Ancient Echoes

CHAPTER 5



Jerusalem

CHARLOTTE REED LIT a cigarette as soon as she stepped out of Al-Dajani’s office. A little calmer now, she headed for the Old City with its ancient arches and stone alleyways. In the Muslim Quarter narrow, crowded streets wended through the souk where shops and outside vendors carried fresh produce, crafts, tasteful art objects, and cheap trinkets. Arab music blared, and the strong scent of shawarma, cumin, and cardamom enveloped the area.

A lopsided wheelbarrow tilted toward her and she jumped aside to avoid being struck. As she turned, she noticed a figure dart behind a hanging rug as if trying to avoid being seen.

She hurried on as old terrors came to mind. The crowd grew ever larger, closing in on her, jostling, pushing. She gripped her shoulder bag tight against her side. As an ICE agent trained to go up against art smugglers and thieves, she always carried a 9 mm Glock 19. It was her constant and most trusted companion even though she had only fired it once on the job to shatter a padlock.

Charcoal smoke filled the air and brought tears to her eyes. Tamarind stung her nostrils. Arab women wearing hijab, Orthodox Jews in black and white, and Christians wearing everything from jeans and Birkenstocks to cassocks and habits gave her strange looks.

The sense of being watched strengthened.

At the Wailing Wall she warily took in her surroundings and the people nearby. Behind her, she heard a muffled din of devotions; to the left, the piercing call of the muezzin from a minaret; and to the right, the peal of sonorous church bells. No one paid any attention to her, she told herself. And why should they? She was a tourist, nothing more.

She chided herself for baseless nervousness, and found an outdoor café for kanafeh and tea. She took a seat against the wall facing the street, shook out a Benson and Hedges menthol and lit it as she carefully watched the passersby.

Soon, she left the Old City and went up to the Mount of Olives with its magnificent views of Jerusalem. She sat stiffly on a bench near the Chapel of the Ascension and from that high lookout finally allowed herself to do what she had both longed for and feared ever since returning to the Holy Land.

She became lost in the past.

Another saying about the area came to her, this one attributed to the Hasidic spiritual leader, Rebbe Nachman: Wherever I go, I am going to Jerusalem.

In a sense, ever since fleeing the city after her husband’s horrible death, no matter how much she fought against it, she knew that one day she would need to face the past.

Memories washed over her. Some felt wonderful, while others held more pain than anyone should have to bear. She had spent years telling herself she had moved beyond it, but in reality she simply had refused to deal with what had happened here thirteen years earlier. Now, she steeled herself to face it. To remember.

She attended George Washington University in Washington D.C. as a first-year graduate student of Middle Eastern art and history when Dennis Levine entered her life.

Ten years older than her, with short, tightly waved dark brown hair and glasses, his remarkable intelligence—not his looks—first caught her attention. His brilliance in her field of studies made her feel like a complete amateur, grasping at straws and trying to learn through books what Dennis already knew, lived, and breathed to the marrow of his being.

Their casual coffee dates quickly became serious. Two months after they met, he asked her to marry him and go with him to Jerusalem where he worked with the State Department. He needed to return immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation, she agreed. That was when he added that he was, in fact, a CIA officer.

They explored the city together, spending endless hours walking everywhere, learning to love the modern city as well as the ancient one.

She rose from the bench and turned toward Mt. Scopus for her upcoming meeting. She didn’t mind the long walk; she wanted to feel the pulse of the city beneath her feet once more. As she walked, the sights before her faded, and in their place were ghosts of the past.

Once in Jerusalem, she had applied for transfer to the graduate program at the Hebrew University. Dennis's position had a lot to do, she believed, with the ease with which she'd been accepted. Nonetheless, her classes on the history, art, language, and culture from Egypt to Sumer captivated her.

Dennis seemed to think she'd be interested in joining him in the CIA someday, and that her knowledge of the Middle East would be useful to the agency. He taught her to use handguns and rifles, and insisted she carry a small handgun whenever she went out alone. She never did. As a student, she had firmly believed handguns should be banned and the nations of the world disarmed. The irony of her now being an armed agent with ICE wasn't lost on her. Back when Dennis was alive, she had feigned interest in the CIA because he adored his job and she wanted to make him happy. In truth, such a career held no appeal for her. She hoped to become a professor and naively wished to use her knowledge and admiration of this land to help soothe, in some small way, the international tensions surrounding it. But all her dreams had turned to nothing.

And now, she found herself in Jerusalem again, alone and trying to learn what she could about her husband's death. Ancient secrets. A bizarre American professor named Lionel Rempart. Alchemy. She found it hard to believe any of them were connected to her Dennis.

Before she knew it she had reached Al-Dajani's office building. She tapped on the glass door to get the attention of the guard, and then plastered the pass Al-Dajani had given her against it. The young guard read it and with a smile and nod, hit the buzzer to let her enter.

The door no sooner opened when, from behind, she heard running footsteps coming closer.