Hilton Hotel: Tel Aviv

Mark Twain said, "The two most important days in your life are the day you are born, and the day you find out why." I awoke early on the morning of Tuesday 14th February 2011. I should have been with my family on my birthday, enjoying a Valentine kiss. Was I about to find out why I had been born?

I stared out of my hotel window at a 6:25 a.m. Mediterranean sunrise. The spectacular panoramic blues, greens and whites of the ocean were made brilliant by the rising orb of a golden sun. I yawned. Sleep had avoided me like a phantom pursued all night. A jack-in-the-box chased me in my dreams.

As I closed my door, other residents were walking ahead of me towards the sign Reception and Restaurant. The plush red carpet felt springy as I descended the stairs, my hand chilled by the metallic stair rail. I caught my image in the glass of frames with glossy photos of Israel adorning the plush maroon wallpaper, and finger-combed my hair. Hilton stairs, Hilton carpet, Hilton signs: comfortable, familiar memories.

Enticing smells ascended from the breakfast bar. At the spacious bar/restaurant area, the deputy hotel manager caught my eye.

"Good morning, Mr Morgan. Did you sleep well? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I'm fine thanks. I'm expecting a guest. If they inquire at reception, can you send them into the restaurant please? A Daily Express too, that'd be appreciated...if you have one."

The small man with a tiny moustache withdrew a newspaper from the racks and passed it to me. His part black, party grey toupee looked flat and dry. I tucked the paper under my arm and wondered if underneath the toupee his head was like a billiard ball.

"Thanks again, I'm missing home and it's my birthday." I felt a blush and wished I could take the words back.

"Happy birthday, Mr. Morgan," the man said. A smell of garlic reached me as his bushy eyebrows rose sympathetically, "So far from your loved ones on your birthday."

"Thank you. My first time in your city -- only here for a meeting today."

"Well, I hope your meeting goes well and you enjoy your stay with us," he said. "There are menus on the tables." He picked up some papers from his desk and bent down to make a phone call. Conversation over.

I strode on towards the eating area, hearing fresh cutlery being arranged, the aroma of coffee wafting to my nostrils. The smell of freshly baked croissants reminded me of my grandma's oven in my childhood.

In the breakfast bar, I nodded to a cluster of hotel staff at the serving area, signalling to a waiter in matching maroon bow tie and waistcoat. He came swiftly over.

"A table by the window please."

"Certainly, Sir," he replied, busying himself collecting redundant cutlery and going to locate seating.

I noticed the restaurant had a modern appearance: three walls painted a grey mushroom colour, one papered with an embossed silver and gold paper. A mosaic of black and white ceramic tiles gave the restaurant floor a chess-board impression. Some had dared their move. I boldly stepped onto white king's four: my opening gambit.


My Blackberry bleeped, the ID flashing my friend Sean's name. Diners stared at me as if talking was forbidden. 'OK,' I thought, 'I'll tone it down. But come on, it's not a library!'

"How's it going, Boss?" the Irishman inquired.

"OK, Simeon hasn't arrived yet."

"I hope it goes well. I'll pray to the saints for ya."

"Speaking of saints...what's the situation in Somalia?" I was eager to know about the attempted rescue of the hostages.

"Tell ya later, I gotta dash." Sean hung up.

"Bloody hell, Sean. Could you be quicker?" I mouthed under my breath.
I closed my phone.

Diners were enjoying their breakfast and browsing daily papers. I glanced at my daily, scanning the headlines, deciding I would read it later. Most of the guests appeared European. Nobody matched the description of the photo in my jacket pocket.

"Is that one suitable, Sir?" the waiter asked, pointing to a table by the clear glass window overlooking the street.

"That's fine, thank you."

Making little eye contact with other guests, I edged my six-foot-one frame forwards. With my left hand, I combed my mass of hair: my Boris look according to my wife. I looked at the tattooed hand holding the newspaper. Freckles were appearing, lured out by the sun.

From my table I could observe people coming and going if I kept alert. The waiter placed a card menu on the snow-white tablecloth.

I placed my order, "Buttered toast, marmalade and a decaf coffee, please."

"Yes, Sir, thank you."

He went towards the bar. I continued looking out of the window at people hurrying to work. My guest would be arriving soon, I hoped. Trying to relax until my coffee or guest arrived I picked up the paper, but failed to concentrate. I spread my fingers in my hair, trying to bring some order to the sandy thatch. Foot traffic hurried by outside, drawn into a spider's web of exhibit shop windows designed to hypnotise shoppers into a euphoria of spending. Could my expected visitor be pushing through the window-shoppers at that moment?

Pressing a number from my contacts list, I waited for an answer, knowing it would be lunchtime in the UK.

The voice spoke quietly, "This is Joseph. Who's speaking?"

"Hello Joseph, it's John. I'm here, at the hotel, waiting for Simeon."

"Shall I call him for you, John?" he offered.

"No, it's fine thanks. I just wanted to be sure." I felt my cheeks getting hot.

