The Players Gather: The Jerusalem Cycle Trilogy, #1

By André John Haddad

Who will save an ancient city from nuclear disaster? The stage is set in The Players Gather, the first installment of André John Haddad's heart-stopping international suspense trilogy, The Jerusalem Cycle.

Across centuries and continents, Jerusalem has remained at the center of a perpetual cycle of violence and brutality.  It is on everyone's radar at the Triage Group, a Massachusetts consulting firm. This is especially true for Louise Destrey, head of Triage operations, and for Lola, the firm's supercomputer that can estimate the likelihood of future events.

Louise and Lola know that disaster in Jerusalem is imminent. Destrey feels powerless to do anything about it until she meets Cardinal Hedrick Zimmer, a man eager to break the cycle before the city is plunged into chaos. He's assembling a team of crusaders and invites Destrey to join as a consultant.

Together, they vow to transform the mindset of millions of Jerusalemites and spare the world from a nuclear disaster. The challenge is one of a kind; the task seemingly impossible to achieve.

Changing the future in a region rife with conflict isn't easy. Can Zimmer and Destrey beat the odds—and the cycle—for good?

If you like reading Tom Clancy and Robert Ludlum, you won't be able to put down this thriller until the very last page.

Other Books in The Jerusalem Cycle Trilogy:

-  Book Two: The Threat Emerges

-  Book Three: The Assault Begins
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Imagen Publishing
• Release date: May 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999385484

Book preview

prologue

Historical events leading to modern Jerusalem.

babylon

587 bce

Z edekiah? the Babylonian king said, without looking down at him.

Zedekiah was once a boy. His mother, the Queen, named him Mattaniah because she believed he was a gift from God.

Zedekiah? Come and sit beside me. He called him friend. Come friend.

Zedekiah was once a man.

Don’t be shy.

He was once upon a time, a husband.

Zedekiah? You old scoundrel. Are you toying with me?

Zedekiah was once a father as well as the prince of a great nation.

Zedekiah?

Now, he could be found, day or night, in a special room, built for the sole purpose of convenience. His jailer, the King, insisted he should be close by, at His Royal Highness’ pleasure.

Zedekiah? he asked again, Come and sit beside me. The Babylonian was drinking from a simple golden cup. He was not quite intoxicated, but he did feel a buzz coming. In the presence of his good friend Zedekiah, he chose to drink the best wine the earth could provide.

The Babylonian insisted on his alone time with Zedekiah at least once a day. He slowed his breathing and remembered he had the rest of his life to achieve his objective with Zedekiah. Lying on a comfortable chaise lounge, he eyed two stone tablets propped up on a pedestal. He was truly the master of the gods.

The King of all Kings, he said to himself. More than that, he had

God’s words staring at him: the tablets were blue, dark and cold, mysterious and powerful.

Written by God’s finger, he said lost in thought as his hand caressed the tablets. So this is what the fuss is all about. What did the prophet say: a covenant between you and your God? I can hardly believe that.

Zedekiah said nothing, no word of protest or complaint.

This is my question to you, Zedekiah. It’s always the same.

Again, the creature who was once a man, said nothing.

His jailer did not hear anything fruitful; it was a stalemate of enormous proportions, an impasse between two Kings.

Why, you ask? The jailer wanted his prisoner to understand the reasons for his questions. He also wanted to explain how Zedekiah had come to be imprisoned in this special room, far away from Jerusalem and his people.

I need to know, he said good-naturedly. Tell me now, and I swear by Marduk, I will set you free. So tell me, please, Zedekiah.

Again, the silence was deafening.

Are you listening to me, Zedekiah?

In the King’s defense, it was almost impossible to know if the prisoner was awake or not. Tell me and the truth will set you on your way back home. Think of it, Zedekiah: home with your wives, your handsome sons and beautiful daughters. They’re all waiting for you.

The man in the cage was naked and soiled beyond description. He had no room to maneuver. He couldn’t sit or kneel, or stand up. At times he could crouch, squat or bow. Skin and bones, was how his jailer called him.

No one else was allowed to talk to him, or talk about him, whether in the jailer’s presence or not. The custodian of prisoner Zedekiah was the only human being on the planet who had the right to speak his true name or acknowledge his existence.

Zedekiah? Tell me? he begged him once more, as he had for the last two years. Trust me. On my word as King, I promise I will set you free. The caged animal had barely the strength to lift his head and face his captor. Zedekiah could no longer see Nebuchadnezzar, the man to whom he had paid allegiance. Again, Zedekiah tried to answer the King. He had the words ready. He knew the answer. He replied time and time again. But not a word was uttered or heard.

"Zedekiah? I’m here. Listen to my voice. Tell me Zedekiah? Why?

It’s easy. Open your mouth and pronounce the words that will free you."

