The Last Secret Of The Temple (48 page)

'Oh fuck,' repeated Layla.

They moved forward onto the elevator platform again, the generator thudding and growling behind them, their Maglites clasped redundantly in their hands.

'We're never going to find it,' she murmured. 'It's impossible. It'll take days, weeks.'

Ben-Roi said nothing, just ran his eyes back and forth around the cavern. Ten seconds passed, then he held out his torch, pointing.

'No it won't.'

Beneath them, running the length of the cavern from the elevator to the rear wall, was a broad central aisle, the only part of the floor that was reasonably clear of clutter. At its far end, standing alone directly beneath the Nazi flag as though it had deliberately been set apart, was a single large crate, square, about the height of a man.

'That's the one,' he said.

'Yes,' whispered Layla. 'Yes.'

They stared at it, then, picking up the crowbar again, Ben-Roi eased forward the elevator's control lever. There was a loud click, and with a tremble and a judder the wooden platform slowly began to descend, rumbling downwards with a rattle of machinery before jerking to a halt a few centimetres above the cavern floor. They stepped off and started walking, their feet falling soundlessly onto the flat stone, the stacks of crates rising like walls to either side of them, the cavern somehow feeling even more vast and imposing now that they were viewing it from ground level. About halfway along the growl of the generator momentarily faltered, plunging them into darkness for a few seconds before the motor recovered itself and the cavern once more flooded with icy light. They paused, waiting to see if it would happen again, then continued walking, the Nazi flag looming ever larger in front of them, the crate coming ever closer, until eventually they came to a halt a couple of metres in front of it, their breathing fast and uneven, their foreheads glistening with sweat. Ben-Roi held the crowbar out to Layla.

'Lady's privilege.'

She hesitated, noting how dilated his pupils had suddenly become, sensing that whatever he'd been plotting these last few days it was fast approaching its denouement. Then, taking the bar and laying aside her torch, she stepped up to the crate.

'The moment of truth,' she said, forcing a nervous smile across her face.

'Oh yes,' whispered Ben-Roi.

The crate's back left-hand corner was damaged, the wood cracked and splintered, and, going round to it, she worked the bar's head into the gap and began to prise off the lid. It was securely fixed and she had to fight to get it moving. Ben-Roi stood watching her.

'Galia,' he said after a moment.

'Sorry?'

'Her name was Galia.'

She pulled the bar out and moved it a little further along, yanking it down with all her weight.

'Whose name?'

'In my living room. The photograph. Of the woman. You asked who it was. Her name was Galia.'

She looked up at him. What the hell was he talking about?

'Right,' she said.

'My fiancée.'

'Right,' she repeated.

The lid was starting to come now, the nails whining and squeaking as one after the other they were torn from their housings. She moved round to the side of the crate and then the front so that her back was to Ben-Roi, yanking and heaving. Behind her the Israeli had begun flipping his torch from one hand to the other, eyes fixed on the back of her head.

'We were going to get married.'

There were only a couple of nails left now. Beneath the lid she could see a mass of yellow straw.

'Beside the Sea of Galilee,' he said. 'At sunrise. It's beautiful at that time of day.'

Layla threw a glance over her shoulder – why the fuck was he telling her this? – then turned back to the crate.

'What happened?' she asked. 'She ditch you?'

The torch came to rest in Ben-Roi's right hand.

'She got blown up.'

Layla's shoulders tensed.

'A week before the wedding. In Jerusalem. Hagar Square. Al-Mulatham.'

There was a loud shearing sound and the last of the nails gave, the lid levering backwards and dropping to the floor with a clatter. She barely noticed. Oh God, she thought, that's what this is all about. They killed his fucking fiancée. And now . . .

Behind her she could feel Ben-Roi stepping forward, raising a hand. With a furious, desperate burst of energy she swung, lashing out at him with the crowbar, trying to drive him away, protect herself. He was ready for her, ducking the blow and smashing her across the side of the face with the Maglite barrel, sending her sprawling to the floor.

'You have to believe me,' she choked, groggy, confused, feeling his knees pushing into the small of her back as he came down on top of her. 'I'm not . . .'

She felt her knapsack unzipping, his hand swirling around inside it, then his palm slapping beneath her chin and yanking her head back. He was snarling like an animal.

