Second Chances

Pt. 09

by G. Lawrence

Jack embarks upon a Quixotic quest

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. This is an alternate timeline; history is similar in some respects to our own and very different in others. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: After being presumed dead for two years, Jack attended a peace rally in Damascus and revealed his identity.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Patricia,

The word that Jack is alive has everybody in shock. We are dispatching a team to secure his safe return to the United States with all possible speed. To call this a miracle is an understatement, but knowing Jack, maybe we should not be surprised. Your Sincere Friend, President Leo Wagner

Chapter Nine

BLOODY FOOTPRINTS

We spent several days in Damascus at receptions, attending meetings, speaking with people on the street, and generally being as visible as possible. And assuring the military that my peace initiative wasn't some sort of American plot. The last part proved easier than I expected.

"You have our support," Colonel al-Hafiz assured me. "If you were a politician, or one of these foreign activists, there would be distrust. But you are a soldier, like us."

"We have seen your movies," Captain Malki said.

Rafael Martín's An American Hero and Bobby Blair's The Sarge had both been made into feature films, though I had not seen either of them. One had won an Academy Award for best film editing, which I found ironic. The actors they hired to play me were far better looking.

We were visiting the army barracks at Al-Kiswah outside the city, having been treated to an impressive military review. Farouk and Ishan were decorated by General Ahmed Saied for shooting Abari. We sipped tea and ate harisi on the commissary's broad patio, waiting for the afternoon prayers to begin.

"I have read Robert Blair's book, None Left Behind," Captain Malki said. "You must have killed many enemies to earn so many medals."

Farouk spit up his tea. Ishan grinned at the private joke. Both had heard me confess that I'd probably never shot anybody.

"Jack is a fierce warrior," Farouk said, wiping his chin.

"What can we expect going south?" I asked.

"Trouble," Captain Malki replied.

We left for Jordan the next day, still driving the beat-up old van even though we had been offered a new one. We were trailed by the press in several media trucks. They were intrusive, but also vital to spreading the message. My feelings about them were conflicted. There was also a motley assortment of camp followers, some curious about our mission, others providing services to the parade.

At the border, I met an old friend.

"Captain Salmo," I greeted, seeing the White Helmet commander.

Samar Salmo was still the lean, energetic officer I remembered. Once ten pounds lighter than I, he now looked ten pounds heavier. His black mustache was thicker, but the brown eyes remained just as determined. His hair had grown longer, and he seemed more beset with cares.

"It is Major Salmo now, and I am relieved to see you," Salmo said, hugging me. "You cannot know the guilt I've felt."

"You have nothing to feel guilt over. It was I who blindly walked into Abari's trap," I said, still feeling stupid. "How are Ali and Zada?"

"Ali died a few months ago while Tashad was retreating into Palestine. They planted one last bomb just for the White Helmets to find. Zada does well. She is with her nieces and nephews."

"I am sorry about Ali," I consoled, for I knew they were close.

"May I go south with you?" Salmo suddenly asked. "Ali's murderers are still at large. They must be brought to justice."

"We are not vigilantes, my friend," I replied. "We are seeking peace, not retribution."

"You are also in danger from enemies. Sergeant Tamer and I can provide protection. And if Tashad show themselves, we will be ready."

"Do you have any authority outside of Syria?" I asked.

"You have enough authority for all of us," he said.

"I think you overestimate my power. I'm not even sure they'll let us cross the border," I replied.

"We will see," Salmo answered.

I allowed him to join our campaign, not so much for my protection, but for Ishan and Farouk's. And I wanted the good work of the White Helmets more widely recognized.

Entering Jordan was not difficult, the Nasib guard post waved us through while news crews filmed the event. To add a touch of drama, I left Farouk and Ihsan in the van and rode with Salmo in his jeep. As we approached the capital, police directed us to the Amman Citadel. We were greeted by a massive assembly of government notables, military officials, and curious citizens.

"Welcome, John Lawrence. We will attend your peace conference," King Abdullah IV said, greeting us in the ancient plaza. And he looked like a king, too. Tall, straight shouldered, dignified, with the determined gaze of a serious man.

With him was Prime Minister Yassin, one of the few female leaders in the Middle East, and well respected. Army Chief of Staff General al-Hadi and a host of dignitaries formed an impressive greeting party. Reporters were covering every moment of the exchange.

"I am honored, sirs," I said, bowing deeply.

"None have worked harder for a general peace than the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan," Yassin said, stepping forward for the cameras. "Your campaign is an extension of King Abdullah's most cherished policy."

Amira Yassin was tall for a Jordanian woman, about sixty years old, with hawk-like eyes and a thick waist. Her colorful wool dress mixed secular and traditional, dispensing with the hijab but wearing a scarf.

"We will be in Jordan for several days," I replied. "If you have time, your counsel on these weighty affairs would be of great value."

"There is a formal reception at the palace tonight, and a tour of the city tomorrow," Yassin informed.

"Captain Lawrence will want to meet the people. To shake their hands, hear their stories, and share their tears," Farouk eloquently insisted.

"You have the freedom of the city," General al-Hadi assured us.

Major Salmo went to discuss security, which wasn't difficult. Jordan was an important contributor to various United Nations peace keeping forces and had worked with the White Helmets before. I had known Jordanians from my early days in Syria and found them to be a practical people.

Ishan and Farouk particularly enjoyed Amman's nightlife that was filled with music, good food, and charming women. As we were recognized in every restaurant and nightclub, we made no effort to conceal our identities. I politely declined invitations to sing or play instruments, not wanting to set a bad example. I also needed to keep an aggressive French tourist at arm's length even though I found her very attractive. I had not been with a woman since leaving Jenny in New York and wasn't going to have a quick affair now.

General al-Hadi, an old, wise, and cagey military man, pulled me aside into a private meeting room for a gin and tonic, ending my long abstinence. He had lots of questions about my disappearance, which I more or less answered honestly.

"We shall get along well," he assured me. "Military officers throughout the region are willing to give your peace conference a chance, but you need to secure commitments from the politicians."

"I am not known for my political skills," I replied, adding a green olive to my drink.

"Your courage is, and your connections with the CIA will provide influence with the security agencies," al-Hadi advised.

What connections I had to the CIA were somewhat tenuous, but I chose not to say so. Sometimes perception is more important than truth.

In the morning, King Abdullah's representatives spoke to me privately and at length, generous with their insight. They explained the agendas of various regional leaders, their support networks, and the traps to avoid. Much of it was beyond my pay grade, but I tried to put it all in perspective.

Outside, I was pestered constantly by reporters, but gave no interviews, and soon decided it was time to move on. There were no conflicts in Jordan requiring my presence.

Our caravan started out two days later, well supplied with food, water and funds. I rode with Major Salmo and Sergeant Tamer in their jeep for better visibility. Dozens of camp followers and media trucks made for a good show. Though getting into Jordan had been easy, getting out was a little tougher.

"Do you have a carnival permit?" a Palestinian major asked, stopping us at a heavily guarded border crossing. The West Bank had been a territory for decades until achieving independence ten years before. The struggling government's relations with Isreal, Jordan, and Egypt could be tenuous.

It did look like a carnival, with vans, pick-up trucks, and civilians on foot. And the more colorful the procession became, the more curiosity it attracted. All we were missing was a Ferris wheel.

"I have come to confer with President Hidad," I answered, once again wearing a khaki uniform.

"Are you armed?" the sentry asked.