Zedekiah became agitated. He tried to face his jailer. He looked around him as much as he could, shaking his head back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of his ruler and benefactor. Unfortunately, he only managed to bang his head against the golden bars of his cage. He bled.

You want to die, Zedekiah? I know that. I’d like to help you if I could. However, the tablets say I can’t do that. Your prophet Jeremiah says the tablets speak of laws. Thou shalt not kill. Yes, that’s the one. Your God will punish me if I do that.

The prisoner’s cage, located in the jailer’s private sitting room, was set in a hole deep enough to walk on top of the cage without having to step up or down. The top of the cage was set flush with the rose-colored marble floor. Another hole underneath the cage was built to clear the prisoner’s fecal matter. The jailer could tolerate just so much foul and obscene smells. The prisoner reeked of rotting flesh, abominable pain and death. Yet the King was pleased. It was exactly what he needed. There is no revenge so complete as a promise of forgiveness. Others said revenge was best served cold, but nothing could be less true. To ensure his revenge would last forever, clemency would be extended until Zedekiah’s natural death.

Zedekiah lacked all signs of being human. His hair had turned red from the jailer’s urine. Although the jailer’s sitting room could accommodate as many as one hundred and fifty palace dwellers, no one was allowed the privilege of observing Zedekiah in his golden cage. He reasoned that ignorant rumors would better serve his purpose. Moreover, he wanted Zedekiah, the very last King of the Jews, all to himself. He’d be kept alive and alert, but just barely, for as long as possible.

I’m sure you’d like to know what happened to your little village. My trusted General just came back from Jerusalem and said there wasn’t much left of the city. Not a stone was left standing. Nothing was left of the temple either. It’s as if it had never existed. He kept only one tree standing to hang your progeny by their throats. He said I would enjoy the sight if I had time to travel to what was once Jerusalem. But that won’t happen. I would never leave you on your own. Perhaps my general can bring the tree to me, here in Babylon, with all its ornaments.

The prisoner Zedekiah had lost the ability to cry. There wasn’t enough water in his body to do so. It was a dangerous act to shed one tear for his pitiful excuse of a life, and thus his body refused to let that happen. Zedekiah’s body needed every drop of water in his body to survive. Tears would not do. Yet, he prayed God to take him away, to take his life. Every night, after the Babylonian would finally leave him alone in his cage, in total darkness, he would pray.

I know now, after all this time, that I have broken my oath to You. I have also broken my oath to this Babylonian. I have earned your anger. I ask forgiveness. Grant me mercy, my God in heaven, and may the King of Babylon end my life.

But God couldn’t hear him either. Because Zedekiah’s mouth was routinely covered with a leather mask specially outfitted for his skeletal form. The inside of his mouth was filled with leather strips, allowing him only to breathe through his nose.

Zedekiah? the jailer asked once more. And again Zedekiah tried to tell him why he had betrayed him. But the mask prevented him from speaking.

Zedekiah, my poor, poor, Zedekiah. If you don’t speak up, how can I release you from bondage? You disrespect me by refusing to answer a simple question. Why? Why, Zedekiah?

King Nebuchadnezzar, master of Babylon, ruler of all living things in his realm and all neighboring countries, was not a cruel ruler. He handled the affairs of his kingdom with an iron fist, which for the time, was pretty much what was required from a ruler. The people had a saying: Better a thousand years of tyranny than a day of anarchy.

Tolerant as he may be, Nebuchadnezzar was fed up with Judeans and their backstabbing ways. Zedekiah had been misled by the King’s erudition at court, thinking he had no taste for war. Zedekiah rebelled against the Babylonian ruler, broke an oath he made to his God and to the Babylonian and negotiated an alliance with Egypt’s Pharaoh.

That was a big mistake, the King said bitterly, you piece of shit. Oh! I’m sorry. I lost my temper, mustn’t do that. I think there’s another commandment that applies here: Thou shalt not call Zedekiah a piece of shit.

Zedekiah cried silently, gently. He had been sentenced to the worst punishment a man could endure. His would be a slow, agonizing death, at the feet of the man who had destroyed his nation, his people, his family and himself. To make matters worse, as sleep would come to rescue him from his horrific life, he would suddenly remember everything. He could not shake off the memory of seeing his wives raped repeatedly by the King’s soldiers, his daughters disrobed and confined to a bronze cage, held hanging in the air for all to see, until they died of starvation. He was also haunted by the memory of his sons’ execution a few moments before he was blinded, stripped, bound in chains and then taken captive to Babylon. Zedekiah’s most vivid images from his past were branded forever in his mind. Whether awake or sleeping through horrible nightmares, he would witness in his mind’s eye what he had done. His sons had cried for mercy as one by one, they were cut into small pieces while still alive. Slaves were forced to eat his sons’ body parts while they still breathed the Creator’s air.

