few foods that weren't available to us. But I believe the cup I used was one I had made some years earlier. At that time we lived next to a potter, and he let me mess around with clay. If I made little things he would toss them in the kiln with his stuff. So I kept that cup for many years. If it is that cup, and I seriously doubt it, because it was simply a child's clay cup. I might know where it is. It could have been dropped in a well nearby."

"I too doubt if it were a simple clay cup. The legend as I recall it is extremely complicated, some of it having to do with King Arthur, also a legendary figure, although many in England believe in him. Some believe he has returned twice to save that island country, once as Churchill and again as the so-called Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher. So we could research the legend."

"By God, Ishmael, let's do it!"

"Sounds interesting," I replied, "except no one seems to know what to look for. It might be a dish, cup, plate or stone having something to do with King Arthur, who seems to be a fictitious person."

"Except to the British," Jesus said.

"Yes, maybe the Brits. This King Arthur headed the Knights of the Round Table, all with noble hearts, dedicated to slaying dragons, rescuing maidens in peril by some dark and evil force or setting out on quests very much like what you're proposing for us."

"Do we have the nobility to venture forth?"

"Possibly sally forth," replied I. "But it might be that some of their quests were in search of the Holy Grail, a type of will-o'-the-wisp, non-existent substance."

"Then the quest might take some time," Jesus opined.

"Very much so. It might prove endless."

"Sounds wonderful. What better way to spend one's time. You've heard of Don Quixote?"

"To dream the impossible dream. Yes, it does ring a bell. Might we buy a bit of land and go into gardening?"

Jesus laughed. "That's a good one, the odd agrarian couple. We need the bright lights, exotic cities, interesting people of both sexes, gourmet foods, exquisite wines. I have a friend who might help us."

"You have a friend?" I was frankly amazed.

"Yes, in New York. I told you I stopped there on the way to these mountains."

"OK. Very likely you made a bundle of friends in the old days. You were quite the itinerant preacher. When you spoke, did you think you might be entertaining your audiences?"

"Of course. That's part of the mystic. They wouldn't listen to me for a New York minute if they weren't entertained. You've heard the quote that 'the medium is the message'?"

"I have, but I don't understand it."

"Neither do I," Jesus replied. "But there must be something there. Anyway, I can name a number of people in modern times that I would aspire to imitate."

"Name one."

"I've mentioned Jack Benny."

"And others?"

"David Letterman, Garrison Keeler, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert."

"You're talking about stand-up comics. In biblical days you hungered to be a stand-up comic? Maybe in a Las Vegas night club?"

"Those days are gone, Ishmael. Now I'm all for questing here and there, and for this and that."

"And I suppose now and then?"

"Whatever you say. You know I rely on you to a certain degree. Now we should pack lightly and head for New York. My friend works on Wall Street, heads a large company and has for many years."

There was something about what he said that made me ask, how many years?

"At least two hundred."

"This man is not entirely mortal," I suggested.

"Some religious people might call him the Beast. However, they are misled. The story is that he was an angel named Lucifer, then something happened..."

"You're talking about Satan, the Devil," I interrupted.

"Exactly, Ishmael. Six thousand years ago a Hebrew writer more or less invented the Devil. You see he's much older than me."

"A writer can't invent an individual, Jesus."

"Mark Twain invented Huckleberry Finn."

"But does, or did, Huckleberry live?"

"He lives in our hearts. But it could be that this writer sensed the necessity and caused God to accuse Lucifer of betrayal and cast him out of Heaven. You know, like some folks are cast into the desert. Remember if you place 'in those days' in front of what you're about to say, anything is conceivable."

"You mean there was a need for an evil one?"

"Oh, yes. That had been quite apparent for some time. But God hesitated to act on it. You must remember that this was four thousand years before I was brought into the world, not that it makes any difference. Time is relative. What is apparent is that God represents good. So one needs evil, not to offset good, but to compare with good. Like, which would you choose? Good or evil? Evil is quite necessary."

"So this friend of yours, the evil one, or the Devil, does he spend his time doing devilish things?"

"That depends on what you consider devilish. He heads a large Wall Street firm, worth billions. Over two hundred years, one can accumulate quite a bit of money. That's how I got started, then decided it wasn't for me."

