The Sacred Blood

Ghalib greeted each of them as he strolled by to inspect their progress. Minutes later, after completing his circle, he paused along the railing and stared at the unique impression on the rock’s surface said to be the hoof mark left behind by the blessed steed, Buraq, as it leapt from the earth to deliver the great Prophet to the heavens.

Ghalib grinned, knowing that soon the angel Israfel—“the Caller”— would be sent to this very spot to sound the trumpet that would commence the Last Judgment—al-Qiyamah. Then the Merciful One would gather all humanity in congregation and place before every man, woman, and child the book of judgment, detailing a lifetime of deeds that would determine each soul’s fate. Upon the Scales of Justice those deeds would then be weighed to foretell the outcome of each soul’s perilous walk along the razor-thin bridge, as-Siraat, across the blazing bowels of hell to the glorious gates of Paradise.

For those whose sins burdened the Scales of Justice, their path across as-Siraat would lead to a fateful end. Into the writhing, fiery pit— Jahannam—they would surely plunge. There the black hearts of sinners who shunned Allah would be met by eternal fire and agony beyond comprehension: searing heat that broils flesh, heavy chains whose weight never subsides, putrid drink that never quenches thirst, and rancid, thorny plants that would never sate hunger.

Their torment will be perpetual.

For the righteous, however, the Last Judgment would be a glorious moment when the walk along as-Siraat would deliver them to a place of eternal spiritual redemption: the garden paradise, Jannah. There loved ones would reunite in perpetual peace and delight among the angels. Rivers would flow with milk and honey; there’d be goblets of gold, countless pleasures of the flesh, and above all, the countenance of Allah Himself. And those receiving the greatest reward in Paradise would ascend to its highest level—the Gardens of Bliss—to be nearest to Allah.

The soul of the martyr is the most loved by Him.

“Taqwa,” he reverently whispered. “Fear God.”

Making his way to the shrine’s south side, the Keeper passed beneath a freestanding marble archway and descended the wide marble steps that accessed the natural subterranean hollow beneath the rock called the Well of Souls.

He stepped down onto the ornate Persian carpet covering its flat excavated floor, and the damp air in the spacious cave nipped his bones. A bright floodlight bit the shadows off the chamber’s rocky outcroppings, which curved gently upward from floor to ceiling.

On the far side of the cave, two Arab men worked diligently with hammer and chisel, chipping away stone to install mounting brackets and wiring.

“So what do you think?” he asked the foreman in Arabic. “Will it work?”

The bearded man nodded. “Yes. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Excellent.” He turned his attention to the others. “Brothers, please stop for a moment. Be still.”

The workers ceased activity. Five seconds later, the cave plunged into a perfect silence.

Ghalib closed his eyes, paused his breathing, and listened intently. Beneath the cave, the muffled sounds of digging were unmistakable—chipping, scratching—more prevalent now than yesterday. Ghalib could even sense something new: subtle vibrations tickling his bare feet.

Opening his eyes, he smiled. “Continue,” he told the men. “And may His peace be upon you all.”

The Keeper made his way back to the steps and disappeared up the passage.

54

******

At the Israel Museum, Jules struggled to keep stride with Amit as he climbed the steps leading up from the Shrine of the Book gallery. When they angled back across the open courtyard, Amit glanced at the shrine’s white dome, then over to the black monolith rising high opposite it. Each symbolized a combatant in the final battle between good and evil detailed in the Dead Sea Scrolls—the spark that would trigger the Messianic Age. The Sons of Light versus the Sons of Darkness.

“So what did Enoch find out?” Jules asked. This time around, when Amit had placed a call to Enoch in the exhibit hall’s administrative office, he’d mostly listened. So she had no clue what new information Enoch had conveyed. But the alarmed look that had come over Amit was deeply unsettling.

“Early this morning, the rabbi’s jet took him to a private airport north of Cairo—Inshas. He was back in Tel Aviv by the afternoon.”

“Inshas?” Jules suddenly slapped Amit’s arm. “That’s right near old Heliopolis!”

“Exactly. The secret of the hieroglyph revealed.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Enoch didn’t know for sure, only that when he arrived at Tel Aviv, he unloaded a rather large shipping container.”

“Really? What was in it?” She was practically jogging alongside him. “God, slow down, will you?” She tugged at his arm.

“Sorry,” he said, bringing his pace down a notch. “Enoch wasn’t able to find out. Problem is, these diplomats can pretty much come and go as they please,” Amit told her. “Even the Mossad can’t poke around too much with the big guys.” He recalled Enoch’s warning: Be careful with this guy, He’s a heavy hitter. “If you ask me, however, I’d say it’s something that would make a nice addition to the Third Temple. Remember in the transcription . . . all of Jesus’s references to the ‘Testimony’?”

“Yes.”

On the main walkway, they doubled back to the museum’s main entrance.

“The Testimony refers to the entirety of the laws God gave to Moses at Sinai.”

“The Ten Commandments?”

“That’s the condensed version, the ‘Testimony for Dummies.’ In Leviticus, God speaks to Moses in the first person and actually provides six hundred and thirteen directives, or mitzvoth, that were the road map for the Israelites’ daily living—diet, dress, death, health, marriage, divorce, sexuality, criminal justice, and so forth. It was all part of the covenant that needed to be abided by so that the Israelites could be delivered to the Promised Land.”

“And what does that have to do with the temple?”

“Everything, since two hundred and two of the directives spoke to temple worship. But it gets much deeper than that. You see, the Testimony was transcribed onto stone tablets—including the text paraphrased into the Ten Commandments. And God told Moses to build a vessel to hold them.”

“The Ark of the Covenant?” she said, half smiling.

“Right. And that was what the entire temple model was built upon. So to answer your question, at the very center of the Temple City would reside the Ark.”

Amit opened the door of the visitors’ center and ushered Jules through.

“Oh, come on now,” she scoffed. “You’re not really suggesting that Cohen just went to Egypt to reclaim the lost ark?” During her last excavation in Egypt, she’d heard plenty of wild legends from the locals in Tanis about Menelik—the love child of King Solomon and Sheba—secretly bringing the relic to their hometown. They’d even joked with her that she might uncover it beneath the sands outlying the city. She’d quickly reminded them that Indiana Jones had already beaten her to it.

Raising his eyebrows, Amit clammed up as they ducked inside.

They stopped to bid David farewell.

“By the way,” David began to explain, “some fellow called here looking for you—”

Then, without warning, one of the clear doors facing the parking lot let out a resounding crack that made Amit spin round. A tiny hole had punched through it and fractured the glass. Instantly, he dropped, yelling, “Get down!” as a second round zipped past him and struck David in the chest with a thwump.

The old man gasped and spun back off his chair, crashing onto the tiles behind the bag scanner.

At the same time, Amit tried to grab Jules, but his hands got nothing but air. She was already falling backward, tumbling onto the floor, hands clutching her side. Blood was seeping through her fingers.

“Jules!” Staying low, Amit immediately went and pulled her behind the bag scanner just as another round pinged off the tile, then ricocheted off the bulky machine’s thick metal housing. Peeking out, he could see the white arm cast swinging through the darkness, closing in fast.

David was splayed beside him, blood seeping along the tile grout lines beneath his right armpit. It was spilling out of his chest and over the handle of his holstered Beretta.

***

Outside, taxi drivers scrambled for cover as the gunman sprinted toward the front entrance.

Peering inside the foyer, the assassin could make out the guard’s outstretched arm sticking out from behind the clunky bag scanner. There was a thick swath of blood smeared along the tiles where the woman had fallen. The Israeli archaeologist wasn’t in sight but was certainly pinned down behind the hulking machine.

He deliberated for a moment.

Wait for the target to make a move? Not an option; too much time for the police to respond. The archaeologist had been moving quickly, cleverly shifting from place to place and covering his tracks very effectively. This guy was no amateur.

The assassin had already been sidetracked for a good hour by the Land Rover abandoned in the bus station’s parking garage. Then he was finally provided with tracking coordinates for the archaeologist’s mobile phone. Though the phone had remained powered off, the latest satellite tracing had been able to detect a chip in its battery. But that had required some administrative runarounds. So at this point, prolonging the chase wasn’t an option. He quickly determined that this might be his last opportunity to finish the job.

Keeping his eyes peeled on the foyer, he pushed on the door, but it didn’t budge. He quickly glimpsed the sticker above the thick handle that said pull. He reached for the handle with his broken arm, but the stubs of his fingers poking out beyond the plaster cast weren’t able to grip it.

Cursing, he pinched the gun with three fingers of his left hand and hooked the pinky and ring finger around the handle.

Much to his regret, that’s when the archaeologist sprang up over the scanner, wielding a pistol gripped firmly with both hands.

The shot was loud, the glass exploding out into his face even louder.

Shards ripped into his eyes, but something else had pierced much deeper into the side of his neck. He felt metal nick bone as the round exploded beneath his right ear. And he knew in an instant that it had cut through his spinal cord in the process, because the entire right side of his body shut off immediately—paralyzed. His right leg went out from under him, and he toppled sideways.

Dropping his gun, he clamped his left hand over the spray of blood spurting onto the cement. The archaeologist was standing over him seconds later, pointing the gun in his face, yelling questions that his ears could not register.

The blood gurgled into his throat, choking him. Then his mission came to a most unsuccessful end.

55

******

“You all right?” one of the livery guys yelled over, still shielding himself behind his limo door.

“I’m okay,” Amit said. “But I need an ambulance inside.”

“I’m on it,” the guy said, and pulled his phone from his belt with the speed of a gunslinger.

Then something strange happened.

Another phone came to life, but the ringtone certainly wasn’t Amit’s. It was coming from the assassin’s pocket. Amit crouched over the body. As he pulled out the phone, the guy’s key ring came out along with it.

Without thinking, Amit hit the receive button. He answered abruptly in Hebrew, as he guessed the assassin would. “Yes?”

“We need you back at the Rockefeller immediately.”

Then the connection clicked off.

The Rockefeller? Amit stuffed the security guard’s Beretta into his belt and pocketed the phone and keys.

Racing back inside, he knelt by Jules.

“Crap,” she grumbled. “This was my favorite T-shirt. I look great in this T-shirt.” She laughed nervously, half in shock, half in amazement. Strangely, there wasn’t much pain. “Did you get him?”

“He’s dead,” Amit said with little emotion.

“Good shooting, cowboy.”

Amit pulled away her hand and began to lift her shirt.

“Easy . . . ,” she said in a shaky voice, hands trembling fiercely.

“Now I’m definitely going to get a look at what you’re hiding under here,” he said to comfort her. He raised the sodden shirt up below her left breast. Luckily, the bullet had only grazed her abdomen, just below the ribs. The blood was already thickening. “You’re going to be okay. I’ve got an ambulance coming for you.” Torn, he looked over his shoulder. “I hate to do this, but I’ve gotta—”

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Just . . . kiss me before you go.”

He looked at her quizzically. Despite her fear, there was desire in her lucid eyes. He gently cradled her chin and brought his lips to hers. Not his best work, he knew, but as passionate as the situation permitted.

The moment he pulled away, he knew things had irreversibly changed between them. And her genuine smile made something melt inside him.

“Now go get them,” she said.

56

******

Though Joshua quickly reached out for his mother’s arm to steady his wobbling legs—the musculature had no doubt atrophied during the months he’d been confined to the wheelchair—the result was nonetheless overwhelming. Charlotte gasped.

“A miracle, would you not agree?” the rabbi quickly cut in.

Such a quick turnaround was hard to attribute to anything else, she thought. “Is this some kind of trick?” Charlotte was so caught up in the transformation that she’d just now noticed that the boy’s right hand was wrapped all around in bandages. The nail biting wasn’t that bad. So what had happened to the kid’s hand?

“You’re familiar with ALS, Dr. Hennesey?”

“Of course,” she said.

Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or Lou Gehrig’s disease, was an aggressive neurological disorder that attacked the motor neurons in the brain and spinal cord, which regulated voluntary muscle movement. The incurable wasting disease gradually affected mobility, speech, chewing and swallowing, and breathing. Its later stages brought on severe pain. Though ALS more often struck the middle-aged, it wasn’t uncommon for a young person to fall victim to it.

“Then you’re aware that curing ALS is no trick,” he said. “Joshua’s

symptoms began only two years ago,” he explained without emotion. “He would fall often. At first, we thought he was just clumsy. Then he began dropping things. Simple things, like cups, forks, pencils. Within no time, his legs weren’t functioning at all. The neurologist spotted the symptoms immediately and the tests began. So many tests.”

Charlotte’s sad eyes went over to the boy. Poor kid. But given the circumstances, she needed for him to be more specific before she’d buy into this story. “Did his doctors try drugs?”

“Baclofen, diazepam, gabapentin, to name a few,” he swiftly replied. “Not to mention a regular cycle of antidepressants.”

So far, he was getting it right. She had seen it firsthand when she’d been treated for cancer. Parents of chronically ill children, particularly those with a terminal prognosis, gained clinical proficiency along their taxing journey—a defense mechanism against the utter helplessness that was the alternative. The drugs he’d named were prescribed for muscle spasms and cramping. The antidepressants were no surprise. Like bone cancer, ALS was a diagnosis that amounted to little more than a death sentence. For a young man, it must have been psychologically overwhelming, hence the compulsive nail biting. And like bone cancer, ALS had no cure—just therapeutic damage control.

