The Sacred Cipher (49 page)

Bohannon grabbed Rodriguez’s belt. Holding a length of rope, a large rock tightly
tied into one end, Rodriguez leaned over the water as far as he could reach, and slowly
lowered the rock into the water. The rope was about twenty feet long. Rodriguez got
to the end of the rope and the rock had yet to touch bottom.

“Well, we’re not going to walk across,” he said.

When the cell phone rang, it wasn’t Da’ud.

“All three of the men are Americans. The one who looked like an Israeli is from someplace
called the Bronx. His people are from an island in the Caribbean, thus the dark complexion.
He got the clothing while they were at the kibbutz.”

The Imam waited, expecting more. Nothing stirred from the other end of the connection.
I believe he enjoys these games
, the Imam thought.

“Where are these men, Leonidas?”

“No one knows. Probably under the Mount. But no one knows.”

Again, silence.

“What do you know, Mr. Leonidas?”

“I know the Israeli soldiers found two bodies, stabbed to death, along the roadside,”
said the bodiless voice.

Leonidas had lit the fuse. The Imam’s blood began a slow raging boil.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he seethed. “Earn your living, Mr. Leonidas.”

The Imam sensed a pause, pregnant with restrained malice. A momentary shudder. “The
Israelis found the garden guide, the one who led the Americans to the King’s Garden
Tunnel two days ago. She was found in the Tel Aviv bus depot and underwent a lengthy
interrogation from Orhlon and Sharp, themselves. After that, she was taken, under
heavy guard, to a military prison.”

“That is quite unusual, isn’t it?”

“Well, you are very insightful,” said Leonidas, a note of sarcasm biting the radio
waves. “Yes, it is unusual for a civilian, who is not a terrorist, to be placed under
military arrest. And there is something else. After the interrogation, Orhlon immediately
summoned the prime minister, Painter, and Shomsky to Central Command.

“Something important is unfolding, my friend,” the informer said, his voice reflecting
a more sincere intimacy. “Perhaps these men are terrorists, after all. I am certain
you have already ensured the security of your shrines, especially underground. Perhaps
an even higher state of readiness would be appropriate. The Israelis are concerned,
very concerned.”

The Imam’s rage had been sedated by the more respectful tone. “Yes, I will see to
it.”

“There is one more thing,” said Leonidas. “Something is being withheld. Normally,
my sources share openly with me. Today, there is clearly something they can’t, or
won’t, divulge. There is a secret they are hiding. To be honest, I would be more fearful
of the secret than the Americans. Be well, my friend.”

Orhlon felt for his heart. Unfortunately, it was still beating.

Three times I should be dead, why couldn’t one work?
”

Nauseous, his head swimming, Orhlon’s consciousness vainly scrambled for solid ground.
I should remain alive while my country and children are incinerated?

I should die first
.

But he didn’t.

With Orhlon still sprawled on the floor, the room was invaded by a frantic swarm of
aides and medics, all determined to minister to the semiconscious general. Crowding
the other three men against the back wall, they surrounded Orhlon and began the prodding,
poking process that was apparently necessary to determine his viability. Others, obviously
security, dispassionately established a stronghold around their three masters. In
the current situation, no one was taking any chances.

“He just blacked out mid-sentence.”

Levi Sharp, director of Shin Bet, stepped between his bodyguards and moved to the
nervous knot hovering over General Orhlon. “He hasn’t been out of this room in three
days,” said Sharp, “living on an endless supply of coffee and cigarettes. This same
thing happened to Rabin in ’67.” Turning to the medical chief of staff, Sharp assumed
his normal voice of authority. “Major Reitz, get some oxygen in here right away and
a lot of cold water, with ice. He’s probably poisoned himself with nicotine.”

“Mr. Director, if the general has nicotine poisoning, we need to get him to the hospital
immediately,” said Dr. Reitz.

For the briefest moment, the now-crowded room was silent. Then a voice, soft in volume
but powerfully commanding, reached out to the doctor.

“Do you value your career, Major Reitz?”

There was no answer, outside of the muffled groaning as Orhlon searched for the surface.

“Then I would suggest you fetch the oxygen immediately,” said the prime minister,
“before the general wakes up and decides to use your carcass for fish bait.”

Not so fast as to make himself look ludicrous, but with significant zest, Dr. Reitz
left the conference room in search of oxygen and water.

“Andrew, please get a cool, damp cloth and place it on the general’s brow,” said the
prime minister, placing his hand on the shoulder of his most trusted protector, stepping
away from the security detail and around the table in Orhlon’s direction. “David,”
he said to the medic by Orhlon’s side, “allow him to come around gently. When he fully
regains consciousness, he’ll likely try to get to his feet. Don’t allow that to happen.
Flush his system with the oxygen and the water, take very good care of him, but get
him back to that table in ten minutes.”

