The Illumination (27 page)

Natalie closed her eyes.
Tiny treasure from the Middle East.

Dana had been trying to make peace. She never would have guessed that her accidental discovery would trigger anything but.

 

 

The street where Fatima Al Mehannadi worked smelled pleasantly of cumin and mint and lemons. But it was hardly peaceful. It roared with the chatter of shopkeepers hawking their wares and customers hunting for bargains as they made their way through the narrow lanes strung with merchandise. Here they could choose among rugs, ceramics, postcards, religious items, and filmy scarves and tunics that formed a colorful canopy overhead.

Women, many with children in tow, hurried from shop to shop, past men waving people into their carpet stores or whiling away the hours smoking cigarettes or heady tobacco from their hookahs. People clustered in cafés drinking small cups of thick black coffee, talking about the very real possibility of peace, whispering about the summit that had the world's eye focused on their city.

The door of the little souvenir shop where Fatima sold brass teapots, ceramic plates, and Arabic music tapes was flung open to the dust of the cobbled street to let in whatever air could filter through the congestion. It was hot air, but without even a fan in the tiny premises, any type of breeze was welcome. Fatima fanned herself with a sheaf of paper in between waiting on customers.

And waiting for Hasan to arrive.

She felt warm in her high-necked, long-sleeved shirt and the flowered cotton skirt that fell to dust her sandaled toes. She longed to lift her black woven
hijab
just long enough to fan her neck, but Hasan might walk in at any moment, and he'd be displeased. He didn't accept the modern tendencies of the Bahraini upper classes in which she'd been raised, where a more relaxed and Western mode of dress for women was acceptable—unlike in Iran, where he'd grown up. It irked her sometimes, but Hasan was a generous husband and a great leader. And she loved him for both.

They'd been married less than a year, but she still quivered with a mixture of excitement and trepidation whenever she thought of him. Whenever she looked in the mirror and saw the scar that glistened pink and jagged across her right cheek.

Some women might have been terrified to marry Hasan, but she felt no regret. Only a twinge of sadness. She knew that there would always be a price to pay for loving a man who possessed the evil eye. His gaze was dangerous. But she felt worse for Hasan than for herself.

The day after the Sabouri and Al Mehannadi families had announced their engagement, the curse everyone whispered about had visited her father's home. Fatima had glanced up at herself in the hallway mirror as she hurried to the kitchen, and had caught Hasan's gaze following her. In that instant the mirror fell from the wall, showering glass onto her head.

But Fatima refused to be afraid. As long as their eyes never again met—while they made love, while they shared their meals, or when they greeted each other—she had to trust that no further harm would befall her. Hasan needed her. No one else would risk being close to him. Even his brother, Farshid, kept his distance, though they were brothers by blood, brothers in a shared cause.

Fatima knew the depths of her husband's isolation. Outside of the business of the Guardians, he had few dealings with others. He feigned indifference to friendship, yet she knew that the boyhood he'd spent feared and shunned had left its wounds. She wondered what kind of man he'd be if he'd been born with brown eyes. But then, she reminded herself, he wouldn't be the
man destined to lead the Guardians, destined to bring them the Eye of Dawn.

She spotted Hasan through the shop window before he reached the doorway and adjusted her
hijab,
pulling it more snugly toward her cheeks. She lowered her eyes as he crossed the doorway, a smile breaking across her heart-shaped face.

“Fatima. You look well.” Hasan strode toward his bride, glancing quickly at her and then away.

“I am better now that you are back,” she replied, love flooding her, her gaze fixed carefully on the center of his patterned tie, daring to roam no higher than the lapels of his tailored black suit. “Sayyed was here earlier. He is eager for today.”

“May Allah bless his clumsy hands.” Hasan's eyes narrowed. “His success remains to be proven. He'd better not fail us on this of all days.”

Seeing the worry flicker across her face, he turned the conversation.

“I brought you something to mark this day of victory. It's nearly as lovely as you.”

