Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) (21 page)

He grinned. “It’s part of Operation Rescue Ready. Practice missions for the next
Somalia
or Kosovo or
Mozambique
. We’ll be involved in it in the next couple of days.”

“Thanks for the ride,” I said. I reached out to shake his hand. “Great landing.”

He shrugged. “You know the cliché. They’re all great, long as you can walk away.”

When I inquired at the counter about transportation into town, I was directed to a second lieutenant over in one corner. He sheepishly admitted he would be heading that way in a few minutes. He had forgotten to bring his passport. While waiting, I borrowed a Yellow Pages book and looked up car rental agencies. I figured I would be safe in letting the lieutenant drop me off there. By the time any law enforcement officers got this far, he would be winging his way to the
Caribbean
or
Africa
.

The lieutenant drove an awful yellow Beetle with
BATMOBILE
lettered below the side window. I got out in front of the car rental office, thanked him and watched him drive off.

A man who reminded me of Regis Philbin handed me some paperwork with “X’s” where I should sign. “Will you be staying in the area?”

“I’ll probably be going over into
Canada
some. Any problems there?”

He shook his head. “So long as you don’t get stopped for speeding.”

“No problem.”

Using my credit card, I paid the rental charge for four days. I figured that would lay down an ambiguous trail. I took the keys to a Ford Taurus and headed back into the snow. I would park the car in the rental lot at the
Toronto
airport and leave a note on the windshield saying I was running too late to go through the formalities of turning it in. Since it would be paid three days ahead, I figured they wouldn’t object.

My first stop was an anonymous Burger King near I-94, where I got down a Whopper, fries and a chocolate shake. A far cry from Jill’s plan to cook my favorite meal. I pushed her away, trying to keep focused, hurting as I let her go.

It was around
8:45
when I lit a cigarette, got the Taurus onto the interstate, and headed north. According to the rental map, I was a little more than thirty miles from
Sarnia
,
Ontario
, on the border between the
U.S.
and
Canada
. I guestimated I was now some 6,000 miles and two continents away from
Israel
, Jill, and the men who held her.

Traffic was sparse as I drove. My headlights reflected off the falling snow. I thought of spring in
Nashville
, Jill’s favorite season, when gusty breezes sent the small petals of
Bradford
pear trees flying across the road like flakes of snow. I thought of what lay ahead. And then it happened. The question finally surfaced, blunt and uncompromising.

Was I doing the right thing?

I had spent a major part of my life in the U.S. Air Force. I’m no super patriot. Nothing patriotic tattooed on my arm. Nothing stenciled on my T-shirt. But serving my country was something I took pride in. I always felt that if I had a real problem in some godforsaken corner of the world, Uncle Sam would get me out. Maybe I
am
a bit gung ho, but I’ve always believed we take care of our own.

That said, I seriously considered whether I should quit, turn back, contact the FBI. Agitate for troops to track down Jill’s captors. I had worked with the Bureau on a number of occasions. Maybe I had leverage.

But a call to the FBI would bring up sticky questions. Like why I had not contacted the Metro Nashville police, and what was I doing way up here in
Michigan
? They would check me out with Metro. There was also the possibility that Detective Adamson had alerted the FBI that I was a wanted fugitive. Either way, I would wind up in a holding cell until Metro could dispatch an officer to bring me back. I could ask the Bureau to confirm my story with
OSI
Special Agent-in-Charge Ted Kennerly, but chances were he was so covered up with the terrorism fallout they would be unable to reach him for hours. Meanwhile, the corporate jet bearing Jill would have landed in
Israel
, and she would have been spirited off to some secret hideaway by this contact known as Moriah.

As I thought about it, I suddenly remembered where I had heard that name before. Jake Cohen, our guide in
Israel
, told us
Mount
Moriah
was another name for the
Temple
Mount
. Now it was being used as a code name. I rubbed my face. The tenderness was still in my jaw.

From what Zalman had said, the
Temple
Alliance
obviously had contacts within the Israeli government. Should the FBI, or any other
U.S.
agency, make an official inquiry about Jill, they would get a denial of any knowledge about her presence in the country. The
Temple
Alliance
leaders would say the same thing. And they would not be lying. Using the old technique of plausible deniability, only the mysterious Moriah would know the details.

As my headlights picked out the roadside sign announcing the upcoming Canadian border, I knew I had no choice but to continue with my plan, whatever the outcome.

The armed and uniformed Canadian officer at the border post walked up to the car as I lowered the window. He stood tall and bulky in his padded jacket. His eyes were dark and expressionless.

“
U.S.
citizen?” he asked.

I nodded and held out my passport.

“What’s your destination, sir?”

“
Toronto
. I’m attending an archeological seminar at the university.” I smiled politely. It was a story I had decided on just in case they should look in my bag and find a parchment scroll.

“You’re lucky the snow ends this side of the 401 junction. The road should be in good shape, but please drive carefully.”

“That I plan to do,” I said. I raised the window as he waved me on.

