Chapter 5

 

Cairo was truly a city of contrasts.  Some segments of the city were western in nature with apartment buildings, stores, modern plumbing.  Other parts had not changed in hundreds of years.  The people lived in mud and stone huts, bought goods at the local bazaar, and maintained that "grubby" look.  Many people of both genders wore traditional robe attire, but others dressed in western clothing.

 

The Vaclav family was welcomed at the Cairo airport by Gwen's old friend, Fred Bartman.  "Greeted by the ambassador himself," Gwen teased him.

 

"Hi, Gwen, Ian, and my, how Sarah and Carl have grown!"  They were no longer children and hated when others spoke of how they had grown or how "big" they were.  Sarah and Carl couldn't tell whether they felt angry or embarrassed.  Fred had teenage children of his own and should have known better.  But he didn't.

 

The Vaclav siblings were kind.  Sarah tried to animate her cobalt blue eyes as though she appreciated the comment.

 

Fred rubbed his hand over his full head of brown hair.  He had not seen the Vaclav family for seven years.  That was the last time he had been anywhere near Congress, Indiana.  His job anchored him to Egypt, where he lived with his wife and four children.  When he did travel to the U.S., his destination was usually Washington, D.C., or New York City.

 

Unusually tall at six feet, ten inches, Fred's wiry figure made him seem even taller.  Ian had been tempted to ask him, "What's the weather like up there?" and "Do you have trouble with nose bleeds at that altitude?"  But when he shared his intentions with Gwen, she threatened him.  "Remember my cast-iron frying pan," she cautioned.  Though the nature of her warning was not serious, the strength of her opinion was obvious.  Ian trusted his wife's judgment in such matters.  He had experience in putting his foot in his mouth.  His mismanaged attempts to manufacture humor were legion.

 

"Let me escort you to your hotel," Fred offered, "then I'll leave you for a while to give you time to get settled.  I'll come back in a few hours.  Of course you'll have dinner at our house.  Sharon is making your favorite dish-chicken paprika!"  The Vaclavs exchanged amused glances behind Fred's back.

 

They were soon at the Hotel Qualim.  They retrieved their suitcases and walked in the front door.  It was a psychological struggle to go inside because the weather outside was ideal.  The mercury registered 68 degrees, and the sun was on active duty.  They strolled into the thoroughly American hotel, where Fred escorted them to the fruitwood desk and bid them farewell.  As he left, his shoes made a clicking sound on the marble floor.

 

The responsible-looking deskman caught sight of a man dressed in robed attire.  He was gently reciting, "Shoeshine boy, shoeshine boy."

 

The hotel official yelled at the grubby-looking man in Arabic.  The man tilted his head down and quickly shuffled out of the hotel parlor.

 

"Excuse me," the deskman apologized to Ian.  "Sometimes that kind sneaks in here.  There are many people who love to prey on sympathetic and unsuspecting tourists."  His English bore only the slightest accent.

 

He then pounded the desk bell.  "Bellhop!"  The Vaclavs quickly followed their guide into the elevator and to the door of their suite.

 

Ian tripped over the threshold strip but regained his balance.

 

"When will you learn to pick up your feet when you walk?" scolded his redheaded spouse.

 

His response was instantaneous.  "When you stop squeezing the toothpaste tube in the middle!"  They actually enjoyed such sparring matches.  It was a mental exercise as well as a form of flirting.

 

As they settled into their three-room suite, Ian waited until the bellhop was gone.  In a low tone he warned his family.  "Remember, do not drink water from the tap!"  They nodded as if to say, "We know, Dad.  Thank you dad."  But they were polite.  Ian continued, "Remember, this country is teeming with nasty microscopic germs that our bodies are not used to fighting.  So let's not provoke.  We'll eat only where Fred recommends.  We don't want to wear out the plumbing!"  Again, all nodded in agreement, as if to say, "Okay-we know already."  But they used rehearsed politeness.  Ian lectured on, "Keep your mouth closed in the shower, drink only hot coffee or tea, and stay away from fresh produce."  They nodded in understanding, grateful that the ritual was over.  They had been grilled four times before.   Sometimes their dad tried their patience.  But he couldn't help it.  He had an overdose of that fatherly, protective instinct.