Eliazar Baruk was a unique version of the Israeli prime minister. Neither grizzled
kibbutzim nor battle-scarred military veteran, Baruk was tall, thin as a rail, and
fastidious in his grooming. Only the finest silk suits expertly covered his bony frame,
only his private hairdresser ever touched his silver-streaked locks. Baruk was the
first lawyer to serve as the Israeli prime minister, but he hadn’t been in private
practice for more than a decade, when he entered a more “respectable” career. For
ten years, Baruk served as Dean of the School of Law at Tel Aviv University, a fact
that apparently endeared him to the normally skeptical Israeli electorate.

Now, after two years in office, he was beginning to wonder why he had ever sought
this position in the first place.

Two hours ago, Orhlon, Israel’s Defense Minister, and Sharp, director of Shin Bet,
had urgently requested the prime minister, the director of Mossad, and the prime minister’s
chief of staff to gather in the conference room of Central Command’s Operations Complex
for an emergency briefing. Only Sharp, who had been working closely with Orhlon, was
prepared for the emergency that Orhlon had patiently explained in detail. But all
of them immediately grasped the potential catastrophe they faced as a result of Orhlon’s
report. It was no overstatement to realize that Israel’s future as a nation and the
safety of its seven million men, women, and children would be forever determined by
their decisions and actions in the next few hours.

Stretched to its limit, poisoned by the incessant intake of nicotine and caffeine,
it was not surprising to Baruk that Orhlon’s mind and body had just shut down. But
Baruk, all of them, needed Orhlon fully functioning in order to deal with this impending
disaster.

Baruk could see the color returning to Orhlon’s face as he sucked in long gulps of
the cleansing oxygen. With Dr. Reitz opting for the background, Dr. David Maier, one
of the medics assigned to Baruk’s constant entourage, had given Orhlon an injection
to steady his heart and calm his racing pulse, while not clouding his discernment.
He was also nearly force-feeding Orhlon ice water. Outside of some initial retching,
the water irrigating Orhlon’s body, blood, and organs was also having a salubrious
effect.

“David,” said the prime minister, “I would like you to remain with the general for
a few more moments until he can get to his feet without feeling faint. The rest of
you may leave. Major Reitz, please go to the commissary and bring back some soup,
something light, and some bread for the general. Please return quickly; we have much
we need to discuss.”

Baruk stood impassively on the far side of the table that dominated the center of
the conference room, watching as Reitz scrambled off for soup while the rest of the
staff silently emptied the room. The only ones remaining were Dr. Maier; a slowly
strengthening Orhlon; Lukas Painter, director of Mossad, Israel’s legendary security
and counterintelligence agency; Sharp of Shin Bet; and Chaim Shomsky, Baruk’s chief
of staff. Just as Dr. Maier guided Orhlon to his feet, then to a chair, Major Reitz
returned with a hot, covered bowl of soup, something chicken by the aroma, and the
bread. Thanking them, Baruk asked the doctors to leave, allowing the five most powerful
men in Israel the privacy they needed to deal with the emerging crisis.

Orhlon’s khaki uniform was soiled and disheveled, a condition none of them had ever
witnessed before. While the general still looked a bit worn, Baruk was satisfied by
the fierce alertness of Orhlon’s eyes that the man had sufficiently recovered.

“Levi . . . Moishe,” Baruk said, turning his gaze from Sharp to Orhlon, “are you certain?
Not only of the claim, but are you certain of the findings?”

“Mr. Prime Minister,” said Sharp, “since we cannot access the area without causing
a riot, we cannot be absolutely certain. But we have been watching these men for days.
The object of their intent has clearly been the Temple Mount. Now that we have the
testimony of the garden guide, some of which we have already corroborated with our
sources in New York, we are confident we know why they came here and what they are
looking for.

“What we don’t know, Mr. Prime Minister, is whether they have discovered what they
were seeking.”

All eyes were on Orhlon, but Baruk also cast a swift glance at his advisors. He wondered
if they were having as much difficulty absorbing this possibility as he was.

“A temple, Moishe? Do you really believe this message they found could be leading
them to a temple that was built one thousand years ago under the Mount?”

“It is certainly hard to believe such a thing is possible,” said Orhlon, scratching
his already tussled hair. “But, sir, consider this. Someone planted a bomb that killed
one of the American team members in New York City. We have been in contact with their
police department. Confidentially, we have been told there were attempts made on the
lives of two others. Two nights ago, as we tried to detain them, they were nearly
caught in a firefight between two rival Muslim factions. We now believe both of those
factions were trying to stop the Americans.

“Whatever the truth from the other night, there have been several deadly attacks against
these men to deter them from this pursuit. Why?

“Lastly, these men are neither treasure hunters nor political activists. One is a
librarian, one an official with an organization that helps homeless people. The garden
guide said it was these two who found the scroll. The third man is Dr. Richard Johnson,
a respected archaeologist and scientist. For more than a decade he was a fellow of
the British Museum. I doubt this man would allow himself to become seduced into an
escapade such as this unless he believed the message of the scroll was genuine.

“Mr. Prime Minister, at this point, I believe we must proceed under the expectation
that the scroll, and its message, are genuine, that there is a temple under the Temple
Mount. And, sir, if the Temple is there, someone will find it. If not these men, then
someone else. Perhaps the Muslims, perhaps the Northern Islamic Front, God forbid.”