by Greg Dragon
Tim recorded the story, his journalistic skills still sluggish because of the trauma of Monday’s murder. Bud continued to stare from the boat’s stern, as if his intensity would somehow resurrect Monday. Patience groaned when she learned that the batteries for her phone were dead.
“Can I borrow your smart watch to call Monday’s family?” she asked Tim. “Now that we are out of the Sudd, we should have reception once again.”
As Tim handed her his watch, Patience tried to compose the way she could tell Monday’s wife that she was now a widow.
* * *
Thousands of miles to the northwest, Dr. Graves’ computer informed him that “Tim Beheard’s smart watch is being used to make a call from Sudan to Nigeria.”
Dr. Graves cursed. “The fools. Don’t they know that they have to continue their journey to Switzerland to visit Patrice Oldefarmer? That way that nosy Tim Beheard will have met all six of The Club members and finally realize that Bud Lee has led him around the world on a worthless expedition. If Tim is calling Nigeria, it must mean that he has convinced Bud to fly from Nigeria back to their homes instead.”
“Perhaps Mr. Beheard has decided to part company with Mr. Lee?” the computer raised the scenario it calculated to be more probable.
“Who cares? I must have them meet with Patrice Oldefarmer. That will make their investigation into The Club members complete and certainly derail their inane misguided plans to expose me. Go ahead and block the call so they cannot make arrangements to leave from Nigeria to travel back to SLD.”
“I have blocked his call,” the computer said. “Brilliant maneuver, almost as brilliant as having me install your software program into his smart watch while he and Bud Lee searched your house. I calculate a seventy-eight percent chance that my blocking of his call to Nigeria will accomplish what you desire. Would you like to play some chess?”
* * *
Eleven days after entering the White Nile, the weary trio entered Lake Nasser, the immense body of water held back by the Aswan Dam. Told how the misadventure of pirates had caused their late arrival, the buyer for the boat tilted his head and shrugged.
“Did the pirates damage the boat in any way?” He scanned the boat’s hull.
“No.” Patience’s top teeth bit into her trembling lower lip to hide her thoughts. We damaged it, fool, to make oars to stay alive, you ingrate.
Tim watched the transaction from the dock to which he had tied the boat. Bud sat next to him and read his incoming emails. He had said and eaten little since Monday’s death.
After ten minutes of haggling over the missing planks, the buyer transferred a lowered price to the Nigerian office that ran two of Tor Baruti’s camps for those who were quarantined. Patience jumped from the boat and landed next to Tim. She carried nothing from the two suitcases she had started the trip with, they and their contents jettisoned to save fuel.
Tim stood and grabbed her arm as she stomped away. “How do we get to Cairo from here?” He pointed at the two ramshackle structures at the dock’s end. “It doesn’t look like this is a regular stop for taxis or buses.”
“I don’t know. Ask him. The man is so cheap I can’t stand being near him.” She continued to look for a bathroom.
Tim called down to the one on the boat, who fiddled with its controls while he pretended to pilot it. “Sir, can you help us?”
The buyer glanced up.
Tim could see his reflection in the dark glasses hiding most of the stranger’s face. A thin black mustache covered the corners of a mouth forever creased by more frowns than smiles. He removed his white Panama hat and used it to fan himself, the only breeze for miles. Dressed in a white coat with matching shirt and pants, he appeared to be a displaced snowman to Tim.
“I can drive you to the nearest bus stop, if you wish.” He paused. “For a small fee, of course.”
26
Because Cairo had descended into violence four days earlier, the boat’s buyer counseled the trio of weary Nile travelers to avoid it.
“Those who do not believe in Allah and his holy prophet Mohammed, such as you, would not be safe in Cairo at the present time,” he said. “But, Allah be praised, there is a bus that runs to Israel from where I am dropping you off. You can continue your journeys from there, yes? Perhaps one day you can return as tourists and fish from the boat that you have delivered to me. Here. These are for you.”