 

"It'll be good to get a nap on a real bed," yawned Gwen.  The family was in true harmony.  They spread out on top of their beds.

 

Their next conscious memory was a knock at the door.  Ian arose, his face bearing the pattern of the bedspread.

 

"Yes, what is it?" he asked, intending to sound neither rude nor friendly.  The knock at the door belonged to the bellhop.

 

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Vaclav, but we found this note behind the desk on the floor.  We do not know how long it was there, nor who delivered it.  But it has your name on the envelope.  So here it is."

 

"Thank you," responded Ian.  "Here-here's a tip."

 

The bellhop left with a lift.  Ian had been generous.

 

Gwen was wide-awake.  "What is it, honey?  How long have we been asleep?"

 

"I don't know what the message says, I haven't opened it yet," answered Ian.  "But we have been asleep for nearly two hours."

 

"Two hours?" gasped Sarah.  "Mr. Bartman, and maybe his son, will be here in half an hour to pick us up!"

 

"Relax," answered Gwen.  "We've got enough time."  Looking toward Ian, she asked, "What does the message say?"

 

Ian spoke slowly, with hesitation.  "It says," he broke off.  "It says-enjoy your vacation.  Make sure it is only a vacation.  They have bricks in Egypt and Iraq too, you know.  The wise advisor."

 

"So whoever he is, he's followed us to Egypt," marveled Gwen.

 

"Or he has connections in Egypt," speculated Carl.  "Or he's part of an organization."

 

"You know," Sarah thought aloud, "that shoeshine man looked familiar."

 

"I thought so, too," replied Ian.  "But I can't remember where I've seen him before."

 

"We'll see what Fred thinks about this," suggested Gwen.  "He might know something we don't."

 

After a few moments of silence, the suite was filled with the sound of gargling and brushing.   But no Vaclav dared gulp the water down.  They were anxiously awaiting Fred.  They were famished, yet they were more apprehensive than hungry.


 Chapter 6

 

 

Sarah put down her brush.  Her long, straight brown hair hung lightly above her waist.  The family was alert when they heard the anticipated knock at the door.  Gwen opened to Fred.  Standing alongside the elder Bartman was a handsome young man who broke the six-foot barrier.  His masculine walnut eyes matched his deep brown hair.  This improved version of Fred had to be his son, Doug.  

 

The last time the Vaclav clan had seen him, he was an awkward and scrawny fourteen-year old.  Now, at twenty-one, he was a broad shouldered, confident young man.

 

"We're all ready, Fred.  Come in while we get our stuff," Gwen offered.  "My, Doug, how you have grown!  You're now a good-looking young man!"

 

Of course Doug was aware that he was a young man.  Like most men his age, he hated when someone stated the obvious, but like Sarah and Carl, he knew the importance of courtesy.  But part of him drank up the phrase "good looking."  

 

"Thank you, Mrs. Vaclav," his deep voice resounded.

 

"And of course you remember Sarah and Carl," she added.

 

"I most certainly do," Doug replied.  "But we were seven years younger when we last met."  The entire Bartman family had stayed with the Vaclavs in Congress, Indiana for that special week.  They had relished their time together.

 

"These days, Doug is my right hand man," Fred enlightened his friends.  "As a matter of fact, I've arranged for him and Dorcas to give you folks the royal tour.  My schedule has some flex in it."

 

Dorcas was Doug's sister.

 

Gwen accepted his explanation.  "I'm sure he'll do a great job.  Well, let's get going.  I'm hungry!"

 

They started toward the Bartman residence.  Though their hotel suite was comfortable, they craved fun and friendship in a real home!

 

They chatted and laughed.  A quick thirty minutes later, they pulled into the Bartman driveway.  The two families shared a lot of common ground.  The Bartmans were Christians also and had home-schooled their children, which came in handy when they needed flexibility in their schedules.  Fred had been a committed Christian for as long as Gwen had known him.  As a matter of fact, one of the first times Gwen had heard a formal Gospel presentation was at Fred and Sharon Bartman's wedding.

