Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) (10 page)

CHAPTER 17

The Damascus Gate is an ornate, gray, stone entry that’s about five stories high and maybe five hundred feet in width. It sports a large arched entry with huge, old, leather covered wood cathedral doors. With its two wall-mounted ramparts, it reminds me of an old castle. And from what I’m told, that’s what the seventh-century builders had in mind when they constructed it over the old stone gate that existed during the time of Jesus.

The place is crowded, if not overcrowded, with vendors occupying both sides of the dark, narrow entryway. The entry is shaped like an S. You walk through the gate, go left, then go right and come out on the main, cobbled road. Open air restaurants and coffee shops are located on the right and more vendors on the left selling everything from candy to pharmaceuticals to spices. The place is as busy as an ant colony and has been for ages.

With Moshe and Itzhak watching our backs, and our every move lest we decide to lose them by taking off down one of the many blind alleyways, Magda and I proceed toward the road that splits off to the left.

Al-Wad Street.

“There it is,” she says, pointing directly at a shop covered with an old brown awning that’s so torn and ratted it looks like it’s been there since Jesus walked these roads.

She stops in front of the shop.

The exterior walls of the place are hidden behind bookcases stuffed with old volumes of one kind or another. By the looks of it, Bibles, Old Testaments, New Testaments, Siddus, Korans, bound Torahs, and more. Books on travel in Israel, none of them new but used and as ragged as the awning that protects them. A little red paperback catches my eye, the spine of which reads,
The New Testament
.

Seek the three sevens . . .

I pull it off the shelf.

“Found something you like?” Magda says.

“Something I think I need,” I say. “I’ll explain later. We going in?”

Unlike a lot of the shops we’ve passed, this one has a door that separates it from the outside. The door is heavy and wooden, and I can bet it’s there not to keep out the noise or the dust, but to act as a protective barrier for some valuable antique books the owner is surely housing on the inside.

Magda opens the door, and we step inside. All four of us.

The big, rectangular room is dim and smells of must, mold, and age. Bookshelves cover every square inch of wall space, and even the shelves themselves are stuffed with volumes both vertically and horizontally. Electric metal lamps shaped like acorns hang from the wood beam-supported plaster ceiling by thin black chains. Dull electric light oozes out of their green, red, and clear glass. There is the distinct odor of burning incense in the air. It combines with the sweet smoke that can only come from a hookah pipe.

The place seems abandoned until I spot something in the corner. A man dressed in a long bone-colored robe. He’s wearing a knit kufi skull cap, and the flesh on his face is hidden behind a long, salt and pepper beard. He’s got the metal tip of the hookah hose in his mouth, and he sets it down before slowly standing, exhaling the blue smoke through his mouth and nostrils.

“I am Mahdi,” he says, his voice low-toned and surprisingly British accented. “How may I be of service to you?”

“You’re English?” Magda says.

“I was born and raised in London,” the man says, his hands hidden under the long sleeves of his tunic. “I moved back to Jerusalem after the first Intifada in 1993 to be closer to my people.” His eyes shift from Magda and me to the Hasidic brothers who are both standing at the front of the store, one man planted on each side of the door as if guarding it. And they are.

I clear my throat.

“You are a believer in Palestine,” I say.

He smiles, but it’s a bitter smile.

“Such struggles are not only lifelong, but generational. Multi-generational. Or in the case of Palestine, sadly, perhaps forever.” He grins. “But you are not here to discuss politics.”

A laugh erupts from one of the Hasidic brothers. Itzhak to be precise.

“Itzy,” Moshe says. “Show some respect for the shop owner. We are standing in the Palestinian Quarter after all. This is his home. The Israeli soldiers outside prove it.”

“We’re here searching for a book,” I say, trying my best to divert the subject before a major violent political event erupts. “A series of books actually.”

Mahdi raises his arms, and his hands emerge from under his sleeves. His hands are big and dark, fingers long, nails yellowed and sharp. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“What kind of books?” he asks, his dark, almost black, eyes slanted, his brow furrowed, as if to demonstrate his piqued interest. Then, his eyes shift to the New Testament held in my hand. “Are you interested in Biblical texts, perhaps?”

“Precisely,” I say.

Magda takes a step forward. So close to the man, I feel she might put her hands on him.

“I visited this very bookstore in the recent past,” she says. “A man showed me some very old books. Ancient books. Made of metal. They were stored in a safe in the back.” Nodding her head in the direction of a white, blue, and yellow curtain that covers a door-sized opening. “Do you know the man I speak of?”

Mahdi’s face goes stone stiff. It’s as though, in trying not to show emotion, he is most definitely giving himself away.

“I do not,” he says. Then, placing his hand on Magda’s arm, he adds, “Perhaps it’s time you left my store. I have nothing here that will interest you.”

I make out feet shuffling behind me.

“Hands off, pal,” Moshe insists. He steps up beside me, his Uzi machine-pistol suddenly gripped his right hand in the place of his precious Siddu.

Mahdi spots the gun, slowly removes his hand. The stone face now turns into a smile. But it’s a far cry from a happy smile.

“I do not look for trouble,” he says.

A laugh coming from behind me. Itzy.

“Can we hurry this up, already?” he says. “It’s almost time to pray.”

