Sparkles (7 page)

The man raised his eyes ever so slightly. “He looks very young—probably just a messenger, but you never know.”

Joachim returned the candy to the bag without tasting it.

The man nodded. “Good, is it not?” The man murmured, “Be careful. Go to the Church of Peter and Paul. The priest will guide you. Ask for Father Alexi. Complain that it is hot today.”

The man started to move off when Joachim said, “Wait. I will buy some of your candy.”

The man smiled. “You are very kind, sir.”

Joachim overpaid the man and then walked to a wooden bench. His tail followed at a short distance. Sitting with his back to the wind, Joachim eyed the man’s reflection as it shimmered in a splash of water caught between a pair of paving stones a few feet from where he sat. Joachim stared at the wavy form.
I hope I don’t have to kill this guy.

FATHER ALEXI
finished hoisting the big brass candelabra that hung in front of a niche chapel dedicated to the archangel Gabriel just as Joachim entered the church. The priest turned with a smile and said, “Welcome.”

“Father, I wonder if you could hear my confession?” Joachim asked in Russian—his accent clearly evident.

The priest narrowed his eyes, saying, “My son, the hours for confession are over. Perhaps—”

Joachim pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Dabbing his forehead, he said, “It’s hot today, isn’t it?”

Father Alexi regarded him for a moment. “Come with me.”

Once inside the dark cubicle, the priest whispered, “Who sent you?”

“America.”

“America has a first name. What is it?”

“Jan,” replied Joachim.

Then the priest said, “You are Israeli?”

“Yes.”

After a long pause, the priest asked, “What do you need to know?”

“I’m looking for a young Frenchman. His name is Armande Bonnet. I believe he was hiking in the mountains. Do you know him?”

“Yes, he was here. He asked to see the church records from the time of the war—the first one, I mean.”

“Why? What was he looking for?”

“A grave, a Russian grave. He said it was his great-grandfather.”

“Bonnet isn’t a Russian name. Why would he say that unless he has Russian ancestry?”

The priest shrugged in the darkness. “I do not know. We did not talk about why he was looking for it. I showed him our archives. He was here for a whole day. I do remember he asked if we had maps. He found the gravesite nearby. Then he left.”

Father Alexi leaned forward. “May I ask why you are looking for him?”

“He’s missing. We believe al-Qaida in the East has him. Possibly in Iran, or Azerbaijan.”

“I see. Yes, any westerner is in danger out in the mountains, especially along the Iranian border. It may also explain his interest in maps…. But I wonder why would he go to the mountains if he found what he was looking for here?”

“I don’t know,” Joachim said. “But I have to find him.”

“Look in the village of Dolatska, on the Iranian border. If he was looking for trouble, that is the place he would go.”

Joachim made a mental note and then said, “I will go now—I was followed.”

“Before you go, I have something for you. I’m sure you had to leave your weapons behind when you entered the country.”

The grill screen that separated the men slid open. The priest handed Joachim a World War II vintage Luger pistol.

“The clip is full. I fired this gun just last week. It is very accurate.”

“Thank you, Father. I did not expect this.”

Father Alexi replied with the sign of the cross.

“May God go with you, my son, and remember your psalms. He who watches over Israel slumbers not nor does He sleep.”

5,000 miles away in Philadelphia

EVERY CITY
diner has at least three breakfast crowds. The five to seven o’clock mob is made up of night shift crews mixed with prostitutes and their pimps headed for home after an exhausting night’s work.

The seven to eight o’clock customers are the nine-to-five types who work in the skyscraper offices that crowd center city.

The third, and last, set of breakfast patrons are coffee klatch regulars, retirees, and those lucky enough to sleep in while the rest of the world toiled away, keeping America rich. Jan Phillips fell into the last of those denizens of the Broad Street Diner. The diner was one way Jan connected with a time when he hadn’t had obscene amounts of money, a time when, as a boy, diner food was akin to ambrosia. It was also convenient on days when Amal made his morning prayer at his local mosque.

Jan left the serenity of his Camac Street townhouse and walked to the corner where the knobby cobblestone lane met the smooth macadam of Pine Street. He had lived in the single block neighborhood of antique brick townhouses for only a short while, but for the first time in his life, he had a home that was uniquely his.

