The golden dome of the Al-Aqsa Mosque shone like a second sun against the hard blue sky in the distance as Ethan hurried Rachel through the Old City. While Rachel was distracted by the sights and sounds around them, Ethan instead struggled to conceal conflicting emotions that rushed upon him in waves. Long forgotten images of these packed streets and the throng of life in a city where the three great monotheistic faiths met in a potpourri of holy worship and primal hate flushed through his mind.
Orthodox Jews in black coats and fox-fur hats weaved their way toward the Western Wall past Palestinian street hawkers touting their wares. Tiny shops wedged into recesses in alleys sold Jewish menorahs, olive-wood crucifixes, and ornamental plates depicting the Al-Aqsa Mosque. The air was filled with the hushed murmur of Hebrew and the musical ripple of Arabic echoing down endless alleys. Amid the human traffic darted dozens of cats, and the meat market scented the air with the odor of a bewildering array of foods. Incense wafted from churches and the potent aroma of roasting Arabic coffee drifted through the narrow walkways, competing with the pungent reek of rotting vegetables and all of it filling Ethan with a regret-stained nostalgia.
Forget it, Ethan. There was nothing here but misery then and there’s nothing new here now. This is a city of suffering and always has been.
Ethan’s perception started to change. Groups of different faiths walked together for safety under the watchful eyes of Israeli soldiers cradling assault rifles. Children skittered on bare feet through the alleys, their faces smudged with grime. Ethan heard the sounds of the city haunting his past; the warbling Muslim call to prayer drifting from minarets at dusk across the ancient rooftops, the bells of the Holy Sepulchre Church, and the mournful horn announcing the start of the Sabbath.
As he turned a corner, he looked up past the bobbing swathes of turbans and Hasidic Kipots and saw a brief flare of blond hair. Ethan froze, his eyes locked onto the shining hair as an image of Joanna blazed brightly in his mind. He changed direction, lurching through the crowd toward the woman drifting past stalls near an ancient stone wall.
“Ethan?” Rachel grabbed his arm, hauling him to a stop. “Where are we going?”
Ethan blinked, turning to look to where the woman was still standing beside the stall, her face turned toward him now, deeply tanned, middle-aged. A tourist, maybe a local or one of the countless European Jews who had returned to Israel after the diaspora.
Ethan shook himself and pointed down one of the myriad alleys toward a small square that buzzed gently with the conversation of tourists sitting outside cafés in the bright sunshine. A group of Israeli-Arabs smoked aromatic hookahs and bartered gifts from makeshift stalls, all under the watchful eye of heavily armed Israeli troops manning a checkpoint nearby.
Ethan negotiated his way between the tables outside one of the restaurants, moving toward a stocky man sitting with a newspaper and wearing a broad-rimmed hat. A glass half-filled with ruby-colored drink glistened before him on the table.
“William Griffiths?”
Ethan stood in front of the man, who made a show of finishing reading his sentence before squinting up at him from beneath the shelter of his hat.
“You are?”
“Ethan Warner, and this is Rachel Morgan.”
Bill Griffiths folded the newspaper he was holding and set it down on the table before lazily gesturing for them to join him. Ethan ordered drinks from a passing waitress, and regarded the man opposite him.
Griffiths looked every inch the outdoorsman, with a broad and thickly forested jaw, his shirt undone at the neck and the sleeves rolled up his chunky arms. His weather-beaten skin told of countless years spent toiling beneath the burning sun, as did what appeared to be a permanent squint. Dirt was encrusted under his fingernails, and his heavily creased shorts bore patches of recent dust and sand.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Warner?” he asked without apparent interest.
“I understand that you have something for sale?”
Griffiths squinted at Ethan behind the rim of his hat. “For sale?”
Ethan got down to business.
“I thought that it might be worthwhile me coming to you directly, rather than wandering around fossil markets looking for trinkets.”
Griffiths regarded Ethan and Rachel for several long moments, as though trying to size them up.
“I don’t deal. I work privately, and right now I’m on vacation.”