Genetic chaos. Bad coding. Corrupted chromosomes. Evan had injected the serum into her bloodstream. She had no contact with the kid, except for ...

“When I touched you, I felt something in my fingers,” Joshua said. “Tingling. Not the bad kind I normally feel, though. When I left you, it began to spread . . . down to my legs and feet.”

Touched me? She shook her head in disbelief. Then Charlotte remembered the cracked skin on Joshua’s fingertips peeling the tape away from her mouth. His wet fingers. The sweat from Charlotte’s cheeks. An exchange of fluids? “It can’t be that simple,” she said. “You can’t just touch...” Her words trailed off.

But what the kid just explained had jolted a memory Charlotte would never forget . . .

“Are you ready?” Evan asked, holding her hand in his left hand. In his right hand, a plastic syringe was pinched between his fingers, thumb resting over the plunger. He’d already tapped the air bubbles out of the clear serum that filled it.

Charlotte peered out the suite’s open window and glimpsed a Lufthansa 747 lifting off the Fiumicino airport’s runway, jetting directly heavenward to the clouds on broad wings. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I think so,” she said in a choked voice.

Releasing her hand, Evan used his index finger to massage a throbbing vein running down her left forearm.

“I thought you loathed venipuncture,” she said. He’d said it was one reason he didn’t want to become a surgeon: blood bothered him.

“I make exceptions,” he said with a comforting smile.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“It’s not too late to say no,” he reminded her. “Just say the word.”

“We’ve already talked this thing to death,” she calmly replied. “What choice do I have? Just get on with it,” she said with a small grin.

“Okay.”

He was trying his best to keep his hands from trembling.

“Just a quick sting.”

Charlotte directed her attention back out to the planes. The doubts came fast and hard as she sat there wondering if Evan’s concoction could possibly have any effect on her myeloma. People once thought flying was impossible, she reminded herself. Yet just outside that window, a huge metal machine had been climbing up into the sky. Nothing’s impossible, she told herself.

After drawing a deep breath, Evan steadied his hand and plunged the needle’s tip into the vein. She glanced down as he pulled back the plunger a fraction and some blood swirled up into the serum. Surprisingly, he’d gotten it in on the first try. Gently, he depressed the plunger until the entire 4-cc dose was emptied from the syringe. Withdrawing the needle, he held a thumb over the injection point, set the syringe down on the bed, and loosened the rubber tourniquet strapped tightly below her elbow.

The sensation was instantaneous. “Ooh,” she said, grabbing at her arm.

“What? What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said, letting out a breath. The poor guy was already on edge and she could tell that she’d scared him. “It just feels . . . strange.”

“What feels strange?” he asked, struggling to hide his concern. “My arm. It’s . . .” She had to pause to place it. “It’s tingling.”

The rabbi jumped back in, saying, “Would you not agree that ALS is a terminal disease where the chance of spontaneous recovery is zero?”

Snapping back into the moment, Charlotte tried to understand how even a spontaneous recovery could explain how Joshua was walking only hours later. ALS irreversibly destroyed nerve cells, and plenty of diagnostic tests could prove it.

This viral DNA is wildly contagious.

“I think what’s happened here is scientifically inexplicable,” the rabbi added. “So perhaps you might just admit that a miracle has taken place. A miracle for which you are responsible.”

Mute, Charlotte didn’t know how to respond. She stared blankly at the perfectly smooth skin on her own wrists where the raw marks from the duct tape his wife cut away had disappeared in a matter of seconds. Almost spontaneously.

“That, Dr. Hennesey, is the gift,” the rabbi proudly stated.

As Grandfather had taught, since Moses, only Jesus had acquired the most sacred genes. Perhaps the Messiah’s skeleton was indeed with the Vatican. But Cohen knew that what made the physical remains so special wasn’t the bones themselves; it was the incredible gift stored inside them. And now it had been transferred to the geneticist—the Chosen One. How the prophecies did surprise!

“I want you to come with me. There is something you must see.”

57

******

Amit killed the headlights on the assassin’s Fiat, with its bullet-riddled right-front wheel well above the recently installed spare tire, and rolled to a gentle stop outside the Rockefeller Museum. The exhibit hall’s interior was completely dark, as were all the windows in the adjoining wings. But in the circular tower of the administrative building that was home to the Israel Antiquities Authority, a thin outline of light shone around each of the blinds closed tight in the top-floor room.

Easing the car door shut, Amit crept around the building, the Beretta at the ready.

He spotted a flatbed truck loaded with two full pallets of precisionquarried limestone parked near the service entrance. The stone looked similar enough to the Rockefeller building’s exterior. Perhaps a renovation was under way?

His eyes kept scouting the area as he moved out from the cover of the wall.

No watchmen.

This isn’t Gaza, he kept reminding himself; there wouldn’t be a highly visible security detail protecting a hot zone. Cohen had included Mossad contract killers in his entourage. Just because one now lay dead on the doormat of the Israel Museum, he wasn’t about to let his guard down or get haughty about his marksmanship. There was a reason these killers were very good at what they did—lots of practice. And they didn’t do it by showing themselves. They were masters of stealth.

Parked in front of the flatbed was what Amit had expected: a white delivery van.

Most likely, the museum door closest to it was open.

But that didn’t stop Amit from trying a couple other doors first. Locked, of course.

It was going to be tough making a subtle entrance.

58

******

The two burly guards who’d manhandled Charlotte out of the basement had taken up posts at the wide doors leading out of the octagonal conference room. The rabbi had had them position her directly in front of something plunked down on the glossy tabletop commanding the room’s center. The object was covered by a silky blue veil with gold embroidery depicting two winged creatures. Angels, maybe? she guessed. Though the form beneath it was largely rectangular, the veil was draped clumsily over two peaks on its top.

Pinched between Rabbi Aaron Cohen’s fingers was a vial of blood, and he rocked it back and forth, watching how the thick crimson swished side to side. “You’re quite familiar with the sophisticated tests used to study blood?”

Another rhetorical question, so Charlotte chose silence. No use encouraging him.

“While you were sleeping, I took the liberty of taking this from you,” he said, holding up the vial.

Was nothing sacred with this guy? “You’ve taken a lot more than that from me,” she said, seething.

He knew precisely what she meant. “Sacrifice, Dr. Hennesey. It must be made. Shortly, you’ll have a much better understanding of that. You’ll realize that no death would be too great a price for what you are to witness.

“Since the beginning of human history, blood has been the symbol of life and sacrifice. It is the tie that binds us to our ancestors.” His expression hardened. “Blood also separates us.”

Charlotte felt like she’d been picked from an audience to assist in performing a bizarre magic trick. She couldn’t help but think the rabbi would jam her into the box and saw her in half. Maybe then he’d get what he was really after.

“Let me show you what I mean,” he said. He summoned one of the men to the table. Then he pulled up a corner of the blue shroud so that the top corner of the box was revealed.

Charlotte was amazed to see that the surface of what lay beneath glinted wildly in the light. Gold? And its decorative edging looked an awful lot like the ossuary she’d studied at the Vatican. What most perplexed her was the fact that the small section of the box’s exposed face was covered in neat columns of ideograms. The top corner had a unique edging to it that suggested a lid or removable panel.

“Give me your hand,” the rabbi told his drone.

The man gave it no thought, offering his left hand palm up.

The rabbi took a small blade off the table and deeply incised the flesh along the base of the man’s pinky.

From there, the man didn’t need instruction. Curling the hand into a tight fist, he held it over the box and squeezed hard. The blood swelled from the slit, then rained down onto the box.

The instant the blood hit the gold sheathing, bright sparks crackled it into tiny droplets, then completely burned it away to nothing—all in under a second.

Charlotte didn’t know what to make of it. The effect was like that of water dripped onto a hot frying pan, but more potent. Though this could have come across like a rudimentary science project in electrical conductivity, it didn’t. She was engrossed.

The rabbi had watched her reaction, her incredulity, very closely. “Now watch, please,” he demanded as he uncapped the vial.

Holding the vial over the same spot where the man’s blood had completely disintegrated, he slowly tipped it so that Charlotte’s blood spun out in a thin string. When it connected with the gold lid, nothing happened. No sparks came.

The rabbi smiled victoriously. “Blood binds us, blood separates us. Purity and impurity.”

“What’s the point?”

“You see, Dr. Hennesey,” the rabbi said, his tone suddenly more reverential, “the most pure blood holds God’s covenant given to Moses at Sinai. The blood of the Messiahs is the most pure . . . the most sacred. This box hasn’t been opened in two thousand years. Jesus was the last to touch it—to be given the Spirit. But the prophecies have foretold that a Chosen One would come after Him. He sacrificed Himself on Golgotha so that his bones—His sacred blood—would be passed on to the next Messiah at the appointed time.”

Now Charlotte had to fight the urge to smirk. This was crazy talk.

“If you don’t believe me,” he said, “put your hand on the box.”

“Put your hand on the box,” she retorted.

He shook his head. “You still don’t understand.” Cohen signaled to the men and they grabbed her to bring her closer.

“Hey!” she protested, shaking her arms free. “No need to get rough. I’ll touch it.”

The rabbi motioned for them to back away.

“Fine,” Charlotte said. “I’ll play your game.” Stepping up to the table, she couldn’t help but admire the relic’s craftsmanship. The scientist in her found herself peeking around its sides for hidden wires that might have activated the light show she’d witnessed. Yet something else stirred in her when she found nothing.

Stretching out her hand, she could see the men backing away on the periphery of her vision. The rabbi himself seemed to be holding his breath.

Time for the big show, she thought. Very slowly Charlotte lowered her left hand over the golden lid.

59

******

When Amit finally reached the rear service door, he’d waited a full two minutes behind the van, deliberating on how to proceed. In his head, various scenarios were playing out, and every one of them featured lethal Mossad contractors exiting the building and engaging him in a blazing gun battle. That had him thinking of what it would feel like to be shot a few times without the luxury of a bulletproof vest. Couldn’t be pleasant, and he wasn’t curious enough to want to give it a try.

Nevertheless, what Rabbi Cohen had gone to such great lengths to protect was most likely sitting in the IA A’s conference room. No doubt it was Amit’s discovery at Qumran that was the cause for Cohen’s hasty trip to Egypt. And Amit was willing to wager his genitalia that the very same relic that had once resided within the heart of Solomon’s temple was now inside this building.

But it was the thought of the bullet that killed poor David, and the second one that almost erased the first genuine connection he’d had with a woman since God knew when, that finally got him moving closer.

Yet after all that consideration, when the last ever-so-carefullyplaced steps brought him right up to the door in perfect silence—the gun hand ready to respond, the right hand grasping the doorknob and preparing for a three-stage disengagement of the door latch—the door was locked.

Locked?

“Shit,” he spat with little regard for silence.

He did his best to listen for any activity coming from inside, but the thick door wasn’t exactly the off-the-shelf variety. There could be someone standing right behind it yapping away and he might not hear it.

Setting the gun in the waistband of his pants at the small of his back, he dipped his fingers into his inside vest pocket to retrieve his Gaza lockbuster set. The flat tension wrench slid into the keyhole with barely a whisper, and he turned it clockwise. The hook-ended fisher slid in beside it. Ten seconds of hunting and twisting popped the lock.

Still got it.

Smoothly withdrawing the tools and returning them to his pocket, he took up the gun and reached for the knob. His eyes had a momentary standoff with the circular casing of a second lockset—the dead bolt above the knob. If he had to open that one too, things could get a lot noisier.

Biting his lip, he started the steady three-step turn. “Come on”—a little resistance—“give it up”—a little more—“you nasty—” Tickunk.

Exhale.

Pause. Regroup.

The next motion was all or nothing.

Another breath and he went for the pull.

Staying low, Amit cranked the door open and trained the gun straight out, fully prepared to take a bullet. But the corridor beyond was dark and empty. And thankfully, no after-hours alarm seemed to have tripped. Cohen had most likely turned it off when he’d entered the building. The guy seemed to have the password to all of Israel—and apparently some obscure precincts of Egypt too.

Amit stepped inside. He slipped off his obnoxiously squeaky rubbersoled shoes and carried them in his right hand as he penetrated deeper into the building.

60

******

The box’s golden lid felt warm and tingly under Charlotte’s fingers— similar to the sensation she recalled from Evan’s injection, which had shot the sacred DNA into her bloodstream. There certainly was an energy stored up inside this vessel, she thought—though probably not one that could be measured in volts.

She actually heard a couple of the men gasp. They’d certainly been harboring some doubts that she was the Chosen One, because they seemed fully prepared to be dragging a flame-broiled carcass out of the room.

“Ah!” Cohen joyously blurted, bringing his hands together with a clap. “See! Do you all see this? You are witnessing the fulfillment of a prophecy!” he said to the assemblage.

He kept on with it, but Charlotte had tuned him out, because there was something very strange happening over the veil’s sheer surface that the others weren’t picking up on. Something seemed to billow—a distortion that was invisible yet dynamic in its shifting. It could easily have been dismissed as a quick bout of blurred vision. But the interference was contained in only one spot—and when she tested it by shifting her eyes slightly sideways, it remained stationary. Frightened, she immediately withdrew her hand.

