The Sacred Blood (27 page)
Authors: Michael Byrnes
“But you believe in Jesus, don’t you? The stories . . . the miracles?” She stared at him for a good five seconds. “The sacred writings tell us that by simply laying his hands on the sick, he could make their ailments disappear. The sacred writings tell us that, like you, he sought truth. He too
wanted
to believe. That was how he was given the gift. The question is, how did it find its way to you?”
Could he possibly know about the serum, how it cured her? Even if he’d seen the genetic data, how would he have known what he was looking at? “Why don’t you tell me what the ‘gift’ is, then perhaps I can tell you if I’ve got it.”
Grinning, the rabbi combed his beard with his fingers. “You strike me as a very complicated woman. Intelligent. Brave. Strong. I would venture to guess that you’re wondering if science could ever explain miracles. Am I right?”
“You don’t need to be a scientist to be a cynic.”
He smiled tightly. “I’d like for you to explain something to me. See if your science may provide some insight.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Devora!” he called loudly. He waited for a response.
Seconds later, quick footsteps sounded in the corridor and the rabbi’s wife popped her head into the room.
“Yes,” she quietly replied, eyes cast to the floor.
“Bring Joshua to me.”
“I’m not so sure he’s ready—”
“Don’t question me!” he snapped.
“As you wish.” She immediately acquiesced.
“Most women are not like you, Charlotte.”
She felt her stomach turn.
It didn’t take long before Devora reappeared in the doorway. Charlotte was confused when she didn’t see her guiding the son’s wheelchair into the room. In fact, she hadn’t even heard the wheelchair’s squeaky rubber tires.
The mystery behind the son’s noiseless approach was quickly revealed when the terrified boy walked into the room.
The Temple Mount
The Dome of the Rock was empty as Ghalib—the Waqf ’s Keeper—silently crept barefoot along the ornate blood-red carpeting lining the octagonal inner ambulatory. Beneath the
qubba,
or dome, the Sakhrah—the rock— glowed in ocher light, looking like the stark terrain of a distant moon.
Throughout the shrine, ladders had been erected in and around the cupola, and at key positions along the outer ambulatory. Half a dozen men busily went up and down them, running wire, installing small brackets and hardware.
Ghalib greeted each of them as he strolled by to inspect their progress.
Minutes later, after completing his circle, he paused along the railing and stared at the unique impression on the rock’s surface said to be the hoof mark left behind by the blessed steed, Buraq, as it leapt from the earth to deliver the great Prophet to the heavens.
Ghalib grinned, knowing that soon the angel Israfel—“the Caller”— would be sent to this very spot to sound the trumpet that would commence the Last Judgment—al-Qiyamah. Then the Merciful One would gather all humanity in congregation and place before every man, woman, and child the book of judgment, detailing a lifetime of deeds that would determine each soul’s fate. Upon the Scales of Justice those deeds would then be weighed to foretell the outcome of each soul’s perilous walk along the razor-thin bridge, as-Siraat, across the blazing bowels of hell to the glorious gates of Paradise.
For those whose sins burdened the Scales of Justice, their path across as-Siraat would lead to a fateful end. Into the writhing, fiery pit— Jahannam
—
they would surely plunge. There the black hearts of sinners who shunned Allah would be met by eternal fire and agony beyond comprehension: searing heat that broils flesh, heavy chains whose weight never subsides, putrid drink that never quenches thirst, and rancid, thorny plants that would never sate hunger.
Their torment will be perpetual.
For the righteous, however, the Last Judgment would be a glorious moment when the walk along as-Siraat would deliver them to a place of eternal spiritual redemption: the garden paradise, Jannah
.
There loved ones would reunite in perpetual peace and delight among the angels. Rivers would flow with milk and honey; there’d be goblets of gold, countless pleasures of the flesh, and above all, the countenance of Allah Himself. And those receiving the greatest reward in Paradise would ascend to its highest level—the Gardens of Bliss—to be nearest to Allah.
The soul of the martyr is the most loved by Him.
“Taqwa,”
he reverently whispered. “Fear God.”