Did you really think you could get away with it, Zedekiah? Your disloyalty? Your treachery? You knew I could not let this happen. What would they say? What would my allies think of me? What would my own people do if they thought I was too weak to retaliate? I had to make an example of you. And here you are Zedekiah. In my palace, here in my very own room, and you still refuse to apologize and admit your mistakes.

Zedekiah moaned. He had a new and better answer for the King. But no one could hear a blind, twenty-seven-year-old Prince from Judea. He had been squeezed into a tiny golden cage, set in the floor of a storied palace. Zedekiah had wound up in one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. And despite the magnificence of his surroundings, no one could hear his prayer for mercy, no one but God. And He was in no mood to help.

Nebuchadnezzar regretted having sentenced Zedekiah’s family to death.

I should have kept your wives among the living. I would have treated them fairly. Every day, every night, in front of thousands, I would have proven to my people what kind of ruler I truly am: a merciful King; a just ruler; a compassionate man. Nevertheless, I am truly sorry and should have been generous. Zedekiah believed his wives were dead and gone. But the King had all the time in the world to exact his vengeance on Zedekiah. Why should he tell the truth about his wives? They were working full time in his brothels. The King planned to let him hear their voices, soon, but not too soon. One by one his wives would tell him of their suffering. Zedekiah was not even thirty yet, so he had years of penitence ahead of him. The King made a promise to himself not to hurry. He would make sure Zedekiah heard everything, every sordid detail.

In the end, Nebuchadnezzar sought to break his heart and his soul. Even now, the King wanted more: to prove to Zedekiah his God was not coming to save him. Zedekiah had broken his covenant with God and his promise to him. Zedekiah was now his property. God allowed it. The King wanted the young Prince as his dog.

Again Zedekiah moaned. Somehow, he found the energy to move his head from side to side. That made Nebuchadnezzar happy beyond words. The worst punishment of all was to keep the prisoner alive and angry enough to suffer the pain of another day. Words, great wonderful words were Zedekiah’s punishment. The King would inflict his words on his prisoner every day, and thereby destroy Zedekiah’s very soul.

Before I leave you tonight, I thought it would be good to remind you of the truth. I have brought all of your people to Babylon. They are now slaves of Babylon. As for the rest of your people, they are dead. Your fault.

Zedekiah cursed him and God.

This time God answered Zedekiah.

God granted Zedekiah another twenty-two years of life on earth to reflect on his sins and more importantly, what devastation He would set loose onto the land of his chosen people, as well as all life on the planet from here on. He had unleashed the dogs of war on His own creation. His angel of death.

Although Zedekiah could not put a name to it, he slowly became aware of an unholy malevolence. At first, it surrounded him, taunting him with the promise of freedom in exchange for his soul. Its presence was palpable. After what seemed like an interminable amount of time, it assailed Zedekiah’s body in a grip made of decaying cadavers and absolute perversion. Zedekiah believed he’d gone mad.

rome

134 bce

I t is my practice, my Lord Emperor, to report to you in person on all matters concerning Judea. In the last six months, our legions have regained control of most of the Judean territory.

Emperor Publius Aelius Traianus Hadrianus Augustus heard it all before. One general after another had made promises to his predecessors. Truth be told, Judea was a painful conquest. An embarrassing acquisition. A stain on Rome’s reputation. The head of the Roman Empire had had enough of assurances and wishful thinking. Nevertheless, he listened to his general because he believed in Sextus Iulius Severus. Although Sextus was a brute, he was, more importantly, his brute. He would always come through with the goods, as promised. The general did a great job as Governor of Britain. That’s why he was reassigned to Judea, with an Imperial promise of returning to his homeland, to Rome, the center of the known universe.

We have eliminated all existing resistance by the slaughter of rebels and their blood relations, he said carefully. Their mothers, brothers, cousins and associates. We are not fettered by the ordinary limitations of battle. At the end of it all, there will be no population left to rebel or to counter our sovereignty in the years to come. They will cease to exist, my Lord Emperor.

The general waited for his Emperor to say something. But Hadrian just stared back at him, as if he didn’t believe him.

A very large number of slaves have been sent to other territories. An even larger number of executions have been carried out. I wasted no time making any distinction on account of age. The Emperor smiled at that last bit of information. Sextus was indeed the right man for the job.

All forms of resistance have been stopped. No pardon has been granted for repentance or subservience or illness, in order to eradicate all that was troublesome or calculated. Those full of cowardice and iniquity, who have emptied the region of all that is conducive to stability, have been put to death.

Again the general paused, but to no avail. The Emperor merely waited. He still wasn’t convinced. He wanted to hear the words from the general’s mouth.

