John Schettler - Meridian

“But—”

“No questions, let’s go. Maeve, would you grab that coffee and the coffee press?” Paul was scooping up his papers and notebook, and stuffing everything into his briefcase. “Come on, professor. We’re going to need you more than ever now. You’re the historian. Start thinking! Are there any books or references here you may need to bring?”

Nordhausen gave him a hopeless look, but then came to some inner conclusion on the matter and nodded his head. “Quite right,” he said as he made for the bookcase. Impossible or not, he would give it his best try.

Maeve threw the coffee makings into a bag, and followed them with anything edible she could find in Nordhausen’s cupboards. Then she ran to the closet to fetch the coats. The others gathered up their things and Kelly and Paul were making for the study door.

“Hold on,” Maeve yelled at them. “It’s raining something fierce out there. Take your coats and umbrellas.” She reached into the closet and then stopped cold, her eyes wide. “Wait!” She shouted as Kelly opened the door and a blast of cold, wet air blew into the room.

“It’s just a little rain,” said Kelly. “Meet us outside. We’ll warm up the car.”

“I said wait!” This time her voice carried a note of urgency that took hold of the men by the door and spun them around. Maeve threw two jackets and an umbrella onto the floor, then emerged from the closet, holding a dark, gray trench coat in her arms. It was still damp from the rain. Paul recognized it at once.

“Hello,” he said, his mood lightening.

“Our visitor may have vanished,” said Maeve, “but his coat was still hanging just where I left it in the closet!” She extended the trench coat to the others, the light of discovery glistening in her hazel eyes. Paul and Kelly rushed to her side. They each had one thing in mind—to search the pockets for any sign or clue. Maeve knew what they intended, and she clutched the coat to her breast, an arm extended to ward the others off.

“Stand where you are,” she warned them. “I’m not going to let you two tear this thing to pieces. Outcomes and Consequences will handle this, if you don’t mind.” She rushed to the study table, and set the coat down with an almost reverent sense of care. She stared at it for a moment, one arm still extended to hold Paul and Kelly at bay. She was afraid to take her eyes off it, as if she thought it might just disappear into nothingness if she turned her head to look at any of the others. Then she smoothed the fabric out on the study table and slipped her hands into the outer pockets. There was nothing inside.

“Well?” Paul was hovering over her shoulder, restless with anticipation. She folded the coat open, her hand sliding along the smooth inner lining to find the interior pocket. She almost held her breath as she reached inside. She felt something—a piece of folded paper!

“What’s that?” Kelly could not contain himself. Nordhausen had finally realized what had happened and was looking over his shoulder from the bookcase, frozen in the moment, his arms full of books he had pulled from the shelves.

Maeve unfolded the paper and something fluttered out, slipping on to the floor. Kelly and Paul dove and it was Kelly who came up with it first. “Be careful you idiots!” Maeve scolded them, but Kelly’s excitement quickly faded when he saw what he had recovered.

“It’s just a receipt,” he said, somewhat deflated. “For the coffee: One pound, Major Dickason’s blend.”

“What about this,” said Maeve. She still held up the paper the receipt had been riding in and there was something written on it. “Looks like the address here at the study, and… What’s this? How odd. It’s your name Kelly, and an English name: Lawrence. Then this other…” She pointed at the paper, tilting it at last so Paul and Kelly could see. They leaned in, squinting. Paul angled to one side to keep from casting a shadow on the note. “What was the name of that terrorist?”

“Ra’id Husan al Din.” Nordhausen hurried over. “And something about the Holy Fighters.”

“No,” said Maeve. “That’s not what’s written here. It looks like Masaui—Is that a ‘u’ there near the end? And what are these numbers: 11101917 – K172? There’s another word. Can you make it out Paul?”

“It looks like another Arabic word: ‘Hejaz.’ Could that mean something, Robert? Can anyone remember any reference to those names on the news in recent months?”

“Masaui? How is that spelled,” Kelly asked? “Wasn’t that the name of the 20 thhijacker during the World Trade Center incident?”

“Yes, he was the guy the FBI picked up before the event. I remember the trial now.” Dorland was reaching for details in his mind. “But I thought that name was spelled differently.”

The clock on the mantle chimed, as if it signaled their time was up and the mystery would escape them, but Nordhausen’s eyes narrowed with thought. He put the armload of books he was carrying on the table, and reached out to take the note. Maeve released it to him, but kept her eyes glued to the paper. Kelly had gone around behind her and was poking about in the outer pockets of the coat.

“What did you say about this interval, Paul. This Nexus Point business, and all.” Nordhausen was pulling on a thread of some recollection, staring at the note and scratching the back of his neck.

“What?”

“You said time was dreaming—that we were the dreamers; that we were the most dangerous people on earth right now. Damn!” He rushed back to his bookcase, his finger tracing over the third shelf. “Now don’t tell me I left that book in my office library. No, here it is!” He had a thick volume out of the shelves and was flipping through the pages, a broad smile on his face. The others hurried over, but Maeve snatched up the trench coat, afraid to let it out from under her nose. Nordhausen read from his book.

“All men dream,” he began, “but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act out their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.” He smiled at them, snapping the book closed with an almost jubilant air. “T. E. Lawrence,” he said to them. “You know—Lawrence of Arabia! It’s one of his most famous quotes. This is the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. He spent years dawdling over it. Had the whole thing in manuscript and then lost it on a train ride. Can you imagine that? Well, he set about to re-write the damn thing from memory! A dangerous man indeed, that one.”

“Very poetic,” said Kelly. “But we’re running out of time, professor. I’ve got to get to U.C. Berkeley and fire up that Arion system. What in blazes does it mean?”

“It means our visitor inadvertently left us a little clue. Oh, he probably only meant to reinforce his memory. Look here, he wrote down the address, then your name, Kelly, then the name Lawrence.”

“So you just thought you’d offer us all a nice quotation.” Kelly was getting frustrated. “This isn’t a word association game!”

“Well don’t be a dolt, man. Everything on this page is significant. He wrote the place he had to be, and the person he had to save. And look here, he’s given us these other names as well, along with a date.”

“A date?” Paul’s eyes widened.

“Yes, it’s right here,” said Nordhausen. “The first part of this number: 11101917. That would be November ten, nineteen seventeen. It so happens, my dear friends, that a certain Lawrence of Arabia was in the desert that very year, helping the British in their campaign against the Ottoman Turks in the First World War. He was campaigning in the region of Hejaz. That’s on the paper as well. This other name must be a person of some importance from that time, or perhaps a place. Here, let me see if I can find a reference.” He flipped through the index, but was frustrated. The name was not there. “That’s odd,” he muttered. “I was certain I’d find it… Perhaps in my other volumes…”