She turned and caught his abstracted gaze. "Hey." She frowned. "You're supposed to be watching closely. How long did I say the pasta had to cook?"
"Five minutes?" he offered. "No--fifteen."
Her frown stayed in place and her grip on the spoon tightened.
"Oh, I know," he said. "Trick question. Until it's, you know, whatever the word is--al dente."
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She brushed a damp strand of dark hair from her forehead and turned back to the steaming pots. "Hmm. I don't think you've been listening to a word I've been saying, Paul Wallach. I mean, you're the one who said he lived on cans of tuna and takeout pizzas and wouldn't it be great to learn how to cook a meal once in a while that actually tasted of something. I know this isn't exactly duck à l'orange or anything, but you could show a little more appreciation."
He quickly put his glass of Coke down on the counter and adopted a sincere expression. "I do appreciate it, Shari, I really do. And it smells incredible. It's just that I find it hard to concentrate on things that don't really interest me--"
"You'll be interested enough in eating it, I bet," she interrupted.
"Sure, yes, you're right. What I mean is, I don't think I'll ever be any good at it. However hard I try, I don't think I'm ever going to be a great cook."
"Just like you're never going to be the next Bill Gates, right?" she said, glancing quickly over her shoulder to make sure she hadn't upset him.
He sighed. "Exactly. I feel like I've spent my whole life trying to be good at things I'm not. Pretending to be interested in stuff I couldn't give a... give a fig about. I mean, I wanted my dad to be proud of me and all. I didn't want him to think I was, like, a failure, or whatever. And it turned out he was the failure."
Shari had promised herself that she would let him talk without interrupting him, but she turned from the stove to face him. "Paul, you can't think of your father that way. He may have failed at business, but he provided a good life for you for a long time."
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"Yeah, some good life . I'm not sure which he was a bigger failure at, business or being there for me."
"Paul Wallach, let me tell you something I discovered when my parents were killed in a car accident years ago. You can blame them for anything you feel is wrong in your life, you can feel guilty about things that went unresolved while they were alive, but at some point, good or bad, you have to live your own life, whether they've given you a good foundation or not, and stop making them an excuse."
Paul slouched in his chair. "Oh, I keep telling myself things like that. That's why I pushed myself to go back to college here at Preston, because I didn't want to just sit and mope about my tough luck. At least my dad gave me the example of working hard. But it's tough working hard at stuff when your heart's not in it."
Shari handed him two steaming plates of spaghetti and red clam sauce, and for a moment he was distracted by the rich, warm smell.
"Wow!" he said. "I mean, really. Wow! You must let me have the recipe sometime," he added, grinning.
"Ha-ha," she said, shooing him into the little living room, where she'd set the table. "Sit down and eat. And then you can tell me what it is exactly that your heart is in."
"Thanks," Paul said, handing Shari a mug of coffee. "And not just for a delicious meal. Thanks for listening to my problems like this. I feel bad taking up your time with this stuff when you could be, I don't know, doing more exciting things."
She smiled. "I like helping people, Paul. And I know from
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my own experience that someone just listening can be a big help."
He'd hoped she was going to say something else, something a little more personal. Something that indicated she was interested in him. He wanted to be more than just her good deed for the day. But maybe he was hoping for too much. Or maybe it was just too soon.
"So," she said, "the first thing you've got to do is be honest with yourself. You no longer have to live your life for how your dad feels. If you don't think you're cut out for high finance, then find something that does interest you."
"I think I've found a subject I want to study."
"Great." She beamed. "What is it?"
He hesitated. Would she think he was faking an interest just to impress her, to worm his way into her affections? He didn't want to blow everything.
"It's about as unbusinesslike as I can get. Biblical archaeology," he said, watching her expression.
She looked steadily at him for a while. Not smiling, but not quite frowning either. As if his sincerity were being weighed in the balance and the scales hadn't quite come down one way or the other. Finally she said, "I guess you know how I feel about it. I can't think of anything more fascinating, more worthwhile. And if you want to get into it, well, that's good. But are you sure you totally understand what it's all about? I mean, it's not just about digging up artifacts and finding out where they came from. That's what regular archaeologists do. It's about proving the truth of the Bible."
Paul started to frame an answer, then stopped himself. He did have an answer, at least he thought he did, but he wasn't
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sure he could put it into words. No, he couldn't claim to be a fully paid-up member of the Christian faith. He wasn't even sure what it was exactly he believed in. But when he'd seen Murphy's photos of the ossuary in the lecture hall, when he'd heard him read the inscription, he'd felt something deep inside that he'd never felt before. All he knew for sure was that he wanted more of it.
A loud buzzer broke the awkward silence. Saved by the bell , he thought.
"I don't know who that could be," Shari said with a trace of real annoyance as she got up from the table and went to the front door. She pulled the latch, there was a moment's silence, and her hand flew to her mouth. Standing in the doorway was a young man with an unruly mop of dirty-blond hair, a couple of days' stubble, and an unpleasant grin. He shouldered his way past Shari and planted himself in the middle of the room.
