movement.” Pointing to the still hooded man seated in a dark corner of the room, he continued, “This is the man,” and at that juncture, the man removed his hood to reveal his face. As the hood slipped backward, it served to show more than just his face; it revealed the scowl that appeared to be permanently etched onto it. The man looked as if he had never enjoyed a nice day in his life. For whatever reason, the years of evil he must have experienced had etched resentment and bitterness, like caustic acid, into his jowls that left his visage apparently beyond any hope of repair.
Instantly a buzz went up throughout the room. All the members of the Council were reacting to the image that they were seeing and the cause they had just launched.
“You don’t have to be impressed by him,” the speaker continued as he gauged their response, “but you should know his name.” The man stood as the speaker introduced him.
“His name is Eshek.”
1
From my hotel room balcony, perched high among the upper floors of the King Herod Hotel, it was difficult to enjoy a morning cup of coffee and the early edition of the Jerusalem Journal without pausing to absorb the sunrise over the slumbering city. My little sneak peeks resembled a schoolboy in class, making the teacher believe that I was really attending to my own paper, when in fact I was looking at cute little Susie’s work and stealing her answers. With boyish coy, I would pretend to be reading the paper, but all the while stealing a glance at the rising sun, drenching Jerusalem with a golden glow. After all, it wasn’t a sin was it to read the revered morning news and to enjoy the start of a gorgeous day, and, on top of that, sip a cup of freshly brewed coffee? Or was it? Now I find myself justifying to myself, why I wasn’t focused on the day’s news. There were some important things happening in and around Jerusalem and Judea in general that as a journalist I should have an understanding of. My publisher and my readers would want me to be on top of this info for accurate reporting in my articles.
One more scan of the horizon, and I’ll drag myself to the shower. As if playing a game, I once again peer over the balcony rail; it just seemed like a natural thing to do. Little wafts of smoke rising from small ovens making morning breakfasts for families starting their days, thin, wispy indications that life was resuming in this grand ancient city.
Maybe my game would hold a little more intrigue if I would just cut a huge slit in the paper enjoy the view through the hole. That way, if anyone were watching, they would think I was truly mesmerized by what I was reading.
What an idiot. Playing a game of only one player. I’ve been a journalist for many years, but maybe I’ve been in Judea too long.
As if on cue, the dreaded knock at the door startled me from my foolish daydreaming game. Like anyone whose is not expecting company or even to be disturbed, I jumped up out of my wicker chair, paper in hand, and strode toward the door as the enquirer pounded again.
“What do you want?” I shouted at the closed door.
“I have a special delivery for Steve Stanton,” responded the squeaky voice from the other side.
“Yeah, right!” I exclaimed
How could I have a special delivery, nobody but my publisher knows that I’m here, and he usually sends me an email. This is far too fishy to accept on the surface. All of a sudden I was glad for the intensive detective training I had received in my youthful desire to be a police officer. Sidling alongside the interior hinged side of the door, I took a position of the slimmest profile I could, so as not to present the intruder with too large a target behind the door. Now I wished I had lost those fifteen pounds that I had threatened to lose for so long.
Dredging up the deepest, fiercest voice I had in my repertoire of menacing voices, I drawled out in a stern tone, “Who is it from?”
“I’m sorry sir,” exclaimed the weak voice from the other side, “I can’t tell you. For one, there is no return address, and for two, we aren’t allowed to tell you if there was one. Some people have received special deliveries, and when they found out through the door who they were from, they were rejected and were sent back to the sender. So my management tells us that we are not allowed to tell customers who sent it for fear that we would have a warehouse of rejected deliveries.”
Now, I think I’ve heard them all.
Utilizing my newly discovered “fear voice” I responded, “Then leave it on the floor, I’ll get it later.”
That sounded good, maybe now he’ll simply walk away. Then I’ll retrieve the package.
“Sorry sir, you have to sign for it,” came the exasperated response. Now I was beginning to develop a picture in my mind about what this kid looked like. And it wasn’t looking too much like a threat to me. I’ve made enemies in my writing, including King Herod himself! He has had me followed and tracked. He’s had his snitches tag along with me on my assignments, acting like they were my “good buddies,” supposedly looking after my safety and, of course, best interests. However, they were highly paid direct conduits to the King himself. I have written some stinging points in my articles that could be construed by a King as “infuriateable” for want of the best, most descriptive word, I believe I have just invented it. With a high-powered adversary as King Herod, logic and safety dictate that I can’t be open to just anybody who knocks at my door, with a special delivery package.
Trusting my journalistic and detective instincts, I slowly slide over to the handle side of the door jamb, assuring that the chain was in place and that my right hand was ready and clear to swing if need be, I unlatched the deadbolt. Opening the door to just a slit revealed the opulent hallway of the hotel. The candlelight was awash with slices of low angle sunlight that were beginning to penetrate the room and overwhelm them. Standing back a few feet away from the door, looking down at the package in his hand, this teen-ager tapped his toes to an inaudible beat.
“Hand it to me through the slit son,” I said, forgetting that I was supposed to use my stern voice. Nevertheless, his innocent face disarmed me for a moment.
“You have to sign for it, too,” he responded as his squinting eyes tried to make out my face. With the darkened room as my backdrop, I was merely a shadowy figure through the barely opened crack between the door and the jamb. I thought I was being so clever, and then it dawned on me, that all he had to do was wait in the hall and to see me as I emerged heading toward the dining room. Sometimes, I amaze myself with the added drama and intrigue that I interject into my life.
Drawing the envelope through the narrow opening, I thanked the young man. He stood there for another second, and then grunted some sort of Hebrew “You’re welcome,” or something of that nature, then turned and be-bopped down the hallway. I believe I was supposed to tip him.
Locking the door, I turned toward the balcony again while slicing open the envelope. Ripping it between the blue and red words that spelled “Special Delivery,” I removed the one-page document and saw that it was my new assignment. I scanned it for content, then abruptly tossed it on the bed and headed for a refreshing shower. I was quite surprised: the letter was from Roger Dalton, my boss and editor in chief of the World Observer Gazette, the paper that I write for.
I thought it strange that Roger hadn’t emailed my new assignment to me. Recently, it had been the primary form of contact between us. To send this by special delivery courier meant that he wanted assurances that
