by Bill Myers
He wanted to keep going, but his mother was already fighting back tears. It was enough for the time being. After all, she was still his mother. At least for now.
If Brandon had been impressed by Turkey’s history and culture, he was overwhelmed by Jerusalem’s. With a past history thirty times longer than the United States, the Old City was home to four hundred holy sites, thirty denominations, three Sabbath days, seven alphabets, and fifteen languages. It was a jarring cacophony of life-threatening politics, swarming humanity, fierce prejudice, devout holiness, deep-rooted hatred, and beckoning merchants … all crammed within a half square mile of narrow streets and stone buildings. But there was something else here — beyond the history and humanity.
There was the desire to touch holiness.
Brandon felt it no stronger than in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the large structure built over what many believe to be the hill where Jesus was crucified as well as the tomb from which he rose. Tanya had dropped Brandon off here while she went to persuade a news producer friend into editing and beaming his taped message back to the States. That had been nearly two hours ago, and Brandon was no more tired of the place now than when he had arrived.
For the first hour he’d been lost, wandering the grottos and carved-out niches staked out by somber-looking clergy of various sects. He choked on the incense and smoking candles, was jostled by the waves of pushing pilgrims, and was amused at the chants and songs of competing clergy all pretending to be oblivious to each other. It wasn’t until he’d completely circled the inside of the church and started up the steep nineteen stone steps to Calvary that Brandon started to feel a connection. Even then, it wasn’t immediate.
At first, like so many others, he was put off by the gaudy lampstands, the hanging candleholders (attached to nearly every square foot of ceiling), the pretentious amount of gold and silver (including the loincloth of the life-size crucifix looming above and behind the altar), the inlaid pearl, the religious icons, and the intricate mosaics covering the entire ceiling of vaulted arches. In fact, for Brandon, the whole place gave new meaning to the word kitsch. If Christ really had been crucified here, why did they have to turn it into such an overindulged spectacle of bad taste?
But as he sat on a worn marble bench against the sidewall, he began to see something deeper. He began to sense the awe and the love here. He saw it in the hundreds of faces parading past the crucifix stuck into the rock. He saw it in the line of those patiently waiting to stoop under the altar and reach into a small hole to touch part of that rock. He saw it in the nuns kneeling, the Greek Orthodox priest meditating, the Armenians moving their lips in whispered unison, the Protestants standing to the side softly singing, a lone Coptic priest silently weeping. He saw it as each attempted, in their own way, to touch the infinite, to express their inexpressible appreciation for what had been accomplished on that hill so many centuries before.
And the longer Brandon sat, the more he understood. He tilted back his head to look up at the mosaic ceiling above him — dozens of stars and angels in a midnight blue sky. Each stone was laid with such care and precision that it actually looked like an intricate painting. The work must have been excruciatingly difficult. Wasn’t this all the same? Wasn’t this the same as the old black woman who was now being helped down to her knees so she could touch the rock? Wasn’t this simply another attempt at trying to embrace God, some way of expressing the inexpressible? And although the pictures, candles, and gaudiness were not his style, just as many of the theologies parading before him were not, Brandon felt their reverence, awe, and love.
And, as he felt their love, he sensed a deeper Love returning.
Feeling God’s love and sensing his presence were happening more and more for Brandon. Now that he’d given up his own life, he was more open to experiencing God’s … no matter what form it came in. He found it interesting that he was no longer concerned about affirming his own views of Christ. In fact, the more he lost himself in Christ’s love, the more he realized his views didn’t matter. All that mattered was Jesus Christ. Not Brandon’s theology, not Brandon’s ministry. God would advance these as he saw fit. All that mattered was Jesus Christ and him crucified. Everything else was vain … as vain as the debate over which brand of worship here was better … or which type of art was the most tasteful.