 

Sharon anticipated her guests at the door.  After a few hugs, the Vaclavs were ushered inside.  The house was luxurious by Egyptian standards but a modest, middle-class home by American standards.  It was an almond-colored brick ranch, complete with Arizona-style green rock in lieu of a lawn.  The interior was painted in shades of white with wallpaper borders along the ceiling and wall seams.  It was open and airy.  All the floors were ceramic tile, with the exception of area rugs in the living room and family room.  As they entered, they could smell the aroma of Chicken Paprika.

 

Sharon hugged Gwen, and Ian pecked Sharon's cheek.  The kids reintroduced themselves.  Dorcas was now a brunette, blue-eyed sixteen-year-old.  Her thick hair was cut in a close crop.  Daphne was now fourteen, and Bart, at age ten, was the baby of the family.  Those seven years had made a great difference.  Carl especially noticed Dorcas.

 

Neither Carl nor Sarah cared for Mr. and Mrs. Bartman's choice of first names for their girls.  They often kept in mind one of "mom's" British sayings:  "There's no accounting for taste."  At least Dorcas went by "Dorie."  That lessened the blow.

 

The families had kept in touch ever since their visit.  As a matter of fact, one of the children's home-schooling assignments had involved corresponding with one another as pen pals.  Though Doug had completed his home-schooling years earlier, he found time between his studies at the university to continue corresponding with Carl and Sarah.

 

"Sarah and I brought the compact discs you asked for," Carl declared to Dorie.  "The best in contemporary Christian music.  Well, at least my picks."

 

Dorie was ecstatic.  "You did!  Oh, I'm so excited.  It's hard to get Christian music out here-especially contemporary.  And on CD!  I'll reimburse you after dinner."

 

"Our treat," Carl insisted.

 

"You know, if it wasn't for our electrical set-up, we couldn't play CDs," Fred explained to Gwen.  "We keep a small generator going in the evening and have special lines for 60 hertz, 120 volt electricity.  Otherwise, we couldn't run most of our American equipment."

 

"Smart," Ian responded concisely.

 

Gwen offered to help her hostess in the kitchen.  Close to Gwen in age, Sharon displayed chocolate hair and hazel eyes.  She was average in both weight and height.  Her round, clear plastic-framed glasses evened out her long face.  When she stood near Fred's tall and wiry frame, Sharon looked short and pudgy.  But it was merely an optical illusion. 

 

She did not really need much help at that point, but the offer provided a transition so they could break away from the group and visit.

 

The Bartman kids showed the Vaclav youth their "wares" and shared a taste of life and friends in Egypt.  Sarah and Carl updated the host family on American happenings.  They focused on cultural trends, some of which could not be perceived from the American newspapers and magazines liberally spread throughout the Bartman house.

 

Meanwhile, Fred escorted Ian into a quiet corner.  "Ian, I need to let you see a letter I received.  It has me worried."

 

"Another threat?"  Ian wondered aloud.

 

"Another?-You mean you've received some threats as well?"

 

"Yes," Ian soberly replied, "but tell me about your note!"

 

"Let me read it to you," Fred suggested.  "'Dear Mr. Bartman, I know you are a Christian man, as I am.  I need to warn you that things are tense here in Iraq, near old Babylon.  If you value your friends, the Vaclavs, keep them away.  There are rumors of a plot to take their lives.  Please take me seriously for we are brothers.'  And it's signed, 'A fellow disciple.'"

 

Ian was perplexed.  "Why would a CHRISTIAN man want to keep us from searching for fragments from the Tower of Babel?"

 

"I don't know.  But perhaps it has something to do with the political scene.  There are several minority groups in Iraq, and Saddam Hussein's governors often have their own agendas.  But tell me about the threats you have received."

 

When Fred Bartman heard of the brick and two threatening notes, he addressed Ian.

 

"Brother, is this really worth risking your lives and the lives of your family?  It is just a remote possibility you might recover some of Babel's remains.  My advice is to forget it.  The odds are poor enough, but consider the threats to your lives and even the possible political ramifications.  It seems sensible to me that you turn back.  Perhaps in a few years..."

