The Last Judgment (35 page)

This was the city where the Messiah would declare, in His dying breath,
“It is finished.”

And then, just a short walk away from that place of execution, in a rich man's tomb carved into the Jerusalem stone—all of the forces of nature and the laws of physics and biology notwithstanding—the Messiah would sit up from bodily death and would shed His graveclothes…carefully folding His head covering and placing it with immaculate calm in one corner of the empty tomb. And then, clothed with a power never before witnessed, He would walk out into the daylight.

And within the lifetime of the Messiah's followers, the massive walls and towering columns of the Herodian Temple would be toppled and ground into shards—just as the Messiah had predicted. And it would later, all of it, be buried under the ruin of the ages and beneath the weight of empires.

And now, from his hotel window, as Will Chambers viewed the Temple Mount plateau—the epicenter of all of that astonishing history—he beheld the simple fact of it all.

The Muslim structures on the Mount, the last impediment to the reconstruction of a new Jewish Temple, had been erased by an act of swift and terrible violence—and within his seeing. Within his lifetime.

In the same fashion as He had foretold the destruction of the former one, Jesus, the Messiah, had also predicted the ultimate rise of that last Temple—before the great and terrible time. Before the end of days.

Len Redgrove, it seemed to Will, might have been correct. After all, what is there left to do but to believe, and act upon that belief, when the veil of the present is suddenly ripped away and there—standing before you—is the future, come to pass?

For Will, the time of decision was fast approaching. It was nearly here. And it was personal to him. It was a question…not just about the defense of his client. Or winning or losing. Or even the massive, almost incomprehensible political implications of the bombing of the Temple Mount. It was a matter, at once both smaller and yet larger than all of that. And it was a question for Will Chambers—seemingly for him alone.

What did he truly believe?

And what risks,
now,
was he willing to take?

History. Geopolitics. World economy. International justice. And most importantly of all, the written record of God, the King of the universe. How could he doubt that they were all converging—here, now—amid the palm trees, white limestone buildings, and crowded streets of this ancient city?

Even Jack Hornby, a skeptical news reporter with all the finesse of a rusty razor blade, had been right in something too. Back there in a restaurant in Washington, DC, Hornby's little hand-drawn picture had showed it—all those arrows pointing to the circle, and right in the middle of the circle, Will Chambers.

All of that was no accident. No mere coincidence. To believe that, Will would have to believe in a random, meaningless universe where all of history was ultimately governed by chaos—colliding planets, colliding particles, and mythical explanations of origins. Will had moved away from such agnosticism more than a decade ago.

No. He was in the middle of that circle in Hornby's diagram for a reason. And alone in his hotel room, in the late hours of the night, he had to believe he been divinely called for this. He had been drawn, wooed, protected, and led to that very time and place.

So Will Chambers walked slowly over to the desk. He looked down at his notes. And at the list of his potential witnesses.

He took his pen. And he wrote the name of just one more witness.

When he had finished, he took a moment to study the name he had just written.

Then he set his alarm for two hours hence and collapsed into bed.

52

“W
ILL…THAT YOU
, W
ILL BOY?
Man…what time is it?”

Tiny Heftland's voice was groggy at the other end of the phone.

“Sorry,” Will said. “I know it's got to be about two-thirty in the morning. I do apologize…”

“So…hey…what's up, man? You still over in Jerusalem?”

“Yes. Listen. An urgent scheduling thing—”

“Yeah…sure. What's the deal, lawyer boy?”

“I want you back over here.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can get here.”

Tiny was wide awake now.

“You mean, right away? Instantly? Like, you know, ‘Beam me up Scotty'?”

“You can get out of your pajamas first.”

“Gee, thanks. Can you tell me what I'm going to be doing over there? It'd be kinda nice to know. If it wouldn't be too much trouble…”

“Tiny, you'll probably be causing an international incident.”

“Sweet. I can always count on you to keep life interesting for me.”

“Oh—and Tiny…remember that brown delivery-man outfit you wore when you worked with me on the
Rogers v. Wilmington Corporation
case—gee, that was a long time ago.”

“Sure—believe it or not. I still have it in my closet somewhere.”

“You sure it still fits?”

“Ouch,” Tiny groaned. “You know the male ego is more fragile than fine crystal—didn't you know that?”

“Look, just get over here as soon as you can. Let me know where you're staying. Better yet, stay here in the same hotel where I'm staying. Got the info?”

“Yeah, yeah. In my file somewhere. I'll give you my flight details when I get them.”

Before signing off with an “adiós, amigo,” Tiny assured Will he would post his best man on security detail to look after Fiona and Andy.

Will looked at his watch—it was breakfast time. He needed to get out of the room, so he walked downstairs with his notepad and his draft of his discovery disclosures. He was confident he could easily make the court-imposed deadline of day-end. The only question was the completeness of the document. He didn't want to give the Palestinian prosecutor any reason to cry surprise if he later introduced some critical but undisclosed evidence.

The café on the first floor of the hotel was lined with windows to the outside and was cheerful and bright. He ordered a light breakfast.

After finishing, he strolled past the front desk and asked for messages. The clerk gave him one. A call had come in from Mike Michalany the night before, but for some reason he had not gotten it.

Back in his room, Will continued typing up his pretrial statement.

