John calls Simeon

Over the phone, Simeon's daughter, who told me her name was Esther, announced his unavailability until Monday morning, two days away. The Morgan family had hours to reflect on the situation.

For Wesley, though, the sands of time were seeping away: Wesley John was deteriorating.
A call from GOSH had brought the distressing news. Becky had left the hospital on Friday night for a few days' rare rest.

"Listen, Daddy," she said, "do whatever you feel is right. You're usually right. Go with your gut."

Becky and Liz travelled to London on Sunday morning to be with Wesley. Our family friend Tony and his son Alan, Wesley's best friend, had been keeping Wesley company, but he needed his mother.

I dreaded facing James and his million questions once news of the magic box reached him on the family grapevine. Taking a deep breath, I rapped on the door to his room. James moved in a world that I did not understand, but he knew more about IT and programmes than anyone I knew. His main interests consisted of chatting online with fellow computer buffs, and playing online games.

"Dad, you have to go with the feeling in your water," he said with a glint in his eyes. "How many guys with that tattoo have met this Jew? Answer: NONE. You may be 'the chosen one' like he says. But I'll do some research. I'd like to help."

It had been years since I had entered his inner sanctum.

His fingers whizzed across the keyboard, typing white code onto a blue screen. "I'll print off the search results about the two brothers."

After some time, the printer spluttered and spat out several A4 sheets with images and text.

"They do seem legit, Dad." James showed me the details of the brothers' business. "We'll look inside their computers if we can, and see if there's anything dodgy."

I felt a chill. Did he say we? "But isn't that in itself 'dodgy', James? Won't they know that you've accessed their details? I don't want to upset them, especially if this is genuine and it could offer us hope. It could be our last hope." My stomach churned.

"Look, Dad," he passed me the papers. "What my friends and I do may sometimes be on the boundaries, but we're circumventing a government body having to do the same. Let me do my stuff. If UK citizens are being conned -- like with the Nigerian letters -- we're saving the British taxpayer millions." He turned almost inquiringly, his eyebrows raised like his mother's.

"Yeah...OK...Just be careful, thanks anyway," I said, stuffing the information gathered so far into my pocket. "I'll have a look at this. Thanks, James."

smiled. His fingers tapped across his keyboard with lightning speed. Screens changed and brought yellow envelope icons.

"By the way, Dad, this could be something to do with supreme intelligence," James said. "This tree and stuff...I bet in Area 51 and the CIA they know all about it." James looked exhilarated.

"James, you must stop this nonsense about conspiracy and superior intelligence. Get some friends in the real world."

He grimaced and turned to his screen, and I left the room.

On Monday, I got through to Simeon at 10:30 GMT, 12:30 in Tel Aviv. We talked at length. He gave the same history and persuasive argument and convinced me I should see him. I felt, though, that he sounded less spiritual than Joseph.

I sat in my office while Jenny, my personal assistant, made plans for me to travel to Tel Aviv. On my desk sat a pile of paperwork. I picked up notes left by Sean, which were amongst my main concerns. On yellow notes I read, "Two civil servants were kidnapped by terrorists on the Kenya/Somalia border area. The hostages worked for the Kenyan Prison Service." The Morgan Group had negotiated our prototype with the Kenyan government for floating prisons and so we considered it necessary to respond to their call for help. Sean travelled to Nairobi.

Liz and Becky were staying overnight in flats for new parents above the chapel. I would be travelling to Tel Aviv alone.

*

Tel Aviv. I had followed my destiny. Now alone in a strange place, I was on a Holy Land journey, although instead of following a star I was pursuing a box.

The taxi driver slotted the gear in drive and moved the green and white Volvo forwards; my body jerked right to left. Bright lights from the windows of Ben Gurion International Airport blinded me. Cars honked sharply and alien sights greeted me through misted windows as we drove the 12 miles to the metropolitan area.

The city of Tel Aviv -- modern-day Jaffa -- is known as the city that never sleeps. Jaffa, an ancient port city, is a part of southern Tel Aviv in the old part of the city. When the taxi braked suddenly and my body was thrown to the opposite side of the seat, the bearded driver apologised over his shoulder. "Sorry, Sir, the other drivers do not observe my signals."

Scanning the flapping identity card attached to the steering column by a black cord, I said, "That's OK, Ahmed. We're in no hurry."