"He will definitely come as we promised. You will not be disappointed."

"OK, thanks Joseph." Relieved, I closed my mobile and concentrated on meeting a man about a box.

As I sat at my table waiting for Simeon, moving the cutlery back and forth and organising the condiments for the umpteenth time, the waiter returned with my toast, butter and a small pot of marmalade along with a welcome decaf coffee. Outside grew warm with the sun's first blush, but air-conditioning cooled the diners inside. Scanning the restaurant area, I ate my breakfast and sipped my decaffeinated coffee. I waited for a man in his mid to late 50s, the brother of a market trader I'd met four days before, hoping he would be on time.

My fellow hotel guests looked towards my table. Sympathetic stares seemed to imply, "only Johnny-no-mates would be dining alone". 'Little do you know,' I thought. All eyes would have looked jealously towards me if my wife had graced my table. Liz was a huge strength to me. Her support over the years had anchored me in safe and familiar harbours. The kindness she emitted wherever she went left a summery atmosphere, warmly encircling me and our two children. Liz, my best friend.

My nerves told me the most important meeting of my life approached. Vinegar bitterness rolled around my stomach, but I fortified myself. Our whole world depended on one encounter. I felt convinced we had been presented with a chance, a naked flame flickering in the darkness, our only glimmer of hope.

In a daydream, staring through the hotel window, I was unaware that someone was standing at my table until he spoke. I turned my head to see a short, stocky, bearded man in his mid-50s, dressed in a long white sort of nightshirt and a poncho-like garment with a hole for his head, wearing a skullcap on his greying hair.

"Are you Mr Morgan?" the stranger asked. "May I sit down?" I nodded and he took a seat opposite. He offered me his hand and I shook it nervously, while he carefully examined the tattoo on my hand. He took his time, looking into my eyes: an investigation.

"I'm so glad you came, Mr Morgan," he finally said. "My brother told me all about you before you rang, and I've also made my own inquiries. You seem an honest and caring man, and you must be courageous to travel alone all this way."

He spoke with an accent similar to his brother's. I noticed an identical black curly beard and the same twinkle in his brown eyes, but his were harder, more severe. His comment about my honesty made me feel a bit queasy. 'Hope James and his friends don't blow it,' I thought, remembering James' computer investigations. His eyes continued to search me and look at my hand. Stirring myself, I decided to grasp the nettle.

"Well I must admit, Simeon, that I had serious reservations when your brother related your story to me," I said. "But if you can help my grandson in any way we would be extremely grateful." The family had stressed that I must not build up my hopes or offer money before undeniable evidence was produced.

"Ah yes. Wesley John, your grandson. I understand that he is quite ill. It must be a difficult time for you and your family." I wondered how he knew about my family, and if he knew people like James did, who could "find out things".

"Please do not be worried, Mr Morgan. We've not been prying," he said, as if he'd read my mind. "My brother asked a few people around the market area and the locality where you live whether they knew you. It's amazing what people will tell you over a cup of coffee."

He looked at my coffee cup. I apologised for my lack of common courtesy and called over the waiter, who took Simeon's order and refilled my cup.

"It's an Eastern tradition, I suppose, Mr Morgan," he said, "that we like to discuss matters over food and refreshments. Now let's get down to why you came here." He paused when the waiter came over with toasted teacakes and coffee, and then continued.

"Let me assure you that my brother and I are not asking for any payment for the box or its contents. Whilst we are, of course, businessmen and we recognise things of value, we believe by the way the box came into our possession, and its clear instructions, that we are obliged to give it to you. My brother and I have made far more money than we will ever need. The stereotype of Jewish people being like Shylock is not accurate. We are kindly souls. Joseph travels Europe selling flowers, whilst I restore antiques. So do not worry, Mr Morgan, no money will change hands when I give you the box."

When Simeon had finished I felt overwhelmed, and I was about to say something when Sean called again.

"Please excuse me, Simeon, I really must take this."

"How much do they want, Boss?" I walked a few feet from the table and held the mobile phone closely to my mouth.

"Nothing", I whispered, "absolutely nothing. I'm as gobsmacked as you. Either they're balmy, or we've some genuine altruists. By the way, what's happening in Somalia?"

"Holy Mary Mother of God...nothing?" Sean said. I looked at other diners to see if they'd heard him. "That's a surprise," he continued. "Oh, and in Somalia there are six dead bad guys and four hostages recovered alive and well. I'm flying back in a Kenyan general's jet in an hour."

"Four hostages did you say?" I held the mouthpiece to my lips, my voice a whisper. "I thought there were only two?"

"It's a long story, Boss. One's a pretty missionary, and you know me and a pretty face. Plus, she's a Catholic. Gotta go." He hung up.

I placed the mobile back into my pocket and returned to the table, apologising again to Simeon for the interruption, although he appeared to have been occupied with his snack. He wiped the remnants of his breakfast from his beard.

'OK, to business,' I thought, castle to king's rook eight, CHECK.'