It went away.

What the hell was that?

“Don’t be afraid, Ms. Hennesey,” the rabbi said soothingly, stepping up

to her and placing a hand on her shoulder.

She knew he wasn’t referring to what she’d seen—or thought she’d seen. It was her recoiling hand that had drawn his attention.

“What you feel is the Holy Spirit,” he explained. “Just as Jesus did when he laid his hand upon that very spot and it entered into Him—just as it entered into Moses atop Mount Sinai. The sacred blood is a gift,” he repeated. “A gateway into the one light that rules over all creation.”

“Then take the blood from your son,” she fumed. “If you say I healed him by using this power, then it must have transferred to him, right? Or just let me heal whatever ails you, then you can go and do whatever you want with the box, the blood . . .”

Shaking his head, he flatly stated, “It doesn’t work like that, Dr. Hennesey. If it were that easy, I wouldn’t need you.”

She noticed the rabbi’s eyes shift away as he said this.

“I’m not following you,” she said.

“You were chosen. Why, I don’t know. But question not the Lord’s plan.”

More eye shifting suggested that the rabbi was holding back. “You tried it already, didn’t you?”

The rabbi’s jaw clenched tight and his eyes burned with fury.

That’s when the truth hit her. “Your son’s hand,” she said accusatorily. “When you saw that he was walking, you brought him directly here, didn’t you? You had him touch the—”

Without warning, the rabbi’s hand flew through the air to connect firmly with Charlotte’s cheek.

“Silence!” he yelled.

What had happened to Joshua was a horrible thing. The smell of burning flesh still lingered in Cohen’s nostrils. He’d pulled the terrified boy away from the Ark almost instantly, yet the damage had already been done. A scream like no other had come from Joshua’s lips and he’d covered the boy’s mouth with his hand to suppress it. Joshua’s fingers had been broiled, curled into a tight claw. Yet while the rabbi sat there cradling him, he could actually see the flesh regenerating ever so slowly. By the time he’d composed himself and brought Joshua downstairs for presentation to the geneticist, the boy’s pain had already subsided; the hand was still on the mend. Gazing into his son’s eyes, he’d known immediately that another wound—a much deeper, irreparable wound—had been inflicted. The rabbi himself suffered as well as the extreme disappointment of a broken son—a broken legacy—returned. He’d asked Devora to cover the hand so that it wouldn’t detract from the message he needed to relay to Charlotte.

“After patiently waiting for centuries,” he replied, “nothing falls to chance. Unnecessary risk is unacceptable.”

Charlotte held a hand against the hot fire rushing into her cheek. She noticed that during this whole exchange, the rabbi’s wife had been standing in the shadowed corridor, listening. The rabbi himself, however, had not picked up on this. “And injuring your own flesh and blood is a necessary and acceptable risk?” she added. “You couldn’t have used yourself as the guinea pig?”

He stepped up so close that his nose practically touched hers, ready to strike again. His eyes were wild.

“You’re no savior,” she raged on. “You’re a coward—a coward who sends assassins to kill the innocent. A coward who is willing to sacrifice his son to save his own skin. How do you think God feels about that?”

“Abraham was ready to sacrifice his son. Even God sacrificed His own.” He drew a cleansing breath and withdrew. “Enough of this,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “The time has come.”

“What time?” She knew ancient Jews were hugely amenable to making sacrificial offerings. Plenty of animals carved up on an altar came to mind, but she was sifting her memories for more prolific examples. Another quick glance at the doorway showed that the rabbi’s wife had already staged her retreat.

Cohen ignored her question and directed his attention to his entourage. Pointing to the relic, he said, “Place it back in the crate and load the truck. You know what to do with her. We’ll leave immediately.”

The men came at her quickly, overpowering her, binding her hands behind her back, then gagging her mouth.

61

******

In the fire stairwell Amit set down his shoes and peeked out through the fire door’s small glass window. The red glow of the exit sign hanging above the door’s other side gave him about two meters of muddled visibility through the corridor extending left and right. But he heard the commotion before he saw what caused it.

First came a crate set on a dolly that a man was wheeling toward the elevator adjacent to the fire door. Another five armed men trailed closely behind, and between them was a very pretty woman bound and gagged. For Amit, the sight of her raised a whole new set of questions.

Finally came the morose master of ceremonies wearing all black and bringing up the rear.

Definitely not a favorable scenario for playing hero. But the rabbi was at the back of the line, and if Amit could somehow take him by surprise . . .

The compulsion to use the element of surprise was short-lived as he tried to imagine what Jules would say. Probably something along the lines of “Settle down, cowboy.”

The elevator doors opened and the bright light from its interior spilled into the dark hallway. Amit shrank back against the wall and listened as they all crammed into the elevator alongside the dolly. Once he heard the doors clatter shut and the gears engage high up in the shaft, he waited a few more seconds near the tiny window. Then he swung open the door, staying low and thrusting the gun forward. He was greeted once more by silence.

At the end of the dark corridor, however, he could see light coming from the conference room—the last door on the left. Instinct told him to check the room and see if anything had been left behind.

Easing the fire door closed, he slipped quietly down the hall in his socked feet. His two outstretched hands were wrapped around the Beretta, his left index finger hooked firmly around its cold trigger.

As he neared the folded-back doors, he slowed to a shuffle and took cover behind the closest one. He peeked through the thin gap separating the doorjamb. That’s when he spotted two people moving about inside, tidying up the room’s center. He noticed both of them immediately. The woman was Cohen’s wife, the Temple Society’s not-so-pleasant receptionist. Amit second-guessed his recognition of the boy’s face when he saw that he was actually up and about, not stuck in a wheelchair. Joshua? What the hell?

Now a new opportunity presented itself. If he tried to simply follow the rabbi and his posse, there was a very good chance he’d get only so far. Amit could risk losing them altogether and not be able to pick up the trail until it was too late. But if he could somehow get advance information on what Cohen’s plan entailed . . .

Maneuvering around the door, Amit inspected the room more thoroughly to make sure it was only the two of them. Next, he stormed in with the gun trained on the rabbi’s son.

“Don’t scream or I’ll put a bullet in your head,” he said in a calm voice.

62

******

“Hello, Mrs. Cohen,” Amit said wryly. “A pleasure to see you again.” He held the gun straight out, trained on Joshua’s head. The wife’s arms dropped limply to her sides, the right hand still clutching the cloth she’d been using to buff the crate’s grimy streaks off the tabletop. “I see that your husband returned safely from Egypt.”

The woman remained silent, well composed. Her eyes, however, looked weary, lifeless.

“Seems he didn’t come back empty handed,” Amit said. “Care to tell me what he has in that crate?”

After studying the archaeologist for five seconds, she responded: “Why should you care?”

“Because whatever it is, he tried to kill me for it. Sent an assassin for me. And your husband had two of my friends murdered.” He turned his gaze to Joshua. “Including Yosi.” The boy had been fond of the old man too. Who hadn’t been?

“Yosi died of a heart attack,” Joshua insisted.

Devora had already figured out Amit’s real name shortly after she’d advised her husband of the man’s sudden appearance at his office, when he’d introduced himself as Yosi. When she’d explained what the visitor and his female companion looked like, her husband had immediately become alarmed. Playback of the Temple Society’s security recordings confirmed what he’d already suspected.

“No, Joshua. It wasn’t a heart attack that killed Yosi. And as we speak, another of my friends is in the hospital having a bullet hole in her side plugged up. All because of your husband,” he said to Devora. “So I care very deeply about what is in that box.” There were also selfish reasons for his interest, traceable to a culmination of years of research and the slim possibility that the Bible’s most cherished relic still existed.

“He’s killed many others too,” Devora weakly replied, staring blankly at a Greek inscription glazed onto a ring of ceramic tiles just below the domed ceiling. She remembered her husband telling her it was a quote from Plato that was the oldest known reference to the study now dubbed “archaeology.” But perhaps Aaron had lied about that too. After all, she couldn’t read Greek—and she certainly couldn’t read him. “He’s done many things you may not like. But it is God’s will that—”

“No,” Amit cut her off. “Murder is not God’s will. Now I’m running out of time. So tell me, what is in that box?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.” Devora shook her head.

“Try me.”

But Devora stood her ground.

It was the son who offered up the answer. “The Ark of the Covenant.”

“Joshua!” the mother said in a warning tone, shaking her head.

“Thank you,” Amit said with an air of vindication. But the confirmation brought even more anxiety.

“It doesn’t matter now, Mother,” Joshua reminded her.

Devora paused as she looked over at Joshua’s bandaged hand. What her husband had done to his own flesh and blood was unspeakable. Yet it was no surprise, since he’d never shown Joshua true love or respect. Being a son in the Cohen family was no small responsibility. Only the able-bodied could perform the duties of a priest. To Aaron, Joshua had become first and foremost a break in his genealogical chain. Crippled, the boy stood no chance of serving God as a kohen.

And given the gloomy prognosis for Joshua’s condition, a grandson had been considered an impossibility. Nor could Joshua’s corrupted genetics have supported artificial means of conception, even if it were to come down to that. The bottom line was that Joshua could never carry on the Cohen family name and the ever-so-precious pedigree that came with it—his yichus. Not to mention that Devora was able to bear only one child before a series of benign cysts strangled her ovaries so badly that they required excision. Since Joshua’s illness began, Aaron had not been able to reconcile how the imperfections of the next generation could run so deep. His obsession with genetics had grown even stronger. If there was any way to retain the bloodline, he was determined to find it.

Though she hadn’t acknowledged it for many years, Devora had become aware that there was something wrong with her husband—something bordering on mania. It wasn’t hard to imagine what he was capable of doing to others. And now that he’d achieved so many things and brought the Ark back to Zion, there was no telling what he’d do next.

Amit’s gaze bounced from mother to son and back to mother. They were serious. “Is it real—the Ark?”

Devora’s eyes were still locked on Joshua’s hand as she answered Amit: “The Ark is real.” There was defeat in her voice—decades of it. “The Ark is very real.”

“My God,” Amit mumbled. Seeing that neither mother nor son posed a threat, he lowered the gun. Though his first inclination was to question her sincerity, there was something else playing out in the woman’s hurt gaze. With his guard down, he noticed a sleek safe case sitting on one of the chairs. He sidestepped closer to examine it—a fancy model with a digital combination lock. The rabbi’s attaché? Could the missing scrolls from Qumran be inside it? “What is this?”

When Mrs. Cohen told him, his alarm heightened. He asked who’d be coming to pick it up. The answer wasn’t pleasing either. “When?”

“Any minute now,” she replied. “They are in the building.”

Amit moved the case further across the room and gave her specific instructions on how to handle the transaction. Keeping his attention, and the gun, on the door, he lowered his voice.

“You need to save the Messiah,” Joshua blurted out.

Puzzled, Amit asked, “Who?”

“The woman ...Charlotte. The pretty one they are taking with them. She’s the Messiah.”

Messiah? Amit looked back at the mother, hoping to see recognition that her son had a few screws loose. But much to his surprise, Devora nodded in agreement.

“It’s true,” Devora conceded. “She is the Chosen One. Do you not see how my son walks now?”

This was all a lot to take in. First the Ark, now the Messiah? Things were moving too fast. “She’s the Messiah,” he whispered to no one in particular. “So tell me about her. I also want to know what she has to do with the Ark—and I want to know what your husband is planning to do,” Amit insisted.

63

******

“Look at this fucking mess,” Kwiatkowski grumbled, unwrapping the blood-caked towel from his mangled forearm. Blinking sporadically, his bloodshot eyes were still tearing from the chemical burns. Leaning over the bathroom sink, he turned on the squeaky chrome spigots.

Watching his ashen-faced partner peel away the final layer, Orlando cringed as the towel’s crusty twill pulled away some of the crescent-shaped scab. The raw, deep wound split like smiling lips, the skin surrounding it a gruesome shade of purple. Blood zigzagged down Kwiatkowski’s forearm muscles into the basin, turning the shallow water pink. “That priest really got you good.”

As Kwiatkowski stuffed the bloodstained towel into the garbage can, his inflamed red eyes knifed into Orlando. “He just got lucky. That’s all.” An attempt at wiggling the bluish-purple digits produced good results for the pinky and ring finger, limited motion in the middle finger, and nothing in the other two. “Damn nerves are severed. Shit.”

All told, it had been six hours since they’d slipped out of the Vatican dormitory and loaded the geneticist into the rented van. They’d easily rolled out the Petrine Gate as the Swiss Guard focused its attention on the fire alarm that had gone off in the dormitory. The priest had unwittingly made their escape easier. At Fiumicino, the woman had been transferred to the rabbi’s private jet. As Cohen had promised, diplomatic privileges allowed them to bypass all security. The man seemed to have more pull than the pope. The bumpy flight from Rome to Tel Aviv took less than two and a half hours. Once they’d landed, a transfer to a second van completed the last leg of the delivery to the Rockefeller Museum.

Now it was time to collect final payment.

Repulsion giving way to curiosity, Orlando stared at the wound more clinically. “Did he break the bone?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Could have been worse.”

