The Illumination (36 page)

She didn't flinch. But he did, his body jackknifing sideways as D'Amato shot him at close range from the doorway of a toilet stall.

Blood sprayed the room. The sink, the mirror, the stalls.

And the two of them.

Natalie met D'Amato's eyes. Slowly, she touched the
hamsa
at her throat.

It was over.

 

 

Patrick Dunleavy, presidential assistant for National Security Affairs, rose from the gray leather couch and extended his hand first to Natalie and then to D'Amato.

“Everything we've discussed here, as we agreed, remains privileged information,” he said, in his flat West Point baritone. His deep-set hazel eyes were like thumbtacks in his fleshy face as they pinned each of them in turn. “Warrick's death will go down on record as accidental, in the line of duty. I can guarantee you, however, that our investigation into how he could have been a member of the Sons of Babylon without our knowledge will continue.”

“Yeah. So will mine,” D'Amato said tightly.

For a moment Natalie wondered if Dunleavy was going to revisit his displeasure—and the president's—that the
tzohar
was now out of their country's reach. She braced herself for a final politely worded reprimand, but he only glowered at them with a chilly air of dismissal as he wished them a safe journey back to the States.

Stepping out of the consulate into an unexpected light rain, Natalie felt suddenly refreshed and relieved that she was finally free to go home. The past two days had been a blur of endless interrogations, interviews, and debriefings with Israeli and U.S. officials alike.

Still, much of what had transpired remained a mystery to her. A mystery it would take time to puzzle through and eventually comprehend.

But she would never understand how Elliott Warrick, an assistant undersecretary in the Defense Department, one of the principal advisers to President Garrett on defense matters, had managed to work undetected with a clandestine fringe church group—all while feeding false leads to the NSU during their pursuit of the
tzohar.
Nor how the Mossad had never discovered the traitor in their midst.

One of the only good things to come of all this was that the Guardians of the Khalifah had been crippled for the time being. Hasan Sabouri and several of their leaders were dead, and Farshid Sabouri was in custody, along with four of the six would-be bombers.

Also, several members of Shomrei Kotel had been arrested and charged with attempted theft and kidnapping.

At least this nightmare hadn't prevented the chance for peace. Owen Garrett, Ze'ev Rachmiel, Mu'aayyad bin Khoury, and Gunther Ullmann had convened at the Knesset even as Israeli Intelligence had raced to find and dismantle the bombs. In the presence of a select group of dignitaries and members of the press corps, they'd signed the historic peace accord. And later that evening, after power had been restored, they'd all gone before the television cameras to shake hands in front of the world.

As she and D'Amato headed for the cab waiting for them on Nablus, she suddenly felt hungry for the first time in days.

“El Gaucho,” she said suddenly, as D'Amato opened the cab door.

“Come again?” For a moment he looked puzzled. Then his face lit with an appreciative grin.

“On Rivlin Street—the Argentinian Grill.”

“If it's still there.”

They'd been sliding across the worn backseat cushions, and the driver had overheard.

“Twenty-two Rivlin Street. It's still here,” he said gruffly.

“Go for it.” Leaning back against the warm seat, D'Amato winced as the cabbie jerked out into traffic. For some reason,
despite today's dampness and rain, he was finding it easier than usual to ignore his ever-present pain. Possibly because he was just glad—again—to be alive.

Natalie recognized the grimace that flitted across his face and was gone. If not for D'Amato's instincts from the very beginning, so much would have been different. Aunt Leonora might have had to bury two nieces within a week. She glanced at him as he stared out the rain-speckled window and was surprised by the surge of warmth she felt.

“After all you've done for me,” she said lightly, “the least I can do is buy you dinner.”

“I don't know about that. You look a helluva lot worse than I do.”

“Thanks a lot.”

D'Amato chuckled. The fact was, her purple-and-red bruises were yellowing now, and he knew he wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know. “Give it up, Landau. Dinner's on me.”

She laughed. He'd never seen her laugh before. But it suddenly occurred to him that he'd like to see her laugh again.

The beat of the windshield wipers slowed as the driver bounced down an impossibly narrow street. The rain was diminishing to a fine silvery mist, casting an added sheen on the Old City of Jerusalem as it slid past their window. The holy city was jammed as always with Jews, Muslims, and Christians intermingled on the ancient pathways, most of them now buoyed with hope for a lasting peace.

Peace.

Natalie was touching her fingers to the
hamsa
at her throat. The
tzohar,
the unimaginable treasure her sister had sent her, was safely ensconced now in the IAA's National Treasures Storerooms in Bet Shemesh, halfway between here and Tel Aviv. It had been authenticated at the IAA soon after she'd handed it over to the director of the Antiquities Robbery Prevention Unit, along with the pouch and the cracked pendant.

“Dana knows,” D'Amato said quietly.

Natalie met his gaze, feeling her shoulders relax for the first time in days.

“I know. I was just thinking the same thing.”

 

“I thank you for welcoming my family here. It is an honor to follow in the footsteps of my father.” Taleb Zayadi was a short man with a stocky body and a thick black mustache. His voice was low and somber as he addressed the director of the storerooms.

Then his gaze drifted down once more to the swath of royal blue velvet cushioning the shallow case that sat on the table between them. He peered again at the three items arrayed upon it—the cracked gold pendant adorned with the jeweled eyes, its matching leather pouch, and the shimmering crystal gem that long had been concealed within them both.