I toss him a look over my shoulder.

“What?” he says.

“The books we’re looking for are about the size of a credit card,” I say. “They are bound together not with traditional spines but with ringlets of metal. They have detailed carvings of Jesus and ancient Jerusalem on them, and they are also embossed with letters. In Hebrew. Perhaps in Greek, also.”

“There are seven of them,” Magda adds, her eyes shifting from Mahdi to me and back again. “The seventh book will have a seal around it. A seal made of a strange metal.”

The proprietor swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“It’s possible I recall seeing books that match the description once upon a time,” he says. “But they are not here. Such metal books were once considered the work of the devil and were immediately ordered cast out. The Bishop of Caesarea banned tablets made of metal as forbidden sorcery in 335 AD.”

“So are you telling me they were destroyed?” I say.

“They’re not destroyed,” Magda interjects. “I saw them with my own eyes. An old man who works here opened a safe in back and showed them to me. One of them, the seventh, is sealed with a piece of metal that cannot be cut.”

“They are not here,” Mahdi insists. But there’s something in his eyes, and it looks a lot like lies.

“Not here?” Magda says, raising her voice. “Or no longer here?”

To my direct right, Moshe is standing foursquare, the Uzi in his hand. I can tell this isn’t going to be easy.

“Itzy,” I say, “lock the damn door.”

He twists the deadbolt, locking the door.

Up in the far right corner of the shop, a security camera, its red light blinking, indicating I’m being watched. But by who? A machine? Or someone else. Time to do a little convincing. I pull out my .45, plant a bead on Mahdi’s stomach.

His eyes follow the barrel of the gun. He swallows so hard it looks like his Adam’s apple is about to pop out of his neck.

“As Allah as my judge,” he says, “I do not have the codices.”

“But you know who does?”

“Where’s the old man?” Magda says.

I thumb back the hammer on the .45.

Mahdi runs his hand along the length of his beard as if the gesture helps him think.

“The old man is dead,” he says. “Not long after he died, the metal books you speak of also disappeared.”

“Mind if we take a look for ourselves?” I say.

He swallows something again. “If you must. But I cannot assure you I can remember the combination to the safe.” Feigning a smile. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow, and I will have the combination required to open it.”

“Why don’t we try it right now,” I insist, waving the gun in the direction of the curtained opening.

“Very well,” he says.

He goes for the opening, while Magda and I come around the counter, following his every footstep.

CHAPTER 18

The back room is full of artifacts from all eras of Jerusalem’s history. Or so it seems. Pottery from the first century, gold crosses from the Byzantine, a sword and a helmet with a triangular crossbow bolt hole in it from the Crusader period, a half-moon shaped dagger, its handle ornamented with colorful gems from the Islamic era, and, of course, books. Thousands of them, mostly leather-bound, stacked one on top of the other.

To our left-hand side is a solid brick wall. A black iron safe with gold lettering printed on its door is pressed up against that wall. The safe has to be one hundred years old. The only object occupying the wall is a framed illustration or painting of a man who looks like Jesus but is different in several noticeable ways. Although the man depicted has long black hair, a matching black beard, stunning dark eyes, and is pictured kneeling, his hands crossed one over the other as though praying to his heavenly father, he is also carrying a broad sword which is holstered onto his back by means of a leather thong. He also wears a headdress that bears two purple feathers.

“Ansar al-Mahdi,” Mahdi whispers to me. “My namesake.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The man, or God-man, whom your eyes view is Mahdi, the expected one.”

“And who is this expected one?”

Magda leans into me. “He’s the one who will come at the end of days. Think of him as the Shia Jesus.”

Mahdi smiles.

“Yes,” he says. “You might find many comparisons to your traditional western notion of Jesus in Mahdi in that, like Jesus, we believe him to be the son of God. Unlike your Jesus, however, he is not the kind of man to turn the other cheek when he comes to usher in the day of judgment. He will bear a strong sword that will eradicate all infidels and enemies of God be they Christian, Jew, or Sunni. It will be the end of the world as it exists and the beginning of a brand new one.”

“Great,” I whisper, “another doomsday cult.”

“Say what you wish about the Ansar al-Mahdi, good sir,” Mahdi says. “But soon the day of reckoning will be upon us, and no one who does not believe in Mahdi will be spared.”

“That’s a double negative, Mahdi,” I say.

“I do not understand,” he says, his face masked in confusion.

“Think of it as two wrongs don’t make a right.” Then, waving the barrel at the safe. “Sunday school’s over. Now, open the damn safe.”

Mahdi bites down on his bottom lip.

“I have already told you that I do not know the combination. How will it be possible for me to open it without knowing the combination?”

I shoot Magda a glance. She gives me a look with her deep brown eyes like
Son of a bitch is stalling
. And that’s when I feel something go tight in my stomach, and my throat close up on itself. I turn around quick on the balls of my feet, just as the solid rock of a man barrels his head into my chest.

CHAPTER 19

I go down hard onto my back, my .45 sliding across the stone floor.

“Chase!” Magda screams as Mahdi grabs hold of her, pulling a knife out from under his robe, pressing it against her throat. The knife is old, if not ancient, the blade curved like a half moon.