"Major Salmo and Sergeant Tamer of the Syrian Army are carrying sidearms. We have no rifles," I replied.

"I have orders to admit you. And orders to expel you when you cause trouble," the major explained.

The parade entered the Democratic Republic of Palestine, honking horns and shouting to the townspeople. There was nothing subtle about our arrival.

I had always wanted to visit Bethlehem, so we entered the ancient town and took up residence in the largest hotel. With a diverse population, and accustomed to tourists, it felt like the best center of operations. We had a pleasant meal in an outdoor marketplace and toured the Church of the Nativity. I lit candles in the Chapel of St. Catherine.

Without intending to, I was attracting an inner circle. We had no professional politicians or international activists. It was Farouk and Ishan, Major Salmo and Margaret Evans of the BBC, Sergeant Amin Tamer of the Syrian Army, and a cheerful if slightly bohemian pastry chef named Abu who joined us in Amman. In close support were two score of ordinary men and women of different sects and religions, inspired to make a difference.

"The peace conference will be incomplete without the Israelis and the Palestinians. The border between their two nations is the harshest in the world," Farouk said, having become a student.

We sat in a busy café on a crowded street. The kitchen was making us a fine evening meal, the owner happy with the publicity. Two Palestinian policemen guarded the door.

"You only have one hope," Margaret advised. "You must convince Palestine to reach out to their enemy and then embarrass Israel into joining the talks."

"I don't wish to embarrass anyone," I protested. "Parties should join for their mutual benefit."

"Politicians on both sides have personal agendas," Margaret warned. "You need to make your position stronger than their objections."

"How can I do that?" I asked.

"Did your vision not say?" Farouk questioned.

"Damn it, Farouk. There is no vision. This is done on a wing and a prayer," I objected.

"The Syrian people responded to your message. The Jordanians followed you through the streets. Lebanon is organizing rallies. Maybe it can happen here?" Major Salmo suggested.

"Palestine is steeped in bitter rivalries," Abu said. "Some will follow. Some will not. If more follow than not, President Hidad will agree to the talks."

"Tomorrow we will go into the streets," I decided. "If necessary, I will walk from one end of the country to the other until the people have heard. And then they will need to decide."

"And if they reject your message?" Margaret asked.

"Then I will go home," I replied.

Home. I had mixed feelings about ever going home. My dreams were particularly bad that night. And there was an uncomfortable thought. Though maintaining myself fairly well in public, I had irrational thoughts creeping up on me in private. What was this quest really about? I was no politician. I wasn't any sort of activist. Quite frankly, I wasn't even sure what a peace conference was supposed to accomplish. And none of that mattered. Something was compelling me to go forward whatever the cost.

Two days later, I had breakfast in Bethlehem to much fanfare and set out on foot for Hebron to the south. There were farms and villages, checkpoints and mosques. I was not in a hurry, talking to those I met along the way. Some of my party walked with me, others followed in their vehicles, kept at a safe distance by Major Salmo. Colonel Ismail Suleiman of Palestinian National Security was assigned to keep control, which was effective most of the time.

Though many expressed interest in ending regional hostilities, they would ask about the competing factions. Arab vs. Jew. Sunni vs. Shiite. Turk vs. Kurd. Christian vs. jihadists. There were also many smaller sects, tribes, and even secular jealousies. It was a minefield of entrenched conflicts that went back hundreds of years, and I had no answers for any of it. And I did not claim to. The people needed to work out these problems for themselves. All I wanted was to open a dialogue.

We stopped regularly for prayers, and halfway to Hebron, when the sun set, we stayed overnight in a farmer's barn. More farmers came from miles around, starting a bonfire. We ate lamb stew, exchanged stories, and I was forced to retell the tale of my captivity. The execution of Kassen Abari by villagers who had had enough of his tyranny was particularly well received. Before leaving the next morning, I helped feed the livestock. I did not feed the chickens.

That afternoon, two miles from our goal, we found a section of the narrow mountain road had caved in, forcing traffic to a halt. To the right, there was a segment of pavement that looked sound enough to walk on, but it wasn't wide enough for a vehicle. The left side of the road had given way into a deep, rock-strewn gully.

"What do you want to do?" Colonel Suleiman asked.

"Those on foot can proceed to Hebron," I decided. "The vehicles will need to make a detour."

"There is another road a few miles back. The detour will take about an hour," Suleiman warned.

"Get the trucks turned around. I'm going on," I replied.

The landscape was parched, treeless, and lined with steep ravines. The vehicles in the rear turned around first, until only Salmo's jeep and the BBC press truck were left. I saw the hazy image of Hebron in the distance.

"I shouldn't leave you alone out here," Salmo worried.

"If you don't hurry, I'll be in Hebron before you. That's likely to be more dangerous," I answered.

"John, you are a stubborn man," Salmo complained, climbing into his jeep with Sergeant Tamer.

As I skirted the gap in the road, a small mob emerged from around the bend to block my path, perhaps fifteen in all. They were holding shovels, rakes and hoes. I thought they might be there to repair the road. Or maybe they were the ones who damaged it.

"Go back to Syria. We don't need foreigners here," their thick-necked leader shouted, waving his hairy arms. He was a few inches taller than I, much heavier, and wore a bushy black beard.

"We have enough trouble," another said. He looked like a skinny shepherd.

"Better wait here a moment," I said to Abu and the other followers, going forward with Ishan and Farouk.

Only seven of the protesters came to confront us, most waiting to see what would happen. A baker's dozen of our own people watched from the other side of the cave-in, careful not to fall in. I held out my hands to show peaceful intent.

"Times are difficult for everyone. Let's work together," I requested.

Their leader dropped his shovel, sized me up, and then suddenly punched me in the gut. It was a hard blow, well delivered. I doubled over on the broken pavement, having lost my breath. Before I could react, the skinny shepherd rushed up and pushed me off the road with his foot, causing me to tumble down into the ravine.

I was unable to halt the fall, bouncing a dozen yards down the rocky hillside. Only a boulder stopped me from going all the way into the gully. Back on the road, I heard a fight break out. I clutched my sore ribs, slowly got to my feet, and tried to shake my head clear. Not having been in a real fight since my Northfield Prison days, I had allowed myself to be taken off-guard. Was I getting old, or just complacent?

I climbed back up the hill, using rocks as handholds. Five of our adversaries had Ishan and Farouk backed up against the cave-in, threatening them with farm tools. The rest of the angry mob was watching from a distance. Major Salmo was in his jeep several hundred yards down the road, turning around to come back. Margaret's press truck was stopped two hundred feet away, her cameraman squatting on the roof filming the confrontation.

Chef Abu and my companions were still on the other side of the crevice, unarmed and reluctant to get hit with iron implements. I did not blame them. They were camp followers, not thugs. I was the thug.

"Hey, pal, look at me," I said, coming over the embankment.

As a man with a shovel turned, I threw a right punch, breaking his nose. A second punch smashed his cheekbone. A third knocked him senseless. Unlike these farm workers, I knew how to set myself, swing my hips, and put my shoulder into the blow. I had once stood ten rounds with world heavyweight contender Joaquin Jose Rivas. And made it tough on him for the first seven.

The man swayed on his feet, unable to defend himself. I took the shovel away and hammered him with a left hook, knocking him to the ground, then used the shovel to block someone swinging a hoe at me.

The second opponent thought me an easy target, until realizing he couldn't land a blow. He swung left, swung right, and then tried to come over the top. I used the shovel like a staff, fending off each attempt. And then it was my turn.

