The Sacred Bones (28 page)

"Any possibility this could be a fake?"

Bersei exhaled. "It would have to be one hell of a hoax, but you never know."

J
ERUSALEM

By the time Graham Barton returned to his second-floor rental unit in a luxury high-rise conveniently located on Jabotinsky Street in modern Jerusalem, it was already eight-thirty in the evening. After all that had happened today, he was looking forward to a full glass of cabernet sauvignon, a call to his wife to let her know that he was okay, and a long night's rest.

The bombing at the Great Synagogue had derailed the entire day's plans. After confirming what had happened, Razak had immediately left to consult with the Waqf on how to handle the incident. Mostly everyone else in Jerusalem had spent the day glued to a television, awaiting updates on the blast. So Barton spent the remainder of the afternoon at the Wohl, catching up on the work he had been neglecting. It took everything in his ethical arsenal to decline a six p.m. invite from Rachel to join her and a friend for drinks. The truth was that he would have loved the diversion.

All day, images of Templar crosses flitted through his thoughts like taunting furies, trying to convey a message and reconstruct a miraculous story that beckoned to be unlocked. Having touched the bones of Christ's benefactor, he was agonizing over the possibilities of what the missing ossuary might have contained and who could have possibly known how to find it.

Now, seeing the violence that was unraveling this city, he felt obligated to come up with real answers that might help the situation. But after the harrowing experience he and Razak had endured in Gaza, he was wondering if the Israelis knew more than they were letting on. He was also concerned that the gunmen might still be anxious to find him and Razak.
Who were they working for?
he wondered.

The truth was that so far, he had come up with nothing meaningful for the investigation-- at least as far as the authorities would be concerned. As promised, he had been making inquiries to his international contacts in the antiquities markets. But nothing suspicious had yet turned up.

Surely Topol and Teleksen would soon be reaching out to him to turn up the pressure.

As he inserted his key into the front door lock, he barely registered three figures coming up the stairwell. He leaned back to get a better view. That's when Topol and two burly, uniformed officers rounded the corner and came closer in rigid strides.

Topol gave him a cursory nod. "Good evening Mr. Barton."

A sense of foreboding swept over the Englishman. Sooner than anticipated, an evening visit from policemen-- and to his residence. Nothing good could come of that, he thought. He eyed their holstered handguns. Coming from the UK, the sight of so many weapons openly paraded around was unnerving. "Good evening to you, commander."

"I'm glad you're here." Topol's dark eyes were hard, unblinking. "It will make our visit more meaningful."

Heart drumming in his chest, Barton replied, "Why would that be?"

"Please, let's talk inside." The major general motioned to the door.

Hesitantly, Barton made his way into the apartment and switched on the lights, the policemen crowding in behind him.

The apartment that had been secured by the IAA as part of his generous retainer had a roomy reception area where he invited the guests to sit. Only Topol accepted while his two cronies stood at either side of the door like bookends.

Topol got right to the point. "I've been asked to search your residence and I'd like your cooperation."

Stupefied, Barton was unsure how to respond. "What? Why would you want to do that?"

"I'd rather not get into that just yet. I have secured proper authorization." He flashed an official looking document and handed it to Barton. "You can read this while we proceed." It was in Hebrew, of course. Topol nodded to the two bookends and they disappeared into the next room.

"Can I please have everything from your pockets?"

"What is this? Am I am being arrested?" Barton hadn't expected that the call to his wife would be a request for her legal representation. He didn't have a clue as to his civil rights in this country. Should he protest?

"For now, we're just talking," Topol explained. "If you'd feel more comfortable at the station, we can go there now."

Barton nodded compliantly.

"I received a very disturbing phone call from the Waqf."

"Oh?"

"Your pockets, please," Topol insisted, pointing to the table.

One way or another, the major would have his way, Barton realized. Trying not to look alarmed, he began emptying the contents of his pockets onto the table: a wallet, UK passport, keys to the Wohl, bus tickets.

"It seems some things have gone missing," Topol went on.

