The 13th Enumeration (20 page)

Chapter 44

The next morning, Zane awoke at about seven. Grabbing some beef jerky, bread, and a bottle of water, he pulled on a warm sweater and set out to explore. On the way out of his tent he also grabbed his tattered straw hat and hung it around his neck. He didn’t need it yet, but he was sure he would before the day was over. He had read that the Capernaum area had several springs of water, some drinkable and others not due to the high salinity. He wasn’t sure where they were, but he hoped to find them. He set out along the shore of Galilee heading north. He walked about a half-mile, then headed inland. Without much success in finding the springs, Zane turned his steps back toward the dig.

He returned to the dig site at about five minutes to eight, his blood warm and his body fully awake. At the debris-sifting area, he could see that work was already underway for the day. As he got closer, he noticed Rachael working over a screen. She looked up and greeted him with a friendly “Good morning, Mr. Harrison, how were your accommodations?”

“Good morning, Miss Neumann. My accommodations were good enough. I slept well, and I am ready to get to work. How can I help?”

Rachael pointed to the large pile of debris a short distance from the screens. “We’ve sifted all that dirt and rock—it’s ready to be dumped. Just follow the trail up the hill over the road. You’ll see the dump site further up on your right.”

Zane noted several of the other staff members looking over with interest. Rachael introduced Zane to the others and then pointed to the wheelbarrow. “There is your instrument of torture for the day. See how you can do with it. When you can’t handle it anymore, we’ll put you on a sifting team.”

The rest of the members of the team had stopped working and were watching the exchange. He wondered if it was because of their previous history or just simple curiosity over a new volunteer. As Rachael turned back to her screen, she said “Good luck
with that
!” Was it his imagination, or was there an unnatural lilt in her voice? Something was a little bit off here. The rest of the team was trying hard not to appear too curious, but they all seemed to be watching him.

Shrugging his shoulders, Zane walked over toward the wheelbarrow. Someone had already loaded it for him, and it was facing the trail. As he got closer, he knew why they were all so curious. Whoever had loaded the wheelbarrow had done so heavily to the front and one side. A small rock was parked under the front wheel. Someone was playing a practical joke on him. An enthusiastic new volunteer, eager to show off, would naturally grab hold of the wheelbarrow’s handles and try to take off up the hill to the dumping area. With the lopsided load and the rock in front of the wheel, they would instead steer the load right into the ground.

Zane smiled to himself. This was not the first time he’d had this trick played on him. He had grown up in his parents’ plant nursery and had used a wheelbarrow since shortly after he could walk. To be sure, it wasn’t full-sized, but as he had grown and gotten stronger over the years, the wheelbarrows had gotten bigger—and he had become an expert charioteer. The wheelbarrow in front of him was a worn, medium-sized affair with wooden handles and a metal load bucket.

Approaching from the side, he unobtrusively slid the rock out from under the wheel with the toe of his left boot as he walked by. He doubted his expectant audience was able to see this subtle act from their angle. Zane also noted the boot tracks around the wheelbarrow—there was only one set, and he would remember them well. Two people could play this game.

With a smooth natural movement, he grabbed the right handle with his right hand and lifted the wheelbarrow by that one handle only. With his left hand, he reached back and grabbed his straw hat from around his neck, placing it on his head as he walked the first few steps with just his right hand steering. Reaching down with his left hand, he grabbed the other handle, gave a violent shake, and rebalanced the load before he continued on his way up the hill. As he left, his back to his audience, he heard a couple of quiet exclamations. Before he passed out of hearing range, he could hear the laughs and ribbing someone was getting for the failed practical joke.

He chuckled to himself. The one-handled wheelbarrow trick required two things: a wheelbarrow loaded to the front and heavy on one side, and an incredibly strong grip. The first criterion the booted jokester had provided. The final part of the equation Zane had acquired over the years as a rock-climbing enthusiast. He remembered several years ago when Sam, David, and he had challenged each other to see who could be the first to walk a loaded wheelbarrow around one-handed. Zane had been the first to master it, but it had taken him four weeks of practice. It took David another week and poor Sam three months. David and he had really enjoyed razzing Sam about it for those weeks. Zane laughed again with the memory.