 

Ian interrupted.  "Fred, I know you are a wise man, and I respect you immensely.  But you know me.  I am cautious.  People accuse me of being too cautious.  I wore seat belts in my car before it was the law.  I have smoke detectors and fire extinguishers all over my house.  Even I think I am overcautious.  The only time I get bold is when I am convinced God demands me to be bold.  And even He has a hard time convincing me.

 

"If I were a man who acted on impulse and thought later, it would be one thing.  But I am not.  So it is certainly not my personality that makes me put my life at risk.  My wife and children have not been coerced or manipulated to come with me.  As a matter of fact, I have spent months trying to convince them otherwise.  They know the potential risks.  They have made their own decisions.  I know I have to proceed.  I am persuaded God wants me to forge ahead.  Whether we live or die, whether we discover much or nothing, I must go!  As a brother in the Lord, you no doubt have had those rare moments when God zapped you on the head with His direction.  That's where I am."

 

Fred responded slowly and quietly, "Ian, if it was anyone else but you, I would say they were crazy.  Oh, you are crazy, all right.  That's why I like you.  Sane people bore me to death.  But I have never known you to be reckless.  As a matter of fact, you drive me nuts with your caution.  And you are a man near to the heart of God.  How can I stop you?  I may kick myself, but I'll still back you.  Besides, the unemployment benefits for ex-ambassadors are excellent."

 

"Thanks for everything, brother," Ian responded with relief in his voice.  "And thanks for caring."  Fred, and the whole Bartman family cared very much.  It was stressful, walking the tight rope between government responsibility and the responsibilities of the heavenly kingdom, but Fred and Sharon were willing to be stressed.  

 

While waiting for the ladies to carry in the hot food from the kitchen, Ian knocked over a pitcher of water into a basket of rye bread.  Everyone jumped up and came to the rescue with their respective napkins.

 

"Still haven't changed after all these years, eh Vaclav?"  Fred teased.

 

"Yeah, still the same."  Ian was so used to being a klutz that it no longer bothered him.

 

"Look," announced Sharon, happy to change the subject.  "Three giant bowls of dumplings.  That should hold us!  My family eats all the dumplings and nibbles at the chicken.  Then they gripe about who ate all the dumplings.  So I made loads."

 

Carl and Sarah looked at each other with a grin.  There were dumpling addicts even in Egypt!


 Chapter 7

 

 

Carl ate the last kolache, his favorite Eastern European pastry.  Everyone was stuffed.  The two families kicked around plans for the coming week.  Doug and Dorie would escort the Vaclavs to the tourist sights which included the pyramids, the sphinx, a tour of the Nile River, and the Valley of the Kings.  The Bartmans would also help their guests to select dining and shopping places.

 

The week zipped by.  The two families (usually minus Fred) experienced pleasant times together.  It was becoming obvious that Doug and Sarah enjoyed one another's company, as did Carl and Dorie.  They were getting pleasantly reacquainted.

 

They had encountered no more threats, no more close calls.  On the other hand, Gwen claimed every drive through a narrow street in Cairo was a close call!

 

As planned, two days before they set out for Iraq, Ian met Fred and the embassy to finalize and verify all details.  The embassy was a nine-story building with white stucco facing.  Each floor could easily accommodate fifteen or twenty good-sized offices.  Four elevators greeted clients in the large, marble-floored lobby.

 

Ian noted a generous security staff.  Closed-circuit cameras peered into halls and nooks.  It was an awesome facility.  Ian had been in buildings that would dwarf the size of the embassy but none that had impressed him so.  He could not put his finger on WHY the building inspired him so.  He felt patriotic and proud and a sense of belonging.  The high-tech design of the facility made him feel that his fellow Americans were truly on top of things.  But then Ian reminded himself, "God is not impressed one bit!"  Such mental reminders helped him to keep Christ the real Lord of his life.

 

Ian arrived at the seventh floor lobby, where Fred was waiting with a newspaper in hand.  He conducted his friend to his office, first passing several offices en route.

 

Fred's office was about twenty-five feet by twenty-five feet.  The light blue carpet matched the two love seats and the three upholstered chairs and contrasted nicely with his light oak desk and brown leather office chair.  Light oak bookcases filled two walls.  Three end tables matched the other wood in the room.  An American flag was proudly displayed near Fred's desk.