As he felt God’s love, he felt the fire — the burning desire to draw each of these children into his arms. To encourage them to bask and soak and drink in as much love as they could. Because there was no end to it. The love for each was infinite. And there was no spot on earth where that love was more apparent than here.
Here, where the God of the universe unleashed his wrath upon his Son. Here, where at any moment, the Son could have cried, “Enough, let them suffer their own punishment!” Here, where, sin by sin, anguished torture upon anguished torture, the Son received full punishment for each of our failures … where, for six excruciating hours, all of creation watched in stunned silence as the human race, who had once sold itself into slavery, was being repurchased.
Such love. Such infinite, unfathomable, indiscernible love. That was the love that saturated Brandon and fed the fire. And that was why here, on this tiny hill, in this noisy, eclectic sanctuary, Brandon closed his eyes and began to pray for the bride. For God’s bride … and his own.
Sarah sat naked on the edge of the white Jacuzzi, staring at the water as it filled the tub. She was drunk. She’d been drunk for hours. A fully stocked bar was one of the perks in the VIP suites. She had taken a fancy to the Coke and Puerto Rican rum. She’d hoped it would silence the voice, the one she’d been hearing to some degree or another ever since the encounter in Eric’s room at Nepal. The one she’d first heard on her wedding day … the whore of Babylon! But it did not. Instead, the more she drank the louder it grew … and the more relentless it became. Adultery and ambition, that is all you are!
In Nepal she’d been able to drown it out with the preparations for Jerusalem, with the excitement of the installation, and with the love and respect she had felt from Lucas. But now … Prostitution … surely, you understand better than most. That was yesterday afternoon, the last time she’d seen him in person. He’d been in meetings ever since.
For whatever reason, security thought it was best she not leave the hotel, at least until after the installation. So with Lucas gone and Katherine making a point to stay cloistered in her room with Eric, Sarah was left pretty much on her own.
Except for the voice. You have never changed, you never will.
She’d tried the TV, but all she seemed to see was Chairman Ponte speaking with some president, Chairman Ponte talking with this group, Chairman Ponte offering assurance to that group. Anticipation for tomorrow’s installation was high, and rightfully so. With the Cartel pulling strings behind the scenes and pressing for last-minute favors, it looked like it would be the international event of the decade. And her boyfriend was right in the center. But for now he was the last thing in the world she wanted to see. Not since the little incident out on the terrace.
She’d been sunning herself at the hotel’s pool, one of the few distractions she’d found since she’d arrived. She’d already lost track of the number of glasses of Chardonnay she’d put down when she spotted Lucas dining up on the terrace. He was chatting with a handful of Hollywood celebs. Big names. So big that she thought strolling up to the table and meeting them would be interesting — especially since their talk didn’t appear to be too official — especially since one of the actresses seemed to be becoming a bit too affectionate.
Sarah pulled herself from the lawn chair, waited for the ground to stop moving, then placed one foot in front of the other and headed toward the terrace. She’d barely made it halfway when Lucas spotted her. She smiled. But, without even acknowledging her, he glanced to one of the security men and discreetly nodded in her direction. Taking his cue, security quietly crossed the lawn and cut her off.
“May I help you, Doctor?”
<
br /> “I’m going up to say hi.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. Chairman Ponte is preoccupied at the moment.”
“No, he’s not. He’s right there.” She tried to pass him, but the man blocked her.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, he’s asked not to be disturbed.”
“What?” The ground had started to move again. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes, I know exactly who you are.”
“Then you’ll let me by.”
Again she tried to move around him, and again he blocked her. “I am sorry, Doctor.”
She raised her voice louder. “I want to see Lucas. Let me by.”
“Doctor, maybe you should go back to your room.”
“Lucas!” she waved her hand. “Lucas!”
Other tables glanced in her direction, but not Lucas. He became more engrossed in his discussion.
“Lucas!”
“That’s enough, Doctor.” The security man motioned to one of the dining guests, who immediately rose to his feet and joined them. “Show Dr. Martus to her room, will you please?” The “guest” nodded and took her arm.