I dropped the shovel, tore the hoe away from him, and grabbed his collar with my left hand. With my right fist, I battered his face four or five times, splattering blood everywhere. He wobbled, knees growing weak, and his eyes rolled back. I let go of the collar and put him down with a left jab, sorry the coward had folded so quickly. When two of his friends approached to help, I turned on them with a growl, daring them to come closer. They wisely changed their minds.

Farouk and Ishan were fending off the remaining three ruffians, having found shovels of their own. I approached the leader who had sucker punched me, in no mood to be merciful, and hit him in the gut with a quick series of lefts followed by a roundhouse right to the jaw. He seemed surprised to be hit so hard.

The big man tried to stand his ground, at first, which only egged me on. He had nearly landed a punch when I pounded his face with three hard rights. He staggered backward, trying to keep his balance, and threw a lifeless right hook that I ducked. He swung again, but I moved aside and countered with a left jab to his eye. When he reached for a shovel on the ground, I grabbed his collar.

"This is how to throw a kidney punch," I said, coming underhand into his side once, then twice, then three times, the blows lifting him off his heels. He grunted, desperately trying to break free. The air burst from his lungs. I stepped back and threw my strongest right cross, knocking him flat. And then I stomped on his forearm, breaking a bone.

"Who's next?" I asked, breathing hard, turning to those not engaged in the fight. My khakis were covered in dust, torn at the knees and elbows. Minor annoyances. My face dripped blood, but it was my ribs on the left side that hurt.

"Come on, you sons of bitches," I urged, walking toward them with fists ready. "You don't have the courage to fight Tashad, who steal your daughters and your cattle. At least have the courage to fight your friends."

"No more fighting," a sturdy farmer said, raising his hands. "May we take our cousins home?"

I paused, taking in the situation, and decided that I'd made my point.

"Take them home," I granted.

Half a dozen approached cautiously, picked up the injured men, and dragged them back a safe distance before administering aid. Though the two farmers harassing Farouk and Ishan had withdrawn, I stood ready for anyone who wanted a piece of me. And hoping they would try. None did. A few minutes later, the malcontents were gone.

"You beat the hell out of them," Chef Abu said, using a damp cloth to wipe blood from my lip.

"I've never claimed to be a pacifist," I replied.

"That was a bad fall. Are you all right?" Farouk asked. I noticed several deep scrapes requiring bandages.

"I'll need to clean up before we reach Hebron," I replied. "I don't want to enter town looking like a rag doll."

"At least they know you're willing to fight," Ishan said.

"You were, too, my young friend," I said, slapping him on the shoulder.

__________

As we continued our journey south meeting ranchers, farmers, and merchants, I did not talk about politics. I wasn't there to convince them of anything. I was more interested in their families, how they were earning a living, what could make their lives better. A nice old woman let me wash up in her kitchen. She had lost her husband a few years before and gave me one of his blue flannel work shirts.

With a population of two hundred thousand, I knew Hebron to be venerated by Muslims and Jews for its connection to Abraham and the Cave of the Patriarchs. We arrived late in the day and were invited to stay at the estate of a wealthy Arab banker. I accepted, not being prejudiced toward men with money.

Several important leaders gathered to meet at dinner. Some were from Hebron, others from outlying towns, and some were Jewish settlers now residing under a Palestinian government. They believed that living in this part of ancient Israel was more important than the flag that flew over it. Since The Partition, these factions had managed to live together without committing mass murder.

"It is just a few troublemakers," one of the Jewish settlers insisted. "The old militias are gone, but a few cells are holding out. Tashad still has adherents in the north."

"You will not defeat them with words," the wealthy Arab banker added. "They must be rounded up, but President Hidad is afraid of losing popular support."

"With your help, we could raise our own militia. Smoke them out," a magistrate urged. "With the radicals suppressed, Hidad would be free to join your talks."

"Gentlemen, I'm not here to raise an army. Or to tell your people how to resolve their differences," I pleaded. "I am asking a simple question. Is it time to live in peace? Each person needs to answer in their own way."

The next morning, I was on the street. And the morning after that. Asking questions, telling stories, sharing meals, and joining prayers. A young man brought me a guitar, and for the first time in nearly two years, I performed a few of Old Da's favorites. I was out of practice. Most of the people were friendly, curious to meet the crazy American, though there were also hostile stares.

"I have a message for you," Margaret said as we settled into a sidewalk café for lunch. "It's from Daniel Palmer."

"How do you know Daniel Palmer?" I asked.

"Palmer Media has affiliates in Britain, and he's been watching our broadcasts," Margaret explained. "He says you're on the cover of every website and magazine in the world. He would like to know your plans."

"You should tell the people what to do," Farouk said. "Sheep need a shepherd, not a minister."

"They want to listen, but they are afraid," Ishan remarked.

"Maybe if you--" Margaret started to say.

"This can't be about me," I interrupted. "I have no moral authority. I'm not a holy man. Maggie, please tell Mr. Palmer he'll know my plans when I do."

"Where to next?" Salmo asked.

"Jericho. Then we'll go to Nablus, Jenin, Tulkarm, and to Ramallah," I announced. "We will talk to the Jewish settlers, too. They have found a way to live with Hidad's government. There may be lessons there. And then we will go to Jerusalem."

"Where your Jesus died," Farouk said.

"I have no such glorious aspirations, my friend," I replied.

For the next eight days, we continued our tour. I walked whenever there were workers to greet or villagers to consult, putting in many miles. At night, I would seek out cold compresses, for my side had been hurting since tumbling off the road to Hebron. I hoped the ribs weren't broken. Margaret noticed, but I assured her it was nothing.

Though I remained friendly to the press in an effort not to alienate them, the reporters kept trying to draw me into wider issues. I would have none of it, staying focused on my message. Though I sensed it was with mixed success. The level of distrust was high. But finally, a turning point came in Ramallah.

Having visited the surrounding towns, Ramallah was the last stop on our itinerary. Six miles north of Jerusalem, it was the administrative hub of the nation. I guessed the population at thirty thousand, mostly Muslim but with a significant number of Christians. I noticed the Melkite Catholic Church and promised myself a Sunday visit. I hadn't been inside a Greek cathedral since leaving Turkey.

"This is a big crowd. They have set up a stage," Salmo said, inspecting the park adjoining Al-Manara Square. "I don't like it. You will be exposed from the rooftops."

Al-Manara Square is essentially a traffic circle featuring a tall pillar flanked by stone lions, fountains and flower beds. Major Salmo was looking at the variety of office buildings that presented a security risk.

"Colonel Suleiman believes he has it under control," I said, preparing to speak after the noon prayer.

"At least wear protection under your shirt," Salmo pressed, having borrowed a Kevlar vest for my use.

"No one else will be wearing flak jackets," I declined.

"No one else is a target. Tashad has sworn a final revenge. Those who haven't already fled."

"It will be okay," I said, drinking water in the shade of an old building.

I actually couldn't be sure. I was tiring easily and feeling ill. I considered consulting a doctor, but we were too busy.

The low plywood stage had been erected next to a parking lot. Pilgrims from the surrounding countryside were coming to see the famous pageant, spurring a makeshift marketplace. I shopped for oranges. Margaret made sure her camera crew had the best vantage point.

"Jack, are you all right? You're looking very pale," she said. "We can postpone this."

