The Sacred Bones (5 page)

Some Muslims had clung to the belief that a demon called the
Jin
had deliberately filled this underground room with rubble to deter entrance. And now that its restoration was nearing completion, Razak couldn't help but feel a malevolent presence still lurked here in the shadows.

Approaching the aperture, he ran his fingers along its jagged edge, feeling a gummy residue. He peered into the secret chamber beyond where the rubble was minimal.

Farouq appeared beside him holding a piece of masonry and handed it to Razak. "See this?" He indicated a smooth arc that ran along one edge of the brick. "The Israelis found a drill the thieves left behind, used to make cores that were then packed with explosive."

Razak examined the brick. "How could explosives be smuggled into the heart of Jerusalem, past all the checkpoints?"

"Explosives
and
guns. These people were smart." Farouq leaned through the hole and peered into the chamber. "I didn't want to mention it in front of the others, but this seems to suggest that someone on the inside helped them. Perhaps the Jews did have something to do with this."

Razak wasn't so sure. "You said the police have already seen this?"

"The police and the IDF's intelligence people. Studied it for two solid days following the theft."

Their thoroughness didn't surprise Razak.

"We've been awaiting a full report," Farouq added. "It has yet to come."

Both men climbed through the hole into the space beyond.

Additional pole lights illuminated the inner chamber clearly carved from Mount Moriah's soft limestone bedrock with thick earthen pillars supporting its rocky ceiling. The walls were bare of any ornamentation. Here the stagnant air still smelled of explosives.

Razak turned to face the Keeper. "Did you know about this chamber before?"

"Absolutely not. Our excavations were contained within the mosque itself. Any unauthorized digging would have been strictly forbidden."

Farouq's gaze was steady, but Razak was well aware that, when it came to excavations, the Waqf had taken some liberties in the past.

Against the east wall, Razak detected a line of nine compact stone boxes, each etched in a language that looked like Hebrew. He moved closer. At one end, a rectangular depression in the earth suggested a tenth box had been removed and he moved closer.

Unexpectedly, a voice broke in from the other side of the blast hole. "Gentlemen. Can I have a moment?"

Razak and Farouq whirled round to find a plain looking middle-aged man peering through the aperture. His face was pale and streaked by sunburn, topped off by a nest of unruly brown hair.

"Sorry, do you speak English?" The stranger had a refined English accent.

"We do." Razak rapidly approached the hole.

"Marvelous." The stranger smiled. "That'll make things easier. My Arabic's a little ropey."

Farouq elbowed Razak aside. "Who are you?"

"My name is Barton." He moved forward through the opening. "Graham Barton, I-- "

Farouq threw oversized hands in the air. "You dare come in here? This is a sacred place!"

Barton stopped in his tracks, looking like he had just stepped on a land-mine. "I'm sorry. But if you'll just let me-- "

"Who let you in?" Razak moved past Farouq to shield the chamber.

"I was sent by the Israeli Police Commissioner, to assist you." He pulled out a letter on police department stationery.

"An Englishman!" Farouq was gesticulating wildly. "They send an
Englishman
to assist us. You see where that got us in the past!"

From the extensive time Barton had spent on projects in Israel, he was painfully aware that here the English were still best known for their botched colonization efforts in the early 1900s-- a debacle that only served to deepen Palestinian resentment toward the West. He grinned tightly.

"Need I remind you," Farouq warned, "that non-Muslims are banned here?"

"My religious affinities aren't so easily defined," Barton scowled. There was a time when he regularly attended Anglican services at Holy Trinity Church near his Kensington home in London. But that was a long time ago. Now he considered himself a more secular believer who shunned the establishment, but still sought a better understanding of his belief that there was indeed something bigger than himself in this miraculous universe. That search had yet to exclude elements of most faiths, including Islam, which he regarded highly.

"So what is your purpose here?" Razak demanded.