“But that’s …” Sarah tried to twist free. “Lucas and I, we’re, we’re …”
“I know what you are,” the security man answered. “Good day, Doctor.”
The guest began leading her around the terrace and up toward the hotel. She tried to break free, but his grip was like iron. “Lucas! Lucas!” Other tables turned and stared. By now she’d drawn nearly everyone’s attention. Everyone but Lucas’s. He continued talking and laughing in perfect oblivion.
That had been forty minutes ago.
Sarah turned to the bathroom counter behind her and poured the last of the rum into her glass. When she set the bottle down, she missed the counter and it crashed onto the marble floor, sending shards of splintered glass in all directions. She looked down, startled at her own clumsiness, then felt the tears coming to her eyes.
Can’t you do anything right?
She closed her eyes, but the voice continued. You can lie. You can cheat. You can kill.
“I know exactly who you are, Doctor.” That’s what the security guard had said. And maybe he did. But did she?
Adulterer.
I know exactly what you are, Doctor …
Behold, the Whore of Babylon!
And she was learning more and more who the great Lucas Ponte was as well …
Be careful, he’s not all that he appears.
She’d seen it before, but had done her best to deny it. Lucas Ponte … master of charm, perfecter of politics. Wasn’t it interesting how once they’d slept together he had never again mentioned his offer for her to join the team? Wasn’t it interesting that he was always insulated from the dirty work of power? Wasn’t it interesting how he always pretended to listen, but how he always got his way … even when it came to Eric … even when it involved the young man’s destruction?
No, Lucas Ponte was not as he appeared.
But, then again, neither are you.
Liar … Baby killer … Adulterer … Whore …
She looked back to the water in the tub. Is that really what she’d become? The great Sarah Weintraub, doctor, cutting-edge neurobiologist, end-time prophet … now reduced to nothing but an elaborate call girl?
“Brandon!” The name surprised her. It came deep from her gut before she could stop it. “Bran … don … ” But even Brandon couldn’t help now. No one could. Naked and all alone, Sarah lowered her head and tried to cry tears of self-pity. But they would not come. There was no pity. Not anymore. It was hard to pity someone you hated so deeply.
CHAPTER 16
“I TELL YOU, KIDDO, it’s the biggest broadcast I’ve ever been a part of. We’ve got downlinks in nearly every country. In theory we could be reaching every household with a television in the entire world.”
“If those households are interested in tuning in,” Tanya corrected.
“Oh, they’ll be interested. With the promos and all the past coverage on Ponte, they’ll think it’s the media event of the century.”
Tanya looked at Ryan Holton skeptically.
“See for yourself.” He motioned to the row of monitors along the top of the wall of the Channel
Two newsroom. They monitored the competing channels beamed in from other countries. Except for one screen showing the latest volcano disaster in the Philippines, and another playing a fabric softener commercial, all others were broadcasting various aspects of Lucas Ponte’s visit to Jerusalem or commenting upon the upcoming installation.
Tanya whistled softly. “The Cartel’s doing all this?”
Ryan nodded. “They’re twisting some pretty heavy arms. Every major network in the world is being ‘encouraged’ to support this ‘pivotal moment of world history.’ ”
“That’s how it’s being promoted? A little rich, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “The people are eating it up.”
Tanya looked out across the newsroom. A dozen reporters, all under thirty and most chain-smoking, were typing at computer terminals or working the phones. Israel had basically two major networks. Channel One, run by the government, and Channel Two, which was owned and operated independently. The latter’s facilities filled the entire ninth floor of the impressive Egged Building on Jaffa Road. On the outside the building looked modern and impressive. On the inside it was purely functional. Worn carpeting, low ceiling, fluorescent lights, and grimy white walls. But Channel Two was the best. And that’s why Ryan Holton had chosen to use their services. Because he was the best.