Making his way to the shrine’s south side, the Keeper passed beneath a freestanding marble archway and descended the wide marble steps that accessed the natural subterranean hollow beneath the rock called the Well of Souls.
He stepped down onto the ornate Persian carpet covering its flat excavated floor, and the damp air in the spacious cave nipped his bones. A bright floodlight bit the shadows off the chamber’s rocky outcroppings, which curved gently upward from floor to ceiling.
On the far side of the cave, two Arab men worked diligently with hammer and chisel, chipping away stone to install mounting brackets and wiring.
“So what do you think?” he asked the foreman in Arabic. “Will it work?”
The bearded man nodded. “Yes. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Excellent.” He turned his attention to the others. “Brothers, please stop for a moment. Be still.”
The workers ceased activity. Five seconds later, the cave plunged into a perfect silence.
Ghalib closed his eyes, paused his breathing, and listened intently. Beneath the cave, the muffled sounds of digging were unmistakable—chipping, scratching—more prevalent now than yesterday. Ghalib could even sense something new: subtle vibrations tickling his bare feet.
Opening his eyes, he smiled. “Continue,” he told the men. “And may His peace be upon you all.”
The Keeper made his way back to the steps and disappeared up the passage.
At the Israel Museum, Jules struggled to keep stride with Amit as he climbed the steps leading up from the Shrine of the Book gallery. When they angled back across the open courtyard, Amit glanced at the shrine’s white dome, then over to the black monolith rising high opposite it. Each symbolized a combatant in the final battle between good and evil detailed in the Dead Sea Scrolls—the spark that would trigger the Messianic Age. The Sons of Light versus the Sons of Darkness.
“So what did Enoch find out?” Jules asked. This time around, when Amit had placed a call to Enoch in the exhibit hall’s administrative office, he’d mostly listened. So she had no clue what new information Enoch had conveyed. But the alarmed look that had come over Amit was deeply unsettling.
“Early this morning, the rabbi’s jet took him to a private airport north of Cairo—Inshas. He was back in Tel Aviv by the afternoon.”
“Inshas?” Jules suddenly slapped Amit’s arm. “That’s right near old Heliopolis!”
“Exactly. The secret of the hieroglyph revealed.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Enoch didn’t know for sure, only that when he arrived at Tel Aviv, he unloaded a rather large shipping container.”
“Really? What was in it?” She was practically jogging alongside him. “God, slow down, will you?” She tugged at his arm.
“Sorry,” he said, bringing his pace down a notch. “Enoch wasn’t able to find out. Problem is, these diplomats can pretty much come and go as they please,” Amit told her. “Even the Mossad can’t poke around too much with the big guys.” He recalled Enoch’s warning:
Be careful with this guy, He’s a heavy hitter.
“If you ask me, however, I’d say it’s something that would make a nice addition to the Third Temple. Remember in the transcription . . . all of Jesus’s references to the ‘Testimony’?”
“Yes.”
On the main walkway, they doubled back to the museum’s main entrance.
“The Testimony refers to the entirety of the laws God gave to Moses at Sinai.”
“The Ten Commandments?”
“That’s the condensed version, the ‘Testimony for Dummies.’ In Leviticus, God speaks to Moses in the first person and actually provides
six hundred and thirteen
directives, or mitzvoth, that were the road map for the Israelites’ daily living—diet, dress, death, health, marriage, divorce, sexuality, criminal justice, and so forth. It was all part of the covenant that needed to be abided by so that the Israelites could be delivered to the Promised Land.”
“And what does that have to do with the temple?”
“Everything, since two hundred and two of the directives spoke to temple worship. But it gets much deeper than that. You see, the Testimony was transcribed onto stone tablets—including the text paraphrased into the Ten Commandments. And God told Moses to build a vessel to hold them.”
“The Ark of the Covenant?” she said, half smiling.
“Right. And that was what the entire temple model was built upon. So to answer your question, at the very center of the Temple City would reside the Ark.”
Amit opened the door of the visitors’ center and ushered Jules through.