 

Ian's attention turned from contemplating the tight organization of the embassy to the discussion at hand.  Fred enlightened him, "This embassy is the hub office for our operations in other nations, including Iraq and Kuwait.  After our unpleasant situation in Iran in 1979 with the hostage crisis, we determined Egypt would be a good country for our record keeping and other centralized functions.

 

"The way things are set up, our office in Iraq is more or less one of our branch offices.   Technically, that office does not exist.  We do our formal negotiations through the Polish embassy in Baghdad.  But, in actuality, our office in Iraq serves as an embassy.  Neither we nor the Iraqi will admit that, however.  Of course, Uncle Sam has more complex ways of expressing this arrangement, but that's what it boils down to.  The hub is here, and some of our other offices make up the spokes.  That's why I have so many strings to pull.  It's also the reason why your excursion is possible.  It took a good grip on my part to pull those strings, you know."

 

"I appreciate it with my whole heart," Ian affirmed.

 

"I know you do, old buddy.  I only wish I could join you on this trip.  It's the kind of thing you read about in adventure books.  Truth is usually stranger than fiction.  Take the fellow that found the-"

 

Fred was interrupted by his secretary.  "Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Bartman, but you asked me to remind you when it was ten o'clock."  The secretary was about thirty, slender, with shoulder-length, thick hair.  Its ebony color reflected light like a polished stone.  She had a Mediterranean look to her.

 

Her sharp business mindset was confirmed by her attire and by the tone of efficiency in her voice.  Suddenly she remembered something, "Oh, by the way, we just received another gift. It's a pottery oil lamp from Governor Al-Sheba.  Where would you like me to put it?"  Her big, brown eyes awaited his reply.

 

"Oh, uh, put it on the table in the corner with the other knickknacks."  He returned his focus to Ian.  "It's all junk to me, you know.  Dust collectors, I say.  But in the world of international relations, we have to pretend we appreciate such things."  

 

"Please send the usual thanks," he instructed, quickly glancing at his secretary, then returning his eyes to Ian.  "Last year, I got a crate of pomegranates and roll upon roll of dried figs.  I suppose if I were back in the States, it would be fruitcake.  Ah well."

 

Ms. Salem brought the attractive wheel-thrown lamp into the room.  It was covered with a bright blue glaze.

 

"Oh, thank you, Ms. Salem," Fred acknowledged.  "By the way, this is the friend I told you about, Ian Vaclav."

 

"Pleased to meet you," Ian responded, rising halfway out of his seat and offering his hand to the secretary.

 

"And you," Ms. Salem acknowledged.  "Mr. Bartman asked me to make many of the arrangements for your trip to Iraq.  Is everything going well?"  Ms. Salem sounded more human now that she knew Ian's identity.

 

"Relatively well," Ian answered, trying to be honest without saying too much.  "I'm sure our supplies will be fine," he smiled, diverting the discussion away from the subject.

 

"Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you," she answered, exiting the office.                                          

 

Ian waited until she left the room.  "She speaks American English, but she looks Middle Eastern," he commented.

 

"Yes, that's right," offered Fred.  Her parents are from Kuwait.  She was born in the U.S., and Uncle Sam moved her out here when Desert Storm was brewing.  Since much of her family lives in Kuwait and she was familiar with the country, she was able to offer some advice.  She also has relatives in Iraq, so she had some insights to offer us on that front."

 

"I never thought of that before.  Iraq and Kuwait were at one time under the same government.  Many families probably had relatives who were on the other side."

 

"That's right."  Fred abruptly changed the subject, "Oh, that oil lamp is from Governor Al-Sheba.  He has personally worked with me to arrange this expedition.  He is enthusiastic about finding the Tower's remains.  He'll be escorting you to the site.  This man is a trained, experienced archaeologist.  He was once in charge of Saddam Hussein's excavation and rebuilding of ancient Babylon."

 

A middle-aged American man tapped on the door and was welcomed in.  He was of average height and a bit chubby.  He had a "buzz" style haircut.  Black, plastic-framed glasses reduced the visibility of his bushy eyebrows.

 

"Ian, this is Tim Timmons.  He is our assistant ambassador to Iraq.  But he also works as a traveling troubleshooter between our Middle Eastern embassies."