Her sudden smile rewarded him. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out the
hamsa
charm, threaded on its delicate silver chain. He dangled it from his fingers, letting the amethysts catch the light and splay tiny transparent stars across the walls.

Fatima beamed with pleasure. It
was
lovely. Her dark eyes shone at the glimmer of the amethysts, the turquoise cloisonné eye, and, most of all, at the shimmering pearl at its center. Her parents had told her when she was a child that pearls were formed when mermaid tears fell into open oyster shells. The Bahraini legend said that certain pearls possessed supernatural powers, helping their owners to find lost objects—or love. She'd never seen a Hand of Fatima quite like this one.

“Hasan, it is extraordinary,” she breathed. “Thank you!”

“It's more special than you know,” he murmured, and there was an edge to his voice. Fatima wondered why, but she didn't ask. “This will protect you today. And
in sha'allah,
for many days to come.”

She turned around so that he could clasp it around her neck.
It dangled at her throat, just beneath the juncture of her
hijab
and her blouse.

“Your trip—I am sorry it did not go as well as you hoped.” How she longed to gaze into his eyes, to see if he was troubled by the failure in Rome Farshid had told her about. But she couldn't risk the danger or Hasan's anger over her tempting fate.

“The game isn't over.” His tone was grim now. Determined. “My quarry has come to me. If Sayyed does his part, there's no doubt we'll triumph.”

Fatima's heartbeat quickened, thinking how close they were to achieving everything they'd worked for. Hasan, his brother Farshid, her own brother, herself . . .

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “The Eye of Dawn is here—now—in Al Quds?”

Satisfaction suffused his voice as he caught her hands in his. “Yes, Fatima, the Eye is here. Exactly where we need it to be.”

 

 

 

Natalie awoke in a strange bed. She was in a small room where slatted wood blinds blocked any ray of light. For a moment she couldn't remember where she was. She felt dazed and confused, with fuzzy remnants of dreams whirling in her brain. Then where she was—and why—came flooding back in a rush. She jerked upright in the narrow bed and winced. Her body ached all over, adding to her reconnection with reality.

The Mossad. The plane taxiing down the runway in Tel Aviv. The car ride at night to this safe house somewhere in a northern neighborhood of Jerusalem. A slim young Israeli woman in cropped white cotton pants, sandals, and a black tank top meeting them at the door, leading her and D'Amato up the stairs to their bedrooms. She checked under her pillow and scooped up the pouch, reassuring herself that the pendant was still safely inside.

As she stared at it, the words of Rabbi Calo and Father Caserta came back to her. The Light of Creation was in her hand. A smidge of it, anyway.

But a smidge so powerful, the whole world wanted it.

She tried to imagine what the crystal gem encasing this primordial light looked like. Tried to picture it hanging aloft in Noah's Ark—powerful enough to illumine the darkness of the Flood. She imagined it aglow in Nebuchadnezzar's palace and
marveled that Daniel had managed to rescue it as the Persians charged the palace gates.

She caught the scent of coffee, heard the clink of kitchen utensils from below, and suddenly her stomach hurt from more than Barnabas's kick. She was starving.

Throwing back the covers, she stumbled to the bathroom, showered gingerly, and dressed in the clothes Tali, the female Mossad agent, had left folded for her on a wicker chest near the sink.

The cropped khakis were a bit loose in the waist, a bit tight in the tush, but they were clean and fresh, as was the pale yellow T-shirt that Natalie tucked into the waistband. There was nothing she could do about the bruise purpling across her cheek, but she fluffed her damp hair, grabbed up her shoulder bag, and went down in search of that coffee.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she could hear the television. It was always on in Israel. Israelis hung on every word of the news as if their lives depended on it—which they often did.

“
Boker tov
.” D'Amato's tone was dry as he wished her good morning in Hebrew over the low murmur of the TV on the counter. “As you can see, I still remember some things from my stint here with the network.”