Tanya had fallen in love with Ryan’s good looks and sharp intelligence right out of college. And, despite their breakup two years later, she knew a part of her would always love him. But he wanted a family and she wanted a career. Then there was her faith. Not that it prevented them from living together for nearly ten months. Still, she claimed to be a devout Christian. And Ryan — well, Ryan’s only devotion was to being a great TV producer/director and a faithful friend. He had succeeded in both.
Tanya stared up at the various screens showing Ponte meeting this dignitary, Ponte visiting this site, Ponte chatting with this common person. According to Ryan, the images were being broadcast all around the world. “These guys are good,” she conceded. “Very, very good.”
Ryan nodded. “They’ve got the power, kiddo, and they know how to use it. You should see what they’re letting me do for the broadcast. I’ve got twelve cameras with live feeds from around the world. Endorsements from Moscow, the Vatican, Washington, that sort of thing. Another half dozen for immediate man-on-the-street responses, and fourteen stationed around the Temple Mount where I’ll call the show.”
“They let you bring remote trucks onto the Mount?”
“No, the trailers are parked just outside the Wall. We had to string cable over it and the cemetery beside it. But they’re letting me bring in a couple Jumbotron screens so the crowd at the back of the Mount can see what’s happening up onstage.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your plate full.”
He flashed her a smile. “Just the way I like it.”
Another pause settled over the conversation. Nearly eighteen months had passed since they’d last touched base. She hadn’t even known about his divorce, though she suspected it coming. And as far as his looks went? The more worn and weathered he became, the more handsome it made him.
He tapped the tapes she’d handed him. “You say this kid is the one who ruined your show in L.A.?”
“Yeah. Any chance of scoring some time in one of these edit suites?” She motioned to the cramped rooms behind them. “Turn Jerry loose on an Avid so we can put together something for broadcast?”
Ryan broke into a mischievous grin. “Payback time, huh?” Before she could respond, he asked, “Did you know your boss is in town?”
“Jimmy Tyler?”
“Yeah, he’s staying over at the Hyatt. During the ceremony he’ll be one of the dignitaries
on the platform. Not that he’ll be doing much talking.” Ryan glanced back to the tapes in his hand. “So what you’re looking for with these is a little eye for an eye, am I right?”
Tanya shook her head. “Not really. Actually, I believe there’s something legit about him.”
“You’re not serious?”
She nodded. “He’s young, and he’s made his share of mistakes, but what I saw in Turkey and what I have on tape proves he’s not some religious con artist. And he’s definitely not a fruitcake. I think he just might be the genuine article.”
“A prophet crying in the wilderness?” Ryan teased.
Tanya shrugged, doing her best to maintain her skepticism. After all, that was a reporter’s stock-in-trade. “The kid’s got a lot to say … I just think somebody should give him the opportunity to say it.”
Ryan held her look a moment, then glanced down at the tapes. “We’ve booked time on all their Avids until after the installation.”
“Prerecorded segments during the broadcast?”
He nodded, then referred back to the tapes. “What do you have, about three hours here?”
She nodded. “I’m looking for an eight-, maybe ten-minute piece when it’s completed.”
“Do you mind working at night?”
“Hey, we’ll take what we can get.”
“Send Jerry up. Have him start digitizing them. Once they’re loaded I can give up one of the machines.”
Tanya broke into a smile. “Thanks, Ryan.”
“No problem, kiddo.”
“What do I owe you?”
“This one’s on the Cartel.”
“You’re serious?”
“Sure.” He grinned, then added good-naturedly, “’Course it might cost you some drinks with me when you’re done. Maybe stop by the hotel … we’ve got plenty of catching up to do.”
Tanya knew what he meant, and she was not offended. After all, they were both single again, and he was looking pretty good. But she’d already planned her answer. “I don’t think so, Ryan.” There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, and she explained, “Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing in the world I’d rather do than spend the night catching up on old times.”