'I wear Manio, you murdering Arab bitch!' he spat. 'You understand? I wear Manio! Now, where the fuck is he? Tell me! Tell me or I'll break your fucking neck!'

In the end the climb up to the mine wasn't quite as bad as Khalifa had expected, although it was bad enough, particularly the last section when the cold really started to bite into his hands and feet. The fact that Ben-Roi and Layla had already forced a path through the drifted snow made the going easier than it would otherwise have been, however, and by stopping every hundred metres or so to light some of the paper he'd brought with him and frantically rubbing his hands over the transient conflagration of maps, fax sheets and log-book pages, he was able, if not exactly to stay warm at least to prevent himself freezing to death.

At the top, at the forest edge, he paused for a moment to get his bearings, the world silent apart from the lurch of his breath and the soft crackling of icy twigs, then moved towards the mine. As he did so, picking his way across the clearing, he became aware of another sound, a sort of vague throbbing grumble, so faint as to be barely audible, but growing stronger the further he went. By the time he reached the mine entrance it had resolved itself into the distant but unmistakable growl of a generator motor.

He stepped into the shaft and stopped, listening. The noise was definitely coming from within, although where exactly he couldn't tell. He craned his head forward, squinting into the murk, but aside from a small section of wall and floor directly in front of him that was dimly visible in the glow from the moon outside, he could see nothing, just velvety, impenetrable blackness. He clicked on his cigarette lighter and, holding it aloft, started shuffling his way along the corridor, the rumble of the generator growing more distinct with every step, the beating of his heart more violent.

He went twenty metres, then halted. There was something ahead, barely discernible, a sort of dim, ghostly haze hovering in the air hard against the tunnel's right-hand wall, like a will-o'-the-wisp. He rubbed his eyes, thinking perhaps he was imagining it, then moved on again, the haze seeming to expand and thicken the closer he came to it until he realized that what he was seeing was not some paranormal apparition but a faint corona of light issuing from an opening in the shaft's right-hand wall. He came up to it and, bending, looked through into the tunnel beyond.

'Allah-u-akhbar!'
he mumbled, taking in the shadowy rows of boxes and crates, the brightly lit cavern at the tunnel's far end.

He clambered through. As he did so he heard what sounded distinctly like a woman's scream. He straightened, listening – yes, there it was again, definitely a scream – then continued to walk. Two metres in he found an open crate packed with rifles. Mauser, the same as he'd used at police training school. He pulled one out, examined it, then banged in an ammunition clip, slipped a spare clip into his pocket and continued on his way, the glow at the end of the tunnel getting ever brighter, the putter of the generator ever louder until eventually, blinking, he emerged onto the broad stone platform on which Layla and Ben-Roi had been standing fifteen minutes earlier.

At the same moment the generator stalled for a second time, the cavern lights blinking and failing so that barely had his eyes had time to take in the high arched ceiling, the mass of boxes and crates, and the giant Nazi flag hanging from the rear wall before everything was suddenly swamped in a giddy tide of blackness. He froze, disorientated, remaining that way for what seemed like an age but was in reality only a few seconds before the motor somehow coughed itself back into life again. As swiftly as it had invaded the cavern, the darkness was driven off by a brilliant burst of light. He crossed to the front of the ledge, dropped to one knee and, raising the rifle, played its muzzle back and forth over the sea of crates beneath.

'Ben-Roi!'

No response.

'Ben-Roi! Are you there?'

Still no response, and he was about to shout a third time when, like a snarling wolf bursting from a thicket, the Israeli's voice suddenly raged upwards from below.

'Khalifa, you stupid cunt! What the fuck are you doing here?'

There was movement about a third of the way down the gallery, and Ben-Roi emerged from between two crates, a Schmeisser sub-machine gun held in one hand, the other clasped around the collar of Layla's jacket. He dragged her out into the middle of the central aisle and yanked her to her knees. There was blood caked around her nose, and a fan of bruising on her upper left cheek, purple, like a birthmark.

'You animal,' Khalifa thought. 'You dirty Jew animal.'

He clicked back the bolt of the rifle and sighted down the barrel.

'Drop the gun, Ben-Roi!'

The Israeli's mouth was twisting this way and that, his eyes wide, bulging and bloodshot. He looked crazy, deranged.