“Are you fucking kidding? This isn’t exactly like cutting myself shaving.” He bent over and held the grotesque arm under the running water. Chunks of the scab and oozing gore slid off into the drain. “As soon as we get the money you can drop me over at Hadassah. I’m going to need surgery.” “No problem,” he said, patting him on the shoulder. Big problem, actually. It was Kwiatkowski’s shooting hand. Clearly the best surgeon in Israel would have a difficult time restoring the reflex in his trigger finger. Which rendered the man useless. “You did good. There’ll be plenty of time to rest up after this job.” Plenty of time. He handed over a fresh towel.

Kwiatkowski sighed. “The rabbi’s wife has the cash?” He glared at Orlando in the mirror.

“That’s right.”

“Euros, not shekels?”

“Right.” With a lightning-fast draw, Orlando pulled out his gun and fired once into Kwiatkowski’s left ear.

The giant rocked sideways and struck the wall where the round had cracked through the tiles. Blood and brain matter smeared as he crumpled to the floor.

Holstering his gun, Orlando made his way outside.

64

******

Orlando moved quickly down the corridor toward the light coming out of the conference room, the gun swinging like a pendulum in his right hand. “Mrs. Cohen?” he called out.

As he drew nearer the conference room, shadows moved across the light. Then the matronly Hasidic woman in her ankle-length dress seemed to glide out of the room, hands folded.

“Yes, in here, please,” she said in a lukewarm manner.

The assassin’s muscles eased up as he passed by her and cautiously entered the room with the gun drawn.

“Where is your partner?” she asked, coming in behind him.

“He went ahead to the hospital.”

“His arm?”

“An awful thing,” the contractor confirmed. “I’ll be handling matters on his behalf,” he firmly replied, his deadpan face clearly communicating that he shouldn’t be questioned any further.

A haunted expression came over his face when he saw the rabbi’s son across the room, standing next to the silver safe case. When he’d first arrived, the emaciated, ghost-white kid had been curled up in a wheelchair. Less than an hour after he came out of the room where the geneticist had been detained, he’d started rambling excitedly about his legs, how he could feel strange sensations. Then the kid had clumsily pulled himself up from the chair. It hadn’t been pretty, but the kid managed to stand, using the wall and the chair for support. But he was definitely up and about, crying like a baby, his cheeks flushed with rosy color. The circumstances seemed highly suspicious, so Orlando had immediately fetched the rabbi. The rabbi’s genuine astonishment had not been what he’d expected.

The boy’s condemnatory stare sent a freakish coldness over Orlando. He paced over to the case and ran his fingers over its small keypad.

“Don’t worry. Your blood money is all there,” Mrs. Cohen said.

The woman certainly wasn’t looking to win any popularity contests. “The code?” He tucked the gun into his underarm holster since he’d need both hands to open the case.

She gave him the sequence.

Orlando keyed in the numbers and the locks snapped open inside the case. Grinning, he unhinged the cover. The smile immediately faded when he looked down at the neat stacks of bills. “Shekels?” he grunted.

“It’s perfectly good money,” the wife confirmed.

“I specifically requested Euros, not this Jew money. Now where am I supposed to go to trade this at this hour?”

“So open a bank account in the morning,” she coldly replied.

“You think you’re funny?” he hissed. Pulling his gun, he swept it up at the son’s pale face. “I can be funny too.”

Without warning, the wooden panel covering the front of the table splintered open around a clean hole. At the same time, Orlando felt a wretched pain tear up through his abdomen and into his chest—an invisible spear impaling his body. “Wh—what . . . ?” Blood pulsed out in quick bursts from above his navel and sprayed onto the shekels. Absorbed in the absurdity of it, he hadn’t noticed the boy scamper off behind him. He backed up from the table, dazed. Delirious, he swung the gun side to side, squeezing off haphazard shots—at the table, at the ceiling, over his shoulder. “Fucking scumbags!” he slurred.

The gun’s ammo clip emptied quickly.

That’s when a broad man with a goatee sprang up from underneath the table and fired three more rounds into his chest.

Orlando crashed onto the conference table, blood spreading out smoothly over the freshly polished finish. He tried to curse them once more, but the words drowned in the bile and blood that gurgled into his throat. The rabbi’s wife came and stood beside the table, arms crossed tight in front of her chest. It was the first time he’d seen her smile.

He felt her spit strike his eye just as the darkness took hold.

65

******

By the time Amit got his shoes on, made it back downstairs, and bounded out the rear service door with gun drawn, the delivery van was gone. No surprise. Oddly, however, the flatbed truck had gone missing too.

The fragmented story that Mrs. Cohen had told him was almost too incredible to believe. Yet even if she’d embellished a half-truth, the implications of what Rabbi Cohen had in store for the Ark and the captive “Messiah” were shocking.

Immediately, Amit broke into a sprint to get back to the car. Midstride, he pulled out his cell phone and hit the send button. The call took three rings to connect. As always, Enoch was heedful about answering his call, no matter what the hour.

“Hey,” he said between heavy breaths.

“Are you having sex?” Enoch joked.

Under better circumstances, Amit would have laughed heartily. “I

need”— breath—“your help. It’s critical.”

His tone instantly went serious. “Tell me.”

“Just a sec,” Amit said as he approached the car, ducked inside, and

fumbled for the key. The Fiat’s engine turned over with a growl. “Where are you?”

Amit told him as he threw the car into drive and peeled out along the

curved road. He paused to regulate his lungs, then laid out the facts he’d confirmed with the rabbi’s wife—the abduction of an American geneticist, the clandestine shipment flown back from Egypt.

“And where’s Cohen heading?”

“The Temple Mount.” When Devora had told him this, his heart had almost given out. “Something to do with the excavation in the Western Wall Tunnel. I’m not sure about that part.”

“What’s in the box?” Enoch had to ask.

“Something very dangerous.”

This made Enoch fear the worst, because some hard-core Zionists were considered religious extremists, even terrorists. The Mossad kept a very close eye on the select few considered credible threats. Yet somehow Rabbi Cohen had remained below the radar. “A bomb?”

Amit liked the way this proposition resonated with Enoch. So he went along with it. “That or something worse.” If it really was the Ark in that box, he wasn’t stretching the truth.

Along the straightaway below the Temple Mount’s eastern wall, he gunned the engine to swerve around a Toyota sedan moving sluggishly along Derech Ha’ofel. “I’m just about there now,” Amit told him. “You need to get over here immediately—the Western Wall Plaza. And call for backup.”

“All right, Commander,” he said, thinking back to the old days. “I’m on my way. Give me ten minutes. Just sit tight outside the gate—and don’t do anything crazy until I get there.”

Luckily, though Enoch periodically reported to Tel Aviv, he spent three days each week telecommuting from his Jerusalem condominium on Derech Beit Lehem.

Amit pushed the car to its limit as the headlights cut a straight line below the white tombs heaped up along the Temple Mount’s eastern wall.

Amit’s fears deepened. The Old Testament depicted the Ark of the Covenant as a telephone to heaven—a vessel through which Moses and Aaron communicated with God in the Tabernacle. And it was the Ark that could summon God’s essence in the form of a brilliant light—the Shechinah. The Ark’s roster of supernatural powers included an ability to levitate and strike down scorpions and dangerous predators with bolts of energy. It could push back rivers and move earth. It could spontaneously combust anyone who came into contact with it.

But what troubled Amit most was the Bible’s detailed descriptions of the Ark as antiquity’s ultimate weapon of mass destruction, capable of channeling God’s wrath to annihilate armies and decimate cities. Could this

be what Cohen was really after? And this woman who Joshua had dubbed

the Messiah? Well, if this was what Cohen believed, then it stood to reason

that he was convinced that the American was meant to usher in a day of

reckoning that would reinstate Zion as the epicenter of God’s world. He

couldn’t suppress the images of a decimated Temple Mount and a grand

Temple City rising from the ashes.

Scary stuff.

No. Crazy stuff.

The man of science and reason in him couldn’t believe what he was

envisioning. Yet everything in his gut told him it made sense. The second

book of the Pentateuch (the Torah), Exodus, described the Ark of the Covenant as a cubit and a half in height and width, two and a half cubits in

length. Most believed the cubit God was referring to then probably hadn’t

been the same one conveyed to Noah for construction of his seaworthy

ark. Since Moses was an Egyptian, he’d have employed the Egyptian royal

cubit. In modern terms, that put the Ark’s proportions at about three quarters of a meter high and wide, and under a meter and a half long. Indeed, the crate Amit had seen Cohen’s cronies wheeling out of the

museum could have easily held it.

It took him less than a minute to cut through the Kidron Valley and approach the gate where tour buses entered the Old City to drop their loads

outside the security gates—the Dung Gate. Unfortunately, the very short

ride from the Rockefeller Museum and the rabbi’s significant head start

practically guaranteed that he’d already made it inside.

Instead of drawing attention by heading through the gate, Amit hung

a left where a brown road sign pointed to the City of David in English and

Hebrew. He immediately steered to the curb.

When he got out of the car, a pair of Palestinians huddled on stools over

a backgammon board began yelling at him in Arabic, pointing to the car,

gesturing in impolite ways for him to move it.

With no time to argue with them, Amit tossed the key ring onto the

game board and told them, “It’s yours. Take it.”

Then he set off for the gate.

66

******

Rabbi Aaron Cohen’s mind was stretched to the limit. Things had gotten very sloppy, and any semblance of his original plan had long since vaporized. The killings were to be expected. Sacrifice was always required. The fact that the assassin assigned to eliminate Amit Mizrachi had not reported back to the museum, however, was deeply troubling. Could the archaeologist still be alive?

Then he thought back to the Muslim who’d snuck into the tunnel and managed to report to someone on the outside about what he’d seen beneath the Temple Mount—the event that put everything into fast-forward. Whom had he called? What would the response entail? Too many possibilities.

But if there was a destiny for the Ark, it certainly was in the Lord’s hands now. After so many, many centuries, the Testimony was back in Zion—ready to fulfill the great prophecies put into motion two thousand years earlier by Jesus.

“Unload the truck,” Cohen instructed his foreman.

The man, dressed in a blue Israel Antiquities Authority jumpsuit and white hard hat, looked warily over the rabbi’s shoulders at the six IDF guards standing watch at the archway. They were all busy talking and smoking. “What about the soldiers?”

“Don’t worry about them,” Cohen said. “They’re clueless. If they cause any problems, you do whatever it takes to hold them back.”

The anxious foreman had no more questions and began shouting orders to the men gathered around the side of the flatbed truck that had backed in beneath Wilson’s Arch.

Cohen watched as another crewman rolled a forklift closer, raised the fork, and eased it under the first pallet. The machine’s engine rumbled heavily, its frame groaning under the extreme weight. Then came loud beeping as the machine reversed in a slow arc and maneuvered to set the pallet down on the ground. The process repeated as the second batch of stone was unloaded.

Once the forklift spun back into its parking spot and the engine was shut off, Cohen said to the foreman, “Unpack them and bring them straight inside, understand?” He pointed to the pallets.

“Right away.”

“I need to get ready. I’ll meet you there.”

Pacing over to the white delivery van, Cohen opened the passenger door and retrieved his black garment bag and tote. Then he headed down the steps and into the Western Wall Tunnel.

67

******

“Sorry, Commander,” Enoch said, jogging over to Amit outside the Dung Gate with a lit cigarette dangling from his right hand.

“If this was Gaza, I’d have you reported to the aluf ’s office,” Amit said with a grin. “But five minutes is a forgivable offense in the civilian world.” He gave his friend a handshake and embraced him. “I really appreciate your coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he said with a sardonic grin.

The image of Enoch that would be forever stuck in the back of Amit’s head—a painfully thin, timid kid—did not match the man who stood before him. At least thirty pounds heavier, and none of it flab, Enoch was an intimidating fellow. In fact, it looked like he could bench-press a car. His face had filled out too—more handsome, yet the same bony nose and undersized chin.

“Still haven’t given up on those things?” Amit said, pointing to the cigarette. “Why kill yourself? You’ve got a family now.”

Enoch raised his eyebrows, took a final drag, and tossed the butt to the ground. As he stubbed it out with his foot, he replied, “Living in Jerusalem and working for Israeli intelligence?” He smirked. “Cigarettes are the least of my worries.”

“Good point. Were you able to call ahead to anyone?” Amit asked. He could sense an apology coming.

“I tried,” he said. “But I was told that the area is already under heavy supervision. The IDF is working triple-time in there.” His eyes motioned ahead to the Western Wall Plaza.

“You didn’t mention the abduction?”

“Of course I did. But according to those guards over there”—he pointed to the service gate left of the tourist depot—“Cohen just went inside and there was no woman, no crate.”

What?

“So unless we have proof, suffice it to say that the rabbi is untouchable. Your word against his. And I shouldn’t even be here with you, because there’s an ex-IDF man with a bullet in his neck who was just scooped off the pavement at the Israel Museum.”

Amit’s expression turned sour.

“Lots of witnesses there said a big guy with a cargo vest and a goatee downed him. Way to keep a low profile,” he lightly jabbed. “Bottom line is, you’re wanted for questioning. Didn’t exactly help me to escalate matters, if you know what I’m saying. You could’ve told me, you know.”