I was frankly confused and suggested to Jesus there were many unanswered questions. I mean someone might notice that this man never aged, or died. What if he was married? Jesus told me that he would let his friend explain. His name, incidentally, is Jim Pierpont Morgan. I say "is" because I assume he's still on Wall Street, the head of a major financial institution. His friends and senior employees call him JP.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

We flew into JFK and made our way to the Waldorf Towers where JP resided. Since it was near dinner time, after checking in we made our way to the Bull and Bear Steakhouse and had just that, a couple of New York strip steaks, fries and salad. Jesus looked around and announced that JP was not in the room.

Nothing would do but we go to Oscar's Brasserie the following morning. Jesus had been there before and was totally taken with the way their Eggs Benedict were prepared. I must say they were delicious.

After breakfast we took a long walk around town. The Towers were in the one hundred block of east 50th street and near most everything. Neither of us were strangers to the city and the volatile habits of the habitués. After the mild manners of the South, the explosive New Yorkers were in stark contrast.

After a call to JP's office, Jesus announced that we had a luncheon engagement on Wall Street. The food, what there was of it and such as it was, was catered into JP's office, who seemed to be something of a health nut.

It consisted of a meatless salad and some sort of mystery juice. The only sop to reality were a few scattered anchovies. But we had a good social time, and I had an opportunity to ask my question – how it was possible to exist for two hundred years, more or less, without aging and without arousing some suspicion.

"It's this way, Ishmael." JP would also call me Ishmael in private. "It was fairly simple to reach a solution after I considered it for the first fifteen or twenty years. I needed a mate and I needed to grow older. The mate situation was solved in something of a sugar daddy way. I would seek out an attractive woman in her late teens or early twenties and offer her a ten-year contract. Money was no object so there were plenty of takers."

"I assume there was a confidentiality clause. But how about aging?"

"I could gauge my lifespan, live to a ripe old age as the man says. At some point I would start letting my hair grow longer, start whitening my hair around the edges, perhaps don glasses. I would let it be known that I had a son residing in some foreign clime who bore my name. Then at the appropriate time, with my hair totally white, I would go off on a hunting or fishing trip, never to return. At that time I would shave my head. When my hair had grown out sufficiently, I would return as JP, the son of JP, and the cycle would resume."

"It was that simple," I asked.

"Yes and no. There were complications, but I have lawyers galore. Truth to tell, I only need do this every seventy or eighty years. Many of my contemporaries will have died off. The new crop, well, people are generally accepting of the obvious. They don't dip beneath the surface, particularly if money is involved. I'm sure you're aware that Jesus has some insight to future market activities. I likewise. So the only thing that prevents me from hoarding most of the globe's money is prudence. I maintain my worth at two billion dollars, enough really for most activities."

It would have been difficult to disagree with that statement. We spent about a week in New York, and Jesus and JP had a high old time discussing the old days. I managed to ask if he actually tempted innocent folks or performed any evil tricks. He said why bother. Many people seemed to be their own worst enemies.

One thing he made clear is that those fundamentalist preachers who claim that the Devil is real are totally correct. He is proof of that. He explained his mission was to come to earth as the Beast and then flimflam folks into believing he was or is God, then somehow rule the earth for a time. JP said he was as confused as Jesus about his role. It simply didn't make much sense. So he picked the Wall Street gig, living the high life, always with an attractive young lady.

"You might say I'm the real Devil," JP acknowledged, "because technically according to the mores of the day, I'm living in sin."

I asked Jesus what God would think about the arrangement, and he said, "God really wouldn't give a damn one way or the other. The Devil was created to thwart or offset good and that was that. End of story."

When we told JP about our quest, he said it was a bully idea and that he would join us except that he was in the early stages of an arrangement with a teen-ager, a real knock out. "It might upset the apple cart if I took off for Jolly Old England and left her to languish here in the Big Apple." Like Jesus he loved the argot of the times.

I questioned what he meant by Jolly Old England.

"I think you'll find the Holy Grail there," he explained, "in a small town, in a small for-pay museum in northern England, not far from the Scottish border. I'm not certain of the name, but beware of Russian Jews."

"Russian Jews?" Jesus said.

"Yes," JP continued. "There's an enclave of them, mean as snakes, I'm told. They're fighting off the Islamics, another group attempting to settle in the same small city. Both striving to hang on to their peculiar culture."

I asked JP if he was Jewish.