If a man, woman or child has once been in the rebellion or has knowledge of it, it does them no good to have stopped or to feign ignorance. When a man or his family is suspected, without any direct offense, or simply associated with a guilty name, they are all punished by death or slavery. The treacherous have been wiped out and I have seen with my own eyes their blood color the ground, the rivers and viaducts of Judea. The complete destruction of this region is well under way my Lord Emperor. The countryside and the city of Jerusalem has been painted red and still many hundreds of thousands will perish in the coming months.

Sextus?

Yes, my Lord.

Could you please, in the name of Jupiter, tell me when the deed will be done?

Your legions are in the process of destroying their temples and all official symbols of Judean nationhood. Within the next three months we will leave no stone unturned, no village with life, and no commerce or bartering. Slaves will be sent to wipe out all forms of building, every house and every village and all public places. We will wipe out all traces of life. And thus, God willing, the construction of your new city will get under way.

God willing?

Your will, my Lord, is my command. I am but your servant.

I want you to know that you will return to Judea with an agent that will keep me apprised of your handiwork, general. Do we understand each other?

Yes, my Lord. Perfectly.

In the next three months, the Emperor’s agent witnessed what he considered to be the end of the world. So shocking were the images burnt in his mind, that he fell ill and was sent back to Rome to recover his strength and health. The young patrician had been given a royal tour of Rome’s determination and plans for Judea. A lesson on how Roman Legions eradicate a people from the face of the earth.

A presence of unknown origin was guiding Sextus’ hand and will.

There was no turning back.

It was in control.

Tel Aviv, Palestine

May 2, 1945

My darling Celia,

I’ve read your letter and I agree wholeheartedly with you. Your brother is a pompous ass, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I wish only to be with you at this time. If only I could. I have tried to describe the conditions here in Palestine many times before in my letters. I am finding it increasingly difficult and frustrating to implement British land laws. We are told to be patient and careful, but I find the situation over here is without hope. Things are, in a word, different. I mean by way of understanding how human beings behave. There is no way to understand them. I hope you are not losing patience. I can read between the lines, you know, but I simply ask you to do the best you can while I am here. Did I say that I miss you, darling?

On this matter of your brother’s appalling behavior toward you, I sincerely hope that you will find my father helpful. His experience in situations like this one will be of great comfort to you. He will certainly do what is best for you and the children. I cannot in good conscience give you advice from the Holy Land. Please confer with my father.

Please give my love to Emily and Charles Junior. Tell them that I treasure them. I cannot convey with words how much I look forward to seeing them again. Could you send me a few more photos of the children? I need to hold them, and you, in my arms and never let go. Please tell them that their father thinks of them every day, every minute, and loves them very, very much.

You’ve asked me, sweetheart, when I will be coming back home to you. I can only speculate at this time. The situation here has unfortunately deteriorated rapidly. Our position has become dangerous and I fear deception from all sides. Seven of my men were murdered in cold blood last week by elements I cannot mention in this correspondence. I am writing to their families: that’s all I can say. I don’t know what to think anymore. The very air I breathe is foul, perhaps evil.

The brass is stunned by the brutal behavior these people have displayed in the past months. We have been telling them that for two years, but they refused to listen. The Jews won’t take it any longer and they are organized and armed. The Arabs are also arming themselves. You know what’s funny? Well it’s not, really. But we were sent here to help these wretched people. Now we have become the enemy.

My division has seen a lot of fighting in Europe and some of us were there when the Nazi concentration camps were liberated. When we arrived in Palestine, the men, regardless of directives, were inclined to help and support the Jewish community here. But I’m not so sure of that anymore. The murders have changed that. We are being weighed down on all sides; friend and foe alike test our resolve every day. We are forced to apply absolute force to maintain control over the territory. Many innocents on both sides continue to die. I don’t see an end to it. Frankly, I cannot imagine how we can bring peace to this part of the world. Many have tried before and failed. I fear the worst. I just hope and pray that all of this will end soon.

The lies, the corruption, the general uneasiness between people are commonplace. I know this will sound odd, but I’m more than ever convinced of the existence of an ancient evil that feeds on these people’s fears. I’m concerned that we are in the midst of something dreadful and our actions are making things worse. I cannot explain it any other way. I can see only hatred in this wretched place. I can tell by the way they look at us.

As you can see, I’m not so confident about the future success of the British Mandate for Palestine. I am equally uncertain about the safety of my soldiers and airmen. But please don’t worry, I am safe for the time being, but we are on a constant state of alert. I don’t know why I am telling you all of this; I just hope you will understand.

