Prologue
July **, 1935
Al Valentine had an appointment to keep.
He lay on the bed in his little room at l’Hôtel de Cyprès. Overhead, the chipped blades of a squeaky fan wheeled slow, lazy circles across a cracked plaster ceiling.
Not unlike the hands of a clock, he’d thought to himself when he’d first checked in. A divot in the plaster, no bigger than a thumbnail, lay just outside the radius of the spinning blades. He used this as an hour mark from which to start counting the revolutions, the thing emanating a muted creak once per cycle. It was an unconscious habit, marking the passage of time in such a way. He’d been doing it for years.
Al Valentine knew a little something about time.
The actual clock in the room, an opalescent hemisphere of blue frosted glass adorned with doves, a favorite motif of Lalique, rested upon the mantle over the unlit fireplace. It was an excellent specimen of the Frenchman’s superior skills in timepiece design.
The face of that clock read 3:24 a.m. Outside the shuttered window of his room at l’Hôtel de Cyprès, the city of Damascus slept.
But Al Valentine did not sleep. He could not sleep. Not with his appointment to keep. Though the peace of a clear windless night lay over the city like a blanket and the shimmering stars of the vast vault of the heavens continued their slow wheel across the sky, Al’s thoughts raced along like the second hand of a stopwatch with monomaniacal precision.
“Through the market gate,” he mumbled to himself. “Left at the third junction. Six stairs, right, then four. Fifteen paces from the east wall. Five oh four a.m. precisely.”
Al Valentine knew a little something about precision.
He repeated the instructions to himself over and over and over as his eyes turned slow circles in their sockets, locked on the tip of one spinning blade, absently noting the passage of time as it swung lazily past the divot in the plaster—midnight, noon, midnight, noon, midnight—while in his fingertips, Al worried a curious object. The desk manager of the hotel had taken special note of it when he’d checked in a week earlier: a remarkably beautiful gold pocket watch emblazoned with fiery rubies and icy sapphires describing the serpentine curves of a snake on its cover. On the reverse, cut diamonds arranged in a fleur-de-lis. This watch, too, like the Lalique on the mantle, now ticked away the hours, minutes, and seconds till his appointment.
Al took a slow breath, then another. With care, he made to calm his nerves by synchronizing his respiration to the repeated squeaks of the fan—in, squeak, out, squeak, in, squeak . . .
But his attempt failed, and his thoughts raced onward.
Back home in Philadelphia, family and friends had thought him mad. What allure could a trip to the Orient at his age possibly hold?
“You’re no spring chicken,” Dr. Hirsch had told him. “At seventy-five, the stress of an ocean voyage could be fatal. Have you considered the heat? Palestine isn’t exactly Pennsylvania. And what about food? I mean, what will you even eat in the desert? Do they even know the definition of kosher?”
“I will eat what they eat,” was Al’s simple reply.
Kosher or no, it was the fascists Al’s nephew Oliver worried most for.
“It’s not as if they will just let you through, Onkel,” he’d said. “Do you even read the papers anymore? Do you have any idea what they’re doing to Jews over there?”
“What they do to us now has been done to us before,” Al had said, “and will be done again. But where I have to go, they will not stop me. I am just one old man, and, God willing, He will see me through to my destination.”
The hour struck four. Time was rapidly becoming of the essence.
Dr. Hirsch had been right. Even at this early hour, the heat was oppressive. Al rose from the bed. His shirt, damp with sweat, clung to his aged frame. He changed it for a fresh one and lifting his spectacles, patted his sticky face with a handkerchief. In the mirror, he straightened his tie. Smoothing out the white wiry hairs of his bushy eyebrows and mustache, he suddenly became trapped in the image of his own reflection. Like a man tracing the lines of a mountain range across the face of a map, his gaze drifted over the wrinkles and crevices of his forehead and the shadowy ravines framing his mouth. His cheeks had sunk and drawn with age, making his nose look bigger. His ears seemed bigger too, and droopier than usual, as he gently tugged at a lobe and let the loose skin slip from his fingertips. Time, as it does with everything, had left its mark on Al Valentine. But his tired face still bore a faint rosiness, and there were still yet remnants of once youthful vitality in the sagging corners of his eyes that surfaced when he smiled.