"I don't see balloons. I don't see ticker tape." He scanned the room, looking straight through Paul as if he weren't there. "I definitely don't see booze. I gotta say, you don't do a great homecoming party, sis."
You just never know about families , Paul thought as he walked back to his apartment. Here he had been unburdening to Shari about his turmoil over his father issues and his future, and she seemed like this peaceful, perfect, wise person who had it all figured out. Then-- boom --that awful guy comes barging in and it turns out he's her brother who had been in prison for burglary and got released early and surprised her.
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Some surprise. Chuck Nelson didn't stay long. Just changed his clothes and stormed back out. Shari seemed really upset, so Paul ended up staying for another whole hour, talking, only this time about her. Paul was even more impressed when he listened to her.
"My parents were killed instantaneously in the crash when Chuck and I were teenagers. They had never taken us to church, so I did not know Christ personally. However, I started going to a Bible-believing church with my friend's mother and it was there that something wonderful happened. I received Christ personally as my Lord and Savior and He changed my life. Salvation gave me something to hold on to when I needed it most. But Chuck went bad fast."
Paul shook his head. "He must have, to have ended up in prison."
"Chuck fell in with the worst elements from the surrounding area, committed crimes from stealing to drug dealing, and eventually got caught. He would never listen to anything I had to say and refused to put me on his list of visitors in prison, so I stopped going to see him. I've never stopped praying for him, though."
"What will you do now?"
"I don't know. You know as much as I do. You saw him storm in and out. I guess he thinks he's going to live with me here, and I would never throw him out, but I will not have him fall back into his wild life. I'll need some help here. I think Laura Murphy and Pastor Bob at the church will be good to talk to. And you, Paul, you've been reall
y great to listen."
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Paul blushed. "Hey, you listened to me, I listened to you. That's what friends do. And, hey, I guess that means we're friends."
Shari gave him a friendly pat on his hand. "Well, friend, you'd better be getting home. But I tell you what, why don't you join us for church Wednesday night. The Murphys will be there, and I'd like you to meet Laura. She can help you too. And you should get right in the spirit by coming early and helping out in the basement, sorting clothes for the church clothing drive. Say, six-thirty Wednesday?"
I think I'm going to like it here at Preston , Paul thought as he whistled the whole way back to his apartment.
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TWENTY-FIVE
THE NEARLY TWO hundred flags of the members of the United Nations were flapping in a light evening breeze coming off the East River. At six P.M., as twilight was passing rapidly to full darkness across Manhattan, the U.N.'s brilliant night-lighting beams switched on.
There was an immediate burst and flash, thousands of lights turning the thirty-nine stories of the Secretariat Building into one of the jewels of the New York City night skyline.
Since it was not completely dark yet, the lights did not create their full dazzling effect. However, the explosion of attention was immediate.
Horns honked as passing cars screeched to a halt along First Avenue. Pedestrians gasped, shouted, and pointed up at the glass facade of the U.N. And by 6:02 P.M., the first of
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numerous phone calls sounded in the office of the head of United Nations Security in what was going to be a very long night.
For painted on half the windows from floor five up to floor twelve of the United Nations Secretariat Building, in a bright red that took on an otherwordly glow in the night lighting, all the world was now reading:
J 3 16
Within a half hour there were even more lights trained on the Secretariat Building.
The premises were cleared, as were the surrounding buildings and streets, except for dozens of official vehicles. The mobile units of what seemed like every television and radio station in the world were also now jammed as close to the U.N. as they could get.
It was a full-disaster reaction scene without any apparent disaster. Preliminary search and evaluation teams could find no victims and no damage to any of the U.N. buildings. Except for what appeared to be meticulously applied blood that had cascaded down eight floors' worth of windows on the Secretariat Building front. If the writing on the windows was some kind of warning about an impending explosion or attack, no further clue had been found, though it would take many hours to complete a thorough search.
Because the U.N. was technically on eighteen acres of international property, the United Nations security chief, Lars Nugent, was in charge of the operations that night, but the
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New York City police and FBI and other federal emergency teams were swarming all around, lending services and giving advice.
By nine-twenty, Nugent had gathered together Burton Welsh, senior FBI official on the scene, along with the police commissioner of New York and the undersecretary of state for the United States, who had flown up from Washington to try to coordinate the many government services that would be called upon if there was an attack on the United Nations. Despite its official international status, it would be both a danger and an embarrassment for the United States if the U.N. was in any imminent danger of an attack of any nature.
Nugent, a man who looked more distinguished than many of the diplomats he protected, said, "Let me summarize what we know. The message was painted on the outside of the windows on floors five through twelve. We need to do some real testing, but we've determined it is paint, not blood, as those TV reporters have been speculating. The paint that was used is some kind of chemical that goes on clear and takes on its color only when really bright light zaps it, some kind of super glow-m-the-light chemical."