"I'm fine, Maggie. Let's not keep people in the sun too long. September can be unpleasant," I replied, trying not to sound grouchy. The last of my medication had run out in Hebron, and my subtle attempts to find more had failed. It made sleeping difficult.

"Don't get dehydrated," she advised, handing me a bottled water.

The town fathers had made it a big event. The mayor gave a speech as the square filled with several thousand spectators. Children stood on the stage with baskets of flowers. Young men on the steps played traditional instruments. It was all very festive.

"My neighbors, it is my honor to introduce our guest," the mayor said, holding up his hands for attention. "John Lawrence, a soldier for peace."

The crowd acknowledged me as I stepped up to a podium made of thick native pine with a red crescent painted on the front. I waited for everyone to quiet, feeling the sun on my face. I took a sip of water. The sky was blue.

"People of Ramallah, thank you," I said. "Not long ago, a criminal named Kassan Abari tied me to a tree. He announced that I would be shot. He wanted to make the Americans angry and prove his power to provoke war. And he sought to profit from the deaths of Muslims, Christians and Jews. I thought this was wrong. For two years and more, I lived in the mountains of Iraq, first as a prisoner, and then as a member of their community.

"The villagers of the mountains did not want Abari's world of never-ending war, but they were afraid of his wrath. So was I. Only a fool knows no fear. But on that day, because of the courage of my new family, I lived and Abari died. And now I come to you, asking what you want. Shall a small number of men willing to commit murder shape the world? Or is there another path? I believe a conference should be held, one attended by many leaders, where--"

Suddenly there was a gunshot, the sound echoing through the square. Splinters cut my face as a bullet tore into the old podium. The audience ducked, scrambling to get out of the way. Parents grabbed their children helped by some of the older boys.

Another shot. The podium was hit so hard it fell over, taking me down with it, and then two more reports. One nicked my leg before burrowing into the stage. The second ricocheted off the cement parking structure.

I slowly dared to sit up, looking toward the rooftops, wondering where the snipers were. And then I stood, pushing the podium aside to stand alone on the exposed stage.

"Get down!" a woman shouted at me.

"You'll get shot!" someone warned.

"Jack! What the fuck are you doing?" I heard Margaret yell.

"He's not getting down," another said.

Those closest in the crowd stopped to stare. Those in the back straightened up, looking at me in wonder. The square fell eerily quiet, everyone waiting for the next bullet to kill me. I walked to the edge of the stage, holding out my arms.

"And now we see the coward's answer," I said in my strongest voice. "The answer of the criminal. They hide in the shadows, seeking to kill that which they cannot control. Well, here I am. If I am to be martyred, let it be in this place among a courageous people."

I stood under the glare of the midday sun, lowering my arms, waiting to see what would happen. And then one of the teenage boys climbed up on the stage, standing in front of me. Acting as a human shield. It was an act of extraordinary courage. I put my hands on his shoulders, trying to move him aside, but he remained defiant, staring at the crowd. Two more youngsters leaped up to join us, forming a screen around me. Several young girls, still holding flowers, broke from their parents, rushing up the steps, followed by a dozen eager cousins. In no time, the stage was overflowing, and more young people were coming, anxious not to be left out. I urged them to get down, but it wasn't my voice they were listening to. It was their own. A new generation taking a stand for the future they wanted.

There were no more shots. Colonel Suleiman had his men scouring the buildings for the shooter. Farouk and Ishan came to get me, for I appeared disorientated. It felt good to get back in the shade.

"You are a crazy man," Farouk grunted with frustration, tearing open my pants leg and scrubbing the calf wound with a disinfectant.

"You're bleeding all over," Ishan exaggerated, wiping my face with a wet cloth.

"Anything serious?" I asked.

"You have scratches on your cheek, and there is blood on your shirt," Ishan said.

"Maybe it will wash out," I hoped. "I really like this shirt."

In the distance, there was suddenly more shooting. In the streets beyond the edge of the square. Automatic weapons and small arms. It sounded like an ambush. I noticed Major Salmo and Sergeant Tamer were gone, as were the Palestinian security forces. Had they tracked down Tashad? Would Salmo finally get his revenge? I hoped so.

"Nine of them are dead," Salmo said several hours later, finding us at the home of a friendly shopkeeper. "Only two were captured, and Colonel Suleiman is making them talk. Their safe houses are being raided. Tashad is finished in Palestine."

"Syria is moving against them, too," Sergeant Tamer added.

"You have done our people a great service," Salmo complimented.

"What did I do but get shot at?" I asked, rubbing the bandage on my cheek.

"Are we to believe you didn't know Tashad would seek your blood? Did you not stand on the stage, drawing them out?" Tamer replied.

"Gentlemen, you credit me with too much cleverness," I protested. "Do you think if I'd known they were about to shoot me, I'd have let those children so near?"

"Make any excuses you want, but the entire city is speaking of it," Maggie agreed.

The assassination attempt also spurred discussions among those questioning the peace movement, the Palestinian parliament taking it seriously for the first time. Several representatives came to see me, asking how they could help. I received a polite note from President Hidad inviting me to tea.

Margaret made sure to broadcast the shooting to networks all over the world. The bloody splinters made for a dramatic image. And the children climbing back on the stage made a more powerful statement than I ever could. The next day, their parliament voted overwhelmingly to join the peace conference.

__________

My inner circle met that evening in a café on the ground floor of our hotel. I had been trying to sleep, fighting off a fever and disturbing dreams, but made it down in time for dinner. Many people came to shake my hand, offering good wishes.

"China is going to sponsor the conference," Margaret said, providing late breaking news. "The University of Knossos is offering to host the delegates. Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Kurdistan, and Iraq have agreed to attend. Palestine is ready, too. Iran has requested an invitation to participate. There are rumors of United Nations involvement."

"The Americans and the Russians?" Salmo asked.

"No one is speaking to them yet," Margaret replied.

"Good, their cold war games will only muck it up," I said. "But we do need help. Maggie, can I borrow your phone?"

"Sure, Jack," Margaret said, handing it over. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you use a phone before. Do you have something against technology?"

"Phones are a nuisance," I said, trying to remember the number I needed. It had been a long time since I called Utah. I put the phone on speaker so there would be no secrets.

"Monument Valley College," a voice greeted.

"Sandy, is that you?" I asked. "It's me. Jack."

"My God. Jack, how are you? We keep hearing new stories about you every day," she said.

"And now hopefully a newer one. Is Professor Lofoya available?"

A moment later, the venerable professor picked up the line.

"Jack, I was wondering when we'd hear from you," Professor Lofoya said, the voice old but firm.

"I guess you've heard about the excitement here," I asked.

"My boy, the whole world knows about it. We are so proud."

"All but one country has agreed to the talks, sir. And they may still come on board if you organize the conference," I urged.

"My people are already in the planning stages," Lofoya said. "And I'm honored you thought of me."

"It's my honor, sir. Call this number if I can help," I replied.

"Have you spoken to Jenny?" Lofoya asked.

"No, sir. The situation here hasn't permitted personal distractions."

"Is that all she is? A distraction?"

"You know why I left America."

"Don't wait too long, son. Life is shorter than you think," he advised. But I already knew that. I gave Margaret her phone back.

"Jenny Blair?" Margaret said. "Now that would be a story."

"I don't understand," Ishan said, blissfully unaware of scurrilous gossip.

"Jack was dating the daughter of President Blair," Margaret explained. "They were hounded by the press. Undesirable elements made scurrilous accusations. Miss Blair was fired from her job. Eventually, Jack dumped her and left the country."