"I work with the Israeli Antiquities Authority," Barton persisted. He was already feeling that accepting this job had been a very bad idea. The guppy was now in the piranha tank. "Ancient Holy Land antiquities are my specialty."
Biblical
antiquities was more like it, he thought. But mentioning that to this pair didn't seem smart. "I'm well regarded in my field." Renowned, in fact, he thought. Trained at Oxford University, head curator of antiquities for the Museum of London, and a resume that read like a novella-- not to mention the countless archaeological digs he'd managed in and around Jerusalem and his regular pieces in
Biblical Archaeology Review
. And just prior to the theft, the IAA had commissioned Graham Barton with a generous stipend to oversee a massive digitizing campaign that would catalogue the entirety of its priceless collections throughout Israel's museums. Wisely, he chose not to elaborate on those details.

Farouq was dismissive. "Credentials do not impress me."

"Right. But I can save you a lot of time," Barton added, dodging the Keeper's outright hostility. "Besides, the IDF and Israeli police have retained my services. I've been told you're committed to full cooperation in order to determine what happened here. I have a letter of introduction." His tone was more assertive now.

Farouq's eyes met Razak's, registering displeasure for the Israelis' sneaky tactics.

"I was informed that the incident here possibly involved an ancient relic." Barton was trying to peer over Razak's shoulder.

The two Muslims were still grappling with what was happening.

"The thieves must have had very precise information," Barton forged on, "to know the exact whereabouts of a room so well hidden beneath Temple Mount. Wouldn't you agree?"

"A moment, please." Farouq raised a finger and motioned to the archaeologist to move back through the blast hole.

Sighing, Barton retreated into the mosque. The tricky politics of this place exasperated him.

Razak watched him go. "Strange. I wonder if they-- "

"An outrage!" Farouq's face was close.

Razak's voice sunk to a whisper. "Did the Israelis mention this to you?"

"Not at all. And I will not permit this."

Razak drew a deep breath. He didn't like the idea of allowing this Barton-- apparently a delegate from the Jewish authorities-- to intervene in such a sensitive investigation. After all, the Israeli police and the IDF had already spent two days inspecting the crime scene without apparent results. Now they were sending in an outsider? Perhaps Barton would not simply replicate the investigation. There was no telling what their motives could be. However, time wasn't on Razak's side and his knowledge of archaeology and antiquities was limited at best.

Farouq drew even closer. "What are you thinking?"

"We don't have much time. Since Barton claims to be an expert..."

"Yes..."

"Well, it's obvious the Israelis already know what happened here. Perhaps he can give us information. Something to start with. It's in everyone's interests to resolve this quickly."

Farouq stared at the floor. "Razak. Trust requires merit. Every man needs to prove his character. You are a virtuous man. But not everyone's like you. You and I-- we trust each other. But with this Barton we have to be very careful." He marked the point with a raised finger.

Razak raised an eyebrow. "Of course, but do we really have a choice?"

Farouq returned Razak's gaze. Finally, the creases in his brow softened. "You could be right," he relented, sighing dramatically. "I just wish he wasn't an Englishman." The Keeper forced a smile. "Take his letter and check his credentials with the police. Proceed how you see fit. I'm leaving."

Back out in the mosque, Razak took the letter and instructed the Englishman to wait for him to return, then walked Farouq to the stairs.

"Keep a close eye on him," Farouq reminded Razak, leering back at Barton.

Taking off his suit jacket, Razak asked Farouq if he wouldn't mind taking it back to his office. He watched as the Keeper disappeared into the sunlight above.

After rolling up his sleeves, Razak pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number for the Israeli police commissioner who had signed the letter. Two transfers later he was put on hold and subjected to a banal Israeli pop song. Watching Barton pace in small circles in the Marwani Mosque, he shifted back and forth on his feet, holding the phone at arm's length, trying his best to tune out the song's headache-inducing techno beat. A minute later, there were two distinct clicks followed by a ring.

A strong, nasal voice came on. "Major Topol speaking."

Razak did his best to filter the Arabic undertones out from his near-perfect English. "My name is Razak bin Ahmed bin al-Tahini. I've been commissioned by the Waqf to oversee the investigation at the Temple Mount."

