THAT EVENING, IN MY ROOM, I WATCH THE WELCOME CEREMONIES that have taken place throughout the day in the center of Jerusalem.
Thompson flew in during the afternoon. After speaking to reporters at Ben Gurion International, he made his way to the Old City. There are pictures of his green and white helicopter touching down at the conference arena, a closed-off zone within spitting distance of the Temple Mount, where, tomorrow, amid a network of hotels and convention centers, the plenary and non-plenary sessions will get underway.
There are also images of him making his way on foot from the media center to the so-called Hall of the Assembly, from where the inauguration ceremony is now being streamed live.
He looks relaxed. Better, in fact, than I have ever seen him.
He smiles and waves. His shirt collar is undone.
Jennifer walks beside him, looking beautiful, though more … I don’t know. On edge?
The crowd seems to love it, and him.
Security will be going apeshit.
Over a room-service meal, I watch a succession of political and religious leaders. When the commentator mentions that Thompson’s will be the eleventh and final speech, I hit my laptop and check the news. India has dropped out. Floods in Kolkata have killed thousands and the government needs to attend to the crisis. For an irrational moment, I’m elated. Then the commentator drops in the fact the Pope won’t arrive until the main plenary kicks off in two days’ time.
The Vatican will make twelve.
There’s a Bible in the bedside drawer. I go to Revelation 22:2, which talks about the tree of life and the healing of the nations. The next verse, as Koori told me, promises ‘no more curse’. My eye is then drawn to 22:4: ‘They shall see His face.’
I glance at my watch. Moscow is one hour ahead of Jerusalem. I dial Reuben.
We haven’t spoken since his visit to the hospital. I’m surprised he picks up.
‘You watching this?’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘You’re not with him?’
‘No. I’m with the VP and Christy. We’re caretaking while Thompson is in Jerusalem.’
‘Reuben?’ In my mind, I’m surprised he’s not with Thompson.
‘Yeah.’ He sounds distracted. I can hear he’s watching a TV or a monitor.
‘Do you have a delegate list?’
‘On me? No.’ A pause. ‘Why?’
‘I want you to check a name.’
‘Who?’ Caution in his voice.
‘Patriarch Nikolai, the head of the Russian Orthodox Church.’
A pause. ‘Where are you, Josh?’
‘Moscow.’
‘The hell you doing in Moscow?’
‘You remember our friend?’
‘Jesus.’
‘His foundation is carrying out a refurb of a Russian Orthodox Church overlooking the spot where Thompson is now.’
‘So?’
‘Check out the blast radius.’
‘This is an open line.’
‘It’s a little too late for Opsec, Reuben.’
‘Do the Russians know you’re in-country?’ He means the FSB.
‘I imagine so.’ I may have lost them during my walkabout, but they’ll know exactly where I am now.
‘The Patriarch?’
‘If he’s not on the list, you have a problem.’
‘Why?’
‘Because maybe he knows something we don’t.’
The line goes quiet.
‘Reuben?’
‘Yes.’
‘You remember the welcome message? I saw the face of God. You shall too. It’s from the Book of Revelation.’
‘So?’
‘Gapes’s next line told us to “bear true faith”. From the oath we swear to uphold the Constitution. Against all enemies, foreign and domestic. He was warning us that the threat comes from both.’
I pause.
‘And another thing. Revelation is attributed to John the Apostle. Gapes gave himself the pseudonym John when he turned up at the Settlement. He used the Church of St John to mount his protest. John the Apostle was a seer. He saw the future. Just as Gapes says he did.’
‘Go home, Josh,’ Reuben says wearily. ‘This is crazy talk. I have done everything in my power to protect you. And I can only do so much.’
‘Something’s going to happen.’
‘Go home, Josh.’
‘Reuben—’
‘Enough, damn it! I need to feed Thompson the rest of his speech. And you need to leave before somebody gets interested in this discussion.’
He hangs up.
I think about my options while I take a shower, and contemplate calling Stani. But he’ll still be halfway to the US.
By the time I go back to the bedroom, someone has slipped an envelope with the Kempinski’s logo under the door. Inside is a piece of plain paper with numbers printed down both the long edges of the page. The left-hand side starts with 39:6:13; 101:14:3; 170:35:18 and continues almost to the bottom. I count them. Twenty-four sets. The right set is shorter. Three numbers only.
I’m wondering what they mean when there’s a knock on the door. I tuck the sheet quickly into the desk drawer.
‘Yes?’
Room service.
I look through the eyepiece.
A man in hotel uniform holds up a brown envelope. I sign for it, tip him, and close the door.
I figure it has to be a lot easier to shoot me than to blow me up in the Kempinski, so I open it. It’s a book. A Hero Of Our Time – the 1958 edition, translated into English by Nabokov.
There’s a note in a delicate hand tucked inside the flyleaf.
Doctor Cain – Joshua – please accept this with my apologies, as a gift for your friend. A memento of Russia.
With kind regards, Sasha.
I recover the list of numbers from the drawer.
I turn to page thirty-nine, count six lines down from the top, and trace my index finger past a couple of words until I reach the thirteenth letter, an ‘L’. I write it down. I repeat the process twenty-four times until I’m left with two words and three sets of numbers.
Leningradskiy Prospekt 56.
Today’s date, and a time: 21.30.
I look at my watch.
I have less than an hour.