The Arrival Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by J W Brazier

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Inkwell Publishing.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Inkwell Publishing

  1560 W Beebe Capps Ste C 166

  Searcy AR. 72143

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Jacket cover design from original art by © C A Wilkes. Book interior design by Damonza.

  Jacket cover illustration enhanced from original art by © Damonza

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015905575

  ISBN 978-0-9962756-0-6 (softcover)

  ISBN 978-0-9962756-1-3 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-0-9962756-2-0 (eBook Edition)

  ISBN 978-0-9962756-3-7 (audiobook)

  MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  First Edition

  To the memory of

  Hattie Mae Austin

  1932-1969

  We miss you

  Table of Contents

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Acknowledgments

  Writing The Arrival was a wondrous journey and an adventurous undertaking but one not taken alone. Space limits mentioning many other professionals, but I give thanks to you all.

  To my family first, whose love and patience endured my times of blank paper while encouraging and persuading me to just have fun and to write.

  To my editor, John David Kudrick, who is a gifted writer and editor with extraordinary talents. John contributed to the story well beyond the first draft. He had my back all the way. His encouragements and lessons with each revision kept this writer from straying down a path of misguided and dyslexic prose. He helped hone my craft a little sharper. (www.johndavidkudrick.com)

  To ReelMusicianPro, a Grammy nominated company, whose founder, Tom Gauger, directed and advised me during all aspects of The Arrival’s audiobook production. Tom is a creative individual in the arena of audio and visual arts with superb production skills. Tom is a consummate professional. (www.reelmusicianpro.com)

  To Elliot Schiff, who is an exceptional voiceover talent. Elliot enriched The Arrival’s audiobook. His unique abilities gave life to its large ensemble of distinct characters.

  To C A Wilkes, for her original cover artwork for The Arrival.

  To Damonza’s team of professionals, for their outstanding typesetting, file formatting, and cover enhancements. (www.damonza.com)

  PART 1

  Palestine

  1948

  Chapter 1

  May 11

  Ian Taylor had four days to find a two-thousand-year-old corpse.

  Centuries of myths, legends, and curses embroiled and embodied the endless controversies that surrounded the Jew he sought. Jewish clergy of that ancient era declared the zealot a blasphemer and even a devil. Historical writings affirmed that the Romans in Jerusalem had conspired with the Jews of the Sanhedrin. They destroyed the zealot’s body, and with it, any historical evidence to the fanatic’s actual burial site had vanished forever. Some academics decried that the enigmatic Jew had never existed, or he couldn’t be found.

  Whatever superstition, controversy, or emotion the peculiar Jew conjured in others was, for Ian, irrelevant. He’d once relished challenges, adventures, and the thrill of the hunt, but no more. War in Europe had altered his perspectives, hardening his mind and heart toward ideals he’d once held dear. Over time, he succumbed to the bittersweet realities of his cynical worldview. Once the ethical code that had bound him fell to the wayside, the transformation freed and emboldened him to embrace new beliefs.

  His new temptress, the lure of money, inspired and motivated him into new directions. Palestine, his current project, presented a once-in-a-lifetime financial opportunity to fulfill his shameless thirst. A lucrative compensation package had enticed him like a delicious lure dangled in front of a hungry fish.

  His pursuit drew him deeper into the forbidding bowels of Palestine’s desolate land. The work, a gamble at best and perilous, but he’d endured and survived in war-ravaged Europe. The Middle East left no surprises.

  In the short time that remained, his excavation site on the outskirts of Jerusalem presented a new discovery. Impatient, Ian tore at the crumbling rocks with his bare hands as if possessed and eager to widen an entrance into the tomb. With a chest-high porthole cleared, he strained to see what awaited him through a haze of dust. In the dim light, he saw what looked to be a long rectangular box against the back wall. Nearby, two fatigued workers in his expedition pleaded with Ian not to go inside the tomb. The stone roof supports were weak and collapsing, they protested. He ignored them.

  Covered in dust and with sweat streaming down his face, Ian crawled forward and squeezed his hulking body through the opening. Inside, nothing but stone rubble littered the dismal space. Crouched in front of the box, he studied its marred Aramaic inscriptions with his flashlight. Dejected, he sat down in the dirt and leaned against the rock wall. Another dead end. The ossuary wasn’t the burial place of the Jew he’d hoped to find.

  Weary, he searched the murky crypt, his flashlight fading. Nothing of significance remained for his troubles; thieves had stolen everything of value long ago. He sat in the gloomy stillness, as if awaiting the angel of death to appear, in hope of guidance.

  The empty coffin reminded him again of why he was there, and why he’d clawed his way into yet another wretched burial chamber.