Obviously, no one was looking for me yet. I forced myself to relax. It would take nearly four hours in this weather.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, with only a couple of coffee stops and a few cigarettes to break the monotony. I badly needed sleep, but that was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now. It was
1:30 a.m.
when I pulled into the parking area at
Lester
B.
Pearson
International
Airport
. I decided to check out the flight schedule before ditching the Taurus.

Inside the brightly lit terminal, I tracked down the British Airways counter and inquired about flights to
London
with connections to Tel Aviv. A helpful blonde checked her computer, then gave me a pained expression.

“It looks like the best we can do will leave you laid over at Heathrow for a few hours.”

“Okay.”

While waiting for the flight, I agonized over many things. Where was Jill? What sort of conditions did she face? What would happen to her if the scroll got out of my possession, something that could easily occur with any customs inspection? I had no answers. But I also wondered what was happening back in
Nashville
. How far had Detective Adamson gone in his search for me? I wanted to check my answering machine, but if they were monitoring the phone, I would risk revealing my location. The other thing that bugged me was what David Wolfson had found in decoding the scroll. Why was he so adamant that I not let the
Temple
Alliance
get access to it? That went totally counter to my plans. My whole intent in making this trip was to give them the scroll and leave with my wife.

Chapter
28

It was an entirely different
Israel
from the one I had visited only a week before. We had been blessed with abundant sunshine and summery temperatures. But the landing at
Ben-Gurion
International
Airport
at Lod came amidst a heavy downpour. The lights of nearby Tel Aviv were obscured by clouds. I could see the terminal glowing beyond the runway as a fuzzy package of twinkling colors in the haze.

The landing reminded me of Jill’s excitement when we had arrived in the
Holy Land
. It was something she had wanted to do for years, almost like the way a Muslim looks forward to his pilgrimage to
Mecca
. Coming from a different background, I had been less than enthusiastic. I had grown up in a church-going family, but I got out of the habit after going off to college. My experience in law enforcement also left me skeptical. Jill had found getting me back into a pew a major challenge, and it wasn’t until we had settled in Hermitage and joined the Sunday School class that I began attending services regularly.

Recalling the bright, enthusiastic smile Jill had worn on our arrival in
Israel
, I missed her more than ever. I was encouraged that she had her faith and prayers to carry her, and I was more than ever determined to use every skill at my command to get her back in my arms.

I had managed a few strategic catnaps during the flight from
London
and felt rested. I was running on nervous energy. My stopover at Heathrow had been spent mostly nodding in a lounge. No one showed any interest in a weary American. I did make the acquaintance of a few fellow passengers later as we crossed
Europe
, learning they were part of a tour group on a junket not unlike the one Jill and I had just finished. I planned to use that knowledge to my advantage.

“Certainly enjoyed chatting with you,” said my seatmate on the right. We were gathering our belongings in preparation to deplane. A large, balding fellow in his fifties from
Ohio
, traveling with his wife and daughter, Oscar O’Halloran was a CPA with a big accounting firm.

“My pleasure,” I said with a smile. “I hope you enjoy your visit.”

“I’m sure we will. As long as things don’t get out of hand with the Israelis and Palestinians. Maybe you can dig around and come up with something exciting, too.”

I had explained that my trip was an archeological expedition.

After passing through immigration and security, getting the usual passport check (mine apparently rang no bells), we moved into the Arrivals Hall to await our baggage. I fared much better than at JFK, with my American Tourister showing up in the first wave on the carousel. I pulled it off and moved to the side, where I opened the lock and rummaged around as though looking for something. Actually, I was stalling. I was waiting for Oscar O’Halloran and his party to claim their bags and move toward customs. I figured my best bet at getting through unscathed was to mingle with the O’Hallorans. Customs people don’t usually give tour groups much hassle.

I chatted with Oscar as we moved up in the line, letting the customs agent get the feel that I was just another
Holy Land
pilgrim. My bag was poked around in only briefly, leaving the plastic canister undisturbed. After giving the O’Hallorans a farewell wave, I wheeled my bag out to the bus stop, where I found an Egged bus schedule. Egged and Dan were the two major bus companies in
Israel
. The next coach to
Jerusalem
would leave in about fifteen minutes. It was just long enough to get back inside and exchange a traveler’s check for shekels.

The bus departed on time, and I slept the whole trip to
Jerusalem
. I had given my destination as the Hotel Patriarch, located in
East Jerusalem
and run by Palestinians. It was where we had stayed on our previous visit to the Israeli capital. I had no reservation, of course, but I figured this time of year, with all the recent problems in the area, I could get a room.

There were few people in the lobby, which contained several clusters of chairs around glass-topped coffee tables. Those who lingered appeared to be members of a German tour group. The desk clerk spoke English with an accent I couldn’t place. After filling out the registration form and signing a credit card slip, I was given the key to 219.

“How late is the dining room open for dinner?” I asked. All I remembered from before was that our group ate at
6:30
.

“Eight,” she said. “Breakfast starts at seven. Would you like a wake-up call?”

“Please. Make it six-thirty.”

I figured I would be awake before then, but after all that had happened the past few days I didn’t want to oversleep.

My room had narrow single beds flanking the walls with limited space between. A small TV sat on a chest near the door to the bathroom.