I am not proud of anything I do any more, as a man and as a soldier. I just want to get back to you. For now, I am trying to get through one day at a time. I’m afraid I will have a difficult time looking into your eyes again without thinking about this horrible place. I have seen terrible harm perpetrated on innocent people. My dreams are too horrible to describe and I am afraid you will see the distress if you look at me too closely. My superiors have no hope for the region any longer. We can sense an evil presence lurking beyond our barracks. I must find a way to leave this wretched place before it consumes me and my men. But enough of that.

Did I mention that I love you, my Celia, my darling?

I will write again, every day if I can. Writing gives me a reason for getting through the days and nights. Well, that’s all I have to say. I should go; I must do what I must do. Duty.

By the way, how would you feel about the colonies, Canada or Australia, when I get back? A new start. What do you say?

With you forever,

Charles

Colonel Charles Martin Paice

6th Airborne Division

British Forces

Wednesday, May 2, 1945

Palestine

New York

UN Headquarters

November 14, 1956

I need an aspirin, he said out loud to himself, in an effort not to forget to take one or two before it was too late.

The first United Nations Emergency Force had been created when Resolution 1001 (ES-I) passed on November 7, 1956. UN troops were mandated by the General Assembly to put an end to the Suez Canal crisis before the situation unraveled into another world war. The man standing behind the chair knew very well that the most recent war wasn’t by any means the last one. He was, if nothing else, a pragmatist.

Meanwhile, the Hungarian Revolution had spontaneously erupted nationwide. Against all odds, the revolt against the Soviet backed Hungarian government had lasted until mid-November. It had begun as a student demonstration involving thousands of young people marching through the streets of Budapest. News spread quickly throughout the capital and the world. And the world held its breath. The Russians wouldn’t hold back, would they?

Secretary-General, Ambassador Zorin would like a word with you, and Ambassador Ortega will be here in a few minutes.

I will take the call, thank you, he answered, regretfully. But before I forget, please get me an aspirin.

The man about to change the UN’s very soul and its role in world affairs was troubled by the prospect of speaking to the Russian at this late hour. Tonight, Dag Hammarskjöld had to concentrate on the Suez Canal crisis rather than discuss the Hungarian issue with yet another Russian hard-liner.

That would have to wait, he thought. In a few hours, UN troops from Brazil, Canada, Colombia, Denmark, Finland, India, Indonesia, Norway, Yugoslavia and his beloved Sweden would cross sovereign territory and take up positions on Egyptian soil. He was told by his military advisors of the potential for disaster at every stage of their operation. He was terrified at the prospect of UN troops accidentally engaging in armed conflict with the Israelis, the Egyptians, the French or the British. With anyone for that matter.

Good evening, Ambassador, he said with some exasperation and a great deal of impatience in his voice as he answered the Russian. The substance of the call was always the same. The UN always supported the Americans. The Americans did this and did that… The Americans couldn’t be trusted… give them too much room to maneuver and…"

Yes, I understand your position, Ambassador Zorin. I will get back to you on that subject as soon as next Monday. Meanwhile, I urge you not to make things worse for God’s sake. The man, he thought, had no manners or respect for his office. He knew that lives would be lost if the Americans didn’t intervene quickly. After all, they had encouraged the Hungarians to revolt!

Yes, Mister Ambassador, I know about Eisenhower’s position on this. The Americans have good reason to be worried; I should think you would understand that!

Although the Secretary-General was a strong-willed individual, he had lately suffered too much criticism from all sides. He found no relief from friends or from his own countrymen, on whom he could usually count, come hell or high water. He had decided to push forward, to take the risk, hunker down and take the good with the bad for the next twenty-four hours. He had to; he felt he had no choice. Anything could happen in the next few hours and he had to stay on top of it all and stay focused. Unfortunately, the precious time spent with Zorin was wasted, away as it was from the Suez matter.

Yes, yes I do, he said with some irritation. Mr. Ambassador, as I said, I do understand your position, but the Soviet Union is moving into dangerous waters. We shall speak of this further, I assure you.

Although Hammarskjöld represented the very essence of diplomacy and was an exemplar to his colleagues, he could not suppress his feelings toward the Russian. He had never liked the man, nor did he try. The Secretary-General was a Renaissance man who believed in integrity, sacrifice, courage, and God, while the Russian was unscrupulous and deceitful.

Turning his attention again to the Suez crisis, he instinctively knew, in his heart of hearts, that something was wrong. His gut feelings about the Middle East were telling him not to trust his eyes! His mind hadn’t quite come around to understanding his instincts. What were they trying to tell him?

Did he really believe things would get any better in the Middle East? His Christian mysticism let his soul wonder beyond the tangible, beyond all human logic and rigorous intellectual thought. He would meditate for hours at a time and come to another level of understanding about himself, and about the world in which he lived. The sight of the East River flowing in front of the UN Headquarters in New York could send him into a contemplative state.

