The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (16 page)

Tom and the others turned at the sound of the voice. Standing at the gate was a tall, thin, elderly man, dressed entirely in black: suit jacket, shirt, pants, and shoes. His flat-topped black hat was in his hands; white hair tumbled from under his black yarmulke and curled at his temples, dangling just above a thick, wild, white beard. His eyes were dark and questioning, empty of welcome.

The elderly man had not moved a muscle. Tom wondered if he would. Then Fineman stepped forward.

“Rabbi Asher, these are the people I spoke to you about. Those who are—”

“Afforded an incredible honor by my grandson, something I’m not sure was so wise,” said the old man, shaking Fineman’s hand. “You are welcome to study our codex anytime, Ronald. But you”—he pointed to Tom and his friends around the table—“I’m not so sure about you. You seem to have been involved in a great deal of destruction since you arrived in Israel. I hope you do not bring destruction to our synagogue. What is it you want with our book?”

Tom stepped forward. “Rabbi, we have, all of us, lost a great deal lately. I don’t—we don’t—comprehend the why of it all. But one thing is clear to us.” He stepped closer and offered his right hand toward the elderly rabbi, who studied Bohannon for a long moment, as if he were a new book of the Torah—curious, but skeptical. Then the elderly rabbi reached out and accepted Tom’s hand. “Whatever has happened to us, whatever we’ve been involved in, God’s hand has been on it, and his call is on it. We’re just trying to determine our next step. And knowing what’s in this codex appears to be the next step. We’ve been following clues to Jeremiah and the shepherd’s staff from New York to Egypt to Ireland to this room today. I’m just trying to understand what God wants us to do. And I think—Rabbi Fineman thinks—it’s possible we may find some answers, some truth, in this codex.”

Rabbi Asher removed his hand from Bohannon’s grasp. Measuring his step like a toddler on ice, he moved to the side of the table and sat in one of the stout, wooden chairs. He closed his eyes; his chin fell to his chest. After a deep breath, he looked up again. “So, I shall tell you a story.”

“Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, laid siege to Jerusalem and captured the city on three different occasions,” said Rabbi Asher, his arthritic hand laid on the cover of the book. “As a result of the first siege, Nebuchadnezzar took thousands of captives back to Babylon, including the prophets Daniel and Ezekiel. After the second siege, Jeremiah gained Nebuchadnezzar’s favor with his prophecies of the king’s victorious future. But before Nebuchadnezzar destroyed Jerusalem following the third siege, God directed Jeremiah to hide the Jews’ most sacred objects—the Tent, the Ark and its contents, as well as the sacred vessels.

“Many scholars believe, and Jewish tradition holds, that the report in Maccabees—that Jeremiah buried the Ark and the Tent of Meeting on Mount Nebo in Jordan—was actually a diversion created by his servant Baruch.”

Rabbi Asher used both hands to open the book. He appeared to measure the number of pages and then pried the book apart. He drew his finger, right to left, across the small notes at the top of the page, from the book of Jeremiah in the Codex, and read:

“The notes of the Masoretes here, at the top of the column, tell us that Jeremiah, knowing of the coming destruction to be wrought by the armies of Nebuchadnezzar, removed what the notes call ‘the sacred vessels’ from their hiding place in the caves under Temple Mount.” Rabbi Asher moved his finger to the top of the middle column. “Jeremiah’s scribe, Baruch, altered the records to protect the truth. The scholars who created the notes in the codex claim Jeremiah hid the Ark, the Tent of Presence, and the golden vessels of the Temple in a place known only by the Aaronite high priest and passed down verbally through each generation of high priest that followed. But Aaron’s staff—the instrument of God’s power—Jeremiah returned to its home. These Masoretic notes tell us Jeremiah traveled to Babylon. While there, the prophet Daniel revealed a great secret. This note, here, says, ‘And the staff of G-d was returned to its rightful place.’ That is all the book tells us.”

