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Message-ID: <42152asstr$1051528202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: juliancoreto@operamail.com (Julian Coreto)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 28 Apr 2003 07:42:26 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Alan, chapter 22
Date: Mon, 28 Apr 2003 07:10:02 -0400
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Author: Julian Coreto
Title: Alan
Part: 22
Summary: Alan sets off for Europe to solve the mystery of the death of
his fellow Seed Vessel Dr. Massimo, continued
Keywords: mc MF

Chapter 21
Resurrecting Jack (part 3)

It turned out to be child's play, though Alan waited for Neil and
Karick to return before doing it. The three of them sat around the
table in the suite's living room, and Neil and Karick watched with
baited breath as Alan fit the ring in the groove on bottom wall of the
box, rested the blank parchment over it, and then sealed the box.  A
low hum came forth, followed by a mandala of light, brilliant colors,
shapes moving about to and fro in no particular fashion, filling the
room with its brightness.

"It's happening," Karick said in wonder.

The glow grew to the extent that the three in the room had to avert
their eyes, but after a few moments it began to flag, and they waited
for it to disappear completely, fidgety in their places.  Neil was the
first to move, taking the box in his hands, almost cradling it like a
baby and holding it out to Alan.  He used his powers to open the lid,
and the three of them gasped at what was before them.  In neat printed
text on the center of the creamy parchment stood two lines of text.

Alan spoke first.  "So, how's your Hebrew?" he asked handing the page
to the archaeologist.

Neil grinned proudly, "I won a prize, at Cambridge," taking the
offered sheet.  He looked befuddled.  Each line had a four letter word
followed by four two lettered words, but the problem was that Neil
only recognized the first (four letter word) on each line.  "Tzaphon,
Mizrach," he repeated a few times, thinking to himself all the while.

"What does it mean?" Karick asked, impatience clear in his voice. 
"Tzaphon?  Mizrach?"

"The first word on each line is a direction.  Tzaphon is north. 
Mizrach, east."

"And the other words?" Alan put in.

"That's the thing.  They're not words.  See those apostrophe looking
things?  The diacritic marks over the second and third words on each
line?  That usually indicates some sort of abbreviation, but not any
I'm readily familiar with.  I wish I had some references with me, an
Alcaly or a Jastrow," he sighed, then explained that the these were
dictionaries, the former a modern Hebrew unabridged dictionary, and
the latter a two-volume glossary of rabbinic literature.

Neil began to get is jacket in preparation to go out and find a Jewish
bookstore when Karick had a masterful flash.

"You know," he said slowly, gathering his thoughts, "It seems to me
that the words on the parchment are coordinates.  You know, so and so
far east, so and so far north.  Usually that sort of data is expressed
with numbers, though."

Neil's jaw almost hit the floor.  "Idiot!"

"Hey, I might not know much about these things," Karick protested, but
Neil cut him off.

"No, Tadeusz, you're not the idiot.  I am.  You see, Hebrew doesn't
really have numbers, as we recognize them.  They use letters for
numbers.  For example, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, Aleph,
had a value of one, the second letter, Bet, had a value of two, and so
on.  The tenth letter, Yod, had a value of ten, and the eleventh
letter, Kaf, has a value of twenty, etc.  The letter Qoof is one
hundred, followed by Resh, which is two hundred.  See!  The letters
are numbers, and the first apostrophe, a single apostrophe indicates
minutes, and the second indicates seconds.  The last one is obviously
fractions of seconds."

Karick reached in his bag and yanked out a palmtop computer and a GPS
snap-in module.  He had acquired many gadgets and gizmos since coming
to work for Alan, and was thrilled that this set would be useful.

Neil deciphered the letters into coordinate numbers, and Karick
entered them into his machine with his stylus.

"North 48 degrees, 15 minutes..."  He paused.  "East 16 degrees, 22
minutes..."

The three of them gathered around the mini-computer and waited for the
map to be drawn.  Once it appeared Alan picked up the phone and called
Cyaxares HQ in Rome.  The secretary put him on hold after he
instructed her as to what he needed. She came back on after a few
minutes.  Alan thanked her and hung up.

"Our flight to Vienna leaves in three hours.  Call the front desk," he
added to Karick, "And tell them we're checking out."

On the way to the airport they stopped at a computer store and bought
a CD-ROM atlas.  The palmtop was fine for some things, but they needed
something which could be shown on a larger display (Neil's laptop, in
their case) to see their coordinates with the accuracy required to
carry out the mission.

* * *

Though the coordinates from the parchment told them where to go, once
they got there they didn't know what to do.  There were no more clues,
it seemed to them.  They were standing on the tree-lined 
Margaretenstraße, not far from the Bacherplatz.  Karick lit a
cigarette and looked around.  The stone buildings looked all alike to
him on this pleasant and leafy block.  The three of them decided to
split up and lap the street a few times.