"Jenny is the name you whispered when Abari was about to shoot you," Ishan remembered.

"Oh? Now that's juicy," Margaret said in a catty tone. "You need to tell me all about it, my young friend."

"You and Ishan can chat another time," I interrupted. "We have one objective left. We need to go to Givat Ram and speak to the Knesset."

"I did not know you knew such a man as Lofoya. Didn't he win the Nobel Peace Prize?" Farouk asked.

"Yes, and now maybe he'll win another. With Professor Lofoya organizing the conference, the Israelis should be willing to listen."

"I don't know why. They never have before," Salmo said.

I was not so pessimistic. I had met with settlers on the West Bank and discussed Israel's challenges with my Jewish friends in New York. I had even played my guitar at bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs. Everyone had always seemed reasonable.

_________

"Only you may cross," the guard captain said at the Israeli border the next morning.

I was with fifty friends and followers, most of them from Muslim countries, but not all. Even Margaret Evans and her BBC team were being denied entry.

"We are well known. We aren't armed. What is the problem?" I asked.

"Prime Minister Elazar does not want a circus in the streets of our capital," Captain Weismann explained.

I consulted with Farouk and Margaret, but there seemed little choice.

"Very well," I said, walking through a heavily guarded checkpoint to climb into a black SUV. Several security personnel got in with me and we drove off. I glanced back to see Margaret reading the border captain the riot act.

"It's a miracle they released you, sir," a bright-eyed lieutenant said.

"In what respect, youngster?" I inquired.

"The Arabs, the way they've been shamelessly exploiting you for their propaganda. Now that you're free, you can tell the truth," he explained.

I didn't respond. Not here. I wished to discuss the Kronoss conference with the new government, not debate tribal prejudices.

We reached the Givat Ram district where various public buildings and museums were located. And the Knesset, with their newly reconstituted parliament. The recent elections had been bitter. The streets were crowded with government staffers, lawyers, soldiers, and tourists.

"The Prime Minister cannot meet with you today," Lieutenant Levy said. "General Robson has arranged a debriefing for you. Rooms will be provided for your comfort. The American ambassador has questions for you."

"Excuse me, can you stop the car for a moment?" I requested.

The vehicle halted before the National Library and I jumped out, not interested in being kidnapped again.

"Thank the Prime Minister for me, young man. I can walk from here," I said, shutting the door and stepping back. Two soldiers got out, but they could hardly afford to force me back inside in front of so many witnesses.

"Hello, my name is John Lawrence," I said, standing before the library and shaking hands. I quickly attracted a crowd. The SUV drove away, the lieutenant left standing on the curb watching me.

"Mr. Lawrence, it's good to see you free," a distinguished man said.

"I have been free for many weeks, traveling the land and meeting people. It's been a good experience. I hope to share my experiences with your leaders."

Margaret and her BBC truck had finally made it through the border crossing, filming as I greeted tourists and government employees. I smiled and tried to appear relaxed, making small talk, and had my picture taken with children visiting the museums.

"Tensions in the region don't need to be so high," I casually remarked. "The ceasefire has lasted a dozen years, and it can last longer, if people will sit down and talk. Professor Lofoya is a fair man. This is a good thing."

I paused to speak with street vendors, made a short speech on the steps of the National Library, and found a mob following me as I slowly made my way to the Knesset. Several members of the parliament came out to see me, expressing support. All opponents of Prime Minister Elazar. I was not invited inside.

I turned to face the crowd, trying to organize my thoughts. It was difficult. I could feel the fever eating at me. At times, the faces before me were blurry.

"I'm not asking you to like each other," I said, standing on the parliament gates. "I'm not saying to let them marry your daughters. But there are possibilities that should be considered. Don't let this opportunity be lost. Nothing is accomplished by hiding inside a marble building."

I noticed stone stairs leading up to the assembly hall and took a seat near the top step. Then, after catching my breath, I took off my brown leather boots and tied them to a handrail, letting them dangle by the laces.

"I will come back for these when the time is right," I announced.

Working my way through the crowd barefoot, I started toward the border crossing a mile away. Some people shouted support, others opposition. There would be debate, and that was better than apathy.

The media was waiting at the border in force, shouting questions about what would happen next. I wasn't sure. My quest to speak with the prime minister had failed.

"Captain Lawrence, some of the Arab nations are threatening to withdraw. Do you have a comment?" Josiah Porter of the Washington Post asked.

I had not heard this.

"The Knossos Conference will go forward," I announced. "I am returning to Bethlehem to await a response from this government. And I will eat no food until every participant confirms their commitment to attend."

"A hunger strike?" Porter persisted.

"Motivation," I responded.

The walk back to Bethlehem was about six miles. I didn't get there until well after dark. Rather than go to the hotel, I sought out a local merchant I knew and asked to use his shop, taking a seat in the front window. Ahmed found pillows for me, provided tea, and heated water to soak my sore feet. His sons watched over my niche as I quickly fell asleep.

It was not a good night. Abari invaded my dreams, taunting me. Calling me a failure. Battlefields of the past became real again. Point Cinco, Sirputa, Lavanna Valley. Katana Bridge. How many young men and women had died because my skills weren't good enough? Why had I been shot so many times and lived? Wasn't it time I paid the price, too? Abari thought so. He promised to never stop haunting me.

Farouk and Ishan were with me when I woke up. Chef Abu was changing the dressing on my cuts. Margaret Evans had a press area set up across the street for twenty-four-hour coverage.

"You should not do this," Farouk said. "You are sick. We all see it. Let the Israelis go their own way. See a doctor."

"The conference can go on without them. They aren't needed," Ishan agreed.

"Isolation only breeds more distrust," I said.

"Their leaders don't want peace. They are politicians," Farouk insisted.

"We have come too far to lose hope now," I replied.

By the next day, I was noticeably weakening. I did not stay in the storefront the entire time, but went to the square, visited a mosque, a church, and a synagogue. Jewish settlers came to sit with me, showing their support. The bearded man whose arm I broke on the Hebron road came to apologize. I sipped tea with him, had my picture taken with his young children, and signed his cast.

"Ishan, I need a favor," I said that afternoon. "Find the First Aid kit in Major Salmo's jeep and bring it to me. Don't make of fuss."

With my accumulating wounds and bruises, Ishan fetched the kit without giving it much thought. When no one was looking, I found the morphine tablets in the bottom compartment and slipped them into my pocket. There were only a few, but enough to keep me going.

The next morning, I visited the Church of the Nativity, prayed before the altar, lit candles for those I loved, and attended Confession for the first time since the Second Afghan War. A doctor tried to take my temperature, but I pushed his hand away. After services, I spoke with the bishop for nearly an hour.

"The Prime Minister is going to announce his decision tomorrow," Margaret said as I emerged from the ancient cathedral. "You've provoked a firestorm. If the Knesset is allowed to vote, I think they will support the talks."

"I should be there. We leave at dawn," I announced.

"You need rest. The fever isn't going away," Farouk urged, using a wet cloth to keep me cool.

"We are close now. I can feel it," I answered. "So many people want this. All they need is a final push."

"I will find pillows for the jeep," Captain Salmo said.

"No, I will walk," I decided.

My decision was met with universal opposition. And I wasn't sure if I could walk so far in my current condition, but knew I had to try. Sometimes even a small gesture can make an impact.

"Jack, can we be honest?" Margaret requested.

"Within limits," I agreed.