“I guess you do.” She managed a smile as she slipped into the chair beside him. “I don't know about you, but I slept like the dead.” She nodded at Doron, scrambling eggs at the stove. He was unsmiling. He looked tense. So did Lior, his brow crinkled as he handed her a cup of coffee, then slung himself into one of the four remaining chairs crammed around a small round table.

“This'll revive you. Tali brews it so strong you could chew it.”

“Where is she?” Natalie asked, spearing a slice of melon from the plate at the center of the table. “And the others?”

“They have a different assignment today,” Lior replied. “Only Nuri and Yuvi are staying here with us—they'll be back soon to escort you to the IAA. Prime Minister Rachmiel sends his regrets that he won't be able to meet you there to thank you personally.”

“I imagine he's a tad tied up today.” Natalie smiled.

Doron portioned out the pan of stiffly scrambled eggs and joined them at the table. “You can't imagine the excitement at the IAA this morning. Two momentous events in Israel on the same day—peace and the
tzohar
come to Jerusalem.”

Lior set down his coffee cup. “As we say during the Passover Seder—
dayenu
—‘it would have been enough.' Well, the prime minister's office said, if only peace had come to Jerusalem today,
dayenu.
And if only the oldest biblical treasure in existence had come to us today, that would have been enough, too. But to have them both—and to know that the primordial light of the
tzohar
has the potential to illuminate the world—that's a miracle of riches.”

“The IAA is extremely interested in the
tzohar,
since it's our most precious antiquity,” Doron added, “but the government will be eager to explore its properties as an alternative source of fuel.”

“I'd be most interested in seeing them prove that,” D'Amato said wryly.

“So you, too, believe it has such power?” Natalie asked the Israelis in surprise.

“Thanks to you, we're on the verge of finding out, aren't we?” A pensive expression settled over Doron's face. “I'm sure you're familiar with
tikkun olam
—the Jewish concept that humans are here to repair the world, each person in their own way.”

As Natalie nodded, he continued. “I'm not a particularly religious man, but I'd like to think that the
tzohar
surfaced now to do some
tikkun olam,
too. It seems likely that the light that helped create the world could go a long way toward helping to heal it.”

The only sound in the kitchen was the low murmur of the TV newscast, until Lior stopped chewing and stared at D'Amato.

“Your injury—the explosion on bus 27,” the gray-haired Mossad agent said out of the blue. “Just so you know—remember how quiet Rafi became yesterday when you told us what happened to you? His cousin died on that bus.”

D'Amato went still. “Damn. For all I know, he could have been sitting right next to me.”

Lior set his fork down with a clatter. “You were lucky.”

“That's what I keep reminding myself. I spent four eye-opening years here with the network, Lior. I know exactly what you're up against.”

Doron grunted. “Well, we're up against a lot more of it today.”

“How do you mean?” Natalie folded her napkin, wondering if he was worried about getting the pendant safely to the IAA.

The two Mossad agents exchanged glances, but neither of them answered her. Instead, they turned their attention back to the television.

“It would be nice if you leveled with us,” D'Amato remarked, as the newscast switched to video of President Owen Garrett's arrival in Jerusalem, a smiling First Lady at his side.

Lior slid the remote closer and pumped up the volume.

“Is it the summit?” D'Amato guessed, noting Doron was equally riveted now to the screen. He sensed the increased tension thrumming through the two agents.

Lior pushed back his chair. “As you can imagine, not everyone is in a celebratory mood.”

“Are you anticipating trouble at the ceremony?” D'Amato asked.

Lior responded by stacking the plates and hauling them to the sink. He peered out the window, checking up and down the street. “Why aren't they back already?” He drummed his long fingers on the countertop.

I'm right,
D'Amato thought, watching him. Watching Doron's frown deepen. He listened to what was left unsaid.
Something is brewing over the ceremony.

“Yeah,” D'Amato said aloud. “We do need to get going. Natalie won't relax until she turns the pendant over to the authorities.”

“
You're
not going anywhere, D'Amato.” Doron scrubbed his hands down his face. “You're expecting a visitor.”