Now Amit was the apologetic one. “Sorry about that.”

“No worries. Good shooting, though,” he said. “You got the guy right in the spine.”

“I was aiming for the chest, but thanks anyway.”

“You still armed?”

Amit flashed David’s Beretta, then dropped it back in his deep vest pocket.

Enoch’s left eyebrow tipped up. “It’ll have to do. Let’s get in there.” He set a brisk pace along the drive leading to the security barrier and turnstiles that cordoned off the plaza.

“You’re sure about all this, Amit?” Enoch asked.

“Was I ever wrong in Gaza?”

“No, sir,” he replied with assurance. It still amazed him that Amit hadn’t pursued a career with the military. He was a natural leader with a brand of cunning born from instinct, not training. Rumor had it, however, that Amit’s proficiency in archaeology was even more impressive. “So it’s just like old times, eh?”

“That’s right. Now work your magic with these guys and get us down into that tunnel.”

They slowed when the guards at the main gate saw them coming and stood.

Enoch dipped unthreateningly into his pants pocket for his Mossad ID badge.

68

******

Charlotte Hennesey felt like she’d been buried alive. The oxygen inside the pitch-black wooden box she had been folded into was getting thinner by the moment, not to mention that the stale air was a keen reminder that she was in desperate need of a shower. With knees pulled close to her chest, hands bound tight behind her back, and an excessive gag triple-wrapped over her mouth, the muscle cramping had quickly set in again. Though she’d never been claustrophobic before, this could unnerve Houdini himself, she thought.

The rabbi had promised a short drive. That much seemed to be true, because the bouncy truck had come to a stop within minutes. Then she’d heard the muted groaning sounds of a loud engine followed shortly thereafter by a sensation of movement, first up, then down.

But now, things seemed to be getting louder. There was banging and thudding on the crate’s front face. Without warning, the wood violently cracked. She jerked her head sideways as splinters showered in on her. The box’s entire front face snapped away.

A rush of cool air swept in.

Crystalline voices.

When she looked up again, a dark figure was silhouetted against bright

white light—hands reaching in for her, clasping her bound ankles and pulling.

69

******

Enoch was trying his best to be patient with the two rookie night-shift police officers posted at the security gate. They’d already confirmed what they’d relayed in an earlier phone inquiry—no sign of a woman, definitely no crate.

“And you inspected the trucks?”

“As best we could,” the taller one confirmed. “The van came in empty.” He pointed a bony finger to where it sat outside the cordons. “Just a driver and the rabbi up front. Nothing suspicious about that. Take a look inside it if you don’t believe me.”

Ignoring the exchange, Amit’s gaze was transfixed on the bright lights under the archway on the plaza’s north side. He could see soldiers calmly standing there, but little more. What the hell was happening inside?

“And the truck?”

The guard rolled his eyes and huffed. “That truck’s been in and out of here at least two dozen times over the past month.”

“But you did inspect it?” he dug in.

“Just a driver in the front cab. Same as always.”

“And the shipment?” A squeezing sensation came over Enoch’s chest, and the cords in his neck stretched tight.

The guards exchanged guilty glances.

“You didn’t check it?”

“Stones?” He shrugged. “What’s to check?”

Now Enoch snapped. “Get out of my way,” he roared, and pushed past them. “Let’s go, Amit.”

The metal detector squelched in turn as each of them passed through.

“Wait!” the tall guard protested, scrambling after them waving a handgun. “No guns in there!”

Enraged, Enoch spun, eyes like daggers. “Oh, now you’re inspecting things?”

The guard aimed the gun at him. “I’m serious.”

“Are you kidding me?” he scoffed. Shaking his head, he slapped the gun aside. “Don’t test my patience. You know Mossad are never permitted to give up weapons.”

“But—”

“Call your superior if you have any complaints. I’ve got a job to do.”

With that, Enoch marched his way across the plaza, Amit trailing close in his wake.

70

******

“Everything okay over here?” the female IDF guard said, rifle slung over her knobby right shoulder. The group had sent her over to investigate the loud cracking sounds that had echoed up through the high vaults.

“Fine,” the foreman reported. “Just fine.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men goading the geneticist down the steps leading into the tunnel.

“What was that noise?” she asked.

“Noise?”

She might have been a novice, but she was no idiot. The guy was playing dumb. “Yes. Like wood splintering.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Hold on,” the woman said, raising a hand to hush him. She moved around the truck’s rear, and her curious eyes locked onto the splintered mess near the two pallets. “What’s going on over there?” she asked, moving closer.

The foreman quickly glanced at the other soldiers, who remained at the entrance, chatting away. Then he traipsed to the female soldier.

Eyes pinched in confusion, she studied the hollows in the center of each pallet. Buried underneath the stacked stones were sizable wooden crates, empty. The torn-apart front side of each crate littered the ground. Why would a crate be sealed away inside a stone pile? Unless . . .

She yelled out to the others. “I need help back here!”

The foreman’s eyes went wide. In a panic, he snatched up a shovel propped against the truck’s front bumper.

The soldier raced to bring the rifle off her shoulder and pivoted to face the workman. No sooner was her finger on the trigger then a loud clang instantly preceded a sharp pain that exploded through her skull and made her see pure white. Her body dropped limply to the ground, forcing her finger back on the trigger. The stray shot echoed through the vaults like a thunderclap.

Terrified, the foreman ditched the shovel and dashed for the tunnel.

71

******

Halfway across the plaza, Amit and Enoch simultaneously registered the resounding gunshot that echoed out from the brightly lit archway adjacent to the Wailing Wall. The soldiers outside the opening reacted quickly, pulling down their machine guns and scrambling for cover.

“Shit,” Enoch grumbled. “Let me check it out. You stay here for a sec.” Before Amit could protest, the kid was off and running. The frenzied guards at the security post began yelling. When Amit

looked back at them, they were bickering about what to do. Then the tall one was picking up a phone.

Lights began snapping on in the windows of the residential buildings overlooking the plaza.

Amit swung his gaze back to the soldiers, trying to figure out what Cohen was up to. Why would he bring the American and the Ark into the Western Wall Tunnel? The renovations that had been going on there since the quake first struck had forced the exit onto Via Dolorosa to be closed. The tunnel was a dead end. Made no sense. Unless . . .

His eyes crawled up the Wailing Wall. Backing up a few steps, he saw the peak of the Dome of the Rock’s lit-up cupola come into view. He remained transfixed by it for a few seconds, considering a very remote possibility.

Could it be?

As more IDF reinforcements stormed into the plaza, Amit needed to make a move before someone started asking him questions. The tunnel was now officially under siege. Not much use for him down there. And unlike the soldiers, Amit was a much bigger target—who wasn’t wearing Kevlar.

He calmly backtracked toward the metal detectors. But just before he reached them, he vaulted over a wooden construction fence and landed on a temporary walkway set atop steel columns, sheathed in plywood, and covered by a corrugated metal roof.

Beneath the raised walkway, the excavations on the Temple Mount’s southwest corner had now reached below the Ottoman-period steps and aqueducts to expose a monumental construct of eighth-centuryb.c.e. columns, steps, and walls called the Ada Carmi Building. And as he curved up the temporary bridge spanning over it, he couldn’t help but think that the site had suffered serious damage during the firefight that had taken place here back in June, when the thieves who’d stolen the ossuary from beneath the Temple Mount had opened fire on Israeli soldiers. Mortar shells had taken down entire walls and Iron Age stonework.

Staying low and moving up the curved walkway, he looked over to the archway where the soldiers were flooding in, Enoch right behind them.

“Go get ’em, kid,” Amit said.

The ramp peaked at Moors Gate, high up on the Western Wall—under normal conditions, the main tourist entrance to the Temple Mount esplanade. However, the Waqf had kept it closed ever since the restoration work in the Western Wall Tunnel had commenced.

The freshly painted new steel door featured a very modern key lock. Amit was fully prepared to put his lock-picking skills to the test once more. But he figured he’d test the door first. And much to his surprise, it was unlocked.

Open?

Amit slid inside and pulled the door shut.

72

******

Now Charlotte’s pulse was pounding. The gunshot had thrown Cohen’s thugs into high gear and they pulled harder at her arms as they moved her through a huge vaulted hall full of scaffolding. At the base of one of the room’s massive stanchions, three men were dismantling a pile of stones to access something covered beneath. Another eight stood close, looking on. She barely glimpsed one of the men emptying the arsenal concealed there—machine guns and other ominous-looking weapons.

They muscled her through an open security door and alongside the huge foundation stones.

The sweaty foreman had just caught up to them. In Hebrew, he rattled off what had transpired. Then he warned them that the soldiers were quickly advancing.

The channel beyond the door was tight, huge rectangular blocks on the right, modern concrete slabs on the left. They’d definitely brought her deep underground. But she still felt completely disoriented. Where in hell were they taking her?

Up ahead there were some stone steps. The handlers were getting antsy, pushing her along, almost forcing her to trip.

On the left side, the passage widened considerably, but the huge blocks on the right were still running along a straight line. Here they met up with seven bearded men dressed in white robes and headdresses. Opposite them were half a dozen others dressed in blue jumpsuits, each armed with a machine gun.

As if that wasn’t enough, Cohen was there too, dressed like a snake charmer. The sight of him actually made her stop dead in her tracks. His long sky-blue robe had shiny gold thread woven into its fabric, and tassels dangled from its hem. Tied around the waist was a crimson and red garment that looked like a fancy apron. And his colorful head-wrap was secured by a gold frontlet inscribed with Hebrew letters. The ensemble included a gold breastplate inset with twelve sparkling rectangular gemstones—topaz, emerald, sapphire, and amethyst among them—each with Hebrew inscriptions.

The veiled Egyptian relic had been placed in the center of it all, except this time, it had been fitted with two long wooden carrying poles and it was covered in animal furs.

“Remove the gag,” Cohen said.

One of the handlers cut away the duct tape, taking plenty of hair with it.

For a moment, Cohen stared at her natural, unblemished red curls. “Your screams won’t matter now,” he said. “So I suggest you not waste your energy.”

She glared at the rabbi’s attire. “Where are we?”

“We are beneath Jerusalem’s Temple Mount,” the rabbi coolly replied.

Jerusalem ? “What is going— ?”

His hand snapped up. “All in good time.”

Given what was brewing outside, Charlotte thought, he seemed remarkably calm, as did the others gathered around him. What did Cohen have up his sleeve? There was no way he could stay holed up down here. Did he have a death wish?

Cohen spread his hands, signaling for the robed men lined up along the foundation wall to separate.

What Charlotte hadn’t seen behind them was a gaping hole that had been pounded through a thick layer of mortar and stone that sealed a soaring archway. She watched four of the robed men each claim a position at a corner of the box. In tandem, they reached down and clasped the closest pole end. Then they hoisted the box smoothly from the floor, like pallbearers.

“What you are about to take part in, Charlotte,” the rabbi said, “is a ritual that hasn’t taken place in almost twenty-five hundred years.”

The rabbi summoned one of the priests from the rear, who hastily brought over a gold cup fitted with a long handle. Charlotte watched as the rabbi took the vessel, closed his eyes, and chanted a prayer over it. Then he dipped his finger into the cup and proceeded to fling a drop of thick red liquid over the darkened threshold.

Is that blood?

He repeated this six more times, while chanting a prayer.

“The sacred blood consecrates the gateway,” Cohen explained to her.

Her eyes went wide as she realized that it was her blood being used for the ritual.

Returning the vessel to the attendant, the rabbi made his way through the dark hole. Two paces ahead, he stopped and crouched low to the ground. There came a metallic click, followed instantly by a bath of white light that washed away the darkness from a grand corridor running straight through the heart of the Temple Mount.

73

******

Pacing the Dome of the Rock’s wide ambulatory, the Keeper glanced over at the craggy expanse of the rock itself—Sakhrah. In preparation for what was to come, he prayed to the seventy thousand angels who continuously guarded over this spot, beseeching them for strength, begging for a sign should his intentions not please Allah.

Though young Ali had entered the secret tunnel never to return— peace forever grace him—he had still managed to confirm Ghalib’s suspicions that something devious was taking place beneath the Haram. He’d been surprised when Ali had reported just how ambitious the plan really was.

As he meandered past the balustrade along the rock’s southern side, he paused to pay homage to the wide gap that opened into the Well of Souls directly beneath. Islamic legend said that when Muhammad ascended to heaven, the rock had begun to fracture at this spot and rise up beneath him. But the angel Gabriel had held the sacred stone in place. Along the Sakhrah’s surface, he could see the indentations left behind by the angel’s fingers.

Oh Merciful One, most compassionate and all knowing, Ruler of Judgment Day. Give me guidance. Show me the straight way.

He circled back to the south door, where two Palestinians armed with Uzis awaited him.

“The Evil One is coming. Dajal is in our midst. Soon, brothers,” he told them. “Very soon.”

“Shall we lock the doors?” one of them asked.

Ghalib shook his head. “Leave them open.” Then he went outside.

74

******

Five soldiers had pushed forward and taken positions close to the unloaded flatbed truck parked near the stairs—the Trojan horse that had passed through the walls of the world’s most secure city. Another four soldiers hunkered behind the piles of stone beside it, one crouched low behind the forklift, another using the bell of a portable cement mixer for cover.