"We all know how important this is, but these last few days, you've been getting a little erratic," she warned. "It's worrying."

"More than a little, Jack. You have been acting crazy," Farouk agreed.

"We are scared," Ishan admitted.

My initial reaction was to lash out. How dare they question me? The impertinence! The unfortunate impulse only lasted a moment, for I knew what they were saying was true.

"Beloved friends, no sane man embarks upon a quest such as this," I said. "This was crazy from the beginning, and it's a miracle we've come this far. I don't know if it's God, or Allah, or a delusion. I only know my demons claim this can't be done and I must prove them wrong. A few more days and our work here will be finished. I can't do it without you."

"This is important," Farouk agreed. "We stand at your side. And we will be watching you."

As word spread that I would return to Jerusalem, crowds began to form in the town square. Bonfires were lit and people made speeches. Margaret reported that her BBC station intended to cover the event live from beginning to end. There were also podcasters, webcasters, and amateur videos. I intended to sleep early, knowing I'd need all my strength, but was afraid to shut my eyes. In my dreams, I had seen the endgame. A grave marker with a blue ribbon draped over the cross. An unexpected visitor postponed my appointment with the demons.

"Hey, Captain. Getting to see you isn't easy," General Collin Fowler said, crawling into my storefront niche.

Fowler was disguised as an Arab, wearing a long gray cloak, but threw the hood back, revealing his identity. He had a short beard and was wearing a black eyepatch again, even though his vision was fine. He looked like a pirate.

"How did you get into Palestine?" I asked.

"Got a passport, just like any other slob," Fowler said.

"You can't arrest me for being AWOL. The Army declared me dead."

"Let's consider it extended duty," Fowler replied.

Dozens of people were watching me sit with the notorious American general, but we spoke softly enough not to be heard. It was like being in a pet store window.

"How come you aren't cussing up a storm?" I asked. "I've never known you to talk like this. Are you ill?"

"No, but you are. I want you to call this madness off. You've made your point."

"I'm on a mission, sir. The mission isn't over."

"A peace conference?"

"It's not just about a peace conference, sir. It's also about revenge," I explained, clenching my fists. "Abari wants to start another Middle East war. I'm going to stop him."

"Abari is dead," Fowler said.

"He still taunts me. But I will defeat him."

"Are you off your meds?" Fowler asked.

I declined to respond.

"You can accomplish the mission without dying. Your friends are worried, but know they can't stop you. They want me to stop you."

"The U.S. Army has no authority here. And I'm not that sick. Just a little tired. By the way, you owe me a lot of back pay."

"Goddamn it, Jack, will you quit giving me this crap?" Fowler growled. "You're a goddamn basket case. Anyone can see it."

"That's more like it. I feel better already," I said, managing a smile.

"I'm attached to the embassy in Jerusalem for the duration. If you need anything, I'll be ready," Fowler promised.

"What would I need? I'm not overthrowing the government."

"You're overthrowing more than you know, but that's not what I'm talking about. I wasn't there for you in Syria. I didn't even look for you after the execution video was released. I owed you more than that."

"Sir, we've known each other a long time. We're past owing each other anything," I assured him.

"I've got messages for you. From Alex. Rasmussen and Dragon. From Mrs. Blair. And Jenny. They've all been trying to reach you," Fowler said with a note of criticism.

And it was well deserved. I didn't want to hurt them, I just wasn't ready to go back to that life. Maybe not to any life. Okay, I was scared. The world I once lived in seemed so long ago. Was going home even possible? I did allow myself a moment to think about Jenny. Those wonderful blue eyes. Her soft body. Her laugh. What wouldn't I have given for one last night in her arms.

"Once this is over, I'd like to hear those messages. But not now," I replied.

A soldier learns when it's time not to press an entrenched position, and Fowler was old school. He let the issue drop, sitting with me while drinking tea.

"Prime Minister Elazar isn't going to meet with me, is he?" I suddenly asked.

"I'm guessing he wants to, but it's complicated," Fowler admitted. "Ambassador Warren says he's nervous about his coalition holding together. They only have a four-seat majority. A wrong move in either direction could lead to disaster."

"Maggie was right about this. He needs to be more afraid of me than the consequences," I decided. "I may need your help after all."

"I can't shoot the son of a bitch," Fowler said, sounding disappointed.

"There won't be any shooting, sir. But this might get you court-martialed."

_________

I was up at dawn, dressing in a long white cloak. It had been cleaned and mended. I wore a floppy olive-green campaign hat like I'd worn in Afghanistan. I wore no shoes, having left a pair on the steps of the Knesset.

A huge crowd was waiting, anxious and restless. Colonel Suleiman had squads of security personnel maintaining order. I acknowledged them with a wave and started off, doing well at first.

"This is the day," Margaret said, walking next to me. "Everyone is watching. Holding their breath. I am, too."

"How is planning for the conference going?" I asked.

"Knossos has been confirmed as the meeting site. Professor Lofoya is sending out the formal invitations," she reported. "I don't think anyone wants to back out at this point. With you making this grand gesture, it would be too embarrassing."

"That's what I'm hoping for. Thanks for the help you've given. If we pull this off, it's your victory, too. And for Farouk and Ishan. Salmo and Chef Abu. All of you who have stood by me through this madness."

"Jack, you let me be part of something special. I will always be grateful," Maggie said, taking my hand.

We left the town followed by a thousand participants on foot. Muslims, Jews, Christians, and even a few chanting Buddhists. They were young and old, wealthy and poor. Press trucks came after them, broadcasting the march. It was cheerful, for the most part, but infused with a sense of responsibility. Several of the youngsters who took the stage with me at Ramallah walked before us, once again acting as my bodyguards. They had become stars on social media. Some had received marriage proposals.

"I never thought to feel like this," Ishan said, glowing with idealism. The young man would have a lifetime of stories to tell when he returned to Sar'ret.

"This is your vision come true," Farouk said, keeping close.

"No, my friend. Don't you see?" I disagreed. "I only had a thought that would have come to nothing. It was you, at my side, who made this possible. You and Ishan. This is your vision."

"Now it is a vision shared by millions," Farouk said.

"Your work doesn't end today," I warned, speaking confidentially. "Go with Margaret to Knossos. Speak of what you've seen. Take Ishan with you. Remind the world that this isn't about the politicians."

"We will go to Knossos together," Farouk insisted.

"No. Not all of us," I replied.

Our cavalcade traveled at a mile an hour, pausing for food, water and prayers, allowing us to arrive at the border crossing just past noon. By now my feet were blistered, beginning to bleed. I needed to stop, gathering my breath. Margaret felt my forehead and grew alarmed, summoning Major Salmo. I waved him off.

"Only a mile to go," I said, trying not to sound exhausted.

At the border crossing, Captain Weisman attempted to get in our way. My young Ramallah bodyguards marched around him. I followed closely, daring the captain to create an international incident. And then the entire parade poured in behind us, bypassing the barriers and reforming on the road. The event was too big for a junior officer to oppose on his own authority. As I knew it would be. And if the Israeli Army really wanted to keep us out, we would have been kept out. It was all part of the game.

We marched calmly toward the Givat Ram district, maintaining good order. Thousands gathered to watch, hundreds joining. I noticed many American tourists taking up our cause.

The gates to the Knesset complex were open, revealing a series of impressive buildings made of stone and concrete. Hundreds followed me onto the grounds, thousands more waited in the street. When the main entrance rose before us, I made a prearranged signal to Farouk and Salmo. They stopped everyone so I could make a dramatic walk up the shallow steps alone. My feet were in such bad condition that I left bloody footprints in the plaza behind me. At the top of the steps, I turned and sat, facing the vast crowd. Someone had stolen my shoes.

