The Samson Effect Chapter 1

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Hebron, Israel

THE FAT MAN'S skin glistened in the noonday sun. Dirty children ran around him, some kicking a ball, others darting up to the merchants' stands, fingering through trinkets until the bearded owners shooed them away. All around the fat man came the sounds of honking cars, children's playful screams, and men calling out for buyers to purchase their wares. The fat man was burning up in his long-sleeved shirt and khaki pants, but better to suffer the burning temperature than have his pinkish white skin fry under the oppressive rays of the sun.

He removed his hat and mopped his brow with his sleeve, then continued his shopping expedition. As he passed by the street vendors, his eyes caught one particular object being peddled by a thin, wrinkled man. He walked to the booth and picked up a piece of parchment, worn in the weather of time. The ancient Hebrew text was remarkably well preserved. As he glanced over the parchment, he interpreted some of the words he knew from his limited vocabulary. King David, Mighty Strength, and Lord's Protector. The symbol he saw at the bottom sent chills through his overheated body.

The fat man forgot his discomfort as well as his shopping errand as he fumbled with his cell phone. The old man behind the merchandise asked, "You like? Fifty dollars." The fat man held up one pudgy finger, prompting the old man to wait.

When the call connected, the fat man could hardly control his excitement. "Doctor, I may have found it … Yes! Yes! Please come quickly; there may be more here." The fat man gave directions and then disconnected the call. His eyes darted from left to right as he found a seat in the shade of the thatch-covered booth. His hands clung to the parchment.

"Fifty dollars. Very old, very valuable. Fifty dollars."

The fat man smiled, nodded, and held up one finger. His hands trembled as he scanned the parchment. Behind him, the old merchant shouted and a twelve-year-old boy came running. The old man leaned down and whispered into his ear. The boy nodded and ran off into the crowd of shoppers.

The fat man looked at the old merchant, who returned his gaze with a smile. He turned to see the boy run up to an armed Palestinian soldier and gesture wildly with animated hands. The soldier looked at the fat man and then took out a radio and spoke into it.

The fat man began to perspire more. He glanced at his watch and then down to his cell phone. "C'mon doctor, hurry up."

Two more soldiers joined the other and the three stood there staring at him. Behind, he saw a cloud of dust rising in the air and made out the doctor's black sedan racing toward him. He slumped in his chair and exhaled a pent-up sigh.

A few minutes later, the sedan pulled to a screeching halt. Dr. Michael Sieff flew from the driver's door. He was the complete opposite of the fat man: slender, tall, and he had a rich, deep color that betrayed the hours he spent working in the sun. The only physical trait the two men shared was their thick, black, curly hair. Michael left the car door open in his haste and ran up to the fat man. "Caleb, what did you find?"

Caleb extended his hand and gave Michael the parchment. The doctor read it with lightning-quick expertise and smiled. "This is it, my friend. Yahweh must have led you to it." He reached over and patted Caleb on the shoulders.

"Fifty dollars. Very rare."

Michael looked to the old merchant and smiled. "I'll give you twenty." After haggling back and forth a few times, they agreed on thirty-five American dollars. As Michael reached into his pocket for his wallet, he heard a hissing crack and felt something flick onto his face. He turned to the wooden post next to him and rubbed his fingers over the hole.

He spun around to Caleb. "Quickly, get in the car—" His words lodged in his throat. Caleb was slumped in the chair, staring at him with wide eyes and blood from the bullet hole in his forehead running down his face. Michael froze. "No," he whispered. Another bullet whistled past him, waking him from his trance.

He thrust the parchment into his pocket and ran toward his car. A spray of bullets from a machine gun cut off his path, forcing him to dart into the throng of people doing their daily shopping. The machine gun sent panicked people screaming and running in all directions. Michael turned to see his assailants, but the chaotic crowd made it impossible. He heard another stuttering crack of gunfire and ran deeper into the crowd.