"No. I could be, but it doesn't matter. I'm more of a philistine. But my role is to dislike everyone, particularly the pure of heart."

"Do you do that?"

"Not really, I'm a people person. I get on well with everyone, even my own staffers who screw up. I hate to fire people. I'll give them a second, third, fourth chance, demote them, but I've never simply had to let a person go. You see, everyone has some good in them. I've got a Harvard PhD graduate here working as a janitor."

I looked at Jesus and said, "This from the Devil."

For the few days we were there we dined at a restaurant called Peacock Alley. JP and Jesus would vie to see who could order the most expensive wine. The only condition was that it had to be drinkable. Then they would fight over who got to pay the check and they would one up one another on the size of the tip. JP's new contract girl would generally join us for dinner. She was a mouth-watering dish, done up in high style, a certain dreamy splendor hung over her like an exotic mist. Words fail.

Her name was Vicky and I found it difficult to talk with her. She had a way of looking at you as if she adored you, although you were reduced to a quivering pile of moronic jelly. There oughta be a law.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

On our flight to Gatwick I asked Jesus what the Russian Jewish traditional way of life might be.

He asked me if I had seen the musical "Fiddler on the Roof."

"Some time ago, yes. Is that what traditional Russian Jews do?"

"Not the fiddler on the roof, but there were other traditions in that film. I'm thinking that Russian peasantry living an isolated life in small villages might develop certain practices over the period of eons. Although what JP said is puzzling. I suppose we'll just have to go up there and have a look. In the meantime we should hang out in London for a few days and catch some stage plays. It's always been a great theater town."

We caught a train into the city and found a hotel adjacent to Victoria Station. There were a couple of theaters nearby, also a pub where we could down pints of beer in a second floor room and watch the crowds below through a window. Quite a pleasant atmosphere. They also served bangers and mash.

Jesus was all for watching a changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. He talked endlessly about Christopher Robin and a young lady named Alice. There was also a Grey Bus tour of the city and a trip on the Thames to the Tower of London. We viewed the crown jewels, and Jesus thought the Holy Grail might have been, or should have been among them.

But JP had assured us they were likely in northern England, probably disguised in some manner. He had been around four thousand years longer than Jesus and had lived through era after era, although not necessarily on earth. The grail, he said, was a chalice, or a drinking vessel, but elaborate, possibly with jewels and precious metal. If he knew where it originated, he didn't say.

After our fill of sightseeing and trying to get around on the tube, not the easiest thing in the world, we took the night train to Scotland, planning to start up north and move south into northern England, sort of a reverse or backward plan.

Even though we had a room on the Flying Scotsman with bunk beds, we stayed up much of the night in the bar car and were exhausted when the train pulled into Edinburgh. Fortunately the Balmoral Hotel was adjacent to the station and we breakfasted on Finnan Haddie, smoked haddock simmered in milk, before sacking out for much of the day.

Once we awoke in the late afternoon or early evening, we admired the views of Edinburgh Castle and the Old Town from our room window before returning to the restaurant for Skink Soup to round out the Scottish experience. Finnan Haddie is the base for that delicious soup. Much of the food in Scotland is not wonderful, which matches the dubious climate – reasons why savvy Scots fleeing their homeland are found throughout the world.

There is an ancient tale that claims that the Irish introduced the bagpipe to Scotland as a joke and the Scots took it seriously.

Cheered by the pipers and fortified with haggis and single malt whisky, we rented a car and headed for northern England, Jesus driving on the wrong side of the road.

Of course Jesus knows stuff that I don't know, and he had the idea that the "item," as he called it, was in Heddon-on-the-Wall, a small community hard by Hadrian's Wall, the make-work project built by Roman soldiers presumably to keep the wild Scots from advancing farther south, but probably it was just to keep the troops out of trouble, tamping down drinking and carousing with the local gentry, particular those of the female persuasion, although that was not totally frowned upon by both sides. Of course by that time and that distance from Rome, there were in fact few Romans in the Legion, mostly dribs and drabs they had picked up along the way, although the officers were viewed as noble Romans.

We arrived just outside that town toward the end of day and holed up at Hadrian's Barn, a French style B&B that permitted the occupants to cook their own breakfast in a large kitchen. It was also a short walk from the wall and a fifteen-minute stroll from the village. If anyone cares to know, there is a bicycle route that covers the entire distance of the wall from coast to coast, maybe 180 miles in all. Why not try it sometime?

