Ark of Fire (52 page)

Like a miser counting pennies, the crescent moon stingily cast a jaundiced light upon the choppy sea. Its lantern extinguished, the small fishing vessel steadily made its way toward the barren chunk of limestone in the distance.
Calypso’s Point.
The captain, a wizened salt who spoke no English, stood at the helm. Having been amply compensated for his services, he had turned a blind eye to the peculiarities of the voyage.

Caedmon glanced at Edie, only the pale oval of her face visible in the inky darkness; both of them were garbed in dry diving suits with matching black hoods.

“You know, maybe we
should
let British intelligence handle this,” Edie said in a hushed voice. “It’s not too late.”

Seated across from her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the top of his thighs. “Until MacFarlane actually steps foot inside Jerusalem, there’s little that British intelligence or Mossad can do to stop him. Those chaps don’t hold much truck with doomsday prophecies. And though the intelligence agencies will do all in their power to prevent a terrorist act from occurring on the Temple Mount, they won’t be able to act until they have material proof that MacFarlane intends to commit the unthinkable. I, however, am no longer bound by such dictates.”

“Yeah, but short of killing Mac—” She slapped a hand over her mouth. A second later, she lowered it. “That’s exactly what you’re intending to do, isn’t it?”

“In order to destroy a serpent, one must decapitate it.”

“But what if the snake turns around and bites you?”

Rather than answer the question put to him, he instead said, “I think you should return to Valletta with the captain.”

“I told you once already, you’ll have to knock me unconscious to stop me from going with you to Calypso’s—What’s happening?” she hissed, clearly startled.

“No need for alarm. The captain has merely cut the engine.”

“So this is our stop, huh?” She stared at the remote and off-putting promontory that loomed above the small vessel.

Caedmon peered upward. The limestone cliff rose approximately two hundred meters above the sea. “Yes, I know. It has a decidedly Gothic aspect.” As he spoke, he stepped over to the side of the boat, his neoprene booties softly smacking against the deck. Edie followed in his wake, dashing his hope that she’d have a change of heart at the last.

“Right. Let’s get to it,” he said, swinging his leg over the side. A second later, he plunged into the cold sea, grateful they had only a short distance to traverse.

Treading water, he watched as Edie jumped ship and proved herself an able swimmer.

A few minutes later, shivering from the cold and breathing heavily from their exertions, they emerged onto a spindly strip of land that was strewn with chunks of rock that had fallen from the cliff face. At a glance, Caedmon could see that the fishing vessel had already begun its homeward voyage, the captain not bothering to confirm whether they had safely landed.

Removing her hood, Edie jutted her chin at the imposing sea cliff. “Without climbing gear, I don’t know how we’re going to get up that sucker.”

“I have it on good authority that there’s a narrow trail not far from here.” That authority being none other than the hotel bartender, who had laid claim to ascending the cliff on many a youthful outing. Something of a local rite of passage.

He swung a rubberized rucksack off his shoulder. Opening it, he removed yet another watertight bag, from which he removed a coil of wire, a sheathed diving knife, a green laser light, two torches, the GPS receiver, the topographical map, and two pairs of athletic shoes. Inventory verified and double-checked, he unzipped and removed his dry suit. Like Edie, he had worn black hiking attire beneath his suit.

“Guess it’s time for the final reckoning, huh?” Although Edie attempted a brave smile, she fell woefully shy of the mark.

“Yes, I’m afraid that the time has come.”

Rearing back his arm, his right hand balled in a fist, he delivered a quick, precise blow to the side of Edie’s head.

Instantly, her eyes rolled backward, Caedmon catching her as she pitched forward in an unconscious heap. KO’d by the ghost fist that she never saw coming.

Very gently he laid her on a bed of saltwort, using the empty rucksack as a pillow for her head. He then placed a torch in her lax hand. If he didn’t return before she came to, or if he didn’t return at all, she would be able to signal for help.

Still on bent knee, he leaned forward and softly kissed her on the lips.

Unable to stop what had become an almost compulsive behavior, Stan MacFarlane again glanced at the innocuous shipping container on the other side of the tower room.

Before permitting the Ark to be packed for transport, he’d spent hours gazing upon it. Awestruck. For someone accustomed to the severe austerity of a Baptist church, the Ark had about it an almost pagan beauty. From the fierce pair of winged cherubim mounted on the gold lid to the strange and incomprehensible symbols incised on all four sides, it bespoke an ancient and holy heritage. A time when Moses led the Hebrew children to the land promised to them by God.

Anxious, he pushed his folding chair away from the camp table and reached for the pair of night-vision goggles. NVGs in hand, he walked over to the square-cut opening on the other side of the circular room. The tower had once been used by the Knights of St. John to monitor sea travel. This night, it served the same purpose, as Stan watched for the luxury yacht that had set sail from Israel earlier in the week. Owned by Moshe Reznick, a Knesset member and cofounder of the Jerusalem-based Third Temple Movement, the yacht would briefly anchor in the bay, pick up its precious cargo, then make the return trip to Haifa. From there, the Ark would be transported to Jerusalem. Stan and his gunnery sergeant, Boyd Braxton, would accompany the Ark on its sea voyage. The rest of his men would fly into Ben-Gurion Airport. Christian tourists making the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

The yacht was due to arrive within the hour.