Rabbi Asher bowed his head, spoke in a barely audible voice, and closed the codex. He turned to face the group.

“But that is not all we know,” he said. “Many believe the staff, perhaps reunited with the Ark, will be the weapon of Armageddon—the weapon God will use to destroy the armies of the world who mass on the plain of Megiddo.

“From our tradition and what the book tells us, I believe Jeremiah braved the eight-week, thousand-kilometer journey to Babylon where he met with Ezekiel and Daniel, who was the king’s chancellor and ran the government. Because ancient Babylon was built on the same spot that contained the garden of Eden before Noah’s flood, I believe Jeremiah’s intention was to restore Aaron’s staff to its place of origin … to the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.”

Rabbi Asher spread his hands and looked around the table. “So now you know what our fathers wrote in the most accurate recording of Scripture in history. Tell me. What does it mean to you? What is this next step you must take?”

“To be honest, at this moment I don’t know,” Bohannon admitted. “But tell me—how is it you have a complete copy of the codex when most people believe the only extant version of the codex is incomplete, housed in the Israel Museum? It could be dangerous for you to have it.”

Rabbi Asher motioned for Fineman to return the codex to its secure home. “This synagogue was established in 1901 by a group of Syrian immigrant Jews—led by the cousins Ovadiah Josiah Ades and Yosef Isaac Ades. That was more than four decades before Israel was declared a state and the central synagogue of Aleppo was sacked. Sometime in the early days of the codex’s residence in Aleppo, the rabbi of the synagogue, an ancestor of the Ades cousins, executed a complete copy of the book, including the Masoretic notes. The rabbi’s family kept it hidden—insurance, as it were, for the original.”

His fingers touched the cover like a lover.

“This is a beautiful book,” said Rizzo. “Priceless. But if it’s the only complete copy of the codex, why keep it hidden? Why isn’t this one in the Israel Museum?”

“It is safer here.” Rabbi Asher waved his hand above the book. “Credible witnesses insisted the codex was complete when it was rescued from the synagogue in Syria, complete when it was delivered into the care of an Israeli government official. There is strong suspicion the pages of the codex were deliberately ripped out. Perhaps for money. Perhaps for a more sinister reason. That I don’t know.”

The rabbi turned and leaned his back against the table. “What I do know is that as long as this synagogue stands, we will protect this book with our lives. Until Messiah comes.”

7:30 a.m., Washington, DC

Oliver Stanley’s name was barely out of the presidential secretary’s mouth before he was through the door to the Oval Office, his florid face redder than normal, his jaw set and hard.

“Do you know what you have done to Baruk? He’s finished. His government coalition won’t survive—”

“Good morning, Ollie,” said the president. His jacket was off, draped over the back of his chair, and he was reviewing reports from the Office of Management and Budget, never a pleasant experience. “Why don’t you sit down?” Whitestone pointed to one of the straight-backed chairs in front of his desk.

The secretary of state stood behind the chair, his hands gripping the wooden back. “Why wasn’t I consulted? How can you make such a radical shift in our support of Israel without discussing its repercussions with me, with State?”

Whitestone looked up from the distressing budget reports. He lifted his right hand, pointing, and nodded his head at the chair. “Sit down, Ollie.”

Some of the bluster slipped from Stanley’s voice as he stepped around the chair and followed the president’s directions. “You’ve kept me in the dark about too much, Mr. President. You and Cartwright.”

Jonathan Whitestone knew this moment was on the horizon. Stanley had served his purpose. Now he stood in the way. Whitestone no longer trusted Stanley’s advice and didn’t seek his counsel about his dealings with Israel’s prime minister. The secretary was dead meat and didn’t know how far outside of the inner circle he actually was. This would not be pleasant. But it was necessary. Whitestone already knew who Oliver Stanley’s replacement would be—should the secretary resign.

“There is no way we could remain silent on the tragic consequences of Israel’s raid against Iran’s Central Bank.” Whitestone said the words with a straight face and firm conviction. Lies came easier the longer you sat in this chair.