 

"How do you do, Mr. Vaclav.  We've been expecting you.  You've been the talk of the embassy."  Tim spoke with a friendly, deep-pitched voice.

 

"Nice to meet you, Tim," Ian responded.  "I understand you will be accompanying me to Iraq.   Is that right?"

 

"Yes, that is so.  Are you sure you still want to go-with the threats and all?"  Tim looked Ian in the eye.

 

"Yeah, I'm crazy enough to go if you are," Ian answered.

 

"I'm crazy enough," Tim continued, "but I take it the children are planning to stay behind in Egypt?"

 

"No," Ian offered, "they want to come, and I am for them coming.  They know what the risks are, and Sarah and Carl are quite mature for their age-more mature than some adults I know-and intelligent too. "

 

There was a moment of silence.  Fred broke it.  "I agree with Ian."

 

"Then it's settled," Tim said.  "I'll see you day after tomorrow."

 

"Right," Ian completed.  Tim left the office.

 

Fred and Ian stepped over to the coffee pot.  They were ready to get down to business and address remaining details.

 

Ian got on Fred's nerves, double-checking and triple-checking every detail.  All supplies were awaiting them in Iraq:  tents, lanterns, ropes, electrical generators, portable sonars, maps, tools-anything and everything they could want.  Governor Al-Sheba himself would escort them to their campsite.  Ms. Salem, along with Tim Timmons, had done their jobs quite well.

 

After three hours and two coffee breaks, Ian was ready to change subjects.  "Fred, you seem to be in a good mood today."

 

"Uh, oh!  What does that mean?"  Fred knew Ian had something up his sleeve.

 

"Old buddy, old pal..." Ian jested.

 

"Okay-come out with it, you old sneak!"  Fred replied.

 

"Well, Fred, I have this retired widower friend, Tom Houser, and he was wondering-"

 

"No, sir!  No way!"  Fred was dramatic.  His tall, wiry figure made Ian seem tiny as he arose and towered above Ian, who was planted in a chair.  "You keep pushing and pushing and pushing.  First you have me talk to Washington to arrange a trip to a country we've just bombed to pieces.  Why?  Because you want to go on a speculative archaeological venture, and you are not even a qualified archaeologist.  Then you get me to let you take your wife and kids.  Then we get these threats, but you still insist on going.  How far do you think I can flex.  Am I made of rubber?  Do you want me to lose my job?  What do you-"

 

Ian recalled Proverbs 15:1 about a soft answer turning away wrath.  He took the verse out of mothballs and put it to work.  "Hold it, Fred.  Don't go on.  If you don't want Tom to come, I won't pester you about it.  It's okay.  You have extended yourself beyond logic for me already.  I won't ask any more.  Your point is well taken."

 

Fred calmed down.  "Well, Ian, thank you.  I am glad you understand.  And I know you do appreciate me.  I'm sorry if I portrayed you as ungrateful."

 

"No, Fred.  Perhaps I have been somewhat grateful, but I have been more obsessed with achieving my dream than loving you as a brother in the Lord.  You really have stuck your neck out for me.  I'll try not to disappoint you."

 

"I know you won't.  Look, I have to say goodbye for a while. I have a late afternoon appointment that I can't shirk.  I'll see you tomorrow."

 

"Till tomorrow, Fred.  And thanks."  The friends smiled at one another.

 

****************

 

While Ian and Fred were chatting at the embassy, Doug and Sarah and Carl and Dorie were playing Rook in the motel lobby.  Doug and Dorcas had learned the card game years before and could play for hours on end.

 

As they relaxed a man dressed in shabby Arab garb came wandering in the hotel.  Sarah caught him with the corner of her eye.  He deposited a piece of paper on the registration desk.   The deskman had his back to the counter, placing keys and mail in their appropriate spaces.  He turned around as he sensed someone at the desk.

 

"You again!  Why are you here?" demanded the manager as the man began walking away.  Stay out unless you have business here!"

 

Sarah ran after him.  "Excuse me, sir," she called.  He dashed out before she could catch him.  He seemed to vanish into thin air.

 

Doug, Dorie, and Carl were right on her heels.  Doug cross-examined her, "Are you crazy?  Why in the world would you chase after that man?"