The following morning Jesus permitted me to cook the so-called full English breakfast and we then set out on foot across the Northumberland countryside to Heddon, something of a tourist town with a few antique and curiosity shops.

Jesus had mastered the Northumberland accent and shot it right back to the natives. To me some of it sounded like mumbling, and I was viewed as a strange breed of tourist. After one junk shop and one antique store we came upon a talkative old man in a shop that advertised just about everything.

He said his name was Heathcliff and he offered us a cup of tea, which he called a cuppa. Seemed to me typically English, if there is any such creature. Jesus was delighted, and we sat and chatted for the better part of thirty minutes. Toward the end Jesus asked if the man had seen a small statue of a black bird about a foot and a half high.

I thought immediately of the Maltese Falcon of Dashiell Hammett, Bogart and John Huston fame. But the conversation had a serious twist. "Ugliest thing in the wide world," Heathcliff replied. "Been in the same shop for years. The owner thinks it's been cursed and maybe has cursed her shop. She's afraid to even throw it away. Why'd you ask such a thing?"

"Probably for that reason. I heard of it from a man who traveled in these parts. Said I should make a point of looking in on it and see if it's been sold."

"No chance of that," Heathcliff replied. Luckily he told us where the shop was because it was on a side street we might have overlooked. As it turned out this was simply a lucky chance, not for us alone, but for the less fortunate shop owner, an old widow woman named Molly Fiddler.

When we turned the corner onto her street we saw the wooden cutout of a fiddle hanging over her door, with the words Fiddler's Fret.

Inside we found Mrs. Fiddler, an old woman wrapped in a tattered shawl. She was on the small side, wrinkled, but had a cheerful smile. "Look around, gentlemen. But I'm afraid there's not much to look at. My husband was the one to go into the field seeking items while I kept shop. Now he's gone and both I and my shop are dwindling. The man says you shouldn't concern yourself with old age. It doesn't last very long."

"Right you are, Madam," Jesus responded. "A strong heart and a sweet smile make merry companions. We are tourists from afar, come to seek knowledge and adventure."

"Hadrian himself couldn't have phrased it more aptly. I was hoping my stock and store wouldn't run out before I did. But the old world keeps on turning. You may call me Molly Fiddler."

At this moment I spied the black bird on a dusty shelf in a dark corner. "Mrs. Molly," I asked, "What sort of creature might that be?" I motioned toward the small statue.

"I supposed it's what they call a raptor, or an attempt to represent such a thing. A bird from hell. Repellent. My husband placed it there years ago, and no one has dared touch it since. He had high hopes for it as well as three paintings. He thought they might comfort me in my declining years."

Jesus glanced around the shop and said he observed no paintings.

"They hang in my living quarters," Molly said. "Odd ones they are. The first is the dark image of a man's head, wearing some sort of metal hat, like a helmet or a crown. The painting is so dark it's hard to say. Probably from an accumulation of dirt. I've always hesitated to clean it. The second is more like a stick figure that would seem to be in motion. It has a title, 'Nude Frying an Egg.' The third is simply a person on a boat, bright colors like the tropics, signed by someone with the name Homer. You know Homer, the ancient Greek teller of stories, spinner of yarns, not an artist."

"I understand," Jesus said. "Would you mind if I examine the black bird?"

Molly almost gasped in surprise, but with a sharp look, regained her aplomb. "Help yourself," then added, "If you dare."

I asked if the bird might be toxic.

"It's the look of the thing. Paper maché over some sort of metal, painted as a school child might, but the entire impact is repellent, evil, even obnoxious feeling. Shoppers have avoided it for years. You're the first that's even offered to touch it."

Jesus smiled. "Perhaps that has protected it these many years. It has stood noble sentry duty, waiting my arrival. And here I am at last. The two of joined, at last." He fondled it lovingly.

"You're a strange one," Molly said, suppressing a smile. Perhaps she would make a sale on this day. She puzzled over what price to place on the bizarre object d'art, if indeed it could be considered art.

Instead of talking price, Jesus inquired if he might view the paintings.

"Another strange request," Molly murmured, then led us into her living quarters. As I had suspected from her description, the paintings, if authentic, were worth millions of dollars. A Rembrandt, a Picasso and a Winslow Homer. Had no one else ever seen them? It seemed impossible.