* * *

Back at the screen, Rachael’s ears were still ringing with the laughter of her coworkers. Zane Harrison had turned the tables on her completely. With reluctant admiration, she had to admit he had pulled off a pretty neat trick. She had never heard of, let alone seen, someone operating a loaded wheelbarrow with one hand. Yet he had accomplished it with complete ease, and she didn’t even get the impression he was trying to show off—it was just a naturally fluid motion. Even though Rachael had never tried it herself, she knew instinctively it must take incredible strength.

Well, she really shouldn’t be surprised. That day he had rescued her, he had made an impossible leap and nailed a two-finger handhold sixty feet up a cliff without any backup rope. She shook her head. She had underestimated this young man again, and for some reason it aggravated her. He didn’t play by the rules. Heroic young men were supposed to stick around to receive accolades from their rescued maidens. New volunteers were supposed to spill the wheelbarrow to the subdued laughter of the camp staff. Zane Harrison wasn’t like any young man she had ever met, and that bothered her.

* * *

Zane pushed the wheelbarrow up the trail and over the road to the dump site. He was naturally observant and over the years had developed this gift. Along the way he noted the plants, trees, and wildlife he encountered. He could smell a faint scent which he surmised must be the white mustard plants he saw.

He had gone about a quarter-mile before he finally saw the dump site. A substantial amount of dirt had already been dumped there. In the loose dirt he noticed the tracks of his booted prankster. Casting about for more signs, he realized these were the only boot tracks besides his own. Whoever had tried to play the practical joke on him was no slacker, that was for sure.

After emptying his load, Zane turned and headed back down the trail. Once again at the pile of debris, Zane loaded his wheelbarrow and headed back up the trail. He noted all the staff were busily engaged this time and did not seem to be aware of his presence—all but Rachael. She had glanced up as he came back down the trail.

It wasn’t until the fourth trip that Zane noticed Rachael looking down at her watch when he returned. Every trip after that he saw her check the time. It was now noon, and Zane had made sixteen trips. With loading, he was averaging four trips an hour. By lunchtime he was hungry and pleasantly tired. Setting aside the wheelbarrow, he walked over to the screening tables and Rachael Neumann.

“Miss Neumann, I am going to take my lunch break now. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Rachael responded with cool cordiality. “That’s fine, Mr. Harrison. You put in a good morning’s work—have you had enough of the wheelbarrow for one day? I can put someone else on it.” She said the last if it were a challenge.

“No, I am fine. I like the work, actually. It brings back fond memories. I’ll see you in half an hour, then.”

As he was turning away, he looked down and saw Rachael’s boot tracks around the table she was working over. Zane had found his prankster as well as his fellow wheelbarrow charioteer. Looking up, he caught her glance and gave her a warm smile. “It seems I’m not the only one who likes to drive a wheelbarrow.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You’ve dumped quite a lot of dirt up that trail yourself, Miss Neumann. That run is quite a push with a full wheelbarrow.”

The confused look on her face was replaced with surprise. “How did you know I had been dumping up there?”

He pointed to her feet. “Well, unless someone else wears the same kind and size of boot, your tracks gave it away. I found those tracks along the trail, at the dump site, and around my wheelbarrow this morning.” He smiled and started to turn away again.

She spoke, her voice pulling him back around. “How did you do that wheelbarrow trick this morning anyway? I’ve been around a lot of wheelbarrow drivers in my life, and I have never seen someone do what you did.”

Zane gave a hearty laugh. “One summer my buddies and I bet each other on who could be the first to push a loaded wheelbarrow one-handed. It took a lot of practice, but we all were eventually able to accomplish it.”

Rachael couldn’t help but feel the warmth and sincerity of his recollection. “You know,” she said, “I won’t hear the end of what you did this morning. They,” she indicated the rest of the team, “won’t let me forget your turning my prank back on me.”