At the far end of the row of merchants, he saw two men dressed in Western suits point in his direction and begin wading their way through the crowd. He turned, only to find two more men brandishing guns and moving toward him. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his eyes, looking for any hope of escape. By now, the crowd around him began to thin as men, women, and children ran for safety from the flying bullets, clearing a path for his assailants. Beyond the market, the soldiers stood rigid, watching the unfolding action but not attempting to intervene or join in the action.

Michael knew he was out of options. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide from these murderers. He bowed his head and raised his hands in defeat. The armed men encircled him, training their sights on him. Michael slowly looked up and turned in a circle to see the open barrels of eight machine guns staring back at him. He almost laughed aloud, knowing one wrong move from him would mean his death, but these idiots would also take out at least half of each other in the process.

As he finished his circle, a smiling, pepper-gray-haired Palestinian led a small, well-dressed band of men into the circle of guns. He walked up to Michael with a smile etched on his face. "Dr. Sieff, my apologies if any of my men may have gotten a little excited. I meant for them to know I only wanted to talk with you, not kill you."

The smug look on the Palestinian's face infuriated Michael. He looked off into the distance to see the soldiers watching, content to keep their distance. He twisted out his own smile. "No offense taken, Azim." He nodded at the eight machine guns trained on him. "Mind calling off your dogs?" The gunmen grunted and shoved their weapons closer to him.

Azim ordered his men to ease back and he stepped up to Michael. As if it was an afterthought, he smiled and said, "Oh, I'm sorry about Caleb."

Michael couldn't control the muscles in his face from tightening. He felt the blood and heat rush to his face. Tempted to wrap his fingers around Azim's neck in spite of the men who would love any opportunity to riddle his body with bullets, he instead hacked up the vilest substance he could and spit it on Azim's leather shoes. For the first time since their encounter, the smile faded from Azim's face. With lightning-quick reflexes, Azim grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him down as a knee sunk into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Michael collapsed to the ground, struggling to suck in air. A leather shoe appeared next to his face and wiped itself clean on his cheek. A few moments later, he felt himself being jerked to his feet, supported on each arm by two of the machine-gun-toting dogs.

Azim grabbed Michael by the chin. "Dr. Sieff, I was hoping we could be civil toward each other, but now I can see that'll be impossible." He squeezed his fingers around Michael's chin, and then let go. "Now, the parchment, please."

Michael rolled his eyes, still struggling to take breaths. "I … I don't know what you're talking about."

Azim never broke his gaze, but a slight nod of his head sent one of his men rifling through Michael's pockets. The man pulled out a parchment and handed it to Azim.

Azim finally broke his gaze from Michael and read over the parchment. His expression remained chiseled with angry disappointment. "What is this?"

Michael silently stared at him.

"This is nothing more than a fragment of a recipe."

Michael's breath had started to return to him. "I didn't have a chance to look at it before being shot at." Icy contempt shot daggers from his eyes. "I hope the life of a good man was worth it."

Michael saw the blood vessels building on Azim's forehead and neck. In an even, graveled voice, Azim said, "The Samson Effect is mine. I warn you, stay away from it or you'll be reunited with that good man."

Azim gave the order and everyone retreated, leaving Michael alone. Shoppers cautiously returned to their activities, and children once again began playing in the streets. The soldiers resumed their watch, and Michael heard merchants crying out for buyers.

He dusted himself off and made his way back to the car. Knowing it was futile to ask for help, he opened the rear door and walked over to Caleb. He struggled to carry his friend, but managed to place him in the back seat. Once done, he slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. Michael looked in the back seat and removed his hat, pulling the parchment from it. He shook his head as he looked at Caleb. "Forgive me, my friend."

* * * *

New Hampshire

Dr. Thomas Hamilton choked the tennis racket with both hands and swung. The ball met the racquet's sweet spot, and Thomas knew he had just won match point. The ball rocketed from his back swing, flew across the court, and fell just out of reach of his opponent's diving attempt. He jogged to the net and shook hands with his opponent.