"What's he doing?" Joshua Porter of the Sacramento Star asked.

"John is waiting for the Prime Minister's answer," Margaret said.

The midday sun was hot. I kept my campaign hat on and drank water, pretending to be patient for the next act to begin. The pain in my side was acting up, but I'd taken a tab of morphine to keep it under control.

When it became obvious that I wasn't leaving, the Prime Minister made his first move. A major, six soldiers, and a doctor walked up the steps, forming a semicircle before me.

"This is dangerous to your health, Captain Lawrence," Major Levin said. "I have orders to escort you to the medical center."

"Sir, I appreciate your concern, but I'm not leaving until the parliament has spoken," I replied. "I have the greatest respect for your service. Thank you."

"I'm afraid you don't understand," the respectful young officer said. "This is not a request."

"No, sir. I'm afraid you don't understand," I responded.

I motioned to the crowd, and General Fowler emerged with a squad of U.S. Army Rangers in full dress uniforms from the American embassy. They hustled up the steps, taking positions around me.

"Major Levin, I am General Collin Fowler, United States Army, charged with protecting Captain Lawrence's rights," Fowler said, possibly throwing away his career. "If you want him, you'll have to go through us."

Fowler stood defiant, his troops standing at attention with M4 rifles slung over their shoulders.

Major Levin was not prepared for such an unprecedented situation. No one could be. Kept at a distance, the spectators in the plaza were straining to see what we were doing. I could just imagine the reaction of the press.

"I will consult with my superiors," Major Levin said, retreating. He was followed by Fowler's squad, who stationed themselves nearby.

But the doctor, a short pudgy man with almost no hair, remained behind. He knelt next to me, squinting against the sun through his wire-rim sunglasses. I tried to fend off his attentions, but he persisted. As I had persisted during my years as a medic. I admired him for that.

"This is bad," the doctor whispered after checking my pulse, taking my temperature, and looking into my eyes. He ran his hands around my chest, focusing on the left side. When he probed under my arm, I grunted and lost my breath. "It's your spleen, isn't it? How long have you had this infection?"

"It's been building for several weeks," I admitted.

"You need to be in a hospital. Now. There isn't a moment to lose," he insisted.

I knew he was right. I'd known it for several days, but that didn't matter to me anymore. My thoughts were elsewhere.

"Thank you, doctor. I have another destination in mind."

He stood up, looked toward the parliament building, and then thought better of his idea, going down the steps instead. He went straight to Farouk and Margaret.

"What is this the doctor says," Farouk asked, rushing to my side.

"It's my endgame, good friend," I said, taking his sleeve. "I'm sorry not to have told you. I feared you wouldn't understand."

"No, I don't understand. This solves nothing," he replied, more upset than I'd ever seen him. Except perhaps for the day he put a knife to my throat and said not to touch his niece.

"It's the only way this was ever going to end," I disagreed. "There is enough money in my bag for you and Ishan to attend the conference, and then make it home. I spoke with the Catholic fathers in Bethlehem last night. They are preparing a tomb for me. It will be a good tourist attraction. Speak to Ma'amet and Lalia for me. Tell them how much I love them."

"My brother, do not do this," Farouk said, clutching my arm.

Maggie came up next to him, tears running down her face. A soldier likes to know someone will cry over his grave.

Before Farouk could press his case further, Prime Minister Radin Elazar finally emerged from the parliament, pausing on the portico with great drama. Those who had retreated into the shade returned, the speculation noisy enough that it carried all the way up to me. Farouk and Maggie backed off to give us space, knowing the Prime Minister and I needed to speak privately.

"Captain John Lawrence, the living legend," Elazar said, casting a shadow on me.

Elazar was a former army colonel with a distinguished record. Medium height, thick around the waist, and just past middle-age, he wore an expensive blue suit and black leather shoes. An interesting contrast to my own costume.

"Take a seat, sir. The steps are comfortable," I suggested.

He turned to sit, seeing the bloody footprints on the pavement, now turned brown.

"Quite the showman, aren't you? Learn that in prison?" he asked.

"Among other places," I replied, for it was true.

"You've gone out of your way to embarrass me," he said.

"Yes, that's been my game. But the game isn't over. It's the finale that provides the payoff."

"And what is the finale?"

"You will have a change of heart. The conference will go forward. The nations will have a chance to raise their families without death hanging over them. It's an ending I really like."

"What if I say no?" he asked, probing.

"Your successor will agree. He or she will have a powerful symbol to rally around."

"You? A criminal?"

"Me, the dead martyr," I replied.

I opened my shirt, showing the purple bruise beneath my heart. Then I took his hand and pressed it against my forehead. He pulled back after feeling the raging fever.

"Forty-eight hours from now my followers will be carrying my coffin through the streets. There will be tears and lamentations. An American flag will drape the casket. How will you fight me then? How does a politician fight a ghost?"

"You're insane," Elazar whispered.

"That's been said before. I believe Dr. Sandra Livingston wrote a paper on it."

"Cooperating with the Arabs will weaken my coalition," he said.

"Then build a new coalition," I replied.

"I need time to think," he urged.

"You want this. I know you do. Your people want it. But once I'm gone, whatever explanations you make will sound hollow."

Elazar looked toward the plaza and the street beyond. The crowd had grown to ten thousand or more, all wondering what we were talking about. I felt a sudden stab in my chest, bending me over to one side. Elazar grabbed me before I tumbled down the steps.

"I will call a special session. We'll meet tonight. I will endorse the proposal. I can't promise more than that."

"If I have your word, then that is enough," I said, offering my hand.

"You have my word," he agreed, accepting the gesture.

A whirlwind broke loose. Hundreds rushed up the steps, including doctors and a stretcher team. Farouk reached me first, issuing orders. I struggled to be heard.

"Let's go back to Bethlehem until parliament agrees to the conference," I asked.

"You need a hospital," Maggie said, abandoning her camera crew to tend me.

"Bethlehem has a hospital," I replied, though I knew it was a small one.

There was much debate, pro and con. Surprisingly, Farouk wanted me taken to a hospital in Jerusalem, even though the doctors would probably be Jewish. I considered that personal growth. Fowler arrived, taking Farouk and Maggie aside. They made some sort of decision without consulting me. Meanwhile, the doctors wanted to strap me to a gurney, which could not be permitted.

"Help me walk down the steps," I said to Ishan and Chef Abu. "This might be my final act. It's no time to show weakness."

The crowd parted as we descended. I acknowledged their good wishes. When we reached the street, I paused to make a statement. I wanted them to support Professor Lofoya and make the conference a success, but suddenly the world was spinning around and everything went black.

_________

"He can't be moved until he's stabilized," a doctorly voice said.

"If he stays here, he dies," someone else objected.

They were making a big deal out of nothing. I felt fine, just a little dizzy. I was surprised to find myself in a hospital bed hooked up to a tree of IVs. I could see the rooftops of Bethlehem through the window.

"Have they voted?" I asked.

Both doctors jumped back, as if startled. They checked the IVs.

"Their parliament is still debating," a Palestinian doctor said.

"I can't leave yet. I made a promise," I said, resting my head on the pillow. The room was spinning around.

Farouk and Ishan entered, looking worried.

"You must listen to the doctor, my friend," Farouk urged.