A smile that had first attracted Zofia.
Drawing back the shutters, Al gazed out over the flat, dusty rooftops of the city still fast asleep under the predawn sky. Random puddles of yellowed light dotted the alleyways below, but the rest was darkness. By the silvery-blue light of a pale waning moon, he could just make out the three towering minarets of the great Umayyad Mosque silhouetted like guardian sentinels against the desert night.
A third-floor room, that’s what he’d wanted, so he could keep the mosque in sight day or night. When the manager had suggested a man of Al’s advanced years might be infinitely more comfortable with a room on the ground floor, Al said simply he’d been climbing up and down stairs from his home to his watch shop every day for the last forty years. What was another week to one old man?
He could have taken much more luxurious quarters such as to be found at the Biet Oriental or even Palmier Doré, but old-world sensibilities had kept him a man of simple means. The extravagance of a spit-and-polished, gilded hotel room with velvet curtains, buckets of imported champagne, and smartly appointed bellhops waiting at one’s beck and call never appealed to Al. The Cypress, with its whitewashed walls and threadbare Anatolian rugs, would suffice. Frugal by nature, he shunned eccentricities. Indulging purely for indulgence sake was to surely invite envy, feed greed, and evoke false pride.
Al Valentine knew a little something about sins.
You see, Al Valentine had been waiting patiently for ten long years to see that very mosque on that very day, that very morning, in fact. His journey across the sea by ship, over hill and mountain and valley by rail, across the sweltering desert to the ancient city, inhabited by man for longer than there had been recorded history, had been all but preordained. No longing to see the sites of antiquity had brought this old man to Damascus. No law pursued him; no malignant past nipped at his heels. He took no refuge from the oppression of some despotic tyrant, nor was he impelled by the will of a higher power, though it could be said his trip was indeed a pilgrimage of sorts.
None of these things had driven Al Valentine from his comfortable workshop in Philadelphia, across the ocean and over two continents, to this humble room lying in the shadow of the great temple to the god of the desert peoples.
Destiny had brought him there. Destiny and a promise.
Al closed the shutters and turned back to the bed. He remarked the enamel face of his watch: 4:05 a.m. Time pressed ever forward. The hour of his appointment was close at hand.
Beside the chiffonier stood the Hartmann steamer trunk he’d purchased in New York. A necessary expenditure for the voyage, it had stayed with him while he crossed the Atlantic by Cunard liner, stopping first in Cornwall, then passing by ferry to Calais, then overland by rail to Paris, Hamburg (with an extra day’s layover to pay a visit to the graves of his mother and father), Budapest, and Belgrade. At Athens he caught another ship to Haifa on the western shores of Palestine before finally taking the Al-Hejaz Railway, which skirted the northern shores of the Sea of Galilee, to Damascus.
Al donned his coat and hat. From the top drawer of the open trunk, he retrieved an envelope bulging at its seams with crisp new French francs and a thick, travel-worn brown leather-bound notebook. These he tucked securely in the pockets of his suit, patting both in their place several times as if to reassure himself they’d not been forgotten.
Then he pulled out a third item, a little brass box of curious yet intricate design, and stowed it in his pocket.
Finally, he drew the fine gold and jewel-encrusted watch from his vest pocket and gave the stem a few extra turns for good measure, though, in truth, Al never dared let the thing wind down to a stop, not even for an instant. Not in ten whole years.
Again, he observed the time: 4:10 a.m. Time to leave.
Al shuffled down the three flights of stairs to the lobby. The desk clerk was nowhere to be seen, and the Hotel Cypress’s lone night bellhop, a boy of sixteen in wrinkled dishdasha and sandaled feet, slumbered curled up in a high-back wicker chair beside the front desk. No one would witness the old man slipping away.