"Good game, Justin."

"Yeah. Congrats. Sure you don't want my job?"

"Me, coach the boys' tennis team? No way. I'm very content with my graduate students."

Justin wiped his brow on his shoulders. "You do have a plush setup, don't you?"

Thomas smiled and nodded. "Works for me." They began walking down the net to the sideline. "Next Friday?"

"I'll be here."

Thomas reached the sideline and headed to the bench where he had left his towel and duffel bag. A woman in sunglasses wearing white capris and a powder-blue top waited for him with a towel in her hand. Either she's having another crisis or she wants something from me, Thomas thought. He reached for the towel. "Thanks."

"Nice game. In fact, you seem to be a little more intense than usual."

"I'm always intense." Thomas wiped his face and neck with the towel. "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong."

She smiled at him. Thomas reached over and removed her sunglasses. "You're wrong."

"I am, huh?"

Thomas slid the sunglasses back on her face and put his racket away. He smiled, knowing she was probably right. "Okay, I admit I want to be in practice when Michael and I meet this summer. I've never beaten him in tennis, not once. Came close many times, but he always found a way to pull out a victory."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating just a little."

Thomas zipped up his duffel bag and started walking with her toward the coffeehouse where his last class for the day was meeting. "No, I'm not. From college on, he's always been able to beat me in every sport: tennis, running, cycling, you name it. I've never beaten him!"

They walked in silence for a few moments. Thomas could feel her amusement bubbling up. How many times had he sworn to himself he wouldn't discuss this with her again? With every silent step, he felt her enjoyment increasing.

He sighed. "Ellen, do you know what it's like being the bookish friend of a guy who can do anything?"

She abruptly stopped and removed her sunglasses, unmasking her lovely, wide, round eyes. "Bookish? Thomas, you always place in the top five in the marathon every year, you play pickup games with the basketball team …" She put her hands on his shoulders and looked reassuringly into his eyes. "You just beat the men's tennis coach."

Thomas had to admit he felt confident his first victory over Michael was looking pretty good. Ellen took a step back from him and put the end of her sunglasses between her teeth. As she looked him up and down, he felt a blush tingle across his cheeks. "Trust me, there ain't nothing bookish about you, Dr. Hamilton." She squeezed his solid biceps playfully and smiled. "And bookish definitely doesn't describe the tall, blond professor who makes every freshman girl's heart race, as well as most of their female teachers'."

Thomas smiled and started for the coffeehouse again. "I knew there was a reason why we're still friends."

"At the sake of ruining that friendship," she said in a mock tone of concern, "I believe I've identified your problem."

"Problem?"

"My professional opinion is that you're suffering from an intense case of sibling rivalry."

"What? I don't have a brother."

"True, but would you say Michael is as close to you as any brother could be?"

"Has been since college."

"You wouldn't believe how many patients I have who suffer from the very same thing."

Thomas held out his hands. "Okay, okay, you win. Thanks for the shrink job." They reached the sidewalk leading to the front door of the coffeehouse. Thomas hugged Ellen and started down the sidewalk.

"But I haven't told you how you can cope with it."

Thomas pointed to his watch. "Later, I promise."

"Oh, wait. I forgot why I came to see you. I need a favor."

"Yeah? What favor?"

"Please, please sit in on my 105 class on Monday. Jeff is taking me away for a long weekend—"

"Ellen, I don't—"

"I've canceled my other classes, but I have to give my 105 class their test. We're behind schedule as it is."

"Can't you get a graduate student to sit in?"

"Not all of us have that luxury."

Thomas hated psychology. He searched his mind for a legitimate excuse to use to turn her down, but he ran into a brick wall. "Just sit in and administer the test?"

She ran up and threw her arms around him. "Thanks. I owe you!" She let go of him and, without waiting for a response, floated away.