About ten minutes later Alan spotted it.  There was a small apartment
building at the bend in the street, and it had two entrances, one for
the upstairs apartments, and a separate entrance for one of the three
ground floor homes.  The second door was painted red with an ornate
lacquered black symbol about four inches square centered upon it, cut
into the wood of the door in relief.  Neil's circuit of the
neighborhood caught up with his after a few moments, and when he saw
what Alan was staring at he smiled.

"Is it?" Alan asked.  Neil nodded.  The black symbol sort of looked
like a Hebrew letter, but wasn't.  Alan didn't have his notebook
computer loaded with all of Massimo's notes and journals with him, but
from studying it religiously the past year he had no more doubt, after
Neil confirmed it, that he had found what he was looking for.  The
black symbol was unmistakably the representation of the Seal of
Cyaxares.  Neil pulled a small camera from his pocket and snapped a
photo of it.  Karick joined them presently as they waited.

With sweaty palms Alan opened the gate and stepped up to the red door,
the others behind them.  He knocked.

No answer.

Alan and Neil crossed the street while Karick fetched their rented
car.  He pulled up and the three settled in for a day of surveillance.
 The sun was high in the sky, the afternoon uncomfortably warm. 
Karick had turned off the motor, not wanting to waste gas in case they
had to follow someone with the car, and they all missed the comfort of
air conditioning.

The Czech, a trained and experienced espionage agent, long-used to the
vigor of stakeout work, was the only among the three of them not to
doze off as the hour meandered from mid-day to early evening.

* * *

He nudged Alan with an elbow, and the younger man came awake with a
start; the small commotion roused Swindon-Smythe in the backseat. 
Together they watched a plump matronly-looking woman pass through the
gate and unlock the red door.  In seconds it was shut behind her, and
seconds after that Alan, Karick, and Neil were out of the car and
crossing the street.  Alan knocked; as they waited for he woman to
open the door they heard shuffling feet from behind the door.  Alan
closed his eyes and quickly scanned the mind of the occupant.  After
only a second his eyes popped open in shock, though thinking about it
later, he realized his sense of shock was misplaced at the time.  The
only two people he had met with minds had been altered by another were
Wilkins and his secretary, Harriet; they had been people Massimo had
dealt with in the past, so he was not surprised to find their heads
messed with.  As the door opened a fraction of an inch he realized he
was about to meet a third.

"Hallo?" the woman greeted them.  Up close Alan could see that she was
very pretty, for a woman of her age, which he guessed to be somewhat
closer to sixty than fifty.  Alan asked her if she spoke English, and
she nodded.  Karick spoke German, but he was glad not to have to use
him as a translator.

"I was wondering about the glyph on your door.  It's very pretty, can
you tell me about it?"

The woman smiled, "Ja, ja, come in, please, I am Greta," she said
brightly, beckoning them with her arm.  Though Alan couldn't tell it,
because of the block on her mind, this was her programmed response. 
Whenever someone asked about the symbol on her door, a symbol carved
and painted by her lover of many years, the late Dr. Jean-Pierre
Massimo, she was to invite them in.

As they made to the sitting room Alan scanned her more closely, and to
his amazement he realized he couldn't fully see her mind.  There were
places in her memory that simply did not exist.  As she returned from
the kitchen with a tray of tea and pastry Alan took control of her.

"You have something for me, don't you, Greta?"  He couldn't order her
to give the next clue over, and was hoping she would volunteer it.

"Ja."  She was following her programming.  Anyone who came calling and
asked about the glyph would also expect the steel box, she knew.

"May I have it?"

She shuffled off again, returning quickly.  In her hand was another
steel box, almost identical to the first.  All the eyes in the room
were on it as she handed it to Alan.  He looked up to thank her, and
was faced with the business end of a rather nasty looking revolver. 
His mind screaming a mile a minute Alan took control of her more
forcefully, at a merely physical level using his TK powers, and she
lowered the pistol to her side, the barrel pointing to the rug. 
Karick came up to her and with a great deal of effort pried the gun
away from her.  Neil helped her to the settee, and she sat placidly. 
With the danger passed Alan released his hold on her, and she burst
into tears.

"Very sorry, very sorry," she cried.  "I was just following
instructions, but you are like him, like he was," she moaned.  Alan
understood now, the dark parts of her mind suddenly lit up.  Massimo
had left a clue with her, with instructions to kill anyone who asked
after it, knowing that Alan would be able to handle it like no one
else could.  After she brought her emotions under control she leaned
over to the side table and pulled her small leather phone book from
it, flipping the pages.  The others watched questioningly as she did
this except for Alan.  She had two numbers to call, one in case she
needed bodies removed from her house, the scene cleaned, and another
for this eventuality.  Both numbers stood alone on one page, neither
attached to a corresponding name.  She had noticed them in the past,
but before this moment she hadn't known why they were recorded there,
despite the fact they were written in her own hand. She dialed then
handed Alan the receiver as the call was being put through.