Old Damascus was a tangle of narrow alleyways, covered bazaars, low stone arches, and gritty dirt lanes rutted from horse carts and sporadic auto traffic. Overhanging mashrabiya walled him in at every turn. Walking in the shadows of the buildings, an amalgam of the old, the older, and the very old, the most ancient constructed of just dried mud, the naive tourist might not help but feel all the more the rat blindly fumbling through the labyrinth.
But Al did not feel as such. He’d walked this route before, every day since he’d arrived in the city, sometimes four or five times a day. Twenty-three times in all, just to be prepared.
Al Valentine knew a little something about being prepared.
Thirty-five paces to the double arch, then right at the green awning. Second left after the Nazari garage . . .
Maneuvering deftly for a man his age, Al navigated this dark morass of lanes and alleys with deliberation and single-minded purpose. Crossing an intersection of two passages, a panting mongrel tied to a post inside a nearby courtyard threatened with a low growl, but the old man moved on unabated. Up above, behind wooden shutters on the second floor of a home, he heard the clanking of plates being laid. Through another window, the crying of an infant echoed down the lane. Damascus was slowly waking up.
Up the stairs, through the gate, straight across Al-Hariqah Square . . .
Al emerged from this maze of byways in the shadows of the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter, fragments of its towering colonnade the only remaining traces of that place of worship and sacrifice to the ancient thunder god. He paused to look again at his watch: 4:37 a.m. Beyond the ruins loomed the fortresslike western wall of the Umayyad Mosque.
Up the lane, an Arab man dressed in the Western trappings of an impeccably tailored cream-colored suit and crimson fez gingerly approached. Parked behind him was a dirty covered truck, the name Al-Bega Imports, Haifa, stenciled in white on the driver’s door. Beside the truck, four men in dusty thawb and sandals waited, quietly mumbling among themselves.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Valentine,” he said.
“Mr. Sayid,” Al greeted in reply, taking the man’s elegantly manicured hand in his own.
“It is good to see you again,” Sayid said. “As you can see, we are here at the appointed hour as agreed upon.”
“I am grateful,” Al said.
Smiling a wide, toothy grin, Sayid turned on his heels and clapped his hands furiously, barking commands in a language foreign to Al’s ears, unceremoniously ordering his men to work.
“You did not have any trouble making your way, I trust? Damascus can be a confusing place to one who has not had the pleasure before.”
“No, sir, no trouble,” Al said. “I see my package is still intact?”
“But of course, monsieur,” Sayid assured. “For a client such as yourself, I spared no expense in ensuring your item was handled with the utmost care. Haifa to Damascus direct. As you can see, as promised, I am personally overseeing all arrangements. I have brought four of my strongest men for the job. You might even say your package was guaranteed by Sayid. Ha! What do you think of that? I hope you do not mind my taking a liberty with your own bon mot. But you see, after reading it on your calling card, I simply could not help myself.”
“Not at all. It’s very fitting and should serve you well.” Al smiled. “Then there will be no problem moving my item to its appointed place?”
“None at all. Of that, you may rest easy. However, I must admit my contact inside was a bit reluctant initially to agree to such an unusual request. As such, how shall I put this delicately? He demanded of me, let us say, a more substantial contribution, which had the unfortunate effect of ever so slightly increasing my expenses. This was most unexpected, I can assure you, and I did my utmost to arrange a price that, hopefully, would be equitable to all parties involved. I sincerely hope, monsieur, you do not take offense at my negotiating on your behalf?”
“Money is no issue,” Al said as he watched the workers at the rear of the truck. “I am prepared to compensate you for your trouble.”
“Excellent! Excellent, Monsieur Valentine. I never harbored any doubt at all you were a man of the utmost discretion in such matters. And now, with that nasty bit of business behind us, if you are ready, my men are ready as well, and we can begin.”