He pulled three brochures from his coat pocket and handed them to Tim to distribute. They announced “The Adventure of a Lifetime While You Fish on Beautiful Lake Nasser.”
Getting to Lake Nasser alive is the real adventure, Tim thought as he shoved the brochures into his pants pocket.
* * *
Only Patience accepted their change in itinerary without complaint, claiming it was an answer to prayers she had uttered since Monday’s murder. While their bus sped down the highway connecting Egypt to Israel, she described his plans.
“Monday promised to take me to the Holy Land with his family next Easter. Now I must go on there alone and take photos to send to his family.”
“Monday had children?” Tim asked.
Patience pulled a tattered photo from her wallet, the lone possession she had not tossed overboard into the muddy Sudd. “These are his four children. They are my second cousins.”
Tim stared at the images of the smiling sons and daughter, now fatherless.
The desert of the Sinai gave way to a series of kibbutz that had transformed sand and rock into farms and orchards. When Jerusalem came into view, its walls gleamed and the golden Dome of the Rock seemed to be on fire from the setting sun’s rays. Patience took dozens of photos.
After departing the bus on the outskirts of Jerusalem, the trio separated.
“I must look up a friend of mine from Nigeria who lives here in Jerusalem,” Patience said. She took a business card from her wallet and gave it to Tim. “Take this card to the address on it. They will take care of you and Bud. Goodbye.” She blended into a crowd passing through one of Jerusalem’s gates.
“Thank God, she’s finally gone,” Bud said.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Tim smiled at Bud before turning to ask a stranger how to get to the address on the business card. Satisfied, he turned back to Bud. “It’s close enough we can walk to it from here. Like I was saying, you haven’t said two words since…since…”
“Since Monday got killed?” Bud picked up their pace.
“Yeah.”
“What did you expect me to do? Blab about everything while Patience could hear it? No way.”
“What?”
“Don’t you get it yet? Both her and Monday called Tor Baruti, ‘Mr. Africa.’”
“So?”
“That’s the exact same name Dr. Graves gave him after Tor joined The Club. The only way Monday and Patience could have known that Tor was Mr. Africa is if Tor told them.”
“But I thought you said Tor didn’t recognize the photos of Surjet, Minh, Ahomana, and Ramon that you showed him.”
“He was lying to me. I just know it. He lied, the dirty weasel. He can forget about me asking my dad to donate to him.”
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence. If Patience heard you say this stuff about Tor, she would have punched you out. She’s sold out to him and his quarantine camps.”
“Ha. Let her try. I survived Dr. Graves’ hit on us. What can she do to me?”
“Dr. Graves’ hit on us?”
“Yeah. He sent those pirates after us to kill us, not to hold us for ransom like Patience said. I bet the implant in Tor malfunctioned and quit working and that’s why it didn’t show up when I scanned him. And then he contacted Dr. Graves about me snooping around. Dr. Graves ordered Tor to send us on that Nile trip and have us killed while we were out in the middle of nowhere. Tor hired the pirates to do the hit on us.”
“No way. Why would Tor want to get Monday and Patience killed too? That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“The problem
with you is you don’t know how to think like a criminal. They were expendable, collateral damage. I bet old Dr. Graves gets constipated big time when he finds out how we’re still alive.”
Tim shook his head. “I liked you better when you quit talking.”
* * *
Their destination was the Jerusalem Mission, a Christian ministry with a small hostel offering inexpensive lodging for pilgrims touring the land where Christ had walked.
Its hot showers removed the last of the dirt and grime that bathing in the waters of the Sudd, Lake No, the Nile, and Lake Nasser had not. The long shower put Tim into a mood to spin his version of their sixteen-day journey. While Tim typed away on the hostel’s computer in the recreation room, Bud grilled one of the Jerusalem Mission’s staff to find support for his ever expanding conspiracy.