"What do I say?" Alan asked the shaken woman.

"'The ring of Cyaxares seeks its owner.'" she quoted, seemingly from a
trance.

"Greta?" the voice on the other end asked.  "Greta?"

"'The ring of Cyaxares seeks its owner."

"Ach! I understand.  Who is this?" the man asked.

"I'd rather not say over the phone. Can we meet?"

"Ja.  Are you staying at Greta's?  I can be there in less than an
hour."

Alan had the man hold on for a minute while he consulted the other
guys, then asked the man on the other end of the phone to meet them at
their hotel, which was closer to the center of town.  The man told
Alan how he could be identified (a yellow flower in the lapel of his
jacket), and disconnected.  As they said their goodbyes to Greta tears
began flowing down her cheeks.  "I miss him so," she sniffled.  Alan
would have liked to have told her that Massimo would soon be back, but
he did not, for two reasons.  First, he had no idea if that was indeed
to be the case, and second, it was unsafe to tell anyone what he and
his fellows were attempting.

* * *

"Please, call me Wally," Walter Von Hoff told them as the hostess led
them to a table in the hotel's formal bar.

"Nice to meet you, Wally," Alan said as he gestured for the man to
have a seat.  Alan and the two others arrayed themselves around him. 
With his mind Alan sensed the changes Massimo had made to this man,
and he guessed that the small cloth satchel Wally carried held a box
identical to the one recently received from Greta.

Alan and Neil had huddled in the back seat of the car as Karick drove
them back to the hotel.  A few seconds after the car had been put in
drive Alan had popped the top off of the box, and another piece of
parchment had fluttered out of it.  This time the printing was already
visible (an address in London), though he and Neil had agreed that it
couldn't hurt to peel out the lining and look for another ring groove.
 If found, they would repeat the earlier process, however, after
arriving at the hotel they sequestered themselves in their suite, and
had found no depression similar to the one in the box they had
received from Claude Massimo.

"So," Wally asked, an eyebrow arched, "You were friends with
Jean-Pierre?"

"Yes," Alan assured him, "We had a very special bond."

"Hmm," Wally said, disinterestedly.  "He never mentioned you, though
he was almost notorious for his secretiveness."  He paused, his
expression turning darker.  "How can I know this is true."

Alan attempted to take his mind by force, but was unable.  Something
that Massimo had done to him had made him immune, perhaps to all mind
control, or perhaps to all mind control not emanating from the mind of
Massimo himself.  Alan had to think fast.

"The box.  Did you bring a box?"

"It can't be opened," he answered haughtily, though taken aback that
the boy knew that he was carrying one in his banker's briefcase, and
cursed himself for revealing that he was indeed bearing one.

"The box is for me," Alan assured him.

"So says you, but how can I know that?"

"I can open it."

"Show me," he challenged, placing the steel container on the table. 
Alan pressed his hand to the lid and closed his eyes.  In an instant,
the lid slid off.  Wally was impressed, and at that point noticed
Alan's rings.

"Ja," he said, his voice deeper than its usual bass, "Ja, it does
belong to you. Jean-Pierre told me that whomever could open the box
should receive it."

After dissuading Wally from having a peek inside, they watched him
drain his glass of beer and leave, then returned to the room.  Once
the box had opened, controlling Wally had been child's play, his
mental shield peeled away as had Greta's.  Alan peeled off the felt
liner, and placed both his rings into their allotted grooves on the
inside hull of the case.  He covered them with the parchment and
sealed the box.  Nothing happened.  He reopened the box and reversed
the positions of the rings. The light show returned, and all three of
them were chomping at the bit waiting for it to end.  They each had a
feeling, unspoken as it was, that their quest was nearing an end.  The
address in London, coupled with whatever information from this new
box, they hoped, would lead them to Jack.

"What does it say," both Karick and Swindon-Smythe asked, anxious for
a response.

Alan held it up, to better see it in the light.  "Theodore Dickinson."

The name meant nothing to any of them, but they were looking forward
to meeting him.  Neil plugged his laptop into the hotel jack and
entered the name through a number of search engines, cross referencing
the name with Massimo's, but without satisfaction.  London is where
Massimo was last, and London was where they were headed.  Dickinson
might be the last station on a very long trip.