Sayid escorted Al up the street, where he could more closely observe the work. A delicate ballet played out, with Sayid’s four associates carefully maneuvering a large item out of the truck bed and onto a waiting cart, the operation made more difficult by the unusual dimensions of the cargo in question: a single wooden crate, eight feet by five feet by two feet. Though not an awkward shape, the box proved quite heavy, requiring the men’s full strength to support. For his part, Sayid flitted about their robes like a mosquito, whispering commands in Arabic and reassuring Al repeatedly with a wide smile that the utmost care was being taken not to damage the precious cargo within.
The package finally unloaded and secured to the pushcart, the little group set off up the cobbled lane toward the mosque, a funny funerary parade with Sayid in pristine white suit in the vanguard, four peasants bearing a coffin-size crate like pallbearers in the middle, and a lone slouched old man bringing up the rear, the grieving widower.
Al glanced again at his watch: 4:46 a.m.
The Bāb as-Sā’at, the great western gate, loomed ahead; two enormous doors of bronze framed by blocks of white marble crowned by a half-moon arch of blue and green stained glass. The doors stood unexpectedly closed. Sayid nervously looked at Al, then nervously checked his watch, then smiled a nervous little smile, and laughed a dry, nervous little laugh. His contact, his well-paid contact, was late.
“Pardon, monsieur,” Sayid said to Al, then, turning abruptly, he rapped once on the hard metal doors, paining his knuckles in the process. Garnering no response, he beat heartily on the door several times until the clank of a heavy latch sounded from within, and slowly, one large door pulled open.
There inside stood a bleary-eyed, mustached fellow. Heavy eyelids suggested he’d been rudely roused from a blissful sleep just inside the doorway. He and Sayid exchanged a few curt words, the substance of which Al deduced revolved around the necessity of leaving the pushcart behind. This hiccup didn’t matter to Al, who again checked the time. The mu’adhdhin, however, would be calling Damascus to morning prayer in exactly twenty-three minutes. That mattered a great deal.
Sayid clapped his hands vigorously, barking commands to his men. Obediently, they hoisted the cargo upon their shoulders and carefully shuffled their way inside. Under the towering arches of the riwaq surrounding the deserted inner courtyard of the mosque, they proceeded until Al signaled they had reached their destination.
The moon hung low, so low as not to be seen for the high walls of the citadel. The sky had lightened to a navy blue with the promise of dawn, and the once numerous stars now numbered but a few dozen.
At Sayid’s orders, his men lay open the package with pry bars and claw hammers, taking extreme caution at their foreman’s insistence not to damage the goods inside. Al stood a few paces away. He’d taken out the tattered journal he’d brought with him and was reviewing its final pages, intently absorbed in identifying a precise spot along the wall.
“Here,” he called to Sayid. “Tell them to put it here.”
Sayid clapped his hands. His men finished clearing the last of the loose straw from inside the crate to reveal its single item of content: a large antique mirror situated in an ornate, gilded frame of the rococo style. The glass itself stood taller than a man, nearly seven feet high and almost four feet wide, when they raised it upright.
“Kun hadhiraan!” he insisted, commanding his men to take care. “Kun hadhiraan albalha'.”
Al identified the spot against the wall where the mirror was to be placed. The work complete, Sayid dismissed his men, who collected their tools and filed rapidly out of the courtyard.
“It would seem, monsieur, our business is now concluded,” Sayid said. “With your permission, I will take my leave as well.”
“Of course,” Al replied and, procuring from his pocket the envelope filled with francs, gave it to Sayid. “Your payment, as agreed upon. You will find a sufficient bonus included as well. It should more than compensate you for your extra expenses and any inconveniences. I thank you for your service.”
Sayid smiled, tucked the money discreetly into his breast pocket, bowed humbly, bid Al au revoir, and took his leave.
At the western gate, his bleary-eyed associate followed Sayid out, pulling the door shut behind them, leaving the old man alone in the great, wide space of the courtyard.
Al noted the time: 5:03 am. Time to begin.
All was quiet. Al removed his hat, approached the mirror, and gazed into his reflection.
Ten years, he thought. So many hours, minutes, and seconds.