The police commissioner interjected, "How did it get on there?"
"We assume it was done from the window-washing platform. It was up and running today on those floors, but so far everything checks out normal with the washer and all the security screenings. The police are trying to round up the regular window washer, a Joseph Farley, lives in Astoria. No luck yet, but he's been on the job for ten years and has nothing unusual on his record either here at work or with the police."
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The undersecretary looked up from his notes. "It's almost one hundred percent certain that whoever painted this up there wanted to make a statement for the world to see. The U.N. is obviously the world organization. So far, though, we have no communication from any terrorist group taking credit."
Burton Welsh shook his head. He unzipped his FBI wind-breaker before speaking. We're not necessarily looking foreign on this."
The undersecretary raised his eyebrows. "You mean domestic terrorists? Like Oklahoma? What would be their beef with the U.N. that would make it worth trying to crack one of the tightest security systems in the world?"
Nugent waved his hand in disgust. "That security doesn't seem to have done squat today. What's the latest analysis of the markings?"
Welsh picked up the book in front of him. "Pretty crude, pretty basic." He opened the book. We're assuming it refers to the Bible, New Testament, 'J' for Book of John, 'three' for Chapter Three, 'sixteen' for Verse Sixteen, and I quote: 'For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"
Nugent nodded. "Yes, it's maybe the most famous quote from the Bible, but why here, why now?"
Welsh reached for his cell phone. We've got some thoughts, but if this is the call I'm expecting, we'll be getting the benefit of some outside help."
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TWENTY-SIX
MURPHY WAS STILL trying. The symbols were starting to wiggle in front of his eyes, he had been staring at the cuneiforms for so long. They seemed to be moving to a regular rhythmic beat, until Murphy realized it was his office phone that was ringing.
He shook his head to try to clear it as he reached for the receiver. It was Laura, from the house. "Murph, thank God you're still in the lab."
"A fine thing to be saying to your husband in the middle of the night."
"Murph. An FBI agent was just here looking for you."
"FBI? Why me, and why me at this hour?"
"He's coming to the lab to get you, Murph. The FBI wants you for questioning."
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FBI agent Hank Baines sat in Murphy's office twenty minutes later, holding Murphy's extension phone against one ear while Murphy paced. Laura had told Murphy to turn on the TV in the department lounge and he had watched the BNN update live from the U.N. Murphy was completely dumbfounded, like the rest of America, by what he saw.
Agent Baines had been ordered by Washington to race from the Charlotte field office to Preston to wake up Professor Michael Murphy for questioning. The questioning, however, was not to be undertaken by Baines; he was merely ordered to get Murphy situated for a conference call with Burton Welsh, head of the New York office.
"Mr. Baines, this makes no sense. What does this have to do with me?"
"I do not believe it is about you, sir."
"It is now if you've sped down here to question me."
"Like I said, Professor, I am not going to question you."
"That makes even less sense. If all this is about is my getting a phone call, what are you doing here? Do you shoot me on the spot if I answer a question wrong?"
Baines spoke into the receiver. "Agent Baines in position, New York. I will put Professor Murphy on the phone directly" At Baines's nod, Murphy picked up his desk phone.
"Professor Murphy, I'm Burton Welsh, senior FBI agent on site here at the U.N. We have you on speakerphone with the U.N. security chief, Lars Nugent. Thank you for taking the time to talk to us."
Murphy frowned, then said into the receiver, "Gentlemen, I don't know what you think
I can do for you."
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"Mr. Murphy, I'm sorry to disturb you, but we've got a situation up here at the U.N."
"I've just seen the TV coverage. What do I have to do with any of this?"
"Sir, we're quite familiar with your expertise with all things having to do with the Bible."
"Hogwash, Agent Welsh. I've never dealt with you guys before, but I always figured the FBI would be straight shooters in every way. There are dozens of experts you could have called who know more about the Bible than I do, including lots right there in New York, so you wouldn't have had to roust Agent Baines here to babysit me."
"Sir, could I ask you to tell me what you make of this message, three sixteen."
"Welsh, I'm an expert in ancient Biblical history, not modern graffiti."
"Take a whack at it anyway, Mr. Murphy, if you would."
Murphy took a deep breath before answering. "John Three: Sixteen, as I'm sure you know, is the verse many Christians believe is the most important verse in the entire Bible."
"Because?"
"Because it tells us that through faith in God's Son, Jesus Christ, we will receive the gift of eternal life."
"So, you think this is the work of some religious fanatic," Nugent interjected.
"Whoa, gentlemen! Religious fanatic? You mean because it refers to a Bible quotation? Look, fanatic would seem to be a fair conclusion, because somebody obviously went to a whole lot of trouble to paint it all the way up there on the U.N. But there're many millions of people, myself included, who think
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about that quotation every day of their lives and would take offense at being described as religious fanatics."