The City of Lost Secrets: A Mara Beltane Mystery (14 page)

There was no way someone like me could snag a catch like Dr. Uri Nevon. The realization made me weak in the knees. I swayed and had to grab the edge of Ziva’s desk to steady myself.

At that moment I realized that my feelings for Uri ran deeper than I ever intended them to.

“Are you alright?” Ziva asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I said, closing my eyes to stop the room from spinning. “Please continue.”

“We were engaged,” Ziva said. “But as time went on, he became increasingly obsessed with the Talpiot tomb. It’s all he talked about. I thought he was more committed to that tomb than he was to our relationship.”

“You were engaged?” I asked, taken aback by yet another surprising revelation. “Did you get married?”

“No. He told me about his plan to break into the Talpiot tomb. I thought he was crazy! I warned him of the consequences. I threatened to leave him. But it didn’t matter to him. He was willing to risk his career and our relationship to see the tomb. I felt like I had no choice but to break off the engagement. Several weeks after I left, he broke into the tomb and was arrested.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, offering what little sympathy I had for Ziva.

She leaned forward over the desk. “Be careful moving forward with your plans,” she whispered. “You never know what you might find.”

I stood up straighter, brought to attention by her ominous warning. “What do you mean?” I asked.

She looked at her watch. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.”

“Wait!” I took a step to the left, placing me in front of the door, blocking her exit.

She gathered up some piles of papers that lay on her desk and placed them in a brown leather bag that sat on the floor by her left foot. “I must go or I’ll be late.”

“Just one more question?”

“Yes. What is it?” she asked, standing up straight and glaring at me.

I had so many more questions. Which one should I ask?

I finally decided on: “Do you know Lev Geller?”

She looked at me inquisitively, puzzled by my question.

“Yes, of course. Lev is my brother.”

I didn’t wait for Ariel or Ziva or whoever the hell she was to see me out. The room was spinning and I didn’t think I’d be able to contain my composure for much longer. I needed to get out of that cramped room. I needed fresh air. And I needed to talk to Uri. 

I gathered my things as fast as I could, pausing long enough to thank Ziva for her time. As I rushed out the door I noticed a man sitting on the bench outside Ziva’s office. His face was partially obscured by the newspaper he was reading, but as I sped by him I saw enough to realize who it was. 

It was the man in black.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

All the pieces were starting to fit together. Uri had been engaged to Ziva. Ziva was Lev’s sister. Lev had been a student of Uri’s and almost became his brother-in-law. It explained Lev and Uri’s relationship, their mutual respect for one another.

But the man in black? Who was he? He had been watching me at the library and followed me through the streets of Jerusalem. And just now he had been sitting outside Ziva’s office. Was he a relative of Ziva’s? A brother, perhaps?

Maybe he was Ziva’s new lover. Regardless, he’d been spying on me. Why? Had Ziva made him do it, or did she have no idea he’d been following me? Maybe he wasn’t Ziva’s new lover. Maybe she didn’t even know who he was. I had run out of her office so quickly that I hadn’t waited to see her reaction to the man in black sitting on the bench outside her office. Maybe she was just as surprised as I was to see him there.

And if she had dispatched the man in black to spy on me, why? Was she afraid that I was getting too close to Uri? Concerned that I might get sucked into Uri’s world and start obsessing over the Talpiot tomb, just like he had? Or was she jealous of my friendship with Uri?   

I desperately wanted to see the complete picture. I needed answers. And at the moment, Uri was the only one who could help me.

I ran across campus to Uri’s building, glancing at my watch.

2:30 p.m.

I think I heard him mention the other day that he had classes until early afternoon most days. I was hoping early afternoon meant 2:30. 

When I approached the lecture hall I slowed to a walk. Kids were filtering out of the room. I was in luck. Class had just been dismissed. I hovered near the entrance until the last student exited and then stood in the doorway, peeking in. Uri was alone, standing at the lectern, packing up his things into his briefcase. I knocked on the door and he turned toward me, startled.