Stanley stared hard at the president. “You know very well there is more than one way to make a statement like that.”

Whitestone didn’t intend to give in to Stanley’s anger one inch. He caught the secretary’s stare and returned it a hundredfold.

“Baruk would never have taken an action like that on his own,” said Stanley. “We both know you could just have easily confessed our own complicity in the attack on Iran. But that wouldn’t have played so well on the world stage, would it? You are taking a huge risk here, Mr. President. Cartwright is not your foreign policy advisor. I am. Or I should be. But Cartwright has your ear, and unfortunately, you’ve got a mall cop for your advisor.”

Whitestone had run through tougher bullies than the secretary on his journey to the White House, and he wasn’t about to cower in front of Ollie Stanley.

He lowered his head and looked over the top of his reading glasses. “Don’t push your luck, Senator. You wouldn’t be in that nice office of yours if it weren’t for the fifty-five electoral votes I needed from California. Cartwright has more geopolitical savvy in his eyebrow than you have in your whole department. And, Ollie—I would keep your personal thoughts about Iran to yourself. It would help your job security.”

The secretary of state’s back stiffened, and his shoulders rolled back, helping him sit more erect in the chair. His eyes narrowed, and a hardness Whitestone had dealt with in Congress once again returned to his patrician features. Oliver Stanley looked like a stern schoolmaster about to issue a severe punishment. “If it’s my resignation you seek, Mr. President, you may have it. I no longer have your confidence—that has been clear for some time. And you no longer have any need for my state’s electoral votes. I’ll have the letter to you in twenty minutes.” He stood to his feet. “You value your reputation as a man of faith, a man of integrity. But I tell you the truth. No one can hide their true character in this office. What you do will find you out.”

Stanley extended his right hand. Whitestone ignored it.

“I don’t envy you that day. Godspeed, Mr. President.” Whitestone wasn’t sure if the words were a blessing, or a curse.

8:00 a.m., New York City

On a weekday, it was a terrorist’s dream—thousands of tightly packed bodies inching along the platforms in the depths of Grand Central Terminal at very predictable times. Each arriving train added to the masses snaking along the platforms, climbing the steps in patient rank-and-file. Over 750 thousand people passed through the ornate terminal each weekday, most in those few hours in the morning and evening when the metropolis filled and emptied with commuting workers.

The platform of track 29 was much less crowded this early on a Saturday, but Connor couldn’t help but wonder what he would do if people started dropping like flies in front of him, some poisonous gas sweeping along the platform in his direction. An attack wasn’t as impossible as he’d once believed. His entire family had endured the threat of the Prophet’s Guard. He still had to purposefully stop himself from shying away from every Middle Eastern–looking man he saw. A shiver ran across his shoulders, and he shook his head.
Get a grip.

He walked up a ramp, through one of a rank of gates, and found himself in the exquisite expanse of the majestic train terminal celebrating its centenary. In the middle of the Tennessee-granite main hall was an octagonal information booth with “the clock” at its apex—the iconic symbol of Grand Central, now worth ten million dollars—and the place where thousands went to meet. Connor crossed the hall with its vaulted, zodiac-designed ceiling, Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse at one end of the concourse and a new Apple store at the other. He made his way through Vanderbilt Hall and out onto 42nd Street. And into the teeth of Manhattan’s frenetic pulse—even on a Saturday.

On his way to meet Stew Manthey at the Collector’s Club on East 35th Street, Connor quick-stepped past the Pershing Square Grille, keeping pace with the human flow, and set off up the hill on Park Avenue. The Collector’s Club, under the direction of Dr. Richard Johnson Sr. until his murder just days earlier, was one of the nation’s most influential stamp-collecting societies. After retiring from the chair of the Antiquities College at Columbia University, Dr. Johnson pursued his second passion. And it was in the vault at the Collector’s Club, secure and climate-controlled, that Abiathar’s scroll rested, along with the mezuzah, which had carried the scroll for over one thousand years.