In my mind, I reasoned, 'I've crossed the globe to fulfil my destiny, not to become a traffic casualty. So take it easy, Ahmed.' White smoke trailed from a car that sped past us.

"This is our harbour, Sir," the driver spoke again, interrupting my thoughts. "Over four thousand years she remains. Much blood has been shed."

My spine tingled. My fingertips wiped the misted windows and with my nose pressed against the glass, I could make out the Mediterranean lapping gently against the steps of the stone esplanade. There stretched before the taxi headlights a mammoth lake of black ink streaked by moonlight. Circumnavigating the old area of Jaffa, I noticed silvery-white waves splashing against the eroded harbour wall, with worn grey stone steps snaking down to the ocean.

Over his shoulder, the taxi driver gave me a potted history. Perhaps he did the same for all tourists. I appreciated his effort. He had a job to do. "That is the clock tower built by Sultan Abed-el-Hamid II. The famous Abulafia bakery and Yoezer wine bar are in the square. You must visit them while you are here."

Not here for the tour, I reached for the photo in my jacket pocket and asked myself the same questions I'd asked on the plane. 'Will he be as amiable as his brother? Is the story true?' When we went through a traffic island with an ancient clock tower, I looked at my watch. Holding the passport-sized black and white photo, I gazed at it for the hundredth time. Would this man lead me to my destiny? My stomach fluttered.

I looked again at my watch and then settled on the back seat concentrating on the task ahead. 'Come on, John, stay sharp', I thought, 'be firm and clear.' I heard Liz's voice in my head say, 'and no daydreaming.'

Directing a silent prayer, I said, 'God, I hope you can help. Time is running out.' Looking again at the photo made my hands clammy. I put it away. Soon I would meet a man who could change our lives forever.

"We'll be there in a few minutes, Sir," Ahmed said.

We exited at a sign indicating Arlozorov and kept right. After a few minutes, there was another sign, Hilton Hotel 1km. A few jerks and gear changes later we arrived at 205 HaYarkon Street, Independence Park.

"Thanks, Ahmed." I opened my wallet and placed the fare and a tip in Ahmed's hand. Exiting the taxi, I took a deep breath. I was here. What would the next few hours bring?
The large stainless steel "H" of the Hilton caught my eye, the familiar cheering me miles from home. Palm trees shone in the foyer lights. Stars danced above the brown-tiled roof. Outside the hotel forecourt, a smart-uniformed porter quickly approached the Volvo taxi. I smiled, amused that hotel porters around the world always mysteriously appeared when a taxi arrived, as if they had been tipped off. The smell of a gratuity drew them out of their lairs like hyenas.

The porter bundled my blue and white metal suitcase and flight bag onto a luggage trolley, seeming surprised at their lightness. I waved bye to Ahmed and followed the porter. I hoped I would be taking home one more item than I had brought. If I left everything else behind, I had determined that if there was a box, I had to bring it home. Except for my flight bag containing my passport and travel documents, I had only a toilet bag and a change of shirt, socks and boxer shorts in my suitcase. I was not expecting to stay more than a few hours. It would either go well or not.

The hotel deputy manager gave me a room card and the porter disappeared with my luggage. Despite being eager to get the evening over, I enjoyed a Budweiser Light in the bar to slake my nervously dry throat.

"Do you want a snack, Sir?" a barman asked, shuffling glasses around.

"No thanks, just the Bud. I want an early night."

It felt late. A digital clock behind the bar displayed midnight local time. There were several people at the bar. I nodded, trying to avoid conversation. With so much on my mind, I didn't fancy being drained listening to others' problems.

There was only one voice I wanted to hear. Reaching for my mobile, I called my wife, Liz. I didn't have any news, it was just an excuse to hear her voice. I imagined her rubbing her eyes. Raven-black hair falling across her soft cheeks, billowing soft strands on her neck, not cascading softly on my pillow that night. I would miss her shapely warmth and voluptuous curves nestling against me.

"What's the hotel like, darling? Is it comfortable?"

"Yes, it seems very pleasant. I've just arrived. How is he?"

"Not good. Becky and I are staying in London. Let's hope you find good news." I heard Liz's voice breaking.

"Yes, I hope so too, something spectacular. Love you. I'll see you soon." I closed my phone and went upstairs to my room to sleep.