Time is a funny thing. Al had learned as much from years of watchmaking. At times fleeting, at others abundant, it seemed to move slower or faster, crawling now at a snail’s pace, now whizzing past like a bullet. One man’s second was another man’s eternity. Time was measured, weighed, and valued. Time was money. Time was ever present. It had always existed. It simply was, is, and always will be. It marched ever forward.
But there was still a little time remaining.
Ten years I have waited, he thought to himself. To be more precise, as Al was wont to do, it had been exactly ten years, five months, three weeks, four days, twenty-one hours, sixteen minutes, and seven seconds . . . eight seconds . . . nine seconds . . .
Al Valentine knew a little something about time. And he knew there were still fifty-one seconds more to wait.
Inside the Madhanat al-Arus, the minaret of the bride jutting above the northern wall, the mu’adhdhin began his slow climb up the spiral stairs to the tower’s balcony, while below, Al removed from his pocket the box he’d taken from his trunk in the hotel.
It was a beautiful case of carved brass, no bigger than the watch Al carried in his vest, its surface inlaid with an intricate gearwork mechanism of cogs, springs, levers, and tiny gemstones. A masterwork of skill and craftsmanship, the thing had no discernable lid, no hinges or clasps where it might be opened. An impenetrable safe for priceless cargo. Only three small holes, nearly invisible to the untrained eye, hinted at a method for entry by key.
That key, a simple miniature clock key, had hung from a chain around his neck for the last ten years. Removing it now, Al carefully inserted the key into one hole, then the next, then the third, winding the box in an order and number of turns known only to him, which set the sophisticated gearworks below the surface in motion. A faint ticking commenced from within the depths of the box, a delicate dance of balance wheels, mainsprings, ratchet wheels, and escapements, all synchronizing their movements, building to a crescendo of whirring clicks and ticks until all the nerves in his body began to tingle and his every muscle tensed. His old heart thumped violently against his ribs. Finally, the ticking ceased with a muted, almost benign, click, and one side of the little case flicked open, precisely fifteen seconds from the last turn of the key.
Inside the box lay a compartment lined in green velvet. Within this compartment lay a folded piece of cloth no bigger than a thumbnail, bluish gray, and stained with a single crimson spot.
The mu’adhdhin’s call pierced the sky, dancing across the dusty rooftops and echoing through the cloistered passages of Damascus, shaking the ancient bones of the city to life once again.
“Allahu ‘akbar, Allahu ‘akbar. Ashhadu an la ilaha illa-Allah.”
Al checked his watch: 5:04 a.m. Time was up.
Taking the tiny swatch of cloth from the box, he stepped forward and, like an artist dabbing the final drop of paint on his masterpiece, pressed it gently to the surface of the glass.
The rising sun breached the crest of the great courtyard’s eastern wall, casting a wave of pure, bright light against the shimmering face of the mirror. In his trembling fingers, Al still gripped the bloodied swatch of gray cloth. Before him, the image of his reflection undulated and distorted like ripples across the surface of a still lake disturbed by the first falling drop of rain. He watched himself break apart into a thousand ribbons caroming against each other, against the wood of the frame that held the mirror fast against the cold stone of the great mosque’s western wall.
But soon, the waves subsided, and the image of himself coalesced. He could see the wrinkles creasing his old face once again and, behind him, the columned feet of the Qubbat al-Khazna, the octagonal Dome of the Treasury standing on its eight stone pillars. Beyond that, the open expanse of the courtyard and the far eastern wall of the mosque. Al stood motionless, fixing his eyes intently upon the reflection.
It came at first as a near-imperceptible dimming over his left shoulder. A momentary bending of the light. Something invisible to the eye yet so vaguely solid, its presence blocking out just one, perhaps two, of the sun’s rays.
But slowly, this bending progressed, refracting more rays until the faint outline of a form took shape: the form of a man. Al watched this phenomenon in the mirror’s reflection with wide-eyed wonder. His heart stirred to a flurry of excitement as the shape began walking toward him from within the mirror.