Having taken up a post behind them, Enoch noticed that there seemed to be some deliberation as to how to proceed. All focus was on the steps where the gunman had retreated into the Western Wall Tunnel. “Come on,” he grumbled, losing patience.

If there was going to be more shooting, he wasn’t wearing proper safety gear. Best to leave the heavy lifting to the front line. So as not to be confused for the enemy, he made sure to prominently display his blue Mossad armbands showing the agency logo—a menorah set inside a circle. He briefly wondered how Amit might react when the IDF’s reinforcements came spilling into the plaza.

Another six soldiers fanned in around Enoch, Galils drawn. One of them dropped to one knee beside him—a female wearing the epaulets of a captain. She was young, pretty too. Momentarily, he was taken aback, since during his days with the IDF, women had performed only low-rank duties. The IDF’s first female pilot had only earned her wings in 2001.

“What’s happening in there?” she asked, eyes forward.

“Rabbi Cohen just carted in an unknown shipment presumed to be a high-powered weapon or bomb. He’s also taken an American hostage.” This didn’t seem to faze her.

“What does the hostage look like?”

Amit hadn’t specified. “Not sure, but just look for the only woman in plain clothes.”

“How many hostiles are we talking about?”

Anyone’s guess, he thought. He shrugged. “Maybe a dozen. Just assume the worst. And they already shot one of your officers. So assume they’re all armed.” No doubt the truck had also been used to smuggle weapons.

“Got it.”

A military jeep came to a rough stop in the plaza, just outside the entry. More soldiers spilled out and immediately dropped a retractable ramp from the jeep’s tailgate. One worked a remote transmitter that brought the payload out on its own accord.

“Let’s get it up front,” the captain yelled back to them.

Enoch watched as the robot bounced off the ramp on two rotary tracks, looking like a miniature tank or moon rover. The thing sped past him on a beeline for the tunnel stairs, the operator keeping a safe distance, using an LCD on the remote to see through the robot’s camera eye.

“We’ll get them out,” she assured Enoch.

The robot was just easing to a stop atop the stairs. Its two mechanical bomb-dismantling arms stayed tucked at its sides while a third, equipped with a camera, telescoped out.

“Nothing so far,” the operator said.

“Sit tight,” the captain told Enoch. Then she sprang up and signaled for the operator to follow her.

Enoch watched them move swiftly to take positions behind the robot.

Less than thirty seconds later, when the robot bounced its way down the steps and detected no activity below, the captain signaled the first wave of soldiers into the tunnel.

Thirty seconds after that, Enoch heard the first exchange of gunfire— and it was fierce.

Two soldiers remained behind while the others spilled down into the tunnel.

“Damn it,” Enoch cursed. If the rabbi was planning to put a bomb beneath the Temple Mount, there was little time to spare.

75

******

The sides of the wide corridor rose high above, curving to form a continuous arched canopy that tapered far off along a perfect line. The ground had been meticulously cleared and the wide, flat stones that paved the walkway were worn so perfectly smooth that they squeaked underfoot. There was a very distinct smell down here—a pleasant redolence of minerals and earth. Squinting, Charlotte tried in vain to make out what lay at the corridor’s other end, but the armed men in blue had taken the lead and obstructed the view. The robed pallbearers were traipsing behind her with the relic shoulder-mounted between them; the other robed men formed the train’s caboose.

“A beautiful restoration, wouldn’t you say?” Cohen proudly stated.

He explained that this had been the main thoroughfare, used in the first century for visitors coming in from the east gate en route to the marketplace that ran along the Temple Mount’s western wall; its roomy dimensions easily accommodated pedestrians, horses, and wagons. Its design was King Herod’s, as evidenced by the beveled frames carved into the bedrock to resemble the blocks of the mount’s outer walls. To prevent sneak attacks, the underground roadway had been sealed by the Romans immediately after they’d destroyed the second temple in 70 c.e.

While clearing the tunnel, he went on, the workmen had found Roman coins and refuse commingled with the fill—all circa 70 c.e. And most remarkable were the remnants they’d recovered from the original temple buildings—fractured stones inscribed with Greek and Hebrew citations of the Torah, beautiful stone columns that would have supported the porticoes, ornate foundation blocks etched with cherubim and rosettes. He told Charlotte that he’d taken the most beautiful stone and put it on display in his own museum in the Jewish Quarter.

“So you see, Charlotte, the second temple certainly did exist, and we’ve found all the proof to substantiate it. The Muslims have feared this for centuries. Precisely the reason they so vehemently object to any excavation beneath the Temple Mount.” Which was a partial blessing, he thought, since Jesus’s ossuary—strategically buried here by the Essenes just beyond the temple’s sacred precincts—had remained protected for so long. “However, though all of this is very impressive”—he swept his hand in circles over his head to imply the entirety of the Temple Mount—“it is nothing compared to God’s plan. King Herod built the second temple for vanity and pride. In God’s eye, it was a mockery. Its destruction should not be lamented.”

Charlotte remained silent, still grappling with all that was happening. Cohen was a lunatic. But there was something about him that commanded respect.

They continued along until they neared the terminus, where a formidable wall sealed the tunnel’s east gateway.

“See here what the caliphs had done?” he said, pointing to the stonework. “They sealed this gate too. And on the other side they heaped up the earth and pushed it against the mount’s eastern wall. Then they buried their dead all along it. Out there”—he motioned to what lay beyond the wall—“you can see the tombs, thousands of them.”

He told her that for the same reason, the Muslims had also bricked up a second double-arched gateway still visible on the eastern wall just above the graves. The Jews called that gate the Golden Gate.

“Do you know why they block the east gates, Charlotte?”

“Enlighten me,” she sarcastically replied.

“The Jewish Messiah who is to redeem Zion is prophesied to return through the East Gate, just as Jesus did. So they eliminated the gates. And when they learned that the Chosen One would become impure by coming into contact with the dead, and thus be forbidden by God to enter the temple precincts, they constructed the graveyard.”

The heaped-up corpses made the security system sound an awful lot like voodoo, she thought.

“As you might imagine,” he continued, “the Muslims fear the destruction of their sacred shrines, because the return of the Messiah will usher in the building of the third temple—and the Messianic Age.” Then he gave a wry smile. “But what they miss is that that east gate”—he pointed to the bricked-up dead end—“is not the one to which Ezekiel refers. Ezekiel speaks of the entry gate through the temple walls on top of Temple Mount at its center...where the Dome of the Rock now stands.”

The far-off patter of automatic gunfire suddenly echoed down the tunnel and caught his attention.

Come and get him, she thought eagerly.

The rabbi scowled when he saw her reaction. “We must move quickly,” he told his entourage.

Directing his attention to a sweeping arch that opened up on the left wall, Cohen glanced up a wide, high staircase. At the top, his men worked to remove a wooden framework that had stabilized the overhead paving stones.

76

******

The plaza on the Temple Mount’s southern end was vacant as Amit slipped past the huge circular ablutions fountain set before al-Aqsa Mosque. Seemed odd.

A harvest moon floated above Jerusalem; the air was balmy, lifelessly still.

He turned onto the wide paved walkway leading between the wispy cypress trees surrounding the Dome of the Rock’s raised platform. But he quickly ducked for cover when he saw a tall Arab coming in his direction.

As the Arab hastened under the multiarched qanatir and down the steps, Amit retreated along the shadowed platform wall until he rounded its corner. He watched the man continue down the path toward al-Aqsa Mosque. The man paused briefly just beyond the fountain, making Amit second-guess whether he’d properly closed the gate. Then Amit realized the Arab was simply listening to the shouting and gunfire emanating up from the Western Wall Plaza. Oddly, the guy didn’t seem at all surprised by what he was hearing. Then he calmly proceeded to al-Aqsa Mosque and disappeared inside.

Strange.

That’s when something more peculiar caught his attention.

Just beyond the olive trees on the platform’s east side, the massive paving stones gritted and scratched, and seemed to shift before his eyes.

“What in God’s name . . . ?” He moved closer.

Then, without warning, four of the pavers fell inward, disappearing into a massive hole.

77

******

Enoch raced out to the jeep parked in the plaza and retrieved the spare Kevlar vest that one of the soldiers told him would be there. He hoped to see Amit, but there was no sign of him. Where could the commander have gone?

Then he quickly moved back inside and darted forward past the flatbed. There he caught a glimpse of the two crates covered in stone that Cohen had secreted beyond the security post. No doubt the hostage had been inside one of them. The second was large enough to hold just about anything—a harbinger of doom that anguished him. An attack against the Temple Mount could easily spark World War III.

Wasting no more time, he slid on the vest, then scrambled down the metal treads and entered the first leg of the Western Wall Tunnel, the large visitors’ hall. Staying close to the wall with his Jericho pistol directed straight ahead, he surveyed the area—or at least the section he could see. Five soldiers had already been taken down, two fatally with gaping head wounds; three others sprawled on the ground with critical wounds to their exposed extremities. Straight ahead, two soldiers had just managed to break open a security door blocking the entrance to the tunnel stretching north from the hall.

The chamber had turned into a shooting gallery, filled with bullets spraying wildly in all directions, the heavy smell of gunpowder, and deafening gun blasts.

Staying low and poking his head around the wall, Enoch could see that Cohen’s men had taken secure positions throughout the hall, behind piles of stone. Ten Israelis had them hopelessly pinned down and were tightening their perimeter. Most likely, if they couldn’t take them out, they’d certainly avoid explosives down here and start using tear gas to root them out. But Cohen’s gunmen weren’t letting up and their supply of ammunition seemed limitless.

There was no sign of the rabbi here. Odds were he’d made his way deeper into the tunnel.

Now the bullets started flying in Enoch’s direction, making him drop to the floor behind a broad tool chest. But these shots hadn’t come from inside the hall—they were strays from the second wave of fighting that had just erupted beyond the breached security door.

The first soldier through the door was already lying in a pool of blood, helmet blown clear off his head. The second had taken some pounding to his chest armor but was able to stumble back for cover before anything worse happened.

Enoch had a straight sight line into the tunnel, and he saw a man in a blue jumpsuit scramble deep into the passage and up some distant steps. To chase after the guy through the narrow channel was risky . . . make that stupid. But that’s what needed to be done—fast.

Luckily, the kid who’d taken some deep bruising to the ribs had already caught the attention of three others. He was pointing to the open door.

The three smoothly dropped back from the hall and filed into the tunnel.

The barrage of bullets was riddling the huge foundation stones. And the odds of Enoch catching a few with his brain were high.

But then he had an idea.

Enoch tested the tool chest’s wheels by nudging it a few centimeters. The sturdy casters were actually quite smooth. The lumpy stone floor, however, was a problem.

There wasn’t going to be a better opportunity than this, Enoch thought.

Snapping his gun into its holster, he opened the chest’s middle drawer enough to grip his left hand around the metal frame. He pushed it forward and crab-walked behind it, angling it sideways as he emerged into the hall.

The first rounds thwumped into the casing and clanged off some tools in the top drawer.

Rolling the chest was a much bigger challenge then he’d bargained for—the thing was heavy and clumsy, jerking side to side and jostling the tools inside fiercely enough to drown out the gun blasts.

More bullets pounded through, pushing the chest back into him and sandwiching him against the mount’s cold stone base. Then a neat line strafed directly overhead, so close it tousled his hair.

He cursed.

He looked to the security door. Only three meters to go.

Shoving the thing out again, he resumed rolling his makeshift shield, clattering louder than ever. When he’d reached the door, he abandoned the metal hulk.

He unholstered his Jericho and sprinted up the tunnel.

But he quickly slowed when he saw that just up the steps where the blue-suited gunman had fled, the IDF trio was engaged in another shooting match. What confused him was that they were firing through a huge hole in the mount’s foundation.

“Holy shit,” Enoch murmured. He cautiously pressed forward.

Then something horrible happened that didn’t give the Israelis any hope for escape.

Enoch barely saw it all go down.

It started when they began screaming and throwing themselves away from the hole. A split second later, a rocket-propelled mortar came streaming out at them, hissing as it cut through the opening. When it struck the wall opposite the hole, the entire tunnel came down on top of them.

The pulsing shock wave took Enoch airborne, his body striking a wall with appalling force, and flung him over a second low wall. Suddenly he was falling into blackness. Then a cold sensation crashed over his body.

78

******

First the gunmen came up from the hole to secure the area.

Cohen came next, pleased to see that the esplanade was empty. The commotion in the Western Wall Tunnel had brilliantly diverted all attention from the Dome of the Rock. There wasn’t a soldier or policeman in sight.

The stairwell opening was situated approximately midway along the esplanade’s eastern side. In the first century, this had been the outer confine called the Courtyard of the Gentiles—a public area outside the walls of the sanctified temple complex itself.

The rabbi tried to imagine Herod’s Romanesque porticoes running along the outer wall, where, during the Passover festival, Jesus would have challenged the moneychangers for their profiteering and blasphemy. And when the holiday had passed, pagans would have refurnished the temple with their idols and resumed sacrilegious offerings on the Lord’s sacred altar.

Oh, how the temple priests had prostituted God’s most hallowed sanctuary!