Back in the shop, Jesus asked Molly's age.

"That's quite forward of you, but I don't mind saying, I'll be eighty two next month."

"My question was for this reason," Jesus said. "I wondered how much money you might need to live comfortably for the remainder of your life. I'm guessing you spend sparingly and have few investments."

"You guess correctly." She looked around mischievously. "You have some plan to my benefit?"

"Possibly. For the black bird and the three pictures, I would offer a million and a half pounds."

She was taken aback, but quickly recovered. "I suppose you want to give me a check and take those items with you? I was not born yesterday, or early this morning."

"No. There is at least one bank in this small city. We would go there together tomorrow and I would have the funds transferred electronically. You know the process?"

"Of course. Common practice these days." She stared out the window.

"Well, what do you say?"

"You would leave the items here in my shop?"

"Of course. And I'll tell you my thinking. I was going to offer you a million, but then I considered taxes. So the extra half million is for taxes. Boyd and I are very successful businessmen and have quite a bit of money at our disposal. We don't intentionally lose money, but if we do, it's no great loss. Do you understand?"

"I do. And if you gentlemen speak the truth, you seem to be a godsend to me, a comfort to my declining years. I do welcome your offer. What time would you call tomorrow?"

"About nine, when the bank might be open."

"Then I shall wait your pleasure. If you have sought to trick an old lady, may the Devil take you."

"Agreed," Jesus said with a grin, adding, "The Devil would not be pleased with the likes of us."

When we had left the shop, I mentioned to Jesus that if the paintings were authentic, they would be worth many millions. "Are we to cheat that old woman?"

"No, Ishmael. On the money we offer, she can go quietly into old age and beyond. If she knew the worth of her paintings it might create a great hue and cry, and the result could be disastrous. My plan is to simply hang those paintings in our apartment in Asheville. If they ever do go on the market, it would be long after that old woman has passed on. But rather than sell them, a donation to the Asheville Art Museum might be in order."

"Ah," I remarked, "For tax purposes."

"Ishmael, Ishmael. Do you think only of dollars and cents? I have placed the financial world at your feet. Yet your talk is that of a bean counter. Lighten up. Enjoy life, think of Hadrian and his legions laboring their hearts out on this wall. Laughing, loving, drinking, rollicking in the lusty river of life."

"Speaking of lust and hell raising, maybe we could drop into a pub for a tankard or two."

"Bob's your uncle," Jesus said, reverting to Aussie slang.

"And what about those Russian Jews JP warned us about."

"I think we're in the wrong community," Jesus said. "Is that a tavern sign I spy?" He beckoned toward a rustic looking building. The sign read, "Beat the Devil. The Thirsty Monk."

We entered and found a dimly lit world of good cheer, the smell of good beer, pub grub and shared humanity. If only moments like that might simply endure forever.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

We picked up Molly Fiddler at nine the next morning and headed for the bank. The bank was a High Street affair, a local institution manned by locals. We were ushered into the president's office. Not a pompous man, but a thin, shrewd character in a dark three-piece suit. He and Molly had been friends since school days.

After I explained our proposition, the banker sat back, steepled his fingers together and finally said, "There's a chance those paintings might be worth much more if we have a fair appraisal and subject them to auction."

"I'm totally in agreement," Jesus responded. "Let me tell you how I reached my offer. First, I considered Molly's age. I concluded that a million pounds would permit her to live out her life in comfort and without undue stress. Then I recalled that the taxes on this island are quite high, so I added half a million pounds that I thought might handle that cost."

"Kind of you," the banker allowed, obviously unimpressed. "Any other thoughts?"

"Yes. The appraisal process, finding a buyer, or buyers, if the paintings pan out, would take some time. My offer, that is our offer, Boyd and I are partners, was made on the basis of efficiency. We are here, ready to have the money delivered to this bank and into Molly's hands this morning. But Boyd and I are tourists in your country and do not plan to tarry here, despite Hadrian's charms. So I'm willing to withdraw my offer, but am willing to pay a hundred pounds for the black bird."

"A hundred pounds," Molly gasped in disappointed surprise. "That's all I'm going to get out of this meeting? A hundred pounds?"

Jesus smiled. "But in cash, Molly." He withdrew his wallet from his pocket and removed a hundred pound bill.