Thomas sighed and stepped into the coffeehouse. The student server behind the counter had his coffee waiting for him. He stirred in the cream and joined his six graduate students who were stretched out on oversized chairs and a sofa in the corner of the room. He sat down in the armchair across from the couch, kicked off his shoes, and propped his sock feet on the table. The waitress passed by with a scowl and bumped his leg with her knee.

"I've told you a thousand times, Doctor, people put their food on that table."

He smiled. "And for the thousandth time, I'm sorry." He took a sip of his coffee and turned his attention to the students. "Where did we leave off on Wednesday?"

A wiry man with kinky red hair leaned forward. "You were telling us the characters in the Old Testament were all completely loco."

"Not all, and not simply loco. I was saying many of the characters, if living in our time, would be diagnosed with some sort of mental illness. For example, Moses showed signs of clinical depression and anxiety. On numerous occasions, he went to the Lord, overwhelmed with his responsibilities and asked God to take his life.

"And then there was King Saul, who was loco." He turned to the redhead and nodded. "Here was a man eaten up by paranoia, killing his own priests and driven mad by the thought that his most loyal subject, David, was trying to usurp his throne."

He paused to let the students comment on his theories, but each one stared back silently. He guessed they were either engrossed in his narrative or afraid a comment would bring them too close to the brink of blasphemy.

"Then there was Samson. He exhibited the classic signs of antisocial behavior: the classic bully, always picking a fight and alienating himself from both his enemies and his own friends. When things didn't go his way, he'd go out and kill someone, often innocent strangers. He also displayed cruelty to animals, on one occasion setting foxes on fire."

He looked around the group and his eyes rested on Angela, the most contemplative and well-spoken of the group. "What do you think about my assessment of these characters?"
Angela thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose our culture may have marked them with some sort of mental illness, but I don't think we have enough information for an accurate diagnosis." She wrinkled her eyebrows as if she were about to ask a question but then relaxed.

"You had a question, Angela?"

"Well, I was just wondering what all this has to do with the dig we'll be on in a few weeks."

Thomas grinned and sipped his coffee. He leaned back in the armchair and started to put his feet on the table, until he remembered the waitress. "Fair question. In my opinion, the best way to find out about ancient civilizations is by letting them tell their story and learning as much as we can about them. Otherwise, we're often tempted to tell their story for them and interpret even the most insignificant find within our own paradigm."

He looked around the group and smiled when he saw nods of understanding from them. His cell phone interrupted their conversation. He answered, spoke for a few moments, and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. "This is our host for the dig next month. Let's wrap up class for the day. I'll see you Monday in our regular classroom."

The students picked up their drinks and books and left to enjoy the weekend. Only Ricky Lettle remained at the counter to finish the sandwich he had started. Thomas returned to the phone. "Michael, calm down. What's wrong?"

* * * *

A few minutes later, Thomas stood across his boss's desk. Dr. Clifton Winfred pulled his glasses from his face and chewed on one end of them. Thomas waited, wondering what was going on behind his boss's squinted eyes. He placed his hands on the desk and leaned toward Winfred. "Well?"

Winfred leaned back in his chair and slipped his glasses back on. "Let me make sure I understand this correctly, Dr. Hamilton. You want me to approve an open-ended sabbatical starting immediately, find someone to take over your classes for the rest of the semester, and cancel the first Israeli dig the university has been able to schedule in over twenty-five years?"

Thomas pushed himself away from the desk, pursed his lips, and nodded. "That's about it."

Winfred looked away and shook his head. "Thomas, you're putting me in a very difficult position. You know I have the utmost professional respect for you, and as a friend, I'd do anything for you—"

"Then approve my request."

"Give me something—anything—to help me say yes."

Thomas rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. "I told you, Clifton, I'm not in a position to tell you what I need to do. I was hoping you'd just trust me."

"It's not a matter of trust. The department, the university, for that matter, is under an extremely tight budget this year. I don't have the leeway I normally have; you know that."