Zane, with a warm light of genuine good humor in his eyes, replied, “If I were them I wouldn’t either.” Turning with a smile on his face, he headed back up to his tent and a simple lunch of canned tuna and crackers.

* * *

From the door of his tent, Efran Finkelstein watched the exchange between Rachael and Zane. He knew of their history and wondered if he could somehow use this to his advantage. But for now he would just watch. Jacob Neumann had not used any of his considerable influence to get his daughter her position on this dig. Reluctantly, Efran had to admit she had earned her place. But if Miss Neumann were to behave scandalously, it would be an embarrassment to her father. A word here, a hint at the right time there, and a reputation could be tarnished and credibility damaged. He must move carefully, though—these types of maneuvers could backfire if not handled correctly. With a chuckle he said to himself, “I will be waiting and watching, Miss Neumann. Waiting and watching.”

Efran turned his thoughts to more pressing matters. Over the past few weeks, the dig had progressed well. They had lain a grid over the main dig site and uncovered more of the walls of the ancient dwelling. They had a pretty good idea of the overall layout and dimensions of the house. A house was what they supposed it was, anyway. As of yet, they had not found any real identifying artifacts to conclusively place it in the first century or prove it to be a dwelling. The most interesting thing so far was what appeared to be an entrance to a lower level, possibly a basement or cellar of some kind. Over the next few days they would be removing the rocks, dirt, and debris from this opening. Hopefully, they would find something of value down there. Turning back into his tent, he let the flap close as he sat down at his makeshift desk to work on his reports.

Chapter 45

Tel Aviv, Israel

Kadeem Malouf, the Baker, returned home from Jordan that evening. He had been a little worried about leaving the magnet on, but he found nothing amiss when he opened the secret room. Removing the section of his pipe that connected to the city’s sewer main, the Baker reached inside with his long rubber gloves. His fingers searching through the smelly, slow-moving water, he found four of the leaden capsules.

In the bakery sink upstairs, he washed the leaden objects with hot soapy water and dried them with a towel. Climbing the stairs to his living quarters, he opened a secret drawer in his desk and placed the capsules inside. As he was about to close the drawer, he noticed a marking on one of the capsules. This was unusual. There had never been a marking before. Picking it up and looking closer, he saw it was marked with the number thirteen.

The Baker gave an involuntary shudder. He had always been a superstitious man, and he considered the number thirteen unlucky. What was it they called the fear of the number thirteen—triskaidekaphobia? Dropping the capsule back in the drawer as if it had burned his fingers, he closed and locked it. This was an ill omen. The sooner he got rid of these capsules the better. To that end, he had better check his messages to see if there were any special instructions with this lot.

Turning on his computer, the Baker downloaded the appropriate junk mail from his Google e-mail account. Placing the picture in his version of the Anaj encryption software, he entered the current New Lotto numbers and his personal identification number. The picture disintegrated on the screen, and a message appeared.

Send the unmarked capsules by regular courier. The capsule marked with 13 send to:

Dubai World Trade Center

P.O. Box 4100

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

The Baker memorized the address and deleted the message from his computer. Looking at the secret drawer in his desk, his scalp started to prickle. He was going to get rid of that capsule first thing in the morning when he was done his baking for the day. Right now, he needed to get the bread rising and the batter mixed for the pastries.

Across the street, Marcus Nayat and his surveillance team watched the bakery. They could tell the Baker had moved the capsules because the signal strength on their receivers had increased. They guessed he had retrieved the capsules from the sewer and now had them stashed in the house somewhere. If they could pull this off, they would, at the least, be able to interrupt an advanced spy network inside Israel. If they got really lucky, they might be able to turn one or more of the agents and infiltrate whichever organization this network of spies belonged to.

Marcus looked through his infrared scope. Still only one warm body working on the ground floor. The Baker’s help would not arrive until four a.m.