Molly glanced at the banker in distress. "What if the paintings are worthless? These two don't seem to be art lovers, or appraisers. They just seem to have too much money for their own good."

The banker rolled his eyes and made a faint sound like "Ahem."

"Do you want the banknote?" Jesus asked Molly. "We didn't come here to buy pictures, but I'm quite taken with the bird."

"I want the million and a half," Molly said, a hard glance at the banker. "Screw you, Bertram. When we were young you screwed me, and it looks like you're still trying to do it."

Bertram actually blushed. "You always were upfront, Molly. And you usually got your way. I'm not certain who screwed whom. But take the money. I'll arrange the transfer. I'll even help you with your investments."

She eyed him closely with a sly grin. "I'll bet you will."

Later in the day we brought the rented car around to the Fiddler's Fret and picked up the paintings and the black bird. Molly helped us wrap them, and we lingered over tea. "If only I were young," she remarked. "What I wouldn't do with this much money. But now Bertram and I will have some good days with it. That irascible old scamp. He's been after every widow in Northumberland."

Driving south, I asked Jesus what we might do with the paintings and if the black bird was in truth the Holy Grail.

"I believe it is the Grail," he replied. "The Grail is a chalice, or a large wine glass, not necessarily glass. In fact not glass. There is an iron wine vessel inverted over it, the entire structure papered and pasted over and painted in a manner to repel those who see it. So there you have it. As for the paintings, if we attempted to carry them through U.S. Customs they would set off various alarms. There would be appraisals, and it might take weeks or months and cost millions. So we spirit them into the country."

"Easy-peasy," I suggested.

"I assume that's slang for no problem. It might take a pinch of forethought and a bit of bribery, but yes, no problem."

"And no sin?"

"Definitely, no sin. Moving paintings from one place to another is not a sinful occupation."

It was always a pleasure to hear the definition of sin directly from Jesus. The laws of man had little to do with it. As always there seemed to be an underpinning of wisdom in his words.

What we did was drive to Manchester and place the paintings and the black bird in a bank vault, all items carefully wrapped and sealed. Jesus was pleased with himself, as was I, and we both hoped to enjoy a bit of a holiday. I had some skepticism about the black bird, but Jesus seemed certain that it was in fact the Holy Grail.

Spending only one night in Manchester, we drove on to Nottingham the following morning. Jesus was fascinated by the Robin Hood story, and Nottingham was where it all took place. There was Sherwood Forest and the Castle, what could be more authentic. It was something like a dream come true. Jesus was certain we had the Holy Grail, plus three famous paintings, or at least so he thought, by famous artists. And here we were in a city known as Queen of the Midlands, famous not only for Robin Hood, but also shopping and nightlife, not that we had any shopping to do.

Nottingham also boasted something called the Goose Fair, an annual event where you could hear the famous greeting, "Ay up me Duck." This seemed to be a humorous if twisted form of local dialect. Jesus with his flair for languages tried it on two or three locals without mishap. Sometimes his actions seemed almost immature.

But Jesus knew some historical facts about the city, apparently the birthplace in 1650 of Nell Gwyn, longtime mistress to King Charles II. She was called, among other things, "pretty, witty Nell," known for her comic talent and her rags to riches life. Brought up possibly among bawdy houses, she then bore two sons for the king, and the eldest would become Duke of St. Albans.

Jesus said the phrase "Let not poor Nelly starve" became popular when the king granted her the estate of Bestwood in her later life. Jesus seemed enamored by the city and found a knowledgeable cab driver to chauffer us around and explain different parts of the city and Nottinghamshire.

But we were pulled up sharply when, after a night of pub-crawling, we spotted one of the red-haired dwarf's thugs sitting in our hotel lobby attempting to ignore us.

"That little bastard is vindictive," Jesus said after we were on the elevator and headed for our room.

"You think it's the dwarf then, not Mofaz Moreh?"

"Yes, Moreh's glad to be out of it. But Binyamin Kadima doesn't know on which side his bread is buttered. Maybe we can teach him a lesson."

I was curious how we could do that when he seemed to have at least one thug and probably more dogging our footsteps. I also wondered how in the world they had located us. But the dwarf had unlimited assets.

I didn't say anything until the following morning. We were enjoying coffee, toast and marmalade in our room and I casually suggested we would be hard put to do anything negative about the dwarf, considering.

"Considering what?" Jesus questioned.