* * *

"Please check your records again," Alan almost begged.  "Are you sure,
no patient, or staff member named Dickinson, Theodore Dickinson?"  The
woman tapped a few more keys, trying her best to be helpful.  The
address on Greta's parchment had turned out, to their surprise, to be
a hospital

"Let me check one more time.  I'll widen the search." She tapped again
at the keyboard.  The machine hummed, the server in the corner of the
room spinning internally.  "Ah," she said, triumph in her voice, "Yes,
indeed.  Mr. Dickinson was in hospital from June prior until October. 
He was transferred to a nursing home."  She pulled a small pad to her,
a pen from her hair, and scribbled an address, then tore off the sheet
and handed it to Neil, who was closest.  With the thanks of three men
in her ears she closed the door behind her, and settled back to her
workaday routine.  She glanced out her window in time to see her
recent visitors hail a cab.

The street was filled with school kids as they crossed the street
heading to the long-term care center at the far corner.  Alan and the
two others could still hear the dismissal bell ringing from inside the
school opposite.  The center was a gray building, wide and squat, five
stories tall from the looks of it.  A guard in the foyer directed them
to a small office off the main hall.  They had come to a hospital, and
it seemed they had come for naught.

"Are you a friend of Mr. Dickinson's?" the desk nurse asked, her
suspicion evident.  Mr. Dickinson had been in residence at the center
for more than six months, and today was the first time anyone had
appeared to see him.

Alan sent a probe through her mind, implanting commands for her to
trust and believe what he said.  "He is a friend of my father's," the
young man assured her.

"Well, that makes some sense," she thought, reaching under the desk to
depress the button which released the gate.  She double-checked her
patient roster before directing the trio to the third floor.

"This place is creepy," Neil shivered as they waited at the lift. 
Neil had made a cell phone call from the cab and had learned, to their
supreme disappointment, that the center was a resident care facility
for comatose and vegetative patients, a hospice really, but one meant
for people with chronic conditions, not just for end-of-life care. 
The loudest sounds in the building were the clicking and the beeping
of the various machines and readouts attached to its inhabitants.  The
charge nurse on Dickinson's floor led them to his room.

First things first they closed the door and had a look around; Alan
sent out a broadcast command for the staff to keep away.  There were
three patients in the room and one empty bed.  Dickinson's bed was the
closest to the door, and they checked under his bed and in his closet
for a box, but found none.  If Massimo, before he had died had left
something in his care they were seriously out of luck.  They had a
private investigator looking into the man's background, but, if as the
nurse had told them, the man had no family, then there was no one to
seek out to learn about their next clue.  As Neil and Karick continued
to look about the room Alan peered into Dickinson's mind.  It was as
if it was blank, wiped of all thought process and memory.  Alan
stepped out into the hall and flagged down a passing nurse.  After
asking after Mr. Dickinson's condition she went back to the main
station at the end of the hall and paged the doctor.  It took just a
few minutes for her to arrive.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Kellin, may I help you?"  The doctor was a graying
woman of slightly less than average height.  She wore thick lensed
glasses, a chain resting against her white coat.

"Yes, nice to meet you.  I'm Alan Marshall, and Mr. Dickinson was a
friend of my father's.  Business associates, actually.  What can you
tell me about his condition?"

The doctor was going to give him the short-shrift answer, after all it
wasn't as if this young man was a family member, or anything, but to
her very mild amazement she went into great detail, most of it too
scientific and jargon-filled for Alan to understand.  Alan dismissed
her, mentally, and returned to the room to see if Swindon-Smythe had
come up with anything.

"Nothing, boss," Karick said, his hands out, palm up, at his sides. 
Neil nodded.

"What happened to him?" Neil asked, hoping against hope that their
trail had not just been cut off.

"Brain tumor, benign.  The doctor said that it wont kill him, but it
is interfering with the centers of his brain which allow him to speak,
or even understand the words of others. His motor skills are also
affected.  He's forty-six years old, and could live another forty
years like this.  I scanned his mind, but there was nothing."  He took
a seat next to the patient and closed his eyes, sighing.  "Just our
goddamned luck, the guy we're looking for in a coma.  And worse, no
living family."  His eyes snapped open, and the other two stared at
him, but he shushed them.  Closing his eyes again he peered into
Dickinson's mind again exploring the depths, unlike his first,
perfunctory, scan.  He was still for many minutes.  Karick and Neil
watched with interest as Alan stood and stretched his back, twisting
to and fro.

This was maddening to them.  Clearly, Massimo had entrusted a part of
the secret to this man, and when he had done so Dickinson was already
hospitalized.  "Why would he do that?" Alan thought bitterly.  "Why
would he leave a clue, one of a chain of clues, to a man with a brain
tumor, someone who would not be able to communicate it at the proper
time?"  Karick and Swindon-Smythe were suffering similarly dreary
thoughts.

"Well, boss, what now?" Karick asked, somewhat despondent.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," Alan assured them, settling back into
the chair and closing his eyes once more.  Dead ends.  Every time he
tried to access the memories of the patient he came upon dead ends. 
His back was becoming stiff again in the uncomfortable chair, and
instead of standing again and stretching out he merely used his powers
to relax the muscles.

