Juan Gómez-Jurado - Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

EN ROUTE TO THE GULF OF AQABA, THE RED SEA

Tuesday, July 11, 2006. 5:11 p.m.

‘You!’ Andrea said again, with more anger than surprise.

The last time they’d seen each other, Andrea had been perilously balanced thirty feet above the ground, pursued by an unlikely enemy. Back then Father Fowler had saved her life, but he had also prevented her from getting the great story of her career, the kind most reporters only dream about. Woodward and Bernstein had done it with Water-gate, and Lowell Bergman with the tobacco industry. Andrea Otero could have done the same, but this priest had got in the way. At least he got her - I’ll be damned if I know how , Andrea thought – an exclusive interview with President Bush, thanks to which she was now onboard this ship, or so she surmised. But that was water under the bridge and right now she was more concerned with the present. Andrea wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away.

‘I’m happy to see you too, Ms Otero. I see that the scar is barely a memory.’

Andrea instinctively touched her forehead, the place where Fowler had caused her to have four stitches sixteen months ago. A thin pale line was all that remained.

‘You’re a safe pair of hands, but that’s not why you’re here. Are you spying on me? Are you aiming to screw up my work again?’

‘I’m on this expedition as an observer for the Vatican, nothing more.’

The young reporter eyed him suspiciously. Due to the extreme heat the priest was wearing a short-sleeved shirt with his clerical collar and sharply pressed trousers, all in the usual black. Andrea looked at his tanned arms for the first time. His forearms were huge, with veins as thick as a ballpoint pen.

Those are not the arms of a Bible-basher.

‘And why does the Vatican need an observer on an archaeological expedition?’

The priest was about to answer when a cheerful voice interrupted them.

‘Great! The two of you have already been introduced?’

Dr Harel appeared at the stern of the ship, flashing her lovely smile. Andrea did not return the courtesy.

‘Something like that. Father Fowler was about to explain to me why he was pulling a Brett Favre on me a couple of minutes ago.’

‘Ms Otero, Brett Favre is a quarterback – he doesn’t do much tackling,’ Fowler explained.

‘What happened, Father?’ Harel asked.

‘Ms Otero came back here just as Mr Kayn was getting out of the aircraft. I’m afraid I had to restrain her. I was kind of rough. I’m sorry.’

Harel nodded. ‘I understand. You should know that Andrea didn’t attend the security session. Don’t worry, Father.’

‘What do you mean don’t worry? Has everyone gone totally crazy?’

‘Take it easy, Andrea,’ the doctor said. ‘Unfortunately you’ve been sick for the last forty-eight hours and you haven’t been kept up-to-date. Let me fill you in. Raymond Kayn is agoraphobic.’

‘So Father Tackler just told me.’

‘Besides being a priest, Father Fowler is also a psychologist. Please interrupt me if I leave something out, Father. Andrea, what do you know about agoraphobia?’

‘It’s a fear of open places.’

‘That’s what most people think. In reality, people suffering from this affliction exhibit symptoms that are a lot more complex.’

Fowler cleared his throat.

‘The thing that agoraphobics fear most is losing control,’ the priest said. ‘They’re afraid of being alone, of finding themselves in places from which there’s no escape, or of meeting new people. That’s why they stay at home for long periods of time.’

‘What happens when they can’t control a situation?’ Andrea asked.

‘It depends on the situation. Mr Kayn’s case is particularly severe. If he finds himself in a difficult situation he may well panic, lose touch with reality, begin to suffer dizziness, tremors and heart palpitations.’

‘In other words, he couldn’t be a stockbroker,’ Andrea said.

‘Or a neurosurgeon,’ Harel joked. ‘But sufferers can lead normal lives. There are famous agoraphobics like Kim Basinger or Woody Allen who’ve fought the illness for years and come out on top. Mr Kayn himself has created an empire out of nothing. Unfortunately, in the last five years his condition has deteriorated.’

‘I wonder what the hell provoked such a sick man to risk coming out of his shell?’

‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Andrea,’ Harel said.

Andrea noticed that the doctor was looking at her in a strange way.

They all remained silent for a few moments and then Fowler resumed the conversation.

‘I hope you can forgive my excessive force earlier.’

‘Maybe, but you almost took my head off,’ Andrea said, rubbing her neck.

Fowler looked at Harel, who nodded.

‘You’ll understand in time, Ms Otero… Were you able to see the men getting off the aircraft?’ Harel asked.

‘There was a young olive-skinned man,’ Andrea replied. ‘Then a man of about fifty dressed in black who had a huge scar. And finally a thin man with white hair, who I imagine must be Mr Kayn.’

‘The young man is Jacob Russell, Mr Kayn’s executive assistant,’ Fowler said. ‘The man with the scar is Mogens Dekker, chief of security for Kayn Industries. Believe me, if you had come any closer to Kayn, given your usual style, Dekker would have become a bit nervous. And you don’t want that to happen.’

A warning signal sounded from bow to stern.

‘Here we go, time for the introductory session,’ Harel said. ‘At last the great mystery will be revealed. Follow me.’

‘Where are we going?’ Andrea asked as they returned to the main deck via the gangway that the reporter had sneaked through some minutes before.

‘The whole expedition team will meet for the first time. They’ll explain the role each of us is going to play, and most important… what it is we’re actually looking for in Jordan.’

‘By the way, Doc, what is your specialty?’ Andrea asked as they entered the meeting room.

‘Combat medicine,’ Harel said casually.

VIENNA

February 1943

Jora Myer was sick with worry. There was an acid sensation at the back of her throat that made her nauseous. She hadn’t felt that way since she was fourteen and had escaped the 1906 pogroms in Odessa, Ukraine, with her grandfather hanging on to her arm. She had been lucky at such a young age to find work as a servant to the Cohen family, who owned a factory in Vienna. Josef was the eldest of the children. When the shadchan , the marriage broker, eventually found him a nice Jewish wife, Jora went with him to look after their children. Their firstborn, Elan, spent his early years in a pampered and privileged environment. The younger one, Yudel, was another story.

Now the child lay curled up in a ball on his makeshift bed, which consisted of two folded blankets on the floor. Until yesterday he had shared the bed with his brother. Lying there, Yudel seemed small and sad, and without his parents, the stifling space seemed huge.

Poor Yudel. Those twelve square feet had been his entire world practically since birth. The afternoon he was born, the entire family, including Jora, had been at the hospital. None of them had returned to the luxury apartment on Rienstrasse. It was 9 November 1938, the date the world would later come to know as Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. Yudel’s grandparents were the first to perish. The entire building on Rienstrasse burned to the ground, together with the synagogue next door as the firemen drank and laughed. The only things that the Cohens had taken with them were some clothes and a mysterious package that Yudel’s father used in a ceremony when the baby was born. Jora didn’t know what it was, because during the ceremony, Mr Cohen had asked everyone to leave the room, including Odile, who could barely stand up.