'Listen to me, Khalifa!'

'I was top marksman in my class and I'm aiming right between your eyes,' shouted the Egyptian, finger tightening around the trigger. 'Now, drop the gun.'

'Listen, you fucking idiot!'

'Drop the gun!'

'He's coming! You understand? Al-Mulatham. He's coming here. For the Menorah! She works for him. She fucking works for him.'

In front of him Layla was staring up at Khalifa, her eyes frantic, imploring. She gave a faint shake of the head and mouthed the word
la
– no. Khalifa shifted his weight slightly, trying to keep the rifle steady despite the trembling of his hands.

'I'm not going to tell you again, Ben-Roi. Drop the gun and move away!'

'For fuck's sake, Khalifa,' bellowed the Israeli. 'She admitted it. She works for him. He's coming! He killed Galia and now he's coming here!'

His voice had risen to the point where it was now almost a scream. He's cracked, thought Khalifa. Having some sort of breakdown.

'Just drop the gun and we can talk,' he cried,

'There's no time, you fucking fool! He's coming! Al-Mulatham's coming.'

He seized a handful of Layla's hair, stabbing the gun against the back of her head.

'Tell him!' he cried. 'Tell him what you told me!'

'Leave her, Ben-Roi!'

'Tell him, you bitch!'

'Ben-Roi!'

'How you recruit the bombers! How that whole article was a lie! Tell him, you murdering Arab whore!'

He was shaking her like a rag doll, jerking her head back and forth.

'Please!' she screamed.

Khalifa increased the pressure on the trigger, taking it almost as far back as it would go. He yelled another warning, then, when the Israeli showed no sign of backing off, fired, aiming at the floor just to his left. The bullet pinged off the stone, pinged off the back wall, ricocheted away into the crate stacks. Ben-Roi froze, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps, his eyes blazing insanely. For a brief moment he just stood like that; then, with a snarl of impotent fury, he released Layla's hair and took a step backwards, the machine gun still clutched in his hand. Khalifa jerked back the bolt to engage another bullet. Layla slumped to the floor.

'Thank God,' she coughed, clasping her head, wincing. She took a couple of breaths, then looked up at Khalifa. 'He's working for Har-Zion,' she croaked. 'The Warriors of David. They know about the Menorah. They're following us.'

The Israeli let out an incredulous bark of laughter, eyes flicking wildly from Khalifa to Layla and back to Khalifa again.

'That's bullshit!' he spat. 'She's bluffing you!'

'It's the truth! I've seen them. In Jerusalem, at the airport. He's been feeding them information all along.'

'She's lying, Khalifa! She's fucking lying!'

'He's been playing us all,' she said, stumbling up onto her feet, backing away against a crate. 'You, me, everybody. He's Chayalei David. They're coming for the Lamp. They're going to start a fucking war.'

'Don't believe her!'

'We have to get it out. Before it's too late.'

'You lying Arab . . .'

He took a step towards her, raising the Schmeisser. Khalifa fired off another shot, the bullet again ricocheting around the cavern before disappearing among the box stacks.

'That's the last warning, Ben-Roi!' he shouted, working the bolt. 'Now drop it!'

'You don't know what you're doing!' screamed the Israeli, flecks of spittle bursting from between his lips. 'Please, Khalifa, you have to believe me. I've been watching her, following her. She works for al-Mulatham!'

He was starting to jabber. With a superhuman effort he reined himself in, slowed his delivery.

'Listen,' he said, drawing in great gulps of breath, his voice straining with the effort of holding itself steady, 'she wrote an article. A year ago. Just after Galia died. An interview, with al-Mulatham. She said he was wearing aftershave – Manio. Said she recognized it. But I wear Manio, Khalifa, and she didn't recognize it. I wear Manio and she had to ask me what aftershave I was wearing. She didn't know. She didn't fucking know!'

Khalifa flicked a bemused glance down at Layla, who raised her eyebrows as if to say 'I don't understand either.' Ben-Roi caught the exchange, jerked his head in frustration.

'For God's sake, you must see!' he cried. 'It was fiction. She made it up. The aftershave, the meeting, the whole fucking article. She invented it. To put people off the trail. To protect the real al-Mulatham. To protect her master.'