“Oh, come on now,” she scoffed. “You’re not really suggesting that Cohen just went to Egypt to reclaim the lost ark?” During her last excavation in Egypt, she’d heard plenty of wild legends from the locals in Tanis about Menelik—the love child of King Solomon and Sheba—secretly bringing the relic to their hometown. They’d even joked with her that she might uncover it beneath the sands outlying the city. She’d quickly reminded them that Indiana Jones had already beaten her to it.
Raising his eyebrows, Amit clammed up as they ducked inside.
They stopped to bid David farewell.
“By the way,” David began to explain, “some fellow called here looking for you—”
Then, without warning, one of the clear doors facing the parking lot let out a resounding
crack
that made Amit spin round. A tiny hole had punched through it and fractured the glass. Instantly, he dropped, yelling, “Get down!” as a second round zipped past him and struck David in the chest with a
thwump.
The old man gasped and spun back off his chair, crashing onto the tiles behind the bag scanner.
At the same time, Amit tried to grab Jules, but his hands got nothing but air. She was already falling backward, tumbling onto the floor, hands clutching her side. Blood was seeping through her fingers.
“Jules!” Staying low, Amit immediately went and pulled her behind the bag scanner just as another round pinged off the tile, then ricocheted off the bulky machine’s thick metal housing. Peeking out, he could see the white arm cast swinging through the darkness, closing in fast.
David was splayed beside him, blood seeping along the tile grout lines beneath his right armpit. It was spilling out of his chest and over the handle of his holstered Beretta.
***
Outside, taxi drivers scrambled for cover as the gunman sprinted toward the front entrance.
Peering inside the foyer, the assassin could make out the guard’s outstretched arm sticking out from behind the clunky bag scanner. There was a thick swath of blood smeared along the tiles where the woman had fallen. The Israeli archaeologist wasn’t in sight but was certainly pinned down behind the hulking machine.
He deliberated for a moment.
Wait for the target to make a move? Not an option; too much time for the police to respond. The archaeologist had been moving quickly, cleverly shifting from place to place and covering his tracks very effectively. This guy was no amateur.
The assassin had already been sidetracked for a good hour by the Land Rover abandoned in the bus station’s parking garage. Then he was finally provided with tracking coordinates for the archaeologist’s mobile phone. Though the phone had remained powered off, the latest satellite tracing had been able to detect a chip in its battery. But that had required some administrative runarounds. So at this point, prolonging the chase wasn’t an option. He quickly determined that this might be his last opportunity to finish the job.
Keeping his eyes peeled on the foyer, he pushed on the door, but it didn’t budge. He quickly glimpsed the sticker above the thick handle that said pull. He reached for the handle with his broken arm, but the stubs of his fingers poking out beyond the plaster cast weren’t able to grip it.
Cursing, he pinched the gun with three fingers of his left hand and hooked the pinky and ring finger around the handle.
Much to his regret, that’s when the archaeologist sprang up over the scanner, wielding a pistol gripped firmly with both hands.
The shot was loud, the glass exploding out into his face even louder.
Shards ripped into his eyes, but something else had pierced much deeper into the side of his neck. He felt metal nick bone as the round exploded beneath his right ear. And he knew in an instant that it had cut through his spinal cord in the process, because the entire right side of his body shut off immediately—paralyzed. His right leg went out from under him, and he toppled sideways.
Dropping his gun, he clamped his left hand over the spray of blood spurting onto the cement. The archaeologist was standing over him seconds later, pointing the gun in his face, yelling questions that his ears could not register.
The blood gurgled into his throat, choking him. Then his mission came to a most unsuccessful end.
“You all right?” one of the livery guys yelled over, still shielding himself
behind his limo door.
“I’m okay,” Amit said. “But I need an ambulance inside.”
“I’m on it,” the guy said, and pulled his phone from his belt with the speed of a gunslinger.
Then something strange happened.
Another phone came to life, but the ringtone certainly wasn’t Amit’s. It was coming from the assassin’s pocket. Amit crouched over the body. As he pulled out the phone, the guy’s key ring came out along with it.
Without thinking, Amit hit the receive button. He answered abruptly in Hebrew, as he guessed the assassin would. “Yes?”
“We need you back at the Rockefeller immediately.”
Then the connection clicked off.