It came as little surprise that God had brought destruction to Jerusalem in 70 c.e. Jesus had tried to warn the people of the Lord’s anger, the imminent doom that would befall them should they continue to break the covenant. But as they had done to Isaiah, Amos, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and all others who had come before Him, the Israelites chose not to listen to Jesus. Like a dark avenger the Roman scourge came down upon the brood of vipers, the den of thieves.

Just as He had with the Babylonian exiles, for whom the prophets promised a return to this land, so too had God mercifully gathered the tribes once more in 1948. Yet even now they did not heed His message. They embraced an impotent, secular government and bowed down to Western culture. Worse yet, they had still failed to retake the Temple Mount—the Lord’s most sacred ground. In 1967, the Israeli army had an incredible opportunity to expel the Muslims during the Six-Day War, yet they lacked the faith to follow through.

“Be very careful.” The rabbi intently watched over the priestly attendants as they eased the Ark up the steps, the pair in the rear pressing the poles up above their shoulders to compensate for the sharp angle. It was imperative to keep the vessel level so as not to disturb its hallowed contents.

The rabbi turned his attention up to the Dome of the Rock. Over the three millennia since King David made Jerusalem the Israelite capital, Jews had suffered many setbacks, even expulsion from these holy lands. When God’s covenant was ignored, His punishment was without pity. But when the people abided by His laws, His blessings had been limitless.

Though the temple had been destroyed twice, its third incarnation would stand until the very end of time.

For decades, he’d dreamed of this moment. For millennia, his family had waited. So much preparation. So much sacrifice.

He was close now.

Having safely emerged from the opening, the priests stood beside the rabbi with the Ark raised up. Seconds later, Charlotte was dragged up and out of the hole.

Clasping his hands together, Cohen bowed his head and began praying. Where the true eastern gate of the temple courtyard would once have resided, he sprinkled more blood from the mizrak.

Then he slowly made his way to the stairs leading up the dome’s platform, the procession following behind him. Once all had reassembled in front of the shrine, the seven priests stepped forward, each wearing a blue satin side pouch.

For a long moment, the rabbi glared at the Dome of the Rock, helplessly captivated by its Arabian tile work and gold-leafed cupola. Up until this day, he’d seen the building only from afar. Standing at its foot was intimidating. Then again, Jericho had once intimidated Joshua.

He motioned to the seven. In unison, each man pulled from his pouch a shofar and brought the twisted ram’s horn to his lips. Their guttural bellow filled the air.

Cohen signaled for two of the gunmen to proceed to the shrine’s southfacing double door.

The priests lifted the Ark to prepare for a grand entrance.

Then something shocking happened.

The moment the men pulled open the doors to the shrine’s darkened interior, they were immediately gunned down in a hail of bullets.

“Protect the Ark!” Cohen yelled. He motioned for them to move away from the door, to take shelter beside the shrine’s solid marble wall. “Bring her immediately!” he said to the priests handling Charlotte.

As they all scrambled for cover, the rabbi’s six remaining gunmen raided the shrine.

79

******

Two things let Enoch know he hadn’t been killed by the blast: the raging pain that shot through his left shoulder, and the frigid bite of the chestdeep water into which he’d plunged.

High overhead, the tunnel glowed orange through a thick haze of dust. On four sides, sheer block walls formed a huge rectangular pit set below a lofty barrel vault.

An ancient cistern.

When he looked around he could see that there were no doors, no stairs, no ladders. Once he’d slogged to the nearest wall, his fingers confirmed that the surface was impossibly slick. The opening to the tunnel was a good five meters up. There’d be no climbing out of this hole.

His teeth were chattering uncontrollably, his body vacillating in the stinging water.

“Hey!” Enoch yelled up through cupped hands. “Down here!” He repeated a similar SOS multiple times over the next minute.

No response.

There was a good chance he’d pass out from hypothermia before the soldiers would hear his screams and pull him out.

Above, the flickering fire glow taunted.

Unexpectedly, something bumped up against his leg, making him flinch. When he looked down he simultaneously gasped and pushed back in repulsion.

A grisly corpse floated face-up. And there wasn’t much face to talk about. The front side of the skull had been reduced to pulp—one eye swollen shut, the other stripped of its fleshy lids so that a single hazy green eye stared up at him. Even the lips had been violently peeled back so that the dead man’s few remaining jagged teeth seemed to grimace.

He stretched his leg up high and kicked it away. The corpse went bobbing along a smooth wave to the cistern’s opposing wall, leaving a rippling wake in its path.

“Disgusting.”

The orange glow reflected over the top of the water. But along the wall directly below where he’d fallen from the tunnel, a different light caught Enoch’s eye—an ever-so-faint outline below the crystal-clear waterline.

Plowing his way through the water, he dipped his hands below the surface to examine the wall. The stones fell away under his fingertips. His numb digits had a tough time transmitting texture, but he had no problem determining that there was an opening there—and it was wide.

A passage? Maybe. But why the light? Had the explosion blown a hole this deep?

Couldn’t be. The light wasn’t orange. It looked more as if someone was shining a flashlight from deep within—a warm, yellowish light.

So the next question was, just how far in was the light source?

The trembling was getting worse by the second. Still no activity overhead.

He screamed for help several more times, to no avail. Then he came to the desperate realization that the underwater passage was his only hope.

It took a good thirty seconds for him to get up the nerve to immerse himself. But that’s what he did.

The water felt like needles against his eyes as he assessed the channel— maybe a meter in height, same in width. It ran straight for about eight meters, then took a slight bend where the light shone brightest. Since the ancients hand-carved these things, there was enough room to pass through them. But what lay beyond?

He sprang his head up from the water, his entire body tight.

Here goes nothing.

He pulled off his sneakers and socks, then stripped off the heavy Kevlar vest riddled with shrapnel that would have otherwise minced his chest. Filling his lungs to the limit, he dropped back below the water and kicked his way through the opening. A combination of foot-flipping and handgrappling the smooth walls propelled him forward at a healthy clip. But if the light source wasn’t indicating a way out, he’d never be able to reverse course without first running out of oxygen.

This was a one-way trip. And it terrified him.

Up ahead, the passage got tight—really tight.

Now his eyes felt like glass on the verge of shattering.

The constricted bend came up quickly. He was forced to squirm through it sideways.

The light instantly brightened so that he could see its source up ahead, another ten meters or so away. With his limbs offering little response, he gave it everything he had, kicking off the stone wall for one final forward thrust.

Now he could actually make out the shimmering surface of the water. If the light was dropping down some kind of vertical shaft, like a well, he thought, he might have an opportunity to draw more air. But if he wasn’t able to climb it . . .

Two meters.

“Gaaah!” he screamed as his head broke through the surface of the water. He gasped for air. But he needed to hold his eyes shut and rub them for a minute before he could see where fate had delivered him.

When his eyes finally began to adjust and the blur gave way to discernible dimensions, he liked what he could make out so far. The water tunnel hadn’t ended in a vertical shaft. It actually continued up a sharp rise.

The light was very bright now, about four meters up the grade. On his elbows, Enoch began dragging himself up and out of the water until his slightly bent knees could be of assistance. As he crept higher, his vision became crisper, so that now he could make out the substantial metal grate that blocked his exit.

80

******

Cohen and his men anxiously waited for the gunfire inside the shrine to cease. When it finally did, only two of the six who’d stormed the building emerged, and one of them was bleeding profusely from a wound to the thigh.

It was then that the rabbi first heard the sounds coming from the east. Gazing up into the night sky, he could see lights approaching, the whopping of rotor blades echoing through the valley.

“Quickly!” he instructed.

One of the men went ahead and found the lights.

At the shrine’s door, the rabbi paused to study what lay beyond. He’d

heard much about the exquisite Arabian décor inside the Dome of the Rock. On one occasion, he’d even happened upon some pictures of its interior. But all that did little justice to its true magnificence. Punishing himself for this unwilling admiration—this evil enticement—he cast his eyes straight ahead to the open area that sat directly beneath the cupola. He proceeded into the ambulatory.

If it wasn’t the first step, it was the second when his senses immediately registered an overpowering presence here. It was as if he felt a supernatural aura wrapping around him. Faltering midstride, he struggled to conceal his alarm. He froze. But as quickly as it had come, the sensation dissipated. Something atmospheric, perhaps? he tried to convince himself. Calm yourself. Let God guide you.

Cautiously, the rabbi—the high priest, the kohen gadol, he reminded himself—eased deeper into the shrine. Cutting a straight line across the ambulatory’s rich red Persian carpeting, he ignored the two dead Muslims who had been pulled off to the side and gave a reverential glance at his brave men who’d fallen close to the entrance.

The Ark was paraded in behind him, followed by the men handling Charlotte and the surviving two gunmen.

“Close the doors!” Cohen ordered.

He stopped along the ornate railing bordering the Foundation Stone. The emotions that came over him were overwhelming as he laid eyes upon the most sanctified ground on Earth.

Here God had made Adam and all creation. Here was the exact spot Abraham had come to sacrifice Isaac. And here, as told in Genesis 28, God promised Jacob the land of Israel . . .

A stairway was set on the ground with its top reaching heaven, and God’s angels were going up and down it. The Lord was standing there above it, saying, “I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac. I will give you and your offspring the land that you are now sleeping on. Your offspring will be like the dust of the earth, and you will spread out toward the west, the east, the north, and the south. All the peoples on earth will be blessed

through you and your offspring. I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go. I will bring you back to this land, for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.

When Jacob awoke from his sleep, he said, “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.” He was afraid and said, “What an awesome place this is! This is none other than the house of God. This is the gate of Heaven.”

Now his legs could barely keep him standing, and the rabbi struggled desperately to overcome his elation. Upon this rock the Holy of Holies had been erected by King Solomon’s masons for one purpose: to permanently house the Ark of the Covenant. And now it would stand here again.

The gate of heaven would open once more.

81

******

At the top of the water passage, Enoch turned onto his back and grabbed at the grate with his shaky blue fingers. Then he gave the thing a good shove.

Nothing happened.

He fought the desperation. It’s not like they used screws in the old days, he reminded himself. It simply had to be rusted or stuck.

Another shove. Then some intense pounding with fists. The warm air blowing down from above was making his thawing skin itchy.

Come on! Damn it!

He wasn’t about to go back into that cistern.

Grunting, he tried a bench-press motion—steady, even pressure.

Something on the right side let out a gritty snap and the grate popped up lopsidedly.

“Hah!” Enoch jubilantly yelled out.

The rest of the job was much easier as he bent back the rusty hinges on the grate’s opposite side.

One threat gone, another taking its place.

He remained perfectly still and listened. Nothing.

Cautiously, Enoch poked his head up from the hole, praying that a bullet wouldn’t split his noggin. That’s when he saw that he was in a long tunnel that was easily wide enough to drive a truck through.

Enoch felt completely disoriented as he pulled himself up and out of the hole.

In one direction, the overhead string of work lights led far off to what appeared to be a dead end. There were seven or eight bodies intermittently strewn along the passage in thick puddles of blood. But behind him, only a few meters back, was the flaming rubble where the Western Wall Tunnel had collapsed.

That’s when it hit him.

Cohen had dug his way beneath the Temple Mount to access this ancient tunnel. And the water passage Enoch had just crawled up had most likely been intended as one of its sewer drains.

It didn’t take a map for Enoch to realize that this tunnel made a beeline beneath the Dome of the Rock. “M-m-my G-G-God,” he said with trembling lips, teeth clicking like a keyboard.

The air was cool, but it was a huge improvement over the water. And from the far end of the passage, a subtle breeze was wafting over his dripping face.

Keep moving.

He began with a fast, sloppy trot that forced blood back to his legs. Then he quickened the pace, his bare feet slapping rhythmically along the ancient paving stones. As he passed the downed men wearing blue jumpsuits, he snatched up three abandoned machine guns to replace his waterlogged Jericho.

Within two minutes, he’d reached the spot where the breeze was blowing strongest—a staircase leading up to a swath of night sky.

82

******

Charlotte watched the robed priests set down the box dead center on the huge, flat stone that was the shrine’s focal point. The carrying poles were slid out from the box’s corner loops and set aside. While they stripped off the animal furs laid over its blue veil, Cohen stood close to them, praying intently. When only the blue shroud remained—the final protective layer—the Ark’s sharp contours and double-humped lid were more pronounced.

Cohen stretched his hands to heaven and pronounced Isaiah’s prophecy: “ ‘And it shall come to pass in the last days, that the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established in the top of the mountains and shall be exalted above the hills; and all nations shall flow unto it. And many people shall go and say, come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; and he will teach us of His ways, and we will walk in his paths: for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.’ ”

Four priests surrounded the Ark, each claiming a corner of the shroud. They took much care not to come into contact with what lay beneath it. With hands outstretched, Cohen signaled for them to proceed. Pulling the sides up and drawing the shroud tight, the priests raised it up, then shuffled sideways until the overhead lights splashed over the gleaming gold lid.

“The Ark of the Covenant, Charlotte. Behold the world’s most coveted relic, the vessel of God’s essence.”