“You must remember that it is not just the Antichrist we need to be on the lookout for in these last days,” Cheryl, a transplanted American who had worked at the mission for five years, said. She wore her long black hair braided in a style to make it appear she was Jewish. “The Bible tells us there is more than one antichrist in our midst. We must beware.” She opened a Bible, its red leather cover faded and pages crinkled from years of use. “Here it is. Read it for yourself.”
Bud focused on the verse next to Cheryl’s finger and read aloud. “Dear children, this is the last hour, and as you have heard that the Antichrist is coming, even now many antichrists have come. This is how we know it is the last hour.”
Bud lifted his head and stared into the brightest blue eyes he had yet encountered. He thought they beamed a light not of this Earth. He hoped his quizzical expression would elicit further explanation of the verse from First John Chapter 2.
“Right there.” Cheryl’s finger tapped the page. “See how it says ‘many antichrists?’ Too many Christians are waiting for the big antichrist to show up. Meanwhile they are blind to all of the other antichrists who are working their evil deeds to further Satan’s kingdom. They are the tares among the wheat, the wolves in sheep’s clothing, false prophets and false teachers tickling billions of unwary fools’ ears.”
Bud’s mouth widened while his understanding of Dr. Graves moved from crazy mad scientist to antichrist, perhaps not the Antichrist, but at least one of the lesser ones.
Three hours later Bud staggered to the small room with two bunk beds. He shook Tim and whispered so as not to awaken the two strangers asleep on the other bunks’ soft mattresses and pillows.
“Huh? What’s going on?” Tim rubbed his eyes.
“How soon are you going to get paid for your trip down the Nile story?”
“I sent it off before I went to bed. It’ll take a day or two for the money to hit my bank account. Why?”
Bud rubbed his hands together. “Good. That’ll give us time to take the tour with Cheryl tomorrow.”
* * *
The next day, the tour of Jerusalem and area around it thrilled Bud and bored Tim. Worse yet, the cost for it depleted Tim’s bank account to fourteen credits. He was growing weary of living hand to mouth. Bud called it “stepping out in faith, brother,” one of many phrases he now uttered since meeting Cheryl.
Joining them on the bus tour were thirty other pilgrims, most from Europe and America, all of them staying at hotels with better rooms than where Tim and Bud slept. Their dress and manners served to set them in a class above Tim, who believed he was an outsider. Bud sat on a front seat to be near Cheryl, who stood and provided narration.
“It was in these very fields we are passing where the angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds and announced the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ.” Cheryl spoke into a wireless microphone.
Seated next to a woman who Tim guessed to be in her late thirties or early forties, he pretended to sleep. His seatmate elbowed his ribs.
“Wake up, sir. Listen to what the young lady is saying. It’s fascinating. Is this your very first time to the Holy Land?”
“Yes. How about you?” Tim asked.
“This is my fifth visit with our ladies missionary society.” She continued to take photos and posted them to her Worldlink page, a social media network with five billion subscribers. “I can’t wait to get back home to give my presentation to our ladies Bible study. Where do you go to church?”
Tim gulped. Since living apart from Bethany, his church attendance had gone from minimal to nonexistent. Afraid admitting it would invite a daylong effort by this fervent servant of the Lord to restore this wayward soul, this… backslider; he formed a white lie, a half-truth to deliver him.
“You see the young guy up at the front?” He pointed at Bud.
“The black gentleman?”
“No, on the other side of the aisle. The Chinese American. His name is Bud Lee. He took me to visit his church back in SLD. Then he invited me to join him on this trip.”
“SLD? Praise the Lord, brother!” She slapped Tim’s shoulder. Tufts of black hair poked out from a blue hat matching the color of her fiery eyes. “Most of our tour group is from three SLD churches. You know what they say: ‘when you stop praying, the coincidences stop happening.’”
For the next five minutes, she pointed at her traveling companions and recited a brief biography of each one.
Tim welcomed a respite from her chatter when the passengers exited the bus for a walking tour of Bethlehem, embellished by Cheryl’s vivid descriptions of baby Jesus, the Three Wise Men, Mary and Joseph, and King Herod. He pulled Bud aside when it was time to re-board the bus.
