God's Lions - The Dark Ruin (16 page)

“It won’t be safe to fly! What on earth’s going on? I still think I should send Alon and Moshe to meet him.”

Leo gulped the remainder of his coffee. “I agree that Eduardo is a master of subterfuge, but I trust him ... and I have a feeling you do too, Lev.”

“But we’re talking about my only daughter, Cardinal.”

“That’s true, but the man just saved our lives, so I think he deserves some credit.”

Lev walked out onto the back deck and lit a cigar as he watched the deckhands preparing to cast off. After a few moments of staring down at a dock full of people, any of which could be watching them, he walked back into the salon and poured a tall glass of wine. “Have Nava fire up the chopper so she can fly John and Ariella to Istanbul, but I want them to take the train instead of flying to Paris just in case. They should make it in time.”

Lev peered through his cigar smoke at the surprised-looking faces staring back at him. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

As John and Ariella ran down to their stateroom to pack a few things for their trip to Paris, Lev nodded to Alon. “I need to speak with you in private.”

As the two men walked to the railing outside on the main deck, the yacht eased away from the dock and entered the Mediterranean, where Alex Pappas shoved the throttles to full speed and headed for Israel. Up on the top deck, Nava could be seen preparing the chopper for its flight to Istanbul.

PARIS – TWO DAYS LATER

Paris in springtime. It seemed a cruel dichotomy to John and Ariella that the reason for their visit to the city of lights was rooted in darkness. After making the two day train trip from Istanbul into Paris, they were practically sleepwalking when they crowded into an early morning RER subway train for a quick trip into one of the most affluent sections of the city—the 7th
arrondissement
.

Exiting a crowded metro station filled with well-dressed Parisians, they were immediately assaulted by the sights and smells that drifted from the bustling Rue Cler street market. Continuing on without pausing to eat, they weaved their way along a crowded sidewalk to a wide intersection where five different streets came together in a blur of speeding Paris traffic that flowed with all the determination of a raging river. Across the street lay the famed Champ-de-Mars, the park-like setting that ran from the Seine all the way to the
Ecole Militaire
, the same French military school Napoleon had attended. From there they could see the lattice-like beams of the Eiffel Tower rising into a cloudless sky. It was a sight that made most newcomers stop and stare for a moment, no matter how worldly they tried to appear.

Standing on tiptoes, Ariella sniffed the warming air. She could see trees everywhere. They lined the boulevards and filled the parks, and spaced along a wide path that separated the cars from the pedestrians, little patches of earth allowed the trees to grow and thrive in an otherwise paved urban environment. Small green leaves had recently repopulated the barren, stick-like branches that had clattered against closed Parisian windows during the darkened months of winter. Their leafy birth had been a visible sign to the city that the seasons were a constant, and that warmth had triumphed over cold once again—a metaphor for life over death as the creeping, green-tinted shade covered Parisian streets everywhere, shielding them from a summer sun that would soon make an appearance and give rise to complaints of heat instead of cold.

Always the philosopher, John watched the mass of humanity walking beneath the verdant canopy, seemingly oblivious to all the new green life sprouting just above their heads. He wondered if trees and humans shared any of the same feelings. Like trees, did humans sometimes lose their leaves? Is that what depression and mental illness were all about? Did people sometimes lose their leaves until some invisible force lifted them from the all-enveloping darkness and welcomed them back into a world filled with promise and light?

Like most people, he knew there was some correlation between the dreariness of winter and the seeming euphoria of springtime. Like children released to the freedom of a playground, people flooded outdoors in search of uninhibited fun, preferably under a clear blue sky near a body of water where they could escape the buzzing heat of the sun while floating in the cooling embrace of a slow-moving stream.

“Where are we supposed to go?” Ariella asked, shaking John from his philosophic reverie.

“Lev said Eduardo would meet us somewhere on the grounds of the
Palais de Chaillot
. We’re to go there and wait. Eduardo will find us.”