It hit him.  

Slowly he entered Dickinson's mind again, this time not concentrating
on the mental aspects, but rather the physical ones.  The tumor was
large, closer to small orange than golf ball sized.  Alan concentrated
harder, and it began to shrink.  It was slow work, but got easier as
the mass reduced.  At some point Alan realized his eyes were open, and
he watched the patient's breathing accelerate as his condition
improved.  Suddenly something was wrong.  Dickinson looked as if he
was having a seizure, his arms and legs jerking, his mouth frothing
with saliva.  Alan stopped what he was doing and concentrated instead
on calming the man, and after a short while he was at peace.  With
more care, more attention to both reducing the tumor and keeping
Dickinson from seizing, Alan continued his work, all the while hoping
that if the patient regained consciousness they would be one step
closer to Massimo.  One by one Alan severed the blood vessels feeding
the tumor, sealing them up after they were disconnected, then
obliterating the bad tissue itself.

Dickinson groaned, the first response they had seen outside the
seizure, and Alan stopped.  Neil and Tadeusz stiffened in fright at
the sound of the man making noise.  Neil wanted to get the nurse, but
Alan vetoed the idea.  It was nearing sunset when Dickinson stirred
again; he tried to sit up, but his atrophied muscles would not allow
it.  Alan nodded to Neil, who was standing on the other side of the
bed, and the two of them helped him up.  With great effort the man
turned his head, first to Neil, then to Alan.

"Alan," he hissed, his voice raspy, both from a dry mouth, and
underused vocal cords.  Chills ran up the spines of the three.

"Do I know you, Mr. Dickinson?"

The middle-aged man smiled, but was unable to speak, though he let
loose a raspy laugh, and weak as it was, Alan and the others could
hear the triumphant character of it..  He nodded.  Karick came over
and propped the pillows behind him and Alan and Neil let go.  Alan
came about to the foot of the bed so he could face Dickinson.  The
withered man looked at him, a steely concentration on his face.  The
ring on Alan's left hand, Massimo's ring began to glow.  Neil and
Karick couldn't see that, but they could read the expression on Alan's
face.  Alan smiled even wider, and took the ring from his left middle
finger and cupped it in his hand.  As he walked closer to Dickinson it
glowed brighter.  Alan took Dickinson's left hand with his right and
placed the ring in the center of the sick man's palm.  Slowly
Dickinson moved as he brought the ring to his right middle finger. 
Alan averted his eyes as there was some sort of flashover effect only
he and the resting man could see.

"The ring of Cyaxares has found its owner."

* * *

After receiving the ring Massimo's powers had returned, though he was
still weak as a kitten, both his vessel and his Seed very fragile. 
The powers were coming back, slowly.  He had explained to Alan what
was happening, and it reminded the teen of the first days and weeks
after he himself had had that strange encounter in his grandfather's
hospital room.

He wasn't even Ted Dickinson anymore.  Two days after Alan wiped the
minds and records at the care center he took Dickinson back to the
hotel.  Once there, over coffees a recovering Massimo instructed on
what he needed done to reestablish himself.

"If you please," Massimo asked after settling into one of the rooms of
Alan's suite, "The boxes."  Alan and Neil gathered the three boxes,
the one from Claude Massimo, and the two from Vienna, and set them
before Jack, or Ted, whatever.  Alan had noticed that each successive
box was slightly smaller than previous one, but hadn't paid it much
attention.  Massimo took the middle box, Greta's, and placed it inside
the largest, Claude's, then nestled Wally's, the smallest, inside.  He
placed the three lids on, smallest to largest, and sealed them. 
Resting his hand on the lid of the box he closed his eyes and
meditated for a few seconds before making a fist and tapping his ring
on the lid three times, then removed his paw and allowed the largest
lid to slip off.  Alan stood at his shoulder and watched as he
revealed the contents; the inner two boxes and parchments were gone,
replaced by a passport, British, unlaminated and without photo, ready
to conform with whatever identity Massimo was to choose, a driver's
license, similarly blank, a small leather-bound notebook, and two Zip
100 disks.

"Cool," Alan breathed.

The notebook held all the information Massimo needed to start his life
anew.  He excused himself to the bedroom and emerged in just a few
minutes.  "My man from the passport office will be here in an hour.  I
need a name for him to inscribe on the document and enter in the
ministry's system.  Help me think one up," he said excitedly.  He
thought for a few seconds.  "Lazarus.  How about Lazarus?" he asked
the room.

"Jesus Christ," Neil guffawed.