  Ian inched his way out of the cramped vault, cursing his hard luck. He’d entered with hope that his predicament would change and break the cycle of an endless procession of empty tombs. Gasping for fresh air, he tumbled out of the abysmal
hole into the scorching sunlight.

  Like an itch he couldn’t scratch, the Jew’s burial site had eluded him from his first days in Palestine. Ian’s contract with his employer guaranteed a substantial bonus, but to receive it, the Jew’s remains required authentication.

  With time running out, he’d thrown aside caution and any thoughts of failure, determined not to give up the hunt. He wasn’t walking away and leaving a king’s ransom.

  *

  Before the start of World War II, Ian’s formidable reputation as a relic hunter for hire had preceded him. Discrete black-market patrons sought his services. Incensed jealous academics branded him a rogue and an unscrupulous profiteer of antiquities.

  His select clients believed him a man who possessed uncanny abilities—someone they were confident could find and deliver difficult items regardless of perils or location.

  With the onset of a world at war, his profitable excursions into antiquities came to a halt. His resourceful talents and unorthodox methods caught the recruitment attention of US Army intelligence. Commissioned an officer, the government trained him in the fine arts of a covert operative. He’d excelled as a special missions spy working behind enemy lines.

  After his discharge at war’s end, Ian was anxious and ready to resume civilian life, and his once profitable enterprises. He began by locating and renewing old friendships from his former list of wealthy contacts, and by seeking out new clients.

  By late August of 1946, the lucrative work he’d counted on had disappeared. Past contacts wouldn’t return his calls. With his reserve funds dwindling away, his hopes seemed dashed—until he received an unexpected phone call.

  Abram Solomon, a shadowy figure among world elites and CEO of Solomon Industries, had initiated preparations for a secretive project. He needed an experienced archeologist, an individual with certain assured talents.

  Armed with suggestions from discrete private collectors, Abram had compiled a list of potential candidates. Ian’s name surfaced again and again. Abram took notice that Ian’s impressive qualifications separated him from the mundane, and he telephoned him at his apartment in lower Manhattan.

  Ian agreed to meet for lunch and discuss the intriguing project, fascinated by what he’d heard from Abram. He’d hoped he had masked his excitement over the phone while sensing a potential job opportunity.

  His limousine ride stopped at a massive four-story mansion on Abram’s Long Island estate. For first impressions, the man’s outward possessions made a bold statement, exemplifying extravagant wealth.

  A servant ushered Ian into the mysterious Abram Solomon’s cavernous study. Abram himself was tall, six-one or -two, Ian had guessed, with tar-black hair. Abram’s tailored suit made him look thin, but muscular. His skin was the color of light milk chocolate, as if he nurtured a perpetual year-round suntan. Abram’s personality seemed outgoing, his traits smooth, almost too charming, but guarded, projecting a perceptible eerie sense of dread.

  Still, Abram’s pleasantries and pompous formalities proceeded without incident. He’d served up a magnificent lunch that royalty would’ve envied.

  After their lavish meal, Ian had listened to Abram’s persuasive sales pitch with a discerning ear, mindful that most of his private clients were wealthy and deceptive by nature. He wondered what other hidden surprises Mr. Abram Solomon concealed.

  Despite Abram’s inspiring presentation, Ian had several issues with the project. The location—Palestine—was a proverbial minefield of trouble. The importance placed on finding and returning the remains—of one specific Jew—seemed provocative on face value. Abram left Ian with the impression of being disingenuous, as if his motive for hiding his true intent was purposeful.

  The entire task seemed like a fool’s errand, assuming that the currently known archeological facts surrounding Abram’s coveted Jew were correct. But Abram seemed too cocky and confident, as if he already knew the remains of the Jew did indeed still exist. An uncertain coup for anyone, if proven true, Ian reasoned, but then the possibilities of such a find intrigued him.

  He wondered if Abram noticed his air of doubt as he progressed with his elaborate presentation to back up his project’s worthiness. Abram presented several compelling scrolls from his own private collection. After careful examination, Ian had to admit that the man surprised him—and Abram noticed.

  The first- and third-century parchments were authentic, with the Jew’s name mentioned, but no burial location noted. He wondered how Abram had obtained them. Within Ian’s black-market realm of relic connoisseurs, the parchments didn’t exist.

  Yes, he could use the money, but Ian’s gut instincts told him to walk away. Something he couldn’t put his finger on seemed amiss—character, maybe, but he wasn’t sure. Abram clearly noticed Ian’s reluctance and came to the heart of the matter: the money.