"Well, he seems to have the upper hand. He has one, and very likely more, shady individuals right here in Nottingham, and we don't even know where that little red head might be."

"I'm guessing he's in his castle," Jesus said, with a smile. He was in excellent humor. "That's where we'll make our move."

To me, this sounded like another opportunity to place our heads on the chopping block. Jesus and a cat might have nine lives, but I was a hopeless mortal. "You intend that we two should mount a raid on his castle?"

"That sounds like great fun, doesn't it? But it might fail. I'd give it a fifty-fifty chance. No, I'm thinking of something quite different."

A few more bites of toast, a little more marmalade and half a cup of coffee later, I asked what that might be.

Jesus eyed me narrowly and asked, "Do you think that conniving little dwarf can deal with the Devil?"

It all came clear. He was going to bring JP into the picture.

"God sent him here to do evil," Jesus said, cleaning up the last piece of toast. "So, evil to those who do evil. Justice like a shadow will follow wrongdoing."

I nodded in agreement, still not knowing what was in his mind, but Jesus teamed up with JP seemed formidable.

Of course we were hours ahead of New York. When Jesus finally made his call I could not hear exactly what they were saying. I believe they spoke in a foreign tongue. Then Jesus began laughing like a madman and I guessed JP was doing the same. At last he signed off and seemed well satisfied.

He said there were a number of possibilities. The first was that we were supposed to have seen the dwarf's thug so that we might feel uneasy, or maybe panicky. A second might be that we had seen him by accident, and he would try to get us in trouble with the local law. A third could be that he and others would once more attempt to plant explosives in our car.

Jesus called the rental agent at the local airport, but was unable to convince them to switch cars. The problem was that the airport was at Castle Donington, about twenty miles from the city. We checked out of the hotel and took a Skylink bus to the airport and rented a car from the same agency. At the last minute Jesus told them that the original car was in the hotel garage and wouldn't start.

This was a lie, but not a sin according to Jesus. He pointed out that there were no automobiles in the old days when sins and non-sins were first instituted. He gave them the keys.

Then we set out to drive around the Midlands for three days, pausing at quaint inns and taverns from time to time. Our destination was Manchester where we would retrieve the bird and paintings from the bank vault.

During our travels Jesus said he had explained to JP that Savannah had told him that during her time in the dwarf's vacation digs the place was awash with cocaine. The dwarf used it, and the rental girls used it, along with quantities of alcohol. It's a wonder they all survived. In fact she hinted that some did not.

So, he said he and JP were fairly certain that the dwarf, along with his usual entourage of escort girls, was in his castle fastness in Germany. No doubt with large amounts of cocaine, an illegal substance. The local lawmen and officials had been sufficiently bribed to ignore activities at the castle, but the German federal agents might take a different view.

JP, with his billions, was heavily invested in German bonds, which were highly prized around the globe. But what if he suddenly dumped them on the open market? A subtle hint in that direction might cause the German feds to sweep down upon the castle and arrest the man in charge if cocaine was found in any amount. So that was the story. Checking German news media on the web, we learned that Binyamin Kadima, the disgusting red-headed dwarf, had been taken into custody.

Jesus was well pleased, and we headed for Manchester and our ill-gotten gains. We remained there just overnight while Jesus arranged to charter a plane for the United States and offer the pilot and co-pilot a sizeable sum to avoid U.S. Customs. This also did not qualify as a sin because in the old days frontiers were crossed with impunity if one avoided certain checkpoints.

What we did was land at the Charlotte airport and exit the plane with only our carry-ons, dutifully paying for the flight. The following day we re-booked the same aircraft for the short flight to Asheville, purely a local jaunt, with no customs involved. Frankly, I was amazed that this simple scheme worked.

Once back in our condo at the Grove Arcade we hung the three paintings and placed the ugly black bird on a corner plant stand. There it stands today, much like Poe's raven.

###

About the Author

Doug Walker is an Ohio University, Athens, Ohio, journalism graduate. He served on metropolitan newspapers, mostly in Ohio, for twenty years, as political reporter, both local and statehouse, along with stints as city editor and Washington correspondent. Teaching English in Japan, China and Eastern Europe were retirement activities.

His first novel was "Murder on the French Broad," available only in a print edition published in 2010.

Now occupying an old house in Asheville, NC, with his wife, he enjoys reading, tennis, short walks, TV and writing.

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