There were many who would argue that having been uncovered, the Ark should be placed in a museum. But there was only one place for the Ark, that place having been ordained by God.
The yet-to-be-built Third Temple in Jerusalem.

Once constructed, the Third Temple would stand for a thousand years. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel.

Stan was being aided in his endeavors by the members of the Third Temple Movement: Jews who fervently believed in the prophecies foretold by Ezekiel, certain that out of the ashes of the great Battle of Gog and Magog, a new Messiah would step forth.

Although some Christians condemned the Jews, accusing them of having killed the Savior, he knew that Jesus had himself been a Jew. As had been his parents. And all his forebears. Each and every member of the first Church had been a Jew. The Jews were the Chosen People, the custodians of the First and Second Temples, the original guardians of the Ark of the Covenant. And in the great battle to come, the Jews would prevail, fulfilling the destiny envisioned for them by Ezekiel.

Hearing a high-pitched chime emanate from his laptop computer, Stan lowered the night-vision goggles and walked back to the camp table.

Praise be.
The much-anticipated e-mail from his comrades at the Third Temple Movement.

Seating himself in front of the laptop, he quickly pulled up the missive.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered, examining the architectural blueprint that had been forwarded to him. “Absolutely beautiful.”

Based on the precise description given by the prophet Ezekiel—cubits having been converted to feet and inches—the temple would be constructed on the same parcel of sacred land where the First and Second Temples once stood. When completed, it would rival the beauty of even Solomon’s fabled marvel.

Only two more days.

Two days until Eid al-Adha. The Muslim Day of Sacrifice. The day when two million Muslims would be gathered at Mecca. And when those two million infidels learned that the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem had been destroyed, they would go on a violent and bloody rampage. That rampage would incite them to take up arms against Christians and Jews. To become the fierce and bloodthirsty army of Gog. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel.

A battle between Good and Evil would ensue.

But this time the crusaders
will
be victorious.

With the destruction of the gaudy and heathenish Dome of the Rock, the beloved Children of God would finally be delivered from the Islamic tyranny, the gold-plated shrine having been built over the exact site where Solomon’s Temple once stood. For the first time in eight hundred years, God’s sacred parcel, the Temple Mount, would again be a place of holy worship.

Obliterating the Dome of the Rock from the Jerusalem skyline had been planned to the last detail; the Muslims had actually simplified the mission op. For years now the Islamic Trust, the supposed caretakers of the Temple Mount, had turned a blind eye to the six-hundred-foot-long bulge in the southern wall. Given its present condition, the ancient foundation wall was already in a severely weakened state. With the insertion of a few carefully placed IEDs, the wall
would
come tumblin’ down, bringing with it the newly built al-Marwani mosque that had been constructed on the southern end of the Temple Mount. In the ensuing chaos, his demolition experts would then be able to set a ring of high-powered explosives around the exterior perimeter of the closely guarded Dome of the Rock.

The infidels would never know what hit them.

With the second explosion, the path would literally be cleared for the construction of the Third Temple.

Only then could the Ark of the Covenant be returned to its anointed place within the Holy of Holies. Only then could the Ark become the vehicle through which heaven and earth become one. And only then could a new covenant be made between man and God, paving the way for a holy kingdom that would prosper for a thousand years. A true theocracy where nonbelievers would be judged swiftly and harshly. One Christian nation under God.

“Sir, the sentries just made their rounds and have given the all clear.”

Stan glanced at his gunnery sergeant, who stood in the doorway. The sitrep did little to allay his fears. So far, the lanky Englishman had proven a worthy adversary, somehow managing to kill two of his best men. Though he was certain that Aisquith had no way of knowing the Ark had been brought to Malta, he couldn’t forget that the man had done what many before him had tried and failed to do—he’d found the Ark of the Covenant.

“Keep me posted.”

Snatching the night-vision goggles, Stan walked over to the window. Elbows braced on the limestone sill, he returned his gaze to the sea.

He chuckled, amused by the thought. Like the founding fathers, he, too, was about to launch a revolution. One of biblical proportions.

Hurriedly Caedmon made his way up the treacherous path cut into the side of the limestone cliff, grateful for the faint light shed by the cluster of stars overhead. Particularly because he couldn’t risk using the torch. At least not until he had reached the summit and surveyed the area. MacFarlane would undoubtedly have sentries posted. Men who would not hesitate to shoot at a stray beam of light.

His forty-year-old knees aching from the strenuous ascent, he was very much aware of the fact that he no longer had the power and might of Her Majesty’s government behind him. He was on his own. The lone and hungry wolf.

He snorted, amused by the thought.

Huffing slightly, he reached the top, the top being a treeless, rocky plateau. About two hundred meters to the northwest, he could discern the outline of St. Paul’s tower, the only visible landmark on the barren escarpment. Once, long centuries ago, the Knights of St. John had used the tower to signal ships at sea. Wishing he had a pair of night-vision goggles, he thought he saw what looked to be a large military transport truck parked beside the tower.