Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense (27 page)

What the hell is going on here tonight? Jonas wondered. First the resident telling him the north unit was a gateway to hell or something, and now Monique proclaiming that Jonas and his father have some kind of mind meld. Jonas wondered if the horsemen of the apocalypse were going to ride in any second.

Monique pulled away from Jonas. “You stay long tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Jonas said. “I think maybe so.”

“Can I get you something?”

He thought for a moment. “If I fall asleep, don’t let me sleep past six in the morning. I’ve got a flight to catch.”

“OK, Mr. Osbourne. Six o’clock. Good night.”

“’night, Monique.”

She shuffled past him and left the room, the door softly clicking in place behind her. The room was lost in darkness, and Jonas returned to his chair. The courtyard lights from outside the bedroom window were enough for him to see traces of his father, the outline of his nose, the sweep of his forehead. The darkness suddenly overwhelmed Jonas. Maybe darkness was all he needed. Maybe that was enough for him to shut off his mind for awhile, to drift off, to be at peace in the middle of an Alzheimer’s facility.

What a crazy fucking world, he thought.

Cradling that as his last memory of the night, Jonas leaned forward in his chair, closed his eyes, and rested his head on his father’s chest, wishing he could be a little boy all over again.

DENVER, COLORADO JULY 25

THE SUN
baked the streets and Jonas wondered why he assumed it was always snowing in Denver. He could see the mountains in the far distance, but downtown the scorching dry heat reminded him of Fresno. The delegations from the

Middle East must find the weather very accommodating, he thought.

He walked into the lobby of the downtown Hyatt and the air conditioning washed over him. Day One of the Accords was almost over, and, so far, nothing disastrous had occurred.

There was still plenty of time for that.

He passed the lobby bar. Even though it was only four in the afternoon, the bar was bustling. The bar would be the place most, if any, progress would be made by unofficial spokespeople speaking on the condition of anonymity. Whatever was said publicly would be stretched and pulled and dissected by faceless staffers with American beers clutched in their fists. Even some of the Muslims would be drinking.

“Jonas.”

Jonas peered into the lounge and saw William Stages, the

U.N. Ambassador. Stages waved him over. “Bill, how’s it going?”

“Fine, Jonas.” Stages gestured to a hawkish man in his mid-forties standing next to him. “Jonas, this is Eli Chazon. Eli’s a Knesset member on the Foreign Affairs and Defense Committee.”

Jonas reached out his hand. “Of course. I know you by reputation, Mr. Chazon. Welcome to the United States.”

“It’s Eli, and thank you.” Chazon offered his hand. “I know of you as well. You’ve been instrumental in setting up this conference. I hope it turns out to be fruitful.”

“As we all do,” Jonas said.

Stages squinted his eyes at Jonas. “Eli and I have been discussing Sidams’s plan.” He paused for a moment, giving Jonas the second he needed to process the magnitude of what Stages just revealed. Sidams’s plan wasn’t supposed to be unveiled until tomorrow.

“Have you?”

Chazon leaned toward Jonas. “It’s about what we expected, but not what we hoped for.”

Jonas met his gaze and could tell the comment was official. A necessary salvo.

“Unfortunately the process will not be an easy one for any side,” Jonas said.

“This is true.” Chazon raised a beer to his lips. Fat Tire, Jonas noted. Local Colorado brew. “But one of my jobs is to ensure that whatever is decided will be in Israel’s best interest.”

“I would think peace would be in your best interest.” Chazon smiled. “Jonas, I truly hope you are not that naïve. Peace is something that does not exist in the world. What you call peace is merely moments of tense silence inbetween wars.”

“I suppose it doesn’t really matter what you call it,” Jonas replied. “As long as it’s anything
but
war.”

“L’Chayim.” Chazon raised his glass.

Jonas looked at his empty hands. “Looks like I need to be drinking with you gentlemen.”

Stages revealed a tightly controlled smile. “You read my mind.”

• • •

Four hours, five drinks and one very expensive dinner later, Jonas called it quits, knowing he’d had too much to drink considering the work he still needed to do before he even got the idea about sleeping, which probably wasn’t going to happen anyway.

Eli Chazon was his new best friend, and Stages had been brilliant by leaking the Senator’s peace plan to the Israeli a day early. It was an important gesture—it allowed the Israeli delegation time to formulate a calculated response. And since Israel was really being asked to concede more than the Palestinians—at least in terms of real estate—the gesture could prove an important one in reaching an agreement.

On the way to his room on the seventeenth floor, Jonas checked in with the Senator. Sidams was on the thirty-forth floor, and Jonas found it easier to phone. He briefed the Senator on the meeting with Chazon, and Jonas knew Sidams was happy about the situation.

All in all, not a bad day, Jonas thought.

He got off the elevator and walked past his room. He knocked on the door three down from his own.

Anne opened it.

“Hey, baby,” Jonas said. “I wasn’t sure if you would be here or not. Do you have to work tonight?”

They had seen little of each other since landing in

Denver.

She leaned in and kissed him, though it was a hurried kiss. She’s distracted, Jonas thought.

“Of course,” she said. “I feel like I haven’t stopped working since we got here.”

“I know the feeling.”

He walked in and took off his jacket. “I still have a lot to do tonight.” He looked around her room and saw one bed still unmade, the other piled with notebooks and binders. “Making any progress?”

“Hard to say,” she replied. “Nothing going on. No sign of him anywhere. No indication he’s even in the area.”

He noted the doubt in her voice. “But...”

She looked at him. “He’s here, Jonas. I know it. He’s here and he’s close.”