The sounds coming from the rear of the apartment were less than subtle-- drawers being opened, furniture being moved around. Signs that nothing was safe from Topol's rigorous inspection.

With enormous reservations, Barton dipped into his breast pocket and withdrew the bronze cylinder, certain it would ignite the policeman's curiosity. Lastly came the plastic sealed vellum and its accompanying folded transcription. Setting it down on the table, he tried to gauge Topol's expression.

Eyebrows raised, the major's head cocked slightly to one side-- like a curious dog-- as he eyed the vellum's strange text, but for now, he let it go. "Since the inception of this investigation, I've had suspicions that an insider could have helped organize this theft. The head of the Waqf expressed similar concerns. And after hearing what he had to say earlier today, I must admit I'm inclined to agree with his assertions." Topol recalled his late-night discussion with Teleksen the previous evening. A quick solution was essential to prevent more bloodshed.

Barton's shoulders sank. "I'm not sure I understand what you're implying."

"The theft required extremely sophisticated movements of weapons and explosives." The policemen sneered. "Not to mention skilled manpower. Only someone with high-level clearance could have handled such transactions. Someone with access to shipping. Someone extremely well-versed in Temple Mount's history. And someone who knew precisely what treasures lay buried in that vault. The Waqf suggests that person is you."

Barton felt suffocated. "You must be joking. I know this bombing has escalated the need for concise action, but this is-- "

Topol's hand cut the air. "An Israeli helicopter and two pilots are still missing..."

Barton saw the major's eyes shift down when he said this. Could he have known about the meeting in Gaza? Did he know about the fisherman and the recovered debris from the Black Hawk?

"Sources indicate these pilots may have been involved in the theft...helped make it all happen," Topol elaborated. "Perhaps someone on the inside approached them? Gave these people some incentive."

Barton remained steadfast. "You know there's no way I'm involved in this."

The major was stonefaced. "I've been told you've made quite a name for yourself procuring rare antiquities for European clients."

"Museums," the archaeologist clarified.

"Quite a lucrative service you provide. Isn't that right?"

Barton wasn't about to get into this discussion, not without a lawyer present.

"Given the nature of your work with the IAA, you've also been given high-level clearance in the Old City. You've been moving equipment in and out at will...many times without inspection."

"How could I have brought explosives into the city?" Graham Barton's tone was stronger now. "There are detectors all over the place."

"Apparently quite easily. Our chemists analyzed the residue of the plastic explosive. Seems it was missing the chemical marker that would allow it to be detected-- dimethyl dinitrobutane. You see, Mr. Barton...those explosives were military grade. Perhaps provided to you by our missing pilots."

One of the officers stormed into the room to momentarily break the tension. He was hauling something in a large plastic sheath.

Barton was confused as he warily eyed the package. What the hell was in the bag? It looked like something very substantial.

Still sitting, Topol removed the plastic and read aloud the model name on the black motor housing-- Flex BHI 822 VR. "A European manufacturer, I see." Topol ran his finger over the long hollow drum attached to its chuck. Its circular tip was razor sharp. "A coring drill. This part of your toolbox?"

Shortly following the theft, when Topol's forensic crime team initially had analyzed the blast area, they'd found the drill abandoned on the floor. No prints. That morning, Topol had ensured all documentation concerning it had been struck from records.

The archaeologist's complexion turned gray. "I've never seen that thing before in my life," he said weakly. Voices were starting to sound hazy, as if everything was happening in slow motion. Could this really be happening?

"And what do you have here?" Topol leaned over and snatched the vellum off the table, eyeing it curiously. "Seems to be an ancient document." He unfolded the sheet of paper containing the photocopy and accompanying transcription. "I'm no biblical scholar Mr. Barton, but this looks to me like something that implies a burial chamber hidden beneath Mount Moriah. And if I'm not mistaken, wasn't Joseph of Arimathea somehow connected to Jesus Christ? Isn't he the subject of legends about the Holy Grail-- a priceless relic for those who believe?"

There was a sarcastic tone to Topol's voice that only reaffirmed his suspicion that somehow, he already knew about the scroll. Perspiration started to bead on his forehead. The walls were closing in.