It was just after eight o’clock this cool Friday morning. The night’s chill still clung to the red brick townhouses lining both sides of the street. Lingering wisps of silver morning fog shivered away as Jan walked carefully around the old sycamore trees that buckled the neighborhood’s ancient sidewalks. The great trees had already shed their broad leaves in thick damp pads. These had transformed the street into a jumbled quilt of brownish yellow and orange.

Gathering the collar of his suede jacket close around his neck, Jan marched in long strides from Camac Street to Pine Street. He turned right and headed up four blocks to the diner.

Eight o’clock is considered late morning in any big city, and crammed, jammed, noisy Broad Street was already flooded with delivery trucks and buses. Jan stopped at his favorite corner newsstand and grabbed a
Philadelphia Inquirer
from the rack.

“How ya doin’, Mr. Phillips?” Betsy, the stand’s owner, said as she threaded errant strands of graying hair back behind her ears.

“Tip-top, Betsy, how about you?” Jan answered brightly.

“Couldn’t be better,” Betsy said as she pointed upward. “Will ya just look at that sky, Mr. Phillips? Have ya ever seen such colors?”

“Betsy, you do know that those beautiful colors are a result of air pollution, don’t you?”

“Spoilsport!” she laughed.

Jan waved her away with a cheerful grin as he sprinted down the sidewalk, up the concrete steps, through the double glass doors, and into a stainless steel rectangle that mimicked a Victorian railroad car. Even at this relatively late hour, the Broad Street Diner seethed like a beehive under a wasp attack.

The long room was flanked on one side by a chrome-rimmed counter covered with faded red Formica. Here men sat on backless stools. Bent over their food, they seemed unfazed by the chatter around them.

The window side of the diner boasted booths with red faux leather coverings, and featured the same tabletop design as the counter. A ceramic tile floor bore the scars of many years of use. Harsh blue light from a string of fluorescent bulbs presided over this surreal world of food odors, noise, and clinking tableware.

Jan disliked eating at the counter. He couldn’t spread out, and more to the point, he hated people watching him eat at close quarters. He looked around, hoping to nab an empty banquette. He saw none. Hope of spacious solitude dashed, he shuffled to the counter like a man condemned to a poison meal, when two men rose abandoning the coveted booth seats. Jan glanced around for potential competition before scurrying past the men and onto the still warm plastic. He looked back at the men as they paid their bill. Both looked Middle Eastern. One seemed vaguely familiar, but Jan couldn’t remember where he would have seen him.

You’re hallucinating. Hunger plays tricks—you know that
.

Jan had slept late—consequently he was behind his time. His walk to the diner had made him starved for the diner’s spécialité de la maison—hearty Swedish pancakes with pure Vermont maple syrup. Weak from anticipation, Jan looked around for his favorite waitress. She was headed his way.

“Wanda, you spoil me! How did you know I was here?”

“I saw you walking up the street, so I had Cook make some for you,” Wanda said, stretching her long torso across the booth’s table, giving it a swipe with a damp cloth. She began piling the dirty dishes into a battered Tupperware bin with one hand, while she snatched the tip left by the previous customers with the other. As she tidied the sugar bowl and the salt and pepper shakers, a paper napkin slipped out from under a rack of worn menus. Jan picked it up and was handing it to Wanda to take away when he noticed something.

“Hello, what’s this?” he said.

“Just some leftover trash. Here, I’ll take it.”

“No wait,” Jan said, “There’s writing on it. Maybe it’s a love note.” He arched his eyebrows in mock excitement. “Or maybe it’s a treasure map.”

A busboy arrived with Jan’s meal. He handed it off to Wanda and retreated into the kitchen.

“Sweetie, you’re getting delusional from lack of food. Eat! Eat!” she said as she slid an oval platter piled with fluffy cakes onto the marred table. “The plate is still hot, so be careful.”

Jan pushed the plate of pancakes to one side and carefully opened the thin paper square to its full size.

HE FLIPPED
it front and back, turning it every which way. The words, some spelled out and others abbreviated, were written in black ink, some of which had bled through the tissue-like paper. After a frustrating moment, he sighed.