“You’re sensing it?” He didn’t add that she didn’t have the same feeling the night Rudiger killed Rose.

She hesitated for only a moment. “No, I don’t so much sense it as I know it
makes
sense.”

“What do you think he’s going to do?”

She looked at him and started to answer, but held back. There was a glisten in her eyes.

“What?”

“Just...” She grabbed his hand. “Be careful.”

“You think he’s here for me?”

“I...like I said. I’m only going off what seems to make sense.”

“I haven’t seen anything unusual.”

“That’s good. And, we have people watching you.”

“How closely?”

“You had chicken piccata for dinner.”

“That’s close.” He wondered who’d been watching him that closely in the lobby bar. “Are they monitoring conversations? There’s some sensitive issues being discussed and the Senator wouldn’t want to find out the FBI is listening in on his chief of staff.”

“Don’t worry,” she said.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Are they watching anyone else?”

“Jonas, I can’t really discuss this much more.”

Jonas stepped closer to her until her breasts touched his chest.

“Are they watching right now?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No. But they might be listening.”

“Good,” he said. “Let’s give them something to listen to.”

AT FOUR
in the morning, Jonas finally put his head on the pillow in his own room. The curtains were still open and he could see the three-quarters moon beginning its descent over the Rocky Mountains in the distance. Sunlight was only a couple hours away, and the day would be hot and chaotic.

He reached over and rang the front desk, asking for a six o’clock wake-up call. It would be a long day, but he was capable of complete functionality on two hours of sleep. As long as he didn’t sustain that for too long.

Jonas picked up his BlackBerry and set its alarm as well, just to be safe. Then he texted Anne.

You sleeping?

He waited a minute. No answer. Then he texted again.

Night, sexy. See you tomorrow.

He pictured her sound asleep, her hair spilled out over her pillow. He could hear her small, shallow breaths, her occasional murmur. He could see the side of her face, the moonlight on her mocha skin, the outline of her aquiline nose.

Jesus, he thought. What is this woman doing to me? The answer came just as he drifted off to sleep.

Does it matter?

• • •

Protesters swarmed as close as they could to the entrance of the hotel. Jonas walked outside and slipped on his sunglasses. It was only nine in the morning but the sun was already intense, and the noise from the crowds just made everything feel hotter. He scanned the area and saw more pro-Israel than pro-Palestine signs, and an equally divided amount expressing hate against both sides. Then there were the groups who didn’t care at all about peace—they just knew a lot of cameras would be there so free publicity was available for the taking. Tea Party demonstrators rallied against the oppressive U.S. tax code. The pro-lifers and the pro-choicers squared off across the street, and anti-war protestors were shouting something that was lost in the din. Jonas spied a little girl dressed in pink with her long hair split into pigtails. She wore a summer dress and a blank expression, and in her little hands she hoisted a sign that read
God Hates Fags
. She was probably eight years old.

“Wonderful,” Jonas said to himself. “Great publicity for

America.”

The security was tight and men and women wearing dark sunglasses and darker suits dotted the perimeter. The initial meetings this morning would be inside the hotel, and Jonas was part of a small group of dignitaries assigned to escort the delegation members into the conference. Most of the Israelis were staying at the newly built Four Seasons and would be taking limos to the Hyatt. The Palestinians were at the Brown Palace. President Calder hadn’t arrived in Denver yet, but when he did, he’d be staying at the Ritz.

Jonas scanned the crowds and wondered if Rudiger was really in Denver. If so, was he watching Jonas right now? He swept his gaze a hundred and eighty degrees and saw nothing but anonymous faces and news cameras. How could the FBI and Secret Service figure out which face in a sea of faces meant trouble? It seemed impossible.

To his left, a woman in a dark-grey suit with her hands clasped in front of her watched Jonas from fifty feet away. Her dirty-blond hair was pulled back tightly behind her head, and her corded earpiece was white, highly visible. Jonas made eye contact with her and she gave him the slightest of nods.

She’s here to watch me, he thought.

The thought of having his own security detail was intriguing, though he knew Rudiger wasn’t stupid. If Rudiger really wanted Jonas, nobody was likely to stop him.

“Sleep much?”

William Stages appeared on Jonas’s immediate left. “Not much. Enough. You?”

Stages shook his head. “I’ll sleep next week. You here to do the meet and greet?”

“I am. I’ve got Israeli detail. You?”

“Palestinians.” Stages grabbed at the knot in his tie. “Goddamn it’s already hot as hell out here. Nothing worse than sweating inside a suit.” His corpulence looked suffocating.

As they waited the crowds seemed to swell, though the barricades remained exactly where they had been all along. To Jonas, it felt like a tide of anger and frustration was coming closer to crashing on the shore. The protesters seemed louder, the streets hotter. He looked over at Stages, who looked more annoyed than worried.

Maybe it’s just me, Jonas thought. Too little sleep, too much to do, and not enough time.

He wanted to wipe off the gathering sweat on his forehead but his only options were his fingers or the sleeve of his suit coat. He let the perspiration build until a few drops rolled down the side of his face.

“Here.” Stages handed him a handkerchief. “You don’t want them to see you sweating.”

Jonas grabbed it and dabbed his face. “What, they don’t sweat?”

“Not until it’s over a hundred and twenty outside.”

Jonas took a deep breath and mentally worked to control his core temperature. He didn’t think about the long day ahead. The frustrations. The pressure. The miscommunications and the media spin. The pressure from the Senator. The demands of a President. He would let it all happen as it happened, and he would do the best he could, which he knew was usually enough. It would all be fine, and tonight he would sleep. Maybe he would even be able to share his bed with Anne, if she didn’t have to work all night.