When it was five-thirty U.S. time, he decided to return Michalany's call. He knew he was an early riser and hoped he would be up. He was right.

“I thought you might be interested in this tidbit…” Michalany said.

“I'm at the point where even a little tidbit could be great news,” Will replied.

“Okay. Well, I've been doing some snooping around, jawing with some of my old pals in the Bureau. I talked to someone I know in the international unit—terrorism, that stuff. I asked whether they'd heard anything interesting on the bombing.”

“And?”

“Well, they said a couple of our agents went over to Jerusalem to talk it over with some of the top Mossad people. I know you realize—because you're the one that first told me—that Israeli intelligence did a quick analysis of the computer detonation devices in the Knights' vehicles. Then they had to turn all the evidence over to the Palestinians. So…our guys heard there was some kind of feature found in both computer hard drives.”

“Okay,” Will said, “you said a feature common to both computers, in both vehicles. What kind of feature?”

“They didn't exactly call it that. They called it…an
anomaly
. That's the word Mossad used. An anomaly.”

“Can you tell me anything else? Anything?”

“Sorry. I'm just giving you what I got. I just heard this the other day. But I assume you would like me to follow up on this?”

“Absolutely. Look, I'm making my pretrial disclosures today. Anything more you find out—get it to me immediately.”

Suddenly recalling something, Will asked Michalany to hold. He dashed to the other side of the room and began fishing through stacks of papers and files.

Then he found it—the manila envelope that had been shoved under his door with the magazine article.

“Speaking of computers,” Will said, back at the phone, “I'm not sure this has anything to do with anything. But—what do you know about ‘quantum encryption'?”

“Not much. I've got computer guys in my company that handle that stuff. I know they think it's the most refined method to ensure computer security. But like I always say, there isn't a code out there that eventually can't be broken. Why?”

“I'm not sure. But, do me a favor will you?”

“Sure.”

“Give me the name of your best computer guy. I'd like to list him as a potential witness. Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case…in case we need some computer expertise at trial.”

“Will, I've worked on several cases with you. But I've got to say, I've never known you to be so vague…maybe ‘mysterious' is a better word. Though we former FBI guys don't really like that word…” Michalany chuckled. But he agreed to talk to the computer guru at his security company and obtain his approval for Will to name him as a witness. He promised to e-mail it within the hour.

Fifty minutes later, Will received an e-mail with the name and address of Kenneth Waters, a PhD in computer-science forensics.

Will was closing in on his deadline. He decided to call Tiny back.

“Tiny, one last question.”

“I'm packing. I've already called the travel agent. What's the deal, man?”

“The other Mossad agent who had the Reichstad research center in Maryland under surveillance…you mentioned there was a second guy.”

“Yeah…Nathan somebody…”

“No. He was the fellow I knew—the one you said was killed. I'm talking about the other agent. Nathan's partner. The one you thought might still be around.”

“Yeah. Okay. Well, it's like this…I'm not always the most organized guy. I wish I'd known that you might need it. Why didn't you ask me to nail that down when I first brought it up?”

“Sorry. But Tiny, this is important. Please see if you can dig up the other guy's name, okay? Then call me on my cell.”

“You've got international roaming?”

“Yes.”

“Nice.”

“I'll be heading over to the court building within the next hour and a half. If you can locate the name, call me.”

After that, on a hunch, Will decided to call Jack Hornby. His national desk editor said he was out on an assignment.

Will called his cell phone and left a message. Then Will finished his pretrial disclosure statement for the tribunal. He left a blank line at the end of his list of witnesses, hoping to fill it in when Tiny called back. Next to the blank line he had typed, “Agent for the Israel Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks—a.k.a. the Mossad.”

On his way to the Orient House, he called Mira Ashwan. She was in Jerusalem. He asked that she meet him at the tribunal building.

By the time Will arrived at the courthouse, it was four-forty-three in the afternoon. His phone rang as he was getting out of the taxi.

It was Jack Hornby calling back.

“Sorry, Jack,” Will said hurriedly, “but I'm racing to the Palestinian Tribunal to file some papers in my case. Can't really talk.”

“Just calling you back.”

Will stopped about a hundred feet before the front security gate. He looked at his watch. It was four-forty-four.

“In twenty words or less,” Will rapped out, “have you dug up any more information that you think might help me out in the Temple Mount bombing?”

“Not really. I'm trying to wrap up this piece on Mullburn—but every time I get close to finishing it he does something more outrageous. I can't seem to put this article to bed. I think I'm going to have to head over there and do some digging for myself. About his efforts at a Middle East peace plan. Really. Can you believe the chutzpah of that guy? And the whole world seems to be buying it.”

“Of course they are,” Will said. “But if you don't have anything specific…”

“Not really. I'm on my way to the State Department right now. I'll look you up in Jerusalem…oh, and I wanted to tell you—I'd like my next feature article to be on Caleb Marlowe, U.S. special operations warrior, terrorist hunter, former client of Will Chambers, presumed dead, officially killed in action—”

“Not dead,” Will said, panting a little as he reached the security gate.

“See, I thought there might be a story there. How do you know—”

“Just a strong hunch,” Will bulleted out, hearing the click of his call-waiting. He told Jack he had to go, then took the call. It was Tiny.