"No, Dr. Swindon-Smythe, `Jesus Christ' is too gaudy, even for an
egoist such that I am.  I may have lost many inhibitions over the
years--due to my powers, and now my resurrection--but my sense of
shame has yet survived my rebirth.  Perhaps as a small tribute to my
new vessel form I'll fashion myself Theodore.  No, I still want to be
a Jack, always liked that name.  How about John?  Hmmmm.  Jacob,
that's it Jacob Theodore Lazarus!  With a name like that I'll be able
to join a synagogue," he laughed.

"You're not Jewish, are you sir?" Neil asked.  Though he never had the
chance to study with Massimo, having been schooled at Cambridge, with
Massimo at rival Oxford, he knew quite a bit about the professor, him
being one of the giant's in Neil's chosen field of study.

"No, my grandparents were Christian, but my parents were more," he
paused feeling his way about his new mind for the right word, "more
cosmopolitan.  My late wife was Roman Catholic, devout, as is my son
and his family."

"I'm surprised," Alan interjected, "that you had any religion at all,
I mean, after becoming a Seed Vessel.  Doesn't our mere existence sort
of disprove Christianity?  All Western religions?"

"Not really," Lazarus replied, a cocky grin on his face.  "Tell me,
Alan, what faith is yours?"

"Now?  Nothing.  I know, or more likely, I am, the living
manifestation of the truth of the words and deeds of Hyrcanus. 
Before?  Nothing really."

"Really?  Your parents gave you no religion?"

"Well, my dad's side is Society of Friends, you know, Quaker, but he
really doesn't do much with them.  Once a year he writes a check to
the American Friends Service Committee, but that's about all."

"And Mrs. Marshall?" Jack asked.

"Jewish, but not religious.  How do they put it?  `Unobservant.'  She
was raised in a secular home, and hasn't been to services in years. 
Besides family events I have never been to a house of worship.  I can
count on two hands the number of times I've been to synagogue or a
church."

"Hmm, what about the Quakers?  Have you spent any time in their
churches?"

"Quakers don't have churches, the have meeting houses, and if you'd
ever been to one you'd know in an instant they're not churches.  I
went to my dad's uncle's funeral down in Bucks  County, and there was
no way to tell you were in a Christian building.  There isn't even a
cross on the wall. So I guess you could say I'm half-Jewish."

"No such thing, Alan," Neil put in.  "You're Jewish."

"What do you mean?" Alan asked, curious.

"Yes," Lazarus said, "As young Neil put it, you are Jewish.  Any issue
of a Jewish woman is Jewish, simple as that."

"Yeah, but I wasn't raised that way, so I considered myself secular."

"Have you read the Bible?" Lazarus asked, sort of changing the
subject.

"Not much," Alan admitted. "Just the parts needed to work through the
documents I read."

"Well then, you know that it is written in the book of Ezra-Nehemiah
that the Jews were released from their captivity.  The Babylonians,
who had exiled them, were defeated by the Persians."

"Yeah," Alan put in, "I know the history, mostly from reading your
notes and stuff."

Lazarus was pleased, and it showed on his face, happy that Alan had
done his "homework" so diligently.  "And the Persian Emperor, the one
who conquered Babylon, you know his name?"

With the power of the Seed Alan had instant recall.  "Cyrus."

"Cyrus, yes, `Cyrus the Anointed.'  Tell me, young Neil, what is the
Hebrew word for anointed?"

"Mashiach," Neil answered, delighted and honored to be witness to a
lecture by the legendary Massimo.  "Messiah."

"And so," Lazarus continued, pacing the room as was his habit when he
lectured at the world's great seats of learning, "Cyrus the Messiah,
was succeeded by Darius, Devaryesh, for our purposes.  Darius, though
not the Messiah, granted permission to the returned Jews in Jerusalem
to reconstruct their Temple, so one can assume," he rolled his eyes
indicating his sarcasm, though only Alan caught the gesture, "That he
too was dear to the God of the Hebrews.  Therefore, we can postulate,
though not with out a great deal of intellectual acrobatics, that when
Hyrcanus forged the Great Seeds of Heaven, he was in a way in service
to the Jewish faith, for by making them, then using them to restore
Darius, he was in assistance to the Hebrews."

Neil didn't buy it.  "That is very convoluted, sir.  The jumps are
enormous!"

"Well, it's just a suggestion, really.  I'm not saying it happened."

They all laughed.

* * *

Karick left the next day for Geneva, calling from the bank office for
further instruction.  Lazarus had his accounts moved to an account
already prepared in the Turks and Caicos.

Mr. Wilkins in New York was similarly busy; he was being dragged
around town looking for a place for Massimo to live, not his favorite
use of his time.  Massimo had decided that for reasons of safety he
was relocating to New York, at least until his Seed abilities had
returned to a point of his liking.  By his own evaluation he was too
weak to travel, and would be for a month or so.