“Oh, hi Mara. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I came,” I said. “I know it’s risky but I was in the neighborhood.”

“That’s okay,” he said, smiling and motioning me further inside. “Come on in.”

He looked at me curiously as I approached the lectern. 

“Is everything all right?” he asked. His eyebrows were

arched, his mouth set squarely, which indicated that he was prepared to listen to whatever it was I had to say.

I hadn’t decided if I was angry at Uri for not telling me about Ziva or just jealous that she even existed. Perhaps both.

What Uri and I had at that moment was an acquaintanceship based on a shared desire to see the Talpiot tomb. Nothing more, nothing less. More time in Jerusalem would surely lead to a friendship and…well, I dared not dream of anything beyond that.

So regardless of any feeling beyond friendship that I had for Uri, regardless of any attraction or desire, at this stage in the relationship I had no claim to him. He didn’t need to tell me anything about his personal life. I had no right to feel anger or jealousy.

“I just met Ziva,” I said.

He sighed and bowed his head. Then he looked me deeply in the eyes.

“Perhaps we should talk.”

*  *  *

I always thought the phrase “We need to talk” and its close cousins, “We should talk,” “Can we talk?” and “Let’s talk” should be reserved for the rare moments when two peoples’ line of communication had broken down so severely that the only way it could begin to be repaired was by uttering a variation of those words. The phrase would serve as a primer, as a way to prepare you for what was about to occur: A serious, no-bullshit conversation in which both sides aired their grievances and attempted to make amends so they could move on with their lives. That way, there were no surprises. When you heard those words, you always knew what to expect. That seems fair and just to me. 

It’s kind of like a pre-show at a Disney attraction. You have to sit through a silly song or listen to an animated character tell a story that serves as an introduction to what you are about to experience. The pre-show sets up the premise of the ride so you know what to expect.

The pre-show, in other words, is your “we need to talk” moment.

Thomas and I had been married a year when he first said “We need to talk.” At the time I had just acquired my agent Jenny and was attempting to sell my first novel. It was an exciting time for me, and a busy time, as I was teaching by day and writing novels at night. Thomas was happy for me and very supportive. Everything was as it should be.

We were putting groceries away on that Saturday morning when Thomas said those fateful words.

“Ooh, that sounds serious,” I said, clutching my chest.

He smiled at my melodrama but didn’t laugh and silently continued storing items in the freezer.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. What it is you’d like to talk about?”

“I think we need to start thinking about our future together,” he said.

I handed him a box of frozen peas. “I thought we had it planned out pretty well.”

“I just mean that…you know, once you sell your book our whole lives will probably change. We ought to prepare for that.”

“You mean when I become rich and famous and so recognizable I won’t even be able to leave the house without an entourage in tow?”

“You wish,” he said, closing the freezer door.

“Our lives won’t change, Thomas,” I said. “Other than a little bit of extra income, our lives will go on much the same.”

“Little bit of extra income?”

I looked at Thomas incredulously. “You do realize that most novelists are never able to quit their day jobs.”

“You mean you won’t make enough money for me to become a house husband?” he said, smirking.

“Afraid not. This isn’t a get-rich-quick scheme and I’m in it for the long haul.”

We finished putting away the groceries in silence and then Thomas poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the dining room table to read the newspaper.

I sank into my usual chair opposite him.

“You are happy for me, right?” I asked.

He looked up from the paper, smiled at me and nodded.

“But I don’t care about the money,” he said. “There’s more to life than a large bank account.”

“Oh, I get it,” I said. “You’re afraid that once I become a hot-shot novelist I’ll be too busy.”

“Too busy,” Thomas said, rubbing his chin. “Yes, that’s it.”

“And I’ll forget all about you.”

“Absolutely. You’ll forget all about your darling husband who’d do anything for you.”

“And I won’t have the time to travel with you anymore,” I added.

“Right.”

“Well, then we’ll just have to start booking all kinds of trips right now. Where do you want to go first? Africa? I know you really want to go on a safari.” 