  Abram’s offering began with an incredible guaranteed amount of seven figures, independent of success or failure. Abram then enriched his job offer with another incentive: a bonus of equal amount. The divide between feeling bought with money or conviction with evidence had blurred.

  Although the job seemed vital in Abram’s plans, rich clients never placed that amount of money on the table without conditions. Ian detected a slight shift in Abram’s demure approach and waited, apprehensive for his forthcoming terms.

  Ian had listened as Abram’s forceful arrogance made clear his three requirements for the bonus. First, successful delivery of the Jew’s remains, and second, Ian could never divulge the Jew’s name, ever.

  Abram’s tough tone for his third requirement felt like an open-handed slap to Ian’s pride. A company employee, Dr. Charles Wagner, a veteran triage surgeon during the war, would accompany the expedition.

  Aside from the workers he had to hire to help with digs, Ian worked alone, trusting no one. He’d survived the war relying on his own skills and instincts. Abram responded to Ian’s reluctance, his words sharp.

  “You’ll need him, and I want him there,” Abram said. “Charles’s skills will ensure proper preservation and transport of the Jew’s remains to America.”

  Ian cocked an eyebrow; his jaw tightened and he was about to protest, but he hesitated. The thought of babysitting an unwelcomed companion was distasteful, but …

  Abram ignored Ian’s irritation and slid the contract toward him, brandishing a self-assured smirk.

  Pride aside, the exorbitant guaranteed money and bonus were offers Ian couldn’t refuse. Pen in hand, he signed the contract. He’d learn to live with a tagalong inconvenience.

  Back at his apartment, Ian had laid the thick folder and picture of the gangling black-haired Southerner on his desk. After reading at length the man’s dossier, he had to admit, Abram was right. Dr. Wagner’s profile brought to the table impeccable credentials.

  Wagner was a skilled surgeon and an acclaimed research scientist. If the good doctor sticks to medicine, Ian reasoned, his skills would be helpful. And Ian could use the extra help.

  In Ian’s line of work, instinctual summations of a person’s character were crucial for survival. Mr. Abram Solomon had left a lasting impression. His piercing dark eyes resembled those of a threatening rat. Ian only hoped Dr. Charles Wagner wouldn’t disappoint him.

  *

  Charles and Ian had arrived in the port city of Haifa, Palestine, on a rust-bucket steamer out of Cyprus in November 1946. Solomon Industries had prearranged the expedition’s permits with British, UN, and regional officials.

  They’d used research into ancient diseases, from the first and third centuries, as their cover story. Skeletal specimens around Jerusalem presented a rich treasury of infectious disorders for those periods in history. Their elaborate hoax read like a medical textbook designed to daze and confuse the suspicious and questioning officials.

  From their first days in Palestine, the odd couple settled in and bonded well. Charles, in Ian’s eye, proved an up-front gentle soul, but not a pansy by any measure. Over the subsequent months, their p
ersonality differences became clear. Ian saw that Charles often chose to submit to his faith rather than succumb to darker passions and emotional outbursts. His observations affirmed that the good doctor held his emotional reins tight. In dire situations, Charles hadn’t hesitated to stand tall. In tough confrontations with locals, he’d matched force with force, blood with blood.

  Ian, though, admired Charles’s character and commitment to his faith—wishful qualities he’d considered when alone, but couldn’t commit to. He preferred to allow his own unabated darker side free rein; it fit his needs and served him well, like a comfortable pair of favorite shoes.

  *

  After eighteen grueling months, despite Ian’s best efforts, the burial place of the elusive Jew remained a mystery. He’d unearthed nothing of value to point the way. Abram’s coveted Jew had proven far more difficult to locate than Ian had ever imagined, despite the documents Abram had provided.

  Ian could see his bonus chances evaporating faster than water in the desert. “Even the weather conspires against me,” he’d declared during unfettered rants.

  After the rainy season ended in late March, his work stayed on track for a brief period. Greenery and spectacular wildflowers blossomed in May, from Jerusalem to Galilee to the Golan, but faded fast when a premature blistering heat wave engulfed the area.

  Hot, dry southern and eastern desert winds blew across the parched landscape with a vengeance, like billows stoking a blacksmith’s fire. The sweltering conditions showed no mercy to man or beast, giving credence to Ian’s frequent rants.

  To add to his misery, a reminder arrived from Solomon Industries with the day’s water barrel refills: “Imperative you’re aboard ship on set departure date with the body remains as agreed,” read the cable.

  Enraged, Ian ripped the cablegram apart and threw it to the miserable hot winds. “Damn his threats. Abram knows I haven’t found the remains,” he muttered. Extra time would be pointless to ask for; Abram’s urgent message made that fact clear.