“Let me trade seats with you, Bud.”
“I can’t. Cheryl needs me. I get to hold her script and turn the pages for her while she tells everyone about these cool places.” He waved a thick binder labeled Tour Notes under Tim’s nose.
“Great.” Tim murmured as he returned to his seat.
“Sounds like you’re praying, brother. Is your friend as spiritual as you are?” his seatmate asked.
“He’s a whole lot more spiritual than I am or ever will be. Let me tell you about his church back in Venice Beach. His pastor is what Bud says is ‘a man of God.’ I never heard that phrase until I met Bud.” Tim launched into flowery descriptions of Venice Beach Tabernacle and Pastor Tully.
“You don’t say. Sure sounds like a church that’s really on fire for the Lord.” She lowered her voice until only Tim could hear her. “You have to introduce me to Bud. I have a daughter who is about his age. It’s so hard finding suitable young men these days.”
Tim smiled. Best to let Bud explain to this matchmaking mom about his current infatuation with Minh Pham. This traveling companion for the day was not the type to be denied. Besides, introducing them might move her forward in the bus to be closer to him.
Tim smiled. The Lord truly does work in mysterious ways.
They stopped next at the location Cheryl claimed to be the site where twelve-year-old Jesus had astounded the teachers of the law in the temple. Cheryl said recent discoveries by “the world’s top archaeologists now pinpoint almost of all of the exact locations of major events recorded in the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
Next, the pilgrims marched into Jerusalem waving palm branches and yelling, “Hosanna. Blessed is He Who comes in the name of the Lord. Blessed is the King of Israel!” Cheryl assured the jubilant throng that they walked where Jesus had when He entered Jerusalem days before His death.
Then their mood grew somber after they joined dozens of others to walk the route where Christ had carried His cross to Calvary. Tim grew reflective after they reached Golgotha.
From there, they hastened to, “the tomb that could not contain our Messiah.” Cheryl’s hoarse voice managed a weak, “Alleluia.” An impromptu singing of hymns about the resurrection brought tears to Tim’s eyes as their words pierced his soul.
The tour ended on the Mount of Olives, which Cheryl said would be “where Jesus will soon touch down on Earth again!”
Outside a gate on their way back into Jerusalem, the t
ourists paused at a memorial. Some laid flowers at its base. The tarnished brass letters on the plaque read: “Dedicated to the American troops who died defending Israel during the 2062 War on Israel. May they rest in peace.” An electronic screen contained the names of the dead, listed alphabetically.
Many from the tour group opted for the joint worship service that evening sponsored by the Jerusalem Mission and eight other ministries. By then, Tim had hooked his seatmate up with Bud. Tim’s headache instead sent him to his lodging.
His ears ached more than his feet and head when he lay down on the most welcomed mattress he could recall. He uttered, “Thank you, Jesus, for Your infinite mercy,” because his other two roommates said they would join Bud at the worship service. Tim excused himself by saying, “I have to put together an outline before I forget what I saw and heard today. It was too much to take in all at once.”
His eyes had shut and head drooped when his smart watch beeped to rouse him. The message told him of a recent deposit to his bank account. He then booked two seats for a flight from Tel Aviv to Rome that departed the next morning.
27
Bud’s new twist of Dr. Graves being an antichrist, instead of mere demented evil genius plotting to take over the world, did not upset Tim while they flew to Europe to find Patrice Oldefarmer. If Bud decided to abandon his book, Tim had built up an impressive series of travel stories, enough to craft his own book.
To tune out Bud’s rhetoric, Tim silently conjured up titles for his book idea. How about Around the World in Less than a Month? No, that’s obvious borrowing from Jules Verne’s book. Maybe Traveling the World by Freighter, Plane, Train, Bus, Boat, Jungle Cruiser, and Range Rover is better. A flight attendant derailed his train of thought.
“Sir, please place your tray in the upright position and fasten your safety harness. We are descending into Rome.” The words carried no emotion.