"You were given access to the crime scene and in return you tampered with key evidence-- scratching inscriptions from the wall, removing the remaining ossuaries."

"What?" Barton was aghast. "Are you completely out of your mind?"

"You heard me. The Waqf insists that the remaining nine ossuaries have mysteriously vanished. It seems that the thief is still among us."

That the ossuaries had suddenly vanished was truly disturbing, but something about the major's first accusation struck even harder. "Scratching inscriptions from the wall? What does that mean?"

Topol was prepared for this. From his jacket, he produced a picture and handed it to Barton. "See for yourself. That picture was taken by my forensic team a day before you arrived."

Stunned, Barton saw that the clearly framed image was the stone tablet affixed to the crypt wall. Nine names were listed...and one perfectly clear relief depicting a dolphin intertwined around a trident. He had seen this symbol before, and knew its origin well. Its implications shook him to the core. But he couldn't deal with that now; he needed to save himself first. "Being framed is not what I had in mind when I signed up for this project."

Topol dodged that comment. The second officer returned and he motioned them toward Barton.

P
ARIS
, F
RANCE

M
ARCH
18, 1314

Hands bound behind his back, Jacques DeMolay was escorted by guards up the steps of the wooden scaffold in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. Glancing up at what had once seemed a transcendentally grand work of architecture, DeMolay saw only the stone skeleton of a mammoth demon-- the flying buttresses were giant ribs, the twin spires horns, the fiery rose window an enormous evil eye. He heard the sound of the River Seine as it looped around Ile de la Cite, carving the tiny island away from the rest of Paris as if it were a cancer.

Gazing down to the cathedral's front steps, he scanned the assembled papal prelature seated there and tried to find Clement's ugly face. Having failed miserably in his appeal to King Philip to reinstate the Order, the damned traitor did not have the nerve or decency to make an appearance. Three cardinals sat center stage to officiate and act the role of executioners.

A large crowd had gathered to watch the impromptu trial, eager to lay eyes on a fallen hero about to meet a tragic end. DeMolay felt like an actor, alone on an ominous stage, until moments later, three other Templar dignitaries were pushed up the wooden stairs and herded beside him.

With pride, Jacques DeMolay glanced over to them: Geoffroy DeCharnay, Hugues DePairaud, and Geoffroy DeGonneville-- all honorable men who had served the Order nobly. Unfortunately, they too had been in France almost seven years earlier when King Philip had ordered his armies to secretly round up the Templars.

Minutes later, the farce began with fiery testimonies from sharp-tongued priests inciting the crowd with their farrago of accusations and false charges levied against the Knights Templar. Particular emphasis was paid to lurid accounts of homosexuality and devil worship, since those fabrications played well with the crowd's emotions. Then, as DeMolay listened in utter amazement, the priest read a document to the crowd that itemized DeMolay's signed confessions to the charges-- a document he had never seen before.

The lies seared DeMolay's ears like burning embers, but he remained defiant, occasionally glancing up at the stone gargoyles leering down from Notre Dame's facade.

Silence fell abruptly over the scene when one cardinal stood, pointed at the Grand Master, and yelled: "And you Jacques DeMolay, the very evil who leads this ungodly Order, what say you to the charges presented herewith? Do you once and for all profess your guilt by affirming that these confessions are your true testament so that you may reclaim your dignity in the presence of God?"

DeMolay eyed the cardinal curiously, amazed that he had once so loyally served men like this. So many Templars had died in the name of Christ in the Holy Land. He felt like shouting out the lies that these sanctimonious bastards had propagated through the centuries to undermine that sacrifice. But no one would ever believe the amazing things he had learned and the equally amazing relics still hidden beneath the site of Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem that attested to those truths. Without proof, he would merely tarnish his reputation further and play into the hands of his executioners. DeMolay took solace in knowing that some day the truth would be discovered...
and woe to all who tried to deny it,
he thought. He knew that these men were determined to destroy him. Whether it happened today, or after more years slowly rotting to death in some vile prison cell, he was doomed-- the target for the king's malicious scheme.