Thomas paced back and forth in front of the desk, rapping its surface with his knuckles. "I know, Clifton, but …" He stopped and looked over Winfred's shoulders at the open office door. He walked over, closed it, and on the way back, grabbed a folding chair and set it at the side of the desk. He sat and leaned toward his boss. "It's about the Samson Effect."

This was the only subject about which Thomas knew Clifton had no patience. Thomas held his breath, already wishing he could suck the words back into his mouth. He braced himself to go yet another round with his boss. Every second of Clifton's silence drained Thomas's hope at an agonizingly sluggish pace. Clifton pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Please, Thomas, not this again. You're too good of an archaeologist to waste your time on this Holy Grail crusade."

Thomas leaned back in his seat. "Michael just called. He found an ancient text he believes will lead him to it. With his expertise in biblical languages and mine in biblical archaeology, he's confident we'll be able to find it soon. That's why I need to get to Hebron as soon as I can."

"Didn't you hear a word I said? So far, your fetish with this Samson Effect has been innocuous, but I'm not about to let you soil the reputation of this department, not to mention the respect you've earned as an accomplished archaeologist."

"Oh, come on, Clifton. You've seen the evidence Michael and I have found already. If you're honestly concerned about the university's reputation, what do you think will happen to it when someone else makes the discovery?"

"I'm sorry Thomas, but the answer is no."

A sound at the door grabbed their attention. Thomas held out a hand, gesturing for silence, and stalked to the door. He reached out and took hold of the shade covering the window. He looked to Winfred, then back to the door. With one quick yank, he rolled up the shade. A student with curly black hair leaned forward on the other side with his ear pressed against the window. When the shade rolled up, he turned and locked eyes with Thomas.

The student shook off his shocked state and bolted down the hall. Thomas flung open the door and raced into the hallway just in time to see the student fly through the outside doors and into a waiting car. When he heard the tires squeal, Thomas turned and saw the department secretary poking her head through her door.

"Everything all right, Dr. Hamilton? Sounds like you and Dr. Winfred are going at it again."

Thomas looked down the hall and then back to the secretary. "Everything's just peachy."

The secretary raised an eyebrow. "Well, whatever's going on, good luck." She hefted her purse to her shoulder and locked her office door. "See you Monday."

Thomas slipped back into Winfred's office and closed the door behind him. "Who in heaven's name was that?" Winfred asked.

"Ricky Lettle, one of my graduate students."

"What was he doing listening outside my door?" Winfred asked with a harsh edge to his tone.

"I don't know. Who all did you mention the Samson Effect to?"

Winfred furrowed his eyebrows. "Absolutely no one. I'm not about to have my name tarnished because of your foolishness."

"Well I sure haven't mentioned it to anyone. Michael and I have kept this low key to protect our own search for it."

"I seriously don't think you have anything to worry about. You two are the only ones I know foolhardy enough to commit yourselves to this."

Thomas sucked in a breath. "I'm going, Clifton. Michael's arranged to have a private jet take me to Israel tonight."

"You better think long and hard before you leave your students, Thomas. Tenure or not, you won't have a job when you return."

Thomas threw up his hands and chuckled. "Fine, Clifton. The Samson Effect exists. I really don't care which university I'm with when I make the discovery." He walked out of the room without waiting for Clifton's reply.

Thomas left the building and walked to his car. It was Friday evening, and the campus was dead. He pulled out of his parking spot and turned onto the deserted, tree-lined campus drive. As he turned around the first bend in the road, an explosion rattled the car. He looked into his rearview mirror to see a billowing fireball rise from the archaeology building.

Thomas stomped on the brakes and skidded to a stop. He flung open his car door and gawked at the fire, feeling its heat from where he was standing. Confused and in a daze, he thought about Dr. Winfred, then about the student he found outside the chairman's door. He picked up his cell phone and punched the numbers 9–1–1. His thumb paused over the send button. After a few moments of hesitation, his thumb glided to the cancel button and pressed down. He tossed the phone in the passenger seat, sat behind the wheel, and took off. The fire began to fade from the rearview mirror as he made his way to the airport.


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