“My father, Nejeeb, was murdered on the night this was stolen from our museum,” Taleb said softly, sweeping his hand through the aura of light radiating from the
tzohar.
“He never knew the nature of what our family had guarded for so many generations.”

“And that they will continue to guard,” the director said warmly. “Now the Zayadis are among the handful on earth who know for certain of the
tzohar
's existence—of its power—and of the imperative need to keep it safeguarded. It's fitting that you succeed your father in protecting it, Taleb, since the Zayadi family has long served with such honor.”

The director replaced the velvet-draped case inside one of
the lead-lined vaults on the wall, and sealed it. The room was suddenly much dimmer. Taleb followed him from the rectangular humidity- and temperature-controlled storeroom. It was Taleb who locked the door with the combination he'd just memorized.

They took seats around a small table in the outer office where a tray had been placed, set with glasses of steaming tea and small dishes of honey, sugar, and lemon.

Taleb bit a cube of sugar between his front teeth and sipped his tea through it as the director described the routine of the storerooms, the passwords and watchwords, and reviewed with him the list of who had clearance to access the steel-reinforced chamber they'd just left.

“We'll be studying the treasure,” he explained, setting down his glass. “Analyzing its properties. Working to harness its energy in ways that will benefit mankind.”

Taleb listened and nodded, approving of what he heard. But all the while his thoughts were centered on the ancient holy treasure locked securely in the next room.

Until his son was called to take his place, he would guard it—and well. With his life, if need be. As his father had.

It was what they did. They were a family of caretakers.

 

Read on for an excerpt from

THE BOOK OF NAMES

 

by Jill Gregory and Karen Tintori

 

Available from St. Martin's Paperbacks

 

PROLOGUE

 

January 7, 1986
Saqqara, Egypt

 

Two men shoveled the sand under cover of darkness. Their only light in the cave was a lantern set beside their packs. This series of caves and tombs, fifteen miles from Cairo, was a treasure trove of artifacts and antiquities. For three thousand years, Saqqara, the City of the Dead, had been the burial place of kings and commoners—archaeologists might spend several lifetimes and never discover all of its secrets. And neither would the tomb robbers.

Sir Rodney Davis, knighted for discovering the temple of Akhenaton and its dazzling treasures, felt the familiar tug of excitement. They were close. He knew it. He could almost feel the crisp papyri in his hands.

The Book of Names. Part of it. All of it. He didn't know. He only knew that it was here. It had to be here.

The same tingle of exhilaration had coursed through him on the hill of Ketef Hinnom in Israel the night he unearthed the gold scepter of King Solomon. Topped by a thumb-sized pomegranate carved of ivory and inscribed in tiny Hebrew script, it was the first artifact found intact to link the biblical king of the tenth century
B.C
. to the fortifications recently discovered there. But unearthing the Book of Names would dwarf that and every other discovery. It would ensure his place in history.

He trusted his instincts. They were like a divining rod pulling
him toward matchless treasure. And tonight, in the sands where ancient kings had walked, Sir Rodney dug on, fueled by the lust of discovery, the thrill of uncovering what no one had seen since the days of angels and chariots.

Beside him, Raoul threw aside his shovel and reached for his water canteen. He drank deeply.

“Take a break, Raoul. You started an hour before me.”

“You're the one who should rest, sir. They've been here all these millennia, they'll wait for us another three or four hours.”

Sir Rodney paused and glanced over at the man who had been his loyal assistant for nearly a dozen years. How old had Raoul LaDouceur been when he'd started? Sixteen, seventeen? He was the most tireless worker Sir Rodney had ever seen. A reserved, dignified young man distinguished by his olive Mediterranean coloring and deep-set eyes—one the color of sapphires, the other the deep mahogany of Turkish coffee beans.

“I've been waiting half my life for this discovery, my friend. What is an additional hour's work at this point?” He shoveled another load of sand from the cave floor. Raoul watched in silence for a moment, then recapped his canteen and took up his own shovel.

They worked for more than an hour, the stillness broken only by the sound of their own labored breathing and the soft thud of shovel against sand. Suddenly, a chinking sound froze Sir Rodney's hand. He dropped to his knees, his weariness forgotten, and began to brush the sand aside with his long, calloused fingers. Raoul knelt beside him, shared excitement racing through his veins.

“The lantern, Raoul,” Sir Rodney said softly as his hands rounded the curved sides of the clay vessel embedded in the sand. With small, careful rocking motions, he freed it.

Behind him Raoul lowered the lantern, the light revealing a roll of parchment tucked within the vessel's mouth.

“Good God, this could be it.” Sir Rodney's hand actually trembled as he drew the papyri from their hiding place.

Raoul rushed to unroll the tarp and stood back while his mentor unrolled the yellowed sheaves across it. Both of them
recognized the early Hebrew script and knew what they had found.

Sir Rodney bent closer, peering at the minute letters, his heart racing. The greatest find of his career was here beneath his fingertips.

“By God, Raoul, this could change the world.”

“Indeed, sir. It certainly could.”

Raoul set the lantern down at the edge of the canvas. He stepped back, one hand slipping into his pocket. Silently, he withdrew the coiled length of wire. His hands were steady as he snared Sir Rodney's neck in the garrote. The archaeologist couldn't even squeak.

It was over in a flash. With one movement, Raoul yanked him away from the precious parchments and snapped his neck.

The old man was right as usual, he mused as he gathered up the papyri. This find would change the world.

Raoul was too elated by his victory to notice the amber gemstone nestled at the bottom of the vessel left behind.

Carved upon it were three Hebrew letters.