"I need to assemble a staff," Lazarus told the trio the night before
Alan was to fly home.  "First, a personal assistant, preferably one
who knows a thing or two about security."  Karick would be staying at
Jack's side until he arrived in New York, but Neil was headed for Rome
to work on Cyaxares company business.

Alan thought he knew of the perfect candidate. "Jack, would it bother
you if your assistant slash security person was a woman?"

"No, not at all," he said, an eyebrow arched.  "A pretty one, I hope."

Alan grinned.

* * *

His parents were thrilled to see him.  He had been gone for almost six
weeks, and he let his mom fuss over him for a few days before heading
out again.  He wasn't going far, so they weren't too disappointed, and
he promised not to be gone for more than one night.  Kate was still up
in Maine, so his time was all his own.  She would be returning in a
week, the thought of which brightened his spirits; he really missed
her.

He gunned the car down the New Jersey Turnpike, a rented BMW, and he
enjoyed testing the engine; of course, he wasn't afraid of a ticket. 
The cell phone, resting on the leather seat next to him trilled, and
he slowed to the speed limit before reaching it.

"Mr. Marshall, it's Harriet. I have a call for Carl Sutherland, on the
Sutherland Consulting line.  It's Anne-Marie Nicoletti.  She says
she's returning Mr. Sutherland's call.  Shall I put her through?"

"Yes, thank you, Harriet."

"Carl, is that you? I got your message."

"Hey Anne-Marie, what's up?"

"Same old, same old.  Are you coming here?"

"Are you free?"

"For you baby, anytime!"

Alan chose a different hotel this time, and not ten minutes after
checking in Anne-Marie knocked on his door.  He appraised her, though
not really knowing why because he had no idea of Jack's taste in
women.  Still, he liked what he saw.  She was taller than he
remembered her, about 5' 7", plus heals, though he realized
immediately that she was wearing taller shoes this time, and his eyes
were playing trick on him.  Her sandy brown hair was cut short, a
pretty cut nonetheless, and the color worked well with her very pale
skin tone.  Her breasts were small, but as he remembered, nice and
pointy, and she had a beautiful figure, lithe, willowy, and somehow
powerful all at once.  As they kissed Alan did a mental mining of her,
an ability he had yet to develop when they had first met.  What he
learned pleased him.

Anne-Marie was twenty-seven years old.  She had dropped out of
college, Rutgers, after her second year.  Her father, a Trenton cop,
had died of a heart attack while on duty.  Unable to continue her
education because of financial reasons she had entered the state
police academy in Sea Girt, and spent two years on the force.  She was
then recruited by the casino, the combination of her good looks and
law enforcement experience making her irresistible to the hotel
management, which was in dire need of undercover casino security
personal, especially of the feminine variety; her black-belt in karate
didn't hurt either.  She had a keen tactical sense, and a vast amount
of the security knowledge needed to keep Jack out of danger.  By the
time the kiss was broken, Alan's mind mining expedition completed, it
was settled, at least for him, and he knew he had a surefire way of
convincing her.

"So," she half-moaned, a shit eating grin on her face, "Are we staying
in, or going out?"

"Out."

Alan and Anne-Marie took the elevator to the lobby and walked briskly
to the cashier.  The cashier's eyes widened considerably, first when
Alan requested a quarter of million dollars in chips, all in $5,000
denomination, and then when he passed over his credit card.  It had
been a long time since she had seen one like it; usually they were
green, or maybe even gold or platinum.  This one was black; she knew
what that signified.  She counted out the chips, but not before
pressing a button under her desk, summoning the pit boss.  He came in
short order, leading them to the V.I.P. room.  Alan and Anne-Marie
settled at a blackjack table.

Anne-Marie was pleased that Alan had chosen a different hotel this
trip, especially after watching him clear slightly more than a million
dollars in just under three hours.

"You never did get around to telling me the secret of your success,"
she joked at dinner, taking another big sip from her wineglass.

"That's not how I remember it," he laughed, and laughed again watching
her turn bright red, the shift evident even under the dim restaurant
lights.  Her temporary crimson complexion matched well with her dress,
a short green number, glittery and backless.  When the plates had been
cleared after the main course Anne-Marie scooted around, taking the
seat next to him in the booth.  As they ordered coffee and dessert she
slowly ran her hand up his thigh, stroking it through the fabric.  The
waiter retreated and she rested her head against his shoulder.  Alan
moved his arm so he could touch her.  His hand stole under the hem of
her mini-dress, the backs of his fingers flat to her pussy, rubbing it
slowly through the increasingly saturated fabric.   Anne-Marie hummed
in rhythm to his light strokes, her arousal accelerating as her whole
body reddened.  They shared a crème brûlée though he had ordered it
for himself.  She had eschewed dessert, wanting to watch her figure,
but couldn't resist him as he held the spoon to her mouth.  As he fed
her with his left hand he continued touching her moist panties with
his right; more often than not her mouth was already open as the spoon
approached, silently panting from sexual excitement.  The dish, it
seemed to her, was taking forever to finish.  She was startled out of
her reverie by the clanking of the spoon against the plate as Alan fed
her the last of it.