Ariella stopped to brush the long brown hair out of her eyes. “You do realize that we don’t even know what he looks like. The only pictures we have of him are over forty years old. We should have brought Alon. At least he’s seen him recently.”

“Like Lev said, Eduardo will find us. Come on, Ariella. We’ve only got thirty minutes to get there. After that all bets are off, and I don’t want to face your father if we miss him.”

The two began jogging through the park, crossing gravelly areas crowded with tour buses and souvenir stands, until finally they found themselves passing beneath one of the most famous landmarks in the world. Looking up, the immense size of the Eiffel Tower was almost shocking in its scale as it soared over their heads, but they had little time to admire its beauty as they crossed the Seine on the
Pont d’Iena
, until finally they found themselves standing in front of the
Trocadero
fountains, staring up at a massive curved building situated at the top of a small hill surrounded by magnificent gardens.

“Is this it?” Ariella asked.

“Yes,” John said. “That large building is the
Palais de Chaillot.
There’s a famous terrace up there that would make a perfect place for him to spot us, plus it will give us a better view of the area.”

The two took off walking at a fast pace toward the curved wings of a massive neoclassical building constructed for the 1937 World’s Fair. From the wide expanse of the terrace, one could see over the
Trocadero
gardens to the Eiffel Tower just across the river. Countless photographs of the tower had been taken from this storied terrace, and John had been right. It provided the best spot for them to see and be seen.

Looking out over the city, John felt himself being jostled by a large group of Japanese tourists crowding forward to snap pictures of the tower from this perspective. To those uninitiated in the Japanese method of moving en masse through a crowd, there was nothing offensive in their actions. The constant jostling and bumping was a way of life in Japan. Over time they had developed their own special rules of etiquette for such situations; an etiquette that seemed rude to westerners who always took offense at the bumping and pushing encountered in a small land with little space. On a visit to Tokyo once, John had been waiting for a train, and as the doors opened he found himself being pushed from behind into the waiting car. To the Japanese, this pushing was actually considered polite and helpful, and they were mystified at why American tourists always became so indignant after receiving a gentle push meant to help.

After the Japanese group had passed, John and Ariella found themselves standing alone, looking all around for a man neither of them had ever met. The time for their meeting had now come and gone and no one appeared interested in the young couple standing all alone on the terrace.

“What’s that?” Ariella asked.

“What’s what?”

“There’s a metal tube sticking out of your back pocket.” Ariella reached down and pulled what appeared to be a metal cigar tube from John’s pocket. “Smoking cigars now?”

“That’s not mine. Let’s see it.” Ariella handed the tube to John, and as they both stared at it, it finally dawned on them that someone had just shoved the object into John’s pocket while they had been distracted by the wave of Japanese tourists.”

“Open it,” Ariella said.

“What if it’s a bomb?”

“Really ... a bomb, John?”

Looking sheepish, John unscrewed the end of the metal tube and withdrew a piece of paper.

“Well ... what does it say?”

“It looks like Eduardo is leading us to a different location. I should have figured that he would want to see if we were being followed before he showed himself.”

“Where are we going?”

“Pére Lachaise.”

“I don’t speak French, John ... remember?”

“It’s an old cemetery in the 20
^th
arrondissement
.”

“A cemetery?”

“Yes. It’s actually one of the most visited cemeteries in the world. Literally hundreds of famous people are buried there. Chopin, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas ... Moliére; it’s even the last resting place for Jim Morrison of the Doors.”

“I still don’t understand. Why has he chosen a cemetery?”

“I have no idea, Ariella, but we need to get going. He’s given us only forty-five minutes to get there.”

Once again, the two were running—running down the stairs of the nearest metro station to connect with a subway car that would whiz them to their destination. Inside the station, John purchased a book of ten tickets before they headed out onto the platform. Now, with nothing to do, the waiting was the hardest part. Ariella remained calm, looking up and down the tracks, while John began to fidget, looking at all the faces around them for anyone who seemed unusually interested in their presence.