"Been expecting your call," Topol said between sips of burned coffee from a paper cup, clearly unimpressed. "I take it you've met Mr. Barton?"

Razak was thrown by the man's directness. "Yes, I have."

"He's good...used him before. Very objective."

Razak refrained from comment. "I must inform you that his presence wasn't well received. We understand the need for your department's intervention, but Mr. Barton entered the mosque without authorization."

"Apologies for not notifying you sooner," Topol replied, stifling a yawn. "But Graham Barton has been authorized to act on our behalf. It's all in the letter he's carrying. I'm sure you'll understand that the nature of this crime requires us to play an equal role in the investigation."

"But he's an archaeologist, not an investigator," Razak challenged. "Israeli police have already analyzed the crime scene."

"Sure, our people have been there," Topol admitted, "but this crime seems to center on a missing artifact. We're the police. Stolen cars, burglaries, murders, we understand. We don't know from artifacts. So we felt the investigation could benefit from Barton's knowledge of archaeology."

Razak said nothing. It was routine for him to choose silence over confrontation. When negotiating, the opposition often blurted out significant information just to fill the silence. The pause allowed him to consider Topol's argument. For the most part it seemed sensible.

The policeman lowered his voice and spoke conspiratorially. "I think we'll both need to put aside our differences, so that justice can be served."

"My colleagues and I share your concern. Can we trust all information will remain confidential until our investigation is complete?"

"You have my word on that. We're looking for a quick, peaceful resolution here. Rumors are spreading like wildfire. We could soon have a much bigger problem on our hands."

"I understand."

"Good luck to you."

The line went dead.

Razak returned to where the Englishman stood near the blast hole, hands folded behind his back, whistling and admiring the Marwani Mosque's impressive interior. Barton turned to him. "Everything okay?"

He nodded and offered his hand. "Welcome, Mr. Barton. My name is Razak."

V
ATICAN
C
ITY

At the end of the dimly lit corridor Charlotte Hennesey and Father Donovan descended two flights of switchback steps and emerged into the Domus's modern lobby. They strode across the expanse of white marble tile, passed a bronze bust of Pope John Paul II, and exited the building into bright afternoon sunshine.

Charlotte was accustomed to the dry desert heat of Phoenix. Rome's heat came with oppressive humidity. And then there was the Vatican's strict dress code-- arms, legs, and shoulders had to be covered at all times. No shorts or sleeveless tops. It was like high school-- no tube tops or halters. For the next few days it would be khaki pants and long-sleeved blouses with uncomfortably high thread counts. Back home, she typically ended her day lying poolside in the backyard of her Spanish-style ranch, sporting a bikini. At least, when she was feeling up to it. It was quite evident that wouldn't be happening here.

"I'm sure you're curious as to why you've been asked to come here," Father Donovan said.

"The thought had crossed my mind," she politely replied.

"The Vatican is proficient in theology and faith," he explained. "However, you won't be shocked to hear that in the field of natural sciences, there are some obvious deficiencies in our capabilities." He offered a self-deprecating smile.

"That's perfectly understandable." The priest had a gentle spirit, she thought. His Irish accent was calming and she noticed that he gesticulated often, the by-product of years behind a pulpit.

They strolled past Piazza Santa Marta, circling the rear walkways along the apse of the basilica. Charlotte marveled at its marble and stained glass exterior.

"Take me for instance," he offered. "
Prefetto di Bibloteca Apostolica Vaticana
...a fancy way of saying head curator of the Vatican Library. My expertise is books and Church history. I must confess that I know little about your field. But when I saw you on television, I was convinced that you could really help me with a project I've been asked to undertake."

"If you don't mind me saying so, I'm surprised my field intrigues anyone in Vatican City."

"Indeed, many within these walls would have reservations about the intentions of genetic research. I, however, like to keep a more open mind."

"That's good to know," she said, smiling. "So what exactly is it that I'll be studying?"

The priest didn't respond right away, allowing a pair of strolling clerics to pass a comfortable distance before quietly saying, "A relic." He considered enlarging on the idea, but decided against it. "It's best to see it with your own eyes."