 

"Because all of a sudden I remembered where I had seen him before.  Carl, he was not only the shoeshine man, he was the man at O'Hare Airport in Chicago.  You know, the man passing out the cult literature."

 

"Are you sure?" Carl probed.

 

"Do you think I would have run after him if I wasn't sure?" retorted Sarah.

 

"No, you wouldn't," Carl confessed.  "You never do forget a face."

 

Doug joined in the conversation.  "Well, you mentioned you saw him right after you got here.  My dad drove you here from the airport, correct?  How could he have been here so soon?   And was it a coincidence that he came to this hotel?  And why did he come?"  

 

As they analyzed the situation, they observed Gwen leave an elevator and walking toward the desk.  Seeing the foursome, she addressed them.

 

"The deskman called me to say he had a message waiting for me.  He said a native man dropped it off.  I'm a little scared about this."

 

They circled her as she opened the envelope and began reading its contents quietly.  As she scanned it, her countenance fell.  "It's another threat," she uttered, her vigor leaving her.  "It says,  'Do not be a fool.  Cancel the trip.  Life is cheap out here.  If you head into Iraq, it will be your last trip.'"  They decided to reconvene in the suite.  Moments later, Ian joined the contemplative group.


 Chapter 8

 

 

Ian had to force himself to believe what Sarah was telling him.  If she was right-and she had a wonderful memory for faces-then they were being followed.  Each threat brought distress, but now they were connected to a living, breathing person.  And where there was one, there might be many.

 

Ian began to have second thoughts about allowing Carl and Sarah to remain with him.  He even considered asking Gwen to let him pursue matters alone.  Perhaps they would be better off staying with the Bartman family.  After all, they were enjoying themselves in Egypt.  His face turned solemn and his glossy eyes seemed to be focused on a distant universe.

 

"Dad, we know what you're thinking," Sarah interjected.  "We are still determined to go."

 

Ian was taken aback that his mind had been read.  After a quick stare, he went back to the land of contemplation.  He thought to himself, "This is human life-particularly the life of my own flesh and blood.  Can I risk that for my obsession with a family destiny?"

 

Though he knew his father would not appreciate another interruption, Carl chose to invade Ian's self-imposed seclusion anyway.  "Dad, remember what you always tell us.  You pull back your shoulders, look us in the eye, and say, 'Never doubt in the darkness what God has shown you in the light.'"

 

Ian was silent.  He never found it easy to trust God.  Although he had a vital walk with the Lord, he preferred to govern his life by wisdom and sense.  This frequently was exactly what God wanted, it seemed.  But occasionally God impressed him to defy logic.  Though those times were truly few and far between, Ian seemed to age through each instance.  God had clearly led him to take the family on this risky adventure.  The dilemma began to consume him.  He could feel his stomach tying into knots.

 

Ian left the suite and went down to the lobby.  He found an isolated corner where he could lay his head back, close his eyes, and pray.  He was not disturbed by lobby traffic.  As he was praying, he fell into a peaceful sleep.

 

He woke up about ten minutes later, refreshed and emboldened.  He would not be intimidated by men, not when God had plans for he and his family to pursue the venture.  He would not doubt in the darkness what God had shown him in the light.

 

The spiritual struggle now over, he walked toward the elevator.  As he drew near, he heard the deskman yell in his native tongue.  Ian knew Arabic well enough to know the man was not happy!  Ian focused on the recipient of his anger.  It was the Arab shoeshine man!  Impulsively, Ian dashed at the man's knees and tackled him.

 

"Sir, Sir, it is all right," the deskman pleaded.  "He was not harming me-please!"  Bellboys and employees began to congregate around the scene.

 

"I know what I'm doing," Ian blurted out, his veins full of adrenalin.  "But I'm not letting this guy go until I get some answers."  In truth, Ian was feeling awful.  He was in horrible physical shape.  His idea of exercise was walking to the mailbox to mail letters.  But when Ian was focused on something, he could blot out everything else, including fear and pain.

 

Ian's Middle Eastern victim was distinctive.  He was a tall, thin man with a big nose and large ears.  He had a stubbly, closely-shaven beard.  He was about 40 years old.  He was dressed in well-worn Arab garb.