Although he believed men of good will struggled between good and evil, he also believed that, because his God gave man free will, man often chose the most horrible of roads to take: sometimes criminal, inhuman or cruel. Most choices made by men, he believed, made with the best of intentions, often turned into disasters, making the initial situation worse. What loomed over his head was that very possibility. Was he making things worse? Would Middle Easterners see his decision as a peaceful act, one of a diplomatic nature? Or would they simply perceive his action as just another invasion by modern crusaders from the West? He had come to hate the concept of crusade. The diplomat had struggled with that every day since the resolution was voted on by the General Assembly. The scholar in him believed that with free will came responsibilities and consequences. He wondered about that. Would there be a price to pay? Would he personally have to pay? Perhaps! Unfortunately, he thought, no one chose to speak of one’s duties and responsibilities. At least, no one around him!

Faced with another possible world conflict, Hammarskjöld had moved on the resolution put forward by Canada’s Lester B. Pearson to intervene in a vigorous and innovative manner in this crisis. Never before in its short life had the UN taken on such a dangerous risk. The threat was significant and Hammarskjöld had therefore made his decision, if not for the people of the Middle East, then at least for the rest of the world, which had suffered through too many armed conflicts already in the 20th century.

Ambassador Rudecindo Ortega of Chile had, Hammarskjöld believed, done a good job of presiding over the first emergency special session of the General Assembly and of ensuring the passage of Resolution 1001 (ES-I). The Chilean had requested a meeting with the Secretary-General on this crucial day. The Suez matter needed their full and careful attention. Although both men had developed a mutual respect and friendship over the last few weeks, nevertheless, they had different views about deployment and strategy.

But still he had a lingering feeling that the region was damaged. Hammarskjöld had begun to believe the unthinkable only a few months ago. Damaged peoples, with wave after wave of wars and conflict! An intolerable history. Fighting had ravaged the region from the beginning of recorded time. Over the centuries, fearful and struggling to survive, Middle Easterners had developed a psychology of unending loss. Unfortunately, this translated into their complete surrender to their belief in their inability to find peace and quiet. A quiet place, thought Hammarskjöld, where men, women and children would live out their lives without hate, fear or discrimination.

No, he said to himself, I am doing the best I can for this godforsaken region. His God had indeed forsaken His tribe. Hammarskjöld would never let anyone know his profound doubts and pessimism about the Middle East’s future.

Nothing of enduring value would come of this. That would have been his conclusion, had he had the time to write his memoirs or confer with his close friends and family. For all his Christian mysticism, the UN Secretary-General remained a lucid and conscious man until his death a few years later, when his plane mysteriously crashed in Africa.

Minutes before his death, Hammarskjöld had sensed a foul presence hovering in and around the Douglas DC-6 airplane. Unfortunately, for Hammarskjöld, the spirit had human nature on its side and work to do.

Pétionville, Ayiti (Haiti)

December 19, 2009

Fabulous grey white dwellings perched atop the mountainside of Pétionville overlooked the city of Port-au-Prince. Pedro understood why nightfall was unsafe. Darkness hid dreadful secrets as the sun set on one of the planet’s poorest island. From his vantage point, the scene was spectacular, almost dreamlike under the Haitian moonlight. Suspended in midair, the night fog provided the upscale village of Pétionville with an eerie and ghostly appearance, especially at night when all the city’s imperfections melted into the shadows. However, foreign workers, international relief personnel, World Bank officials, Canadian police forces and the US military, they all knew better.

The night hides and lies, Pedro said to his guest.

Pedro explained how the wealthy enclave of rich Haitian families and high government officials had suffered an invasion of the poor. They escaped the misery and the stench of Haiti’s capital city, Port-au-Prince.

"Bidonviliser," or slumification Pedro called it. The man sitting beside the Vatican’s Special Envoy on his way to the DB-7 meeting in Panama, explained that towns and boroughs perched atop the northern hills of the Massif de la Selle had been assaulted by the disfavored, the Creole, the orphans, the hungry and the criminal. The unbelievable living conditions below forced thousands to illegally occupy higher lands of Pétionville because of the real and present danger of dirty water contaminated with diseases long ago wiped out by modern medicine. Each rainy season brought the city below them to its knees forcing the island nation to count its dead once again.

Port-au-Prince will soon be flooded, Pedro said as both scanned the city from the rooftop of Pedro’s villa. Franco, did you know that the stink of overflowing sewers and waterborne diseases is an annual event?

The priest thought about it but deemed it best to keep his mouth shut. He had something else on his mind.

I know what you’re thinking, Franco. Remember I can read you like a book. You’re thinking why don’t we build on higher ground?

Again, the priest said nothing.

Because no one wants to do the right thing. They’d have to be out of their minds, almost suicidal. I think they’d be shot dead and lynched. You see, if nothing changes, corruption flourishes. The families stay on top.