"It can't be that serious. I was on my feet an hour ago," I disagreed.

"You were on your feet two days ago," Farouk corrected. "Doctor?"

"The blood poisoning is advanced. You are at risk of acute organ failure," the doctor grimly reported.

I had to give that some thought. It all sounded fairly vague.

"If the parliament rejects the conference, others might wish to withdraw. It's important that I stay," I decided.

The doctors shook their heads. Farouk looked unhappy with me. Ishan left the room without saying anything. The next thing I remembered was waking up with Margaret sitting next to me. It had been light outside before, now it was dark.

"Think you're pretty smart, don't you?" Margaret said.

"I don't hear that very often," I answered.

"Fowler wanted to put you on a military jet, but the Palestinians won't let him back on their soil, so I've gone to Plan B," Margaret revealed.

"You're not making any sense, Maggie. You've got a great story. Isn't that enough?"

"People like happy endings. It's not a happy ending if you die."

"For an Englishwoman, you have no sense of Shakespeare."

"I prefer his comedies, and you're not very funny."

"I wish people would stop saying that. I have a great sense of humor."

"Now that's funny," she smiled. "Regardless of what the Knesset does, we're moving you in the morning. Daniel Palmer is sending his private jet. Fowler has the military hospital in Landstuhl waiting for you."

"You are too bold. I'll leave when I'm ready," I defiantly replied.

"I knew you would say that which is why I'm implementing Plan B. Remember, Jack, I read your autobiography," Margaret ominously said.

"It's not an autobiography. It's a memoir," I corrected.

I dozed lightly. The dreams were troubled, but not nightmares. Had someone found my medication? An Israeli pharmacy would be a good source--why hadn't I thought of it?

Consciousness came back slowly, as if I'd been drugged rather than sleeping. There was activity all around me. The tubes were unplugged. The bed was stripped, and I was wrapped like a mummy. There was a gurney waiting.

"What the hell is this?" I asked, unable to move more than a few inches.

Farouk walked in, looking busy. Obviously the mastermind of the plot, as silly as that sounded.

"Palmer's jet is here. You are going to the airport," Farouk announced.

"This is kidnapping," I protested.

"It is not me who is kidnapping you," Farouk said. "They are."

Two young women appeared in the doorway, and my heart nearly stopped. It was Jenny and Alex.

"No more complaining, mister," Alex said, marching up in her sharpest dark gray Secret Service suit. She was even wearing her gold badge, just to make sure everyone understood who was in charge. She looked at me with a brief smile but would not be distracted.

Alex pointed here and there, issuing orders like a general, then left the room. I saw a nurse acting as her translator. Jenny remained behind, dressed in a rumpled white dress and a blue scarf. She was bone thin, her hair stringy. She had been crying, and was getting ready to cry again.

"You look awful," I said.

"You're not one to talk," Jenny replied, sitting next to me.

"This is not how I imagined our reunion. More like music and flowers."

"Did you imagine a reunion? After dumping me and trying to get yourself killed. And don't worry about the flowers. They've been piling up at your tomb all day. Father Fernandez is carving your headstone."

"That's why I like being Catholic. We're entrepreneurs."

"He gave you Last Rights for free."

"We're ready to move," Alex said, coming back into the room.

"Agent McGuire, I believe you are off your turf," I grunted.

"Strap him down tight," Alex told the orderlies.

And they did. Whatever authority I thought to have proved to be an illusion.

Downstairs, it was a beautiful September morning. They had equipped a truck that would allow me to sit up in the back. Probably nailed to a board like El Cid.

"The people want to say goodbye," Farouk said, getting emotional.

They set me on a fat pillow, tying me down with seatbelts. Jenny, Farouk and Ishan climbed in with me. Major Salmo drove with Alex riding shotgun. Crowds had gathered, and the street had been cleared.

"Ishan and I are going to Knossos. We will not disappoint you," Farouk said.

"This was your quest as much as mine. Why do I get so much credit?" I asked.

"Because Ishan and I are ordinary, and you are crazy," Farouk answered.

He had a point.

The throngs stood two and three deep, quiet and respectful. Children waved. Women held flowers. I tried to acknowledge them but was barely able to move.

"You're doing good," Jenny said.

"Why wouldn't I?" I asked.

"Because you're white as a ghost and could pass for a cadaver," Major Salmo said, sparing Jenny from saying it.

"I'll try not to die before we reach the airport," I offered.

"Try hard," Farouk admonished me.

Ishan remained quiet. After all we'd been through, I would miss him. But he had a great future lying ahead, whether he returned to Sar'ret or took the world by storm.

"When do you leave for the conference?" I asked.

"In a few days. Alwan has issued diplomatic passports," Farouk said. "We are looking forward to meeting Professor Lofoya."

Jenny did not speak Arabic but recognized Lofoya's name, so I translated for them.

"You will like him. Professor Lofoya is a great man," Jenny said.

"You attended his school, didn't you? In Utah," Ishan asked, finally speaking.

"I also worked for him, and got my degree there," Jenny replied.

"Can I go to his school? Will you introduce me?" Ishan urgently requested.

"He already knows who you are, Ishan," Jenny answered. "The whole world knows who you are. And Farouk. Professor Lofoya would be proud to have you."

Ishan settled back, as if a weight had been lifted. In a few years he'd have a better education than I did.

I was fading by the time we reached the border crossing. Jenny put a floppy hat on my head and held on to my arm. She could care less about the crowds but knew I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone.

We had no trouble at the crossing, even with Major Salmo, Farouk and Ishan in the truck. The guards waved us through. I heard a final cheer from Chef Abu, Sergeant Tamer, and many others as we drove through the gate. I was sorry not to say a better goodbye.

The route took us through Jerusalem where the Knesset had agreed to attend the conference. The crowds continued to be large, only more diverse. I noticed hundreds of American tourists.

As we passed the Old City, I saw Prime Minister Elazar holding hands with his wife and grandchildren outside the Golden Gate. If the talks were successful, I had no doubt he would compete for the credit.

We reached Atarot Airport, reopened as a regional airfield a few years before. A private jet with Palmer Media on the tailfin was warming up. A team of doctors and nurses rushed to lift me from the truck, sticking IVs in my arms before I was even on the plane.

"Don't die on me, kid," General Fowler said, chomping on an unlit cigar.

"Would that make me AWOL?" I asked.

"It would make you goddamn fucking stupid," Fowler spit back.

Ishan, Farouk, and Major Salmo came to say goodbye. I was having trouble seeing them, possibly from too much sun, but managed to reach out my right hand.

"Tell Lalia and Ma'amet I'll be all right," I told Farouk.

"They love you well, my brother," Farouk said. "When you come back, I will let you marry my brother's oldest daughter."

"It would be a good match, if the dowry is large enough," I agreed.

"When you return, we will hunt Tashad together," Salmo said. "I will let you shoot one."

"Thank you, Samer. I've always wanted to shoot a Tashad," I responded, trying to give his hand a good grip. But I barely managed a grip at all.

Ishan was unable to say anything. He knelt down, hugging my mummy wrapped body as best he could.

"I will visit you in America," he finally said.

"Maybe I will buy you a beer," I replied. He wouldn't be the first youngster I'd led into vice.

Several soldiers helped the doctor load me through the door, Jenny trying to keep hold of my hand. That was the last thing I remembered for several days.

* * * * * *

The last chapter and epilogue are combined in the final entry. If you are enjoying this story, please give it your support.