And that, I believe, is the precise moment our marriage started to fail. Only one year in, and already a crack. I had made fun of that particular situation and made a mockery of Thomas. I hadn’t seen the deeper meaning of our conversation and the serious implications it would have over the next couple of years.

Our talk had taken the form of a conversation about my then side career as a novelist, but that’s not what was really happening. Thomas was thinking about something else altogether. He was subconsciously planting the seeds of parenthood. 

I failed to see that at the time. But I wasn’t completely to blame. Thomas failed to simply come out and say he wanted to have children. Instead, he masked his true emotions in a conversation about my career, and I failed to see he was using that as a façade for his greater concerns. 

The first time Thomas and I needed to have a serious talk and failed to get to the heart of the matter, a crack formed. The last time Thomas and I needed to have a serious talk and were unsuccessful, a handful of years later, the crack split wide open into a deep, irreparable chasm, one Thomas felt helpless to fix. And that is when he left me.

So when Uri, my new Israeli companion whom I’d known only a few weeks, said we needed to talk, I had no idea what to expect. Our relationship hadn’t yet reached the level where those words needed to be said, or should be said, and I hadn’t thought our line of communication had been breached. But there the words were, dangling out in space, waiting for a response.

We were in a lecture hall, class had just been dismissed, and we sat side by side in the front row of seats.

“You met Ziva,” Uri said. “What did she have to say?”

“She told me that Lev is her brother. And that you two were…engaged.”

Uri blinked but said nothing at first. Then, finally, he said, “So, now you know.”

“Um, yes.”

“She was the woman Lev and I were talking about when the three of us met in his store the other day,” he explained.

“I gathered that,” I said, perhaps too angrily.

Uri furrowed his brow, as if contemplating whether or not he thought I should be upset with him. “Perhaps I should have told you about her,” he said. It sounded more like a question than a statement. “I’m sorry,” he added.

“Oh, hey,” I said, waving off his apology. “It’s really none of my business.”

Uri smiled and I smiled and then there were no more words between us for what seemed like minutes, but it was really only about ten seconds. I glanced over at the white board and scanned the notes Uri had written on it, a half-English, half-Hebrew jumble of words and phrases in black marker. 

“I didn’t tell you about Ziva because I didn’t think she’d be a problem,” Uri finally said, and I returned my gaze to him.

“Why would she be a problem?” I asked.

“I’m…I’m not sure.”

“I’m not quite following,” I said. “Are you two…you know, back together?” The answer to that had nothing to do with anything. I just really wanted to know.

“No. We have remained friendly and talk every once in a while, but that is all.”

Relief. It oozed out of me at that moment. Uri and Ziva were not a couple. The thought of it made me feel lighter, like I could take flight and float out of the classroom using my relief as fuel. I’d been released from guilt over feeling something more than friendship for Uri. I was free to pine for him if I chose to. And I was ready to tackle the Talpiot tomb.

“Well, it’s not Ziva I’m worried about,” I said. “It’s the man I saw sitting outside her office that’s the problem.”

Uri sat up straighter in his chair. “What man? Describe him to me.”

“Mid 40s, I’d say. Tall and broad-shouldered. Buzz cut black hair with some gray.”

Uri stroked his chin and stared at the ceiling, deep in thought.

“Oh, and every time I saw him he was wearing black clothes and big black sunglasses,” I added.

“You’ve seen him more than once?”

“I saw him the first time a couple of days ago when I was doing research at the Bloomfield Library. He must’ve been following me because I saw him later at Hurva Square.” I paused, deciding how to tell him what happened next. “And then he started following me.”

“What?” Uri said, grabbing the arm of the chair, his eyes wide and unblinking.

“He chased me through Hurva Square,” I repeated. “I thought I’d lost him inside a souk, but he tracked me down. I finally gave him the slip at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.”

Uri reached across the armrest that separated us and gently took my hand. “Mara, why didn’t you tell me?”

I looked down at Uri’s hand as it held mine, silently wishing he’d never let go, and wondered why I hadn’t told Uri that I was chased through the streets of Jerusalem.