The priest kept silent and looked straight ahead at the city below.

More to the point, what else has she told you God had in mind for us? Pedro asked his guest. You have to admit that consultant of yours is a bit freakish.

Fleeing Mexico’s social meltdown, Pedro had long ago adopted Haiti as his official residence and over time had come to be an ardent defender of everything Haitian. Pedro came from old money. He had a career in the works, a family business waiting for him and beautiful women looking to marry into one of Mexico’s wealthiest families. He also left behind fast cars. Although he willingly gave it all up, he missed his cars. Especially dear to him was a dark blue Bugatti Veyron, a thousand horsepower drop dead motorcar designed only for those who could afford not to ask how much.

God’s work, he said to the priest as he pointed to rows of unfinished brick walls. Haiti’s number one problem is the politicians and the ruling class.

Isn’t it the same everywhere? the priest said evenly.

Maybe, but I find them responsible. It’s like they want their people to stay poor and ignorant. To make matters worse, they’re now teaching Creole to their kids instead of French, English or Spanish. Nobody outside of this godforsaken country understands Creole. They’ll be cut off, more isolated than before, more ignorant, if you can believe that. The Families own and run the country like their own private club. They have over the years, with the help of government officials, the so-called artists and writers’ elite, displayed an incredible lack of human decency and leadership. The enemy of Haiti is within, Franco. I don’t see any way out short of a bloody revolt. The Families, as he called the Haitian elite, should be shot and hanged for their treachery.

You don’t really mean that, do you, Pedro?

Sometimes Franco, I just wish I could do something…

Pedro? How about another beer. This one’s warm.

Pétionville’s mountain terrain is almost treeless; shacks are built directly on the dry sandy slopes without any solid foundations. Putting flimsy dwellings up against Mother Nature’s vagaries and vicissitudes was a setup for a cheap disaster movie.

Although the scenery below them resembled a romantic Greek landscape, a white city surrounded by the Caribbean’s deep blue waters, Pétionville’s grim reality concealed a perversion beyond human understanding, deeper than our ability to rehabilitate or our capacity to hope. In the end, the Roman Catholic priest realized the nation was beyond repair, as did many foreign workers, development bank officials and politicians from the US, Canada and France.

Father Franco now more than ever understood cataclysms did not come to test a people’s resilience, courage, faith or resourcefulness. The priest recognized destruction for what it was: simply the end of one life, to make way for another.

In the stillness of this peaceful night, the cleric who was born in Bologna, prayed to his God for mercy. But just in case He wasn’t in a merciful mood, he planned to get his good friend out of Haiti, one way or the other.

This one’s cold.

Thank you Pedro. You’re a good friend.

As for you Franco old friend, you’re not telling me everything. Are you?

No I’m not. I admit it. I don’t know how to say this.

Pedro sipped his beer and waited for his friend to spill the beans.

Haiti’s in trouble, Franco said delicately.

No shit Sherlock. You got that from Fox?

I mean something awful is going to happen, and soon.

What the hell are you talking about, Franco?

Pedro, I’m sure you’ve met Mother Nature? You’ve seen her in action?

Okay, now you have my attention, Franco. What are you saying?

Well, she’s coming.

Pedro turned to his beer, looked at it, and then proceeded to drain the bottle. Are you sure? he said wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

No, not really, Franco hesitated. But on the off chance the consultants I’m working with are right, well, I’m hedging my bets.

Sounds farfetched and weird.

Yes, it does. Absolutely. Completely. I agree.

As they both laughed at the tragedy about to happen, Father Franco’s voice broke through the silliness.

Do they deserve any of this? he asked his boyhood friend Pedro Ignacio de Callio.

But why Haiti? Pedro asked naively.

Because some are still breathing.

That’s not funny, Franco.

It wasn’t meant to be, Pedro.

I know this land is harsh, and has been for a long time. It could change? Or have you lost your sense of perspective? Are you without hope?

Don’t start with me again, Pedro. You know very well that I didn’t ask to work for the Vatican.

Sorry.

The Mexican believed Haitians were cursed from the very first day they were taken from their homeland and enslaved hundreds of years ago by French, Spanish and Arab slave traders. God-fearing people engaged in the flesh business kidnapped African men, women and children, never to return to their homeland, cursed to work the sugar cane plantations, for less than nothing. They were taken from Senegal, Congo, Benin, Nigeria, Guinea, Sierra Leone, Ghana, South Africa and Madagascar. Under France’s occupation, a harsh system of slavery generated a population of over 300,000 slaves. Haiti was a gold mine of free labor.

Pedro explained how Haitians were punished for wanting more than a meager and desolate life. Someone, something, a primal force or a horrible joke on humanity, whatever it was, pulled the country to its knees. Haiti has been steadily deteriorating over the last twenty-five years, making it one of the neediest nation on the planet. More than sixty- five percent of Haiti’s operating budget came from the US, Canada and France. But he had hope for the country.