The muted roar from a dark tunnel heralded the arrival of a train, and in the whoosh of air that preceded its arrival, John strained to make out the number. It was the number 12, one of the trains that traveled line number 2 to the
Philippe Auguste
metro station that exited next to the cemetery’s main entrance. As soon as the train stopped, John and Ariella hopped onboard, followed by a hunched man wearing a light suit and a hat pulled low over his forehead. Taking their seats, John’s eyes followed the man as he passed by and took a seat a few rows down. He seemed innocent enough, and because of his obvious age, he was certainly no threat. But there was something in his lingering glance that had set alarm bells off in John’s head.

“What are you thinking, John?” Ariella asked. “You have
that
look.”

“The man in the light suit who just walked by and sat down behind us. Can you tell me what he’s doing?”

Pulling a nail file from her purse, Ariella dropped it on the floor and bent down to pick it up. As soon as she had it in her grasp, she looked up quickly and saw that the man was staring directly at her. Her sudden glance had caught him by surprise, causing his head to swivel around so quickly that it was obvious he didn’t want her to see he was looking in their direction.

“Well?”

“He’s watching us.”

“Let’s move to another car.”

Slowly, the two rose from their seats, making a show of stretching and looking around, as if they were unsure of where they wanted to be. Instead of walking away from the man, John decided to walk past him in an effort to make it appear they weren’t trying to avoid him. With the train rocking back and forth, they inched their way past as the man feigned indifference by staring out the window. Maybe he really wasn’t interested in them, but the stakes made it impossible for them to take that chance, especially now that they were so close to the man they had come all this way to meet.

After stepping into the next car, they stopped and peered through the smudged windows of the sliding doors between cars, waiting for the man to make his move. He remained seated, never turning his head as he peered through the window at the flashing tunnel lights.

“He doesn’t seem too interested in us now,” Ariella said.

“We won’t know for sure until we stop. If he follows us then we’ll have to shake him somehow before we meet up with Eduardo.”

Accompanied by the screech of brakes, the train slowed as it entered the brightly lit subway station across the street from the cemetery. As soon as the train stopped and the doors whooshed open, John took a final look back into the next car. The man was gone!

Surprised by his sudden disappearance, they waited as long as they could before stepping out onto the platform just as the doors slid shut behind them.
Where had the man gone?

With no time left to wait, they began to move. The exit to the street above was only twenty yards away, so as they walked their eyes scanned the crowd for the man in the light suit, but he was still nowhere to be seen.
Maybe he had changed seats and remained on the train.
Wherever he had gone, at least he was not following them, which meant they were free to head for the cemetery and their meeting with Eduardo.

As soon as they were out in the open, they donned their sunglasses and followed along behind a group of tourists headed toward the main entrance. Once inside the cemetery’s tall gray walls, Ariella was surprised by the subdued, park-like beauty of the place. Trees were everywhere, providing shade for overflowing rows of towering stone monuments separated by cobblestone paths as wide as most Parisian streets. It was like nothing Ariella had ever seen before. Unlike the stark, concrete cemeteries that crowded the hillsides in Jerusalem, or the rolling green lawns seen in their American counterparts, this place was in a class of its own.

Although the majority of the current residents in this city of the dead had been buried below ground, their graves were marked by stunning sculptures that caused those wandering through the forest of memorials to gaze upon the scene in wonderment, as if they were in a museum. Covering one tomb, they saw the life-size carving of a man and wife, lying together and holding hands with their dog lying at their feet to signify that their cherished pet was entombed with them. Farther down, they spotted the life-size bronze casting of a man dressed in late 19
^th
century period clothing, lying flat with his eyes closed—his top hat lying on its side beside him. The scene was especially bizarre considering the fact that the casting represented the way the man, a journalist by the name of Victor Noir, had been found lying in the street after he had been shot by Pierre Bonaparte, a cousin of Napoleon III. The cemetery was full of such sights. It was so special, in fact, that many Parisians came there for Sunday picnics far from the heat and bustle of the city of the living that lay just outside its gates.