 

This fellow was very shaken.  He had been completely surprised by Ian's attack.  At first he claimed he could not speak English, but when Ian began addressing him in Arabic, the man was willing to converse in either language.

 

Ian addressed the desk manager, Mr. Rahmeel.  "Sir, please help me question this man.  I am convinced he has delivered threats to me and my family, and I want to find out why."  The desk manager expressed his preference to call the police, but Ian persuaded him otherwise.

 

Mr. Rahmeel ordered the employees back to work with the exception of the security man.  He was dressed like the other bellhops.  It soon became obvious he served in "security" only when needed.

 

They walked to a back storage room, where the man was told to sit on the only chair in the room.  The other three men stood around him.  Ian questioned him, but the man refused to provide satisfactory answers.  Finally, Ian got firmer.

 

"Now listen, you!  Mr. Rahmeel, the manager, wanted to call the police.  I talked him out of it.  I might have a change of heart, depending upon your level of cooperation.  If you won't talk to me, perhaps you will talk to them."

 

The Arab nodded.  Ian resumed, "What is your name, and why are you delivering threats to my family?"

 

"My name is Ruel-Ali.  I am originally from Iraq.  I do not wish to harm you.  I only wish to keep you and your family, and any others, from searching for the Crystal of Nimrud."

 

"The Crystal of Nimrud?" Ian queried.  He knew Nimrud was a variation of the name of Nimrod, the "mighty hunter" spoken of in Genesis.  Nimrod was the founder of Babylon and the alleged founder of one of the Babylonian "mystery" religions.

 

"I will speak to you alone," Ruel-Ali said, with fear in his eyes.  "If you wish to know more, send these others away."

 

Ian thought for a moment, and then addressed Mr. Rahmeel and the "security" man, "He seems to be leveling with me.  I think we can trust him.  Why don't you wait outside."  The two men hesitated, glanced at Ruel-Ali and Ian, and left perplexed.

 

After allowing plenty of exit time, Ruel spoke quietly.  "The Crystal of Nimrud is said to be within the foundation stone of the tower of Babel."  The space between his yellow teeth offset the gaps where other teeth had once dwelt.

 

Ian was still confused.  "What is so special about this crystal?  Is it a valuable gem, like a diamond?"

 

"No.  The Crystal of Nimrud has been lost since the time of Nebuchadnezzar.  Tradition tells us that with the power of that crystal, to one who knows its secret, any people or nation may be conquered.  Nimrud subdued the wild animals with it, and the people of the plain of Shinar became his slaves because of the power he possessed.  The crystal can make a beggar into a king or a king into a beggar.  So the legend says."

 

"Before we talk more about this crystal, please tell me how you seemed to be in both Chicago and Cairo at the same time," Ian interjected.

 

"I am but a man.  I cannot be two places at once, nor can I fly through the air faster than a jet.  That was my brother in Chicago.  But how did you notice our resemblance?  We were both in disguise."

 

"A remarkable young lady helped me," Ian replied.  He was awed by Sarah's impeccable memory for faces.  Ian felt led to add, "And we are followers of Jesus.  He helps us."  Ruel-Ali took special note of Ian's comment.

 

"So, Ruel-Ali, are you afraid I might terrorize the world with Nimrud's Crystal?"

 

"No, no," Ruel-Ali replied.  "The crystal would be powerless for you, because you do not know its secret.  But to the leader of the Order of Nimrud, it could be-"

 

Suddenly, Ruel's eyes were drawn toward the door.  A look of terror filled his eyes.  He violently jerked out of the chair and dashed out the window before Ian could pursue him.  Into the room plodded a muscular Arab with a larger-than-life Arabian sword!

 

"Where is he?" the bulky human barked in Arabic.  "Tell me where that dog is!"

 

Ian's voice was shaky as he spoke in Arabic.  "He's gone.  He heard you coming and ran off.  But who are you and why do you want him?"

 

The man ignored Ian and turned to leave.  Ian repeated his questions, but the man did not even slow down.  Ian did not care to pursue him.  He now knew how a young mouse felt after viewing his first tomcat.  The man meant business, and the business he meant was death.