You’re saying another plague has been decreed by your wiz kid consultants? Pedro asked sarcastically.

Franco didn’t know what to say. He was indeed the bearer of bad news, something so strange, he could hardly understand it himself.

Did someone determine that these people hadn’t suffered enough? One last blow would finish them off? What do you think, Franco? You’re a priest. You’re connected to God. Ask him if he plans to kill them all.

Pedro was in no mood to discuss God, free will or the mystery of it all. But there was indeed a wicked wind about to hit the island. Franco believed it was made of mythical matter, perhaps of Biblical substance, way beyond his understanding. There was no hope in sight for the God-fearing people of Haiti. The nation was under siege, and the nation was indeed a disaster waiting to happen. A big one.

Yes, without a doubt, the priest said out loud to himself, half unbelieving, half disheartened. Something old and awesome is coming this way.

Soon? Pedro asked the priest.

The priest found his faith bittersweet and unsettling. Loving this almighty God was proving to be a challenge. These were to be his last moments in La Perle des Antilles (the Pearl of the Caribbean), and he wanted to breathe in the aroma of this vulnerable nation, bent on surviving, refusing to die or to give up.

The Cardinal’s consultant had numbers, statistics, patterns and predictions. The Cardinal wanted proof that their methodology was solid before he’d tasked them to work on the Middle East issue. What better way to display the firm’s capacity: predicting Mother Nature’s character, a relatively easy task compared to predicting what humans were planning to do to each other.

Nightmares plagued Franco. Waking up terrified, he was not willing or able to go back to sleep. He had imagined the worst. He dreamed about it, he watched it happen, helpless and paralyzed; brick shacks hurtling down the mountainsides of Pétionville, destroying Port-au-Prince beyond recognition. Poisonous dust covering the city while the Presidential Palace disappeared under a cloud of filth. His imagination conjured up scenes of death, screams and lament. Franco awoke from his own death, buried alive, under the rubble of God’s wrath. He looked around and realized it was just a bad dream. A word came to him. Hispaniolita. The disaster had a name and a face. He remembered the look of the consultant he met in Boston when she said the probabilities were so high, they boggled the mind. She’d said the machine picked up the trail from a series of unusual and unheard of weather patterns. The model revealed what Haiti was all about. She said it would come soon. A week, a month, a year. She couldn’t pinpoint the date. The Cardinal believed her. Franco didn’t know what to think.

Can you be more precise? the Cardinal had asked hesitantly. Perhaps he didn’t want to know that much.

We can’t do that yet. Maybe one day we will, she had said to Franco’s boss. We’ll be able to say when, with enough precision to help people get away. But, that’s not in the cards yet.

The young priest could not convince his boyhood friend to join him in Panama City for the meeting of the DB-7: the world’s seven most powerful development banks. Franco talked of the consultant’s numbers and his own dreams, and although he was ashamed to admit it, he believed the storm was coming. This woman Destrey could be right.

Although his God was a mystery, Franco prayed He wasn’t a cruel deity. He told Pedro he was leaving later tonight for Miami and then straight through to Panama City.

Haiti’s in trouble. You’ve got to get out. Come with me, Pedro. What do you say? I need you down there with me in Panama. You’re the only person I’d trust to help me. The development banks are difficult to convince.

Pedro thought about that for a moment, and smiled at the Envoy’s words.

Franco, my young friend, what can I say? You are surely misguided, dear, dear friend. You must also be confused by this woman you see in your dreams. I can see through you. You don’t need me or anyone else. Go!

The priest sighed, knowing too well the Mexican from San Miguel de Allende would never buy his nightmarish dream of doom and disaster. Franco realized he was leaving his best friend to die. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Still, Father Cesare Franco felt responsible, as he always did.

Pedro drove his friend to the airport. The last flight out of Haiti was booked solid with Haitians heading back to safer lands.

What can I say to change your mind?

"I swear, you’re such a sacaton.

"Are you calling me a pappamolle, a wuss?" Franco asked teasingly.

Pedro didn’t have to answer because Franco was as brave as they come. Call me from Panama when you get there.

Franco waived to his old friend as Pedro drove away in his battered Nissan.

Three weeks later, on January 12, 2010, at 16:53, an earthquake measuring 7.0 on the Richter scale struck Port-au-Prince. By the end of the day, more than twenty aftershocks measuring between 4.3 and 5.9 on the Richter scale were recorded. The death toll ranged from 220,000 to 270,000 lives. More than 1.7 million people were displaced according to USAID estimates. Port-au-Prince’s Prison Civile, the largest penitentiary in Haiti was also