Anne-Marie flagged down a passing waiter.  "Check, please," she
ordered, shifting her thighs, feeling the moisture pool in her
panties.  Alan signed for it and led her out, to the elevator bank;
she was panting lightly.  The doors opened and they entered.

Alan moved closer and held her, but she demurred as he leaned into her
to kiss

"Cameras in the elevator," she gasped, taking a step back, knowing
that like the at the casino where she worked, all public spaces were
monitored.

Once in the room she hugged him to her tightly, her hands slipping
under his jacket, rubbing his back.  Alan reciprocated, and she purred
at the feel of his hands against her bare flesh.  He pulled her as he
walked to the bedroom, and she followed eagerly.  They faced each
other, Alan folding his suit coat over the chair, Anne-Marie releasing
the catch at the rear of her neck, the dress slipping off her, pooling
at her feet.  Alan inhaled, for she was without a bra, her proud
breasts high on her chest, hard ruby nipples pointy and upturned. 
Clad in only her heels and panties she approached him, then helped him
out of the rest of his clothing.  As they kissed Alan's hand slipped
under the elastic waistband of her panties, exploring her.  He slowly
fed her pussy his middle finger, enjoying her moans.  His thumb
twiddled her clit as he continued to finger fuck her, and he was
rewarded with an almost animal franticness her part, her tongue a
frenzy in his mouth.  She came mightily, and he had to hold her up,
one arm around her back, the other hand remaining at her drenched
crotch.

Down only to his briefs he carried her two steps to the bed and laid
her down on it, settling in beside her.  Her hands searched under the
fabric of his shorts, his slipping under her sodden panties, green,
like her dress, darker in the center due to her female sections, the
scent of which was highly arousing to him.

Her mouth at his ear, "Take me, Carl, take me, please," she huffed,
his fingers driving her to a fever pitch.  "Oh GOD," she screamed,
coming as two fingers slipped up her wet pussy, his thumb pressed
against her clitoris as he slowly finger fucked her.  "Please," she
begged, "I need you in me, NOW!"

Soft tears ran down her cheek as she felt the head of his cock tease
her gates.  Slowly, ever slowly, Alan entered her, her pussy walls
spasming gently as he fed her length to her hungry opening. 
"Yessssss," she hissed as he seated himself fully within her, pausing
for a short second before withdrawing slightly before probing deeply
again.  Alan kept his pace deliberate for a long time, it felt to her,
but in fact was just a couple of minutes.  She felt her orgasm rising,
but knew she would not be able to peak if he didn't up his pace.
"Harder," she groaned, "Faster, please, faster."  She bucked her hip
at him, her ass rising from the surface of the bed as he increased the
speed of his fucking.  "Yes," she chanted, "Yes, yes Yes, YES!" 
Suddenly she screamed, the force of her orgasm startling.  The walls
of her pussy clenched his dick, and her body seized, every muscle
stiff.  As he came inside her she moaned again, small tremors ripping
through her essence.

As she lay panting and gasping for air after he removed himself from
her and got next to her on the bed, holding her, she could feel the
sweat drip off of her, her own heartbeat, and his as well.  Nothing
else existed for her at that moment.  She slept.

* * *

Alan awoke to a most pleasing sensation.  Opening his eyes slowly he
was greeted by the sight of Anne-Marie, or at least the top of her
head.  She continued to bob her mouth up and down his cock, unaware as
yet that her attentions had roused him (in more ways than one) from
his slumber.

"Morning," he said, half groaning at the pleasure she was giving him.

She released him with a pop, and grinned up at him.  "Good morning,"
she replied with a giggle, then recaptured him between her lips.  She
hummed as she sucked him, and he found himself aping her, humming
along.  Alan came quickly.  He could have held out indefinitely, but
the pleasure was intense, and he didn't want to overdo it.

An hour later, at the breakfast buffet Alan broached the subject of
Anne-Marie working for Jack.

"I have a client who is looking for someone with your qualifications. 
He from England, and he's moving to New York within the month," he
explained, going on to tell her that the man was semi-retired, a
former import-export executive who would be doing some work here and
there.  The job would be to insure his personal security and manage
his affairs.

She was hesitant; she liked her job, but Alan painted a very glamorous
picture, and she agreed to consider it.  Jack would be arriving in a
couple of weeks, and "Carl" told her he would call to arrange an
interview.

Next Chapter: Getting Jack settled in the Big Apple; the return of
Kate.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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