At four, the Baker finished his baking for the day. He turned over bakery operations to his staff, who had just arrived. Hurrying upstairs, he took out the capsules from his secret drawer. The three unmarked capsules he placed in an unmarked envelope. The capsule marked with the number thirteen he placed in another envelope and addressed as directed. Walking back downstairs with the envelopes, he waited for Hassan. Hassan was a regular customer every morning, one of the first in the door. He would purchase one cup of black coffee and a thick crusted loaf of Turkish bread called
frangola.

This morning, Hassan was his second customer to walk in. The Baker excused the salesclerk for a few moments and waited on Hassan himself. Hassan ordered his customary coffee and frangola and handed the Baker a ten-shekel note. The Baker handed back the appropriate change plus a one-hundred-shekel note hidden by the other change. The note was the signal as well as payment for Hassan’s services. Without a word of acknowledgment or greeting, he handed over the coffee and a paper bag with the frangola. Underneath the bread in the bottom of the bag were the two envelopes. With a barely perceptible grunt of thanks, Hassan walked out the door with his breakfast.

Across the street, Marcus and his team were ready to move. The tracking devices in the capsules had moved again and were back on the ground level of the bakery. Speaking into his radio, Marcus said, “Unit 1 standby, the package is on the move.”

“Unit 1 here. We have the signal and are standing by.” Unit 1 was in a small, well-used compact car fifty feet up the street with an unobstructed view of the bakery. Two minutes later, they saw Hassan leave the bakery. He got onto a KTM motorcycle and headed into traffic. Unit 1 followed at a discreet distance. Unit 2 also followed, but two streets over on a parallel course.

After several turns, Hassan entered the on-ramp for Highway 1 and headed south toward Jerusalem. Hassan stayed on the highway, passing through the outskirts of Jerusalem, and entered the West Bank. After passing through the checkpoints, he headed for Jericho.

Every mile further, Marcus knew it was likely Hassan was headed for Jordan via the Allenby/Hessein Bridge Crossing. Providing for that eventuality, Marcus had an Arab agent with a Jordanian passport ready and waiting in Jericho. No one with an Israeli passport could enter Jordan at the Allenby Crossing, so Units 1 and 2 would have to break off.

Marcus, riding in Unit 2, handed over the pursuit to Unit 3 in Jericho. Hassan continued through Jericho to the Allenby Crossing. Entering Jordan, he took Jordanian Highway 40 into Amman. Following a mile behind, Unit 3 entered Amman a minute later.

Hassan entered Jordan and stopped to get gas for his motorcycle. After filling up, he took the bread out of the bag in his backpack, and setting it aside, checked for the envelope. To his surprise, he found two envelopes instead of only one. Clipped to one of the envelopes was a note which directed him to mail it to Dubai. The other envelope was to be delivered to the normal contact in Jordan.

Hassan returned the envelopes to his backpack and headed out. A few miles further on, he stopped at the local post office and mailed one of the envelopes to Dubai. Continuing on, Hassan drove his bike into the heart of Amman. After another five miles and numerous turns, he stopped at the Grand Husseini Mosque in the heart of downtown Amman. Walking back to the administrative offices, he gave the last envelope to his contact and left without saying a word.

Unit 3 watched as Hassan stopped at the post office. According to the receiver Unit 3 was watching, one of the capsules was left at the post office.

Unit 3 pulled a phone out of his pocket and called Marcus. “Sir, the subject has left one of the capsules at an Amman post office. Do you want me to follow the subject and the remaining three capsules?”

“Yes, Unit 3, follow the subject as far as you can without being noticed.”

After several more miles, Unit 3 watched as Hassan stopped and entered the Grand Husseini Mosque. He found a nearby parking space and stopped. He would wait for further movement. The transmitters in the capsules were capable of being read up to three miles away. This should allow him enough time should they unexpectedly start to move again.

Marcus, in Unit 2, headed back to headquarters from Jericho. He assessed the situation. Unit 3 was awaiting further developments in Amman, and one of the capsules was on its way to another location via the Jordanian postal system. If they could tag them when the Baker sent out messages again, Marcus would send two units into Jordan. Maybe then they could follow the other capsule to its destination. Until then, Unit 3 would be watching from Jordan.