“Hmm… doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“What did I tell you? We get all kinds in here. And most of them haven’t been taking their medicine,” she added, laughing.

Jan refolded the napkin and tucked it into his shirt pocket, snapped his morning paper open, and began to eat as he read the headline news: ANOTHER DIAMOND MERCHANT ROBBED IN JEWELER’S ROW. STUMPED POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY.

Jan chuckled at the obvious jibe.
I’d love to be there when the mayor reads this!

Thirty minutes later he had finished reading most of the newspaper and was staring through the restaurant’s fogged glass window, reflecting on his life. He had achieved much in the way of making a life when one considered his childhood years that could only be described as disadvantaged. However, he had been blessed with an excellent mind and an equally excellent parochial education. He couldn’t have known at the time what an extreme burden providing that schooling had been on his devout parents. Then there was Tim Morris—powerful, immensely wealthy, and at times, utterly insensitive to Jan and his visceral need to be loved.

Wanda approached the pensive Jan and asked, “Can I get you anything else, sweetie?”

“What?” Jan scanned the cutlery and peeked into the tiny coffee creamer. He said, “Oh, ah, no thanks, Wanda. I’m good.”

Jan downed the dregs of his now tepid coffee and picked up the bill Wanda left behind. He had noticed something intriguing on the napkin but he wasn’t about to share it with Wanda, nor did he want to open the fragile paper more than was necessary. Jan refolded his newspaper and slipped it under his arm. He left a generous tip for Wanda and headed for the cashier. He was anxious to get a better look at the napkin and its cryptic message.

Jan left the Broad Street Diner, heading home at a brisk pace with the full expectation of walking off much of his pancake breakfast. He stopped briefly on the corner of Broad and Lombard Streets to admire a gleaming Jaguar E-Type sports car parked close to the curb. Jan was no stranger to fast sports cars. It was an addiction he freely admitted to, and indulged in. He squatted beside the long car and studied his reflection. Like a lover fondling a new conquest, he delicately stroked the black paint. He chatted with the motorized feline. “God, you’re beautiful. It seems I’ve waited all my life to be this close to you. Before now I never realized how you excite me—may I kick your tires?”

Jan glanced at his reflection a moment more and ran his fingers though his golden hair. A reflection that was not his suddenly appeared. A voice spoke from behind him. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

Jan stood and turned. A long-dormant yet familiar tingle stirred in his loins. “Sure is—yours?”

An olive-skinned young man with masses of auburn curls and dark eyes faced Jan. A set of keys dangled loosely from his fingers.

“Yep. Wanna go for a ride?” the car’s owner said, with a twinkle in his eyes that could mean only one thing.

“Ah, no thanks, I have a date—with a lady.”

“Oh, gosh I’m sorry. No offense meant.”

“None taken,” replied Jan, smiling.

The young man returned Jan’s smile, and said with barely concealed disappointment, “Lucky lady.”

The Jaguar chirped as the electronic lock released its hold on the door. The owner slipped into the driver seat. A moment later the sleek cat leapt from the curb and fled into the morning traffic.

Jan watched as the car turned onto Pine Street and disappeared. He smiled at the obvious come-on.
Hmm, he was cute.
Then he remembered the napkin with its cryptic message.

I’ve got to get this to Mrs. Fabian
.

Jan had met Aïda Fabian shortly after he took over the control as North American Mundus master. At the time, he remembered thinking Aïda was one of the most regal-looking women he’d ever seen—tall, with a peaches-and-cream complexion, she had long silvery hair all swept in a swirl atop her head. But it was the softness of her brown eyes that underscored what seemed to Jan to be her ability to read his soul.

Jan jogged home, arriving breathless on Camac Street. He picked his way over the leaf-strewn cobblestone street as he headed for Aïda Fabian’s home and their Friday morning ritual. Over a pot of Russian Caravan tea, the two played armchair sleuths as they discussed the latest offerings in the Philadelphia newspaper. Jan would select the most sensational headlines, and then the pair dissected and analyzed the articles in turn. He stopped just short of Aïda’s house and surveyed the charming street of aged façades, gnarled trees, and misshapen brick sidewalks. Here he’d begun to thrive among a cross section of fascinating people. “God, I love this place,” Jan admitted to the empty air.