83

******

Charlotte’s mix of grief and rage was temporarily trumped by intrigue. What little she knew about the Ark of the Covenant began cycling through her thoughts—tales of an all-powerful weapon that directly channeled God’s wrath. An ancient lockbox for Moses’s Ten Commandments. Of course, there was also Charlton Heston and that whole Indiana Jones thing.

Nonetheless, the box’s beauty was awe inspiring—even more impressive than Spielberg’s best-guess Hollywood mock-up. The workmanship was incredible, particularly the fine detail that went into the unfolded feathered wings of the lid’s two lifelike angel figurines, which knelt with heads bowed. All the box’s edges were covered with ornate braiding. Could it really be the fabled Ark of the Covenant? That could certainly help to explain the strange energy coursing through the thing.

“I thought the Ark was lost,” Charlotte said.

“Only in the movies and in legends,” Cohen said. “Never lost, but hidden for a very, very long time.”

“By who?”

He smiled. “Me, my father, my grandfather—my ancestors. An unbroken chain of men who were the custodians of the Lord’s covenant.”

Studying him for a moment, she could see that he was serious—dead serious. “So why bring it out now? You’re just going to leave it here? In a Muslim shrine?”

He answered with a question. “See this stone beneath your feet?”

Charlotte glanced down at it. Surely it had significance or the Muslims wouldn’t have built around it. She couldn’t remember much about Islam, but she could recall from a college class she’d taken on world religions what this place was meant to commemorate. “Where Muhammad rose to heaven.”

This immediately made the rabbi’s face contort.

“That is a fabrication made up by zealous Muslim caliphs who’d have used any excuse to expand their empire,” he growled. “Now listen to what I say to you.” Pacing over to her, he began circling like an animal of prey. “This is the Foundation Stone,” he said, sweeping his hands out as if presenting it to her as a gift, “where God created the world and breathed life into Adam. It is the place where Abraham built an altar to sacrifice his own son to God. And it is where Jacob saw the gateway to God’s eternal domain—to the Light.”

“And what does the Ark have to do with all that? ” The question seemed to disappoint him.

“Everything,” he answered with utmost passion. “Around this very stone, Solomon erected his temple, as instructed by God. Where you now stand, the walls of its most sacred sanctuary would once have protected the Foundation Stone. And when Zion was first established as a nation, there was one thing that held it together.” He motioned to the Ark.

“A box ? ”

“The Ark isn’t just a box, Charlotte. Don’t test Him with blasphemy,” he warned, pointing heavenward. “The Ark is a direct link to God. In it, his covenant has been preserved, awaiting atonement . . . awaiting the Chosen One to bring its divine powers back to Zion. And everything you see here”—his broad hand gestures indicated not only the shrine, but everything around it—“will all be taken down. Not a stone unturned. Just as Jesus foretold. A new temple will rise up according to God’s plan—an earthly kingdom built to honor Him, so that all nations will worship in peace and harmony.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she scoffed. “But I don’t think the Muslims are going to appreciate that.”

“They don’t belong here,” he soberly replied. “Their shrine is a mockery of God. Their place is in Mecca—eight hundred miles from here. When God passes his judgment, these Muslims can return to their homeland, or they will perish.”

The sound of helicopters sweeping overhead drew the rabbi’s eyes up to the cupola. “Free her hands and bring her to me,” he ordered, moving to within a meter of the Ark.

The priests sliced away Charlotte’s bindings and brought her be- side him.

“Now, Charlotte,” he said with more urgency. “We are going to open the Ark. You and I. We’re going to restore the Testimony so that a new covenant will be made. Then it will be up to God to determine the fate of this place.” He spread his hands and rolled his eyes up to the cupola.

“It can’t be that easy.”

“Wait and see,” he promised.

84

******

From the shadows, Amit had watched as Cohen and his men hurried into the Dome of the Rock with the Ark and the female hostage, then pulled the doors closed.

He’d been tempted to pick off the remaining two gunmen with the Beretta. But the short-barreled pistol wasn’t suited for long-distance shooting. There was also the option of rushing them, trying to take them by surprise. But the gap was wide, the pistol was no match for a machine gun, and Amit was no small target. Not to mention that the choppers were quickly closing in. And if the Israelis confused him for the enemy, he’d be gunned down on sight.

“Amit!” a voice suddenly called.

He spun around. It was Enoch . . . coming up through the hole the rabbi’s men had burrowed beneath the Temple Mount.

“What took you so long?” Amit said with open arms.

Keeping a careful eye on the choppers zigzagging overhead, Enoch ran over to him. “What the hell is going on up here? Are we too late?”

“Not sure,” Amit said, eyeing his friend curiously. Enoch was barefoot and soaked to the bone. His pale face, tinted blue, had him looking like the walking dead. Under his right arm were three Galils. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

“Long story,” he glibly replied, preoccupied with that fact that Amit had actually considered taking on the enemy with his puny handgun. “Get rid of that peashooter and take one of these.” He tossed a Galil to Amit.

“Much appreciated,” he said, catching it smoothly with his left hand.

“They’re in the shrine, aren’t they?” Enoch ejected the magazine from the third Galil before abandoning it in the flower garden.

“Afraid so,” Amit gloomily replied.

“The rabbi and how many others?” he asked, pocketing the magazine.

“Nine left. I think only two or three with weapons.”

“Better odds than Gaza.”

“Much better.”

“And the woman?”

“Still alive.”

“Right.” He took a deep breath. The icicles in his lungs were starting to thaw. “You have your mobile with you?” Thanks to the cistern, Enoch’s own phone had fizzled out the moment he tried to power it on.

“Yeah,” Amit said, pulling it out of his pocket.

Enoch put a call in to Mossad headquarters, and after providing his agent ID number, he informed the desk that Cohen and his crew had already made it inside the Dome of the Rock with an unidentified procurement and a hostage. He didn’t need to insist on backup or provide instruction. Necessary protocols had already begun.

“We can’t wait for backup,” Amit said. “If Cohen hears them coming—”

“I know,” Enoch replied. He handed the phone back. “I have no intention of dying in there. So let’s make it count. Shall we?”

“We shall,” Amit proudly replied. How the kid had grown. Not exactly like old times.

The two raced up the steps and across the platform. There was a double door centered on the lower marble-clad tier of the shrine’s wall. As in the other seven walls, there were seven stained-glass windows positioned in line above the doors, where the wall’s marble cladding gave way to magnificent Arabian tiles. So there wasn’t much concern about anyone on the inside seeing them coming.

Once they reached the wall, Enoch immediately raised his machine gun to blow out the doors’ center lock. But Amit quickly waved it away and dug into his pocket for his trusty lock-picking set.

85

******

Standing over the Ark, Charlotte was surprised by its robust dimensions. She could easily curl up inside it. Dominating the front of the box was a cartouche set above a large engraved disk with lines radiating down, each connecting to an ankh—no doubt a depiction of the sun. Small ideograms in neat columns covered the remainder of the front side, as well as the Ark’s side panels. She guessed the rear panel was similarly engraved. The designs could have come from only one place. “These Egyptian symbols and hieroglyphs,” she said. “Why are they . . .” Her voice trailed off.

The rabbi smiled knowingly. “Long ago, Egypt had been the dwelling place of the inexplicable life force the Egyptians called ka, the source of ultimate power attributed to the sun and the eternal light. Ancient Egyptians worshipped hundreds of gods, but the sun god always reigned supreme. Their entire society embodied it—from buildings to funerary rituals. And their secrets had been encoded in stone for thousands of years, in temples, tombs, pyramids. Through the centuries, they’d given it many, many names: Ra, Atum, Amun, Aten. But a single visionary pharaoh understood it best.”

Cohen went on to explain that around 1350 b.c.e.,Egypt’s first and only monotheistic ruler, Akhenaton, came to power and commanded that a new capital be constructed on the Nile’s east bank, set between the power centers of Memphis in the north and Thebes in the south—a city entirely dedicated to a single supreme god and creator. In the process, the pharaoh had completely abandoned the traditional polytheistic temple system, which had brought tremendous wealth and power to the centuries-old Egyptian priesthood, the priests of Amen.

“Akhenaton made many enemies,” Cohen continued. “So when terrible plagues befell Egypt during his reign, the priests of Amen expeditiously blamed the misfortune on Akhenaton’s religious digressions. They claimed that the pharaoh had tampered with Ma’at—the spiritual bonds uniting all elements in the universe. Hence a rebellion began brewing throughout the land, fueled by the pharaoh’s increasing number of political dissenters. Fearing not only assassination and reprisals against his family but destruction of his new capital, Akhenaton entrusted the clandestine export of his most powerful relics to his closest vizier.” Just like in 154 _B._C._E., when Onias fled the rogue Sanhedrin in Jerusalem, took the Ark from its hiding place in Qumran, and brought it to safety in Heliopolis, Cohen thought. “The vizier was a virtuous man who had mastered the ancient secrets during his tenure as high priest in Akhenaton’s temple. His name was Moses.”

“ The Moses?”

“That’s right,” Cohen replied.

Cohen was on the verge of ranting—a man teetering on the precipice

of a lifetime’s endeavors all coalescing in a single event. Charlotte could tell that Cohen needed to tell his story, almost as if to ensure that should his ambitious plan fail, his secret knowledge (perhaps even his justification for his actions) might be passed on. And she wanted to encourage him, because if she could keep him talking, stall him a little longer, perhaps the Israelis might get to him before anything worse could happen.

“Luckily, Moses did agree to Akhenaton’s request. But Moses feared an even more calamitous reprisal against those who’d always believed in the one true god: an industrious and mysterious group of Semitic tribes tens of thousands strong who had lived in the Nile Delta for over four centuries.”

“The Israelites?” Charlotte said.

“Very good,” he said approvingly. “After secreting the temple relics

north and preparing them for transport across the Sinai, Moses secretly went to the elders of the Israelite tribes. He knew that their ancestral beliefs traced back to a great patriarch named Abraham, who legend told had been the first to speak with the one god. Legend also told that the one god had promised Abraham’s progeny a return to their tribal lands in the north. So Moses convinced the elders that the time of the prophecy had arrived. And under the cover of darkness, the Israelites abandoned their villages and rendezvoused with Moses at the Sinai.”

“And the exodus began,” she muttered.

Cohen nodded and his nervous eyes began scouting the shrine. He waved a couple of the robed men closer.

Keep him occupied! Charlotte thought. Frantic, she tried to remember the biblical account of the exodus. But at the forefront of her brain was the film adaptation produced in the 1950s with Charlton Heston raising a magical staff to part the sea for the Israelites, the Egyptians giving chase, the waters crashing down upon them. “So then why did the pharaoh send his armies after Moses? Did he change his mind?”

Cohen managed to chuckle. “Those were not Akhenaton’s armies that pursued Moses and the Israelites. Those soldiers were dispatched from Memphis by Akhenaton’s coregent, Smenkhkare—a malevolent schemer who supported the priests of Amun, a snake who had even had an affair with Akhenaton’s wife, Nefertiti, and fathered her son.”

“The Nefertiti?” she asked. This exodus story was fast becoming a who’s who of Egypt.

“That’s right. But that beautiful, iconic Egyptian queen was a very treacherous woman.” His eyes pinched tight. “With six daughters and no heir to his throne, Akhenaton had been so elated to have a son, he never suspected his wife’s infidelity.”

Cohen considered stopping here but felt compelled to finish the story. After all, the woman deserved to understand the necessity of what was to happen next.

“But Nefertiti’s ambitions had only just begun,” said Cohen. “After Moses successfully fled Egypt, Nefertiti conspired with Smenkhkare to kill her husband by poisoning. Smenkhkare then attempted to erase Akhenaton’s name from dynastic history—the deepest insult to an Egyptian pharaoh. For in the remembrance of the name, the spirit lived on. Akhenaton’s new capital city was abandoned, his cartouches scratched off temples and tombs . . .” He sighed. “And to honor Smenkhkare and restore honor to the priests of Amun, Nefertiti changed her son’s name from Tutankhaten, ‘the living image of Aten,’ to Tutankhamun, ‘the living image of Amun.’ ”

This took a moment to sink in. “Wait. You mean King Tut?”

Cohen nodded. “And only a year after murdering her husband, Nefertiti poisoned Smenkhkare too, so that Tut’s true paternity would remain a secret. Naturally the boy inherited the throne in Thebes. Then Tut became Nefertiti’s pawn,” he scoffed. “God’s retribution eventually did come, though it took almost a decade. The priests of Amun turned against Tut and his manipulative mother. Both were assassinated. An ironic twist of fate, wouldn’t you say?”

Charlotte didn’t answer, though the story was indeed reminiscent of a Sophoclean tragedy.

“Without the treasures of Aten, however, even the priests of Amun could never return the kingdom to its past glory. Egypt was never to rise again.”

“And how do you know all this?” she had to ask.

“The most profound knowledge is not found in books, Charlotte. That is why legacies are so vital to humanity. The written word deceives. The most awesome truths—the most fearsome truths—are those handed down through the righteous words of our most trusted ancestors. There is much to learn from history. Yet people forget. Pride. Vanity. Complacency . . .”

Now she was sensing that Cohen’s patience had run out. But she needed to try to keep up the charade. She pointed to the glyphs. “And what does all this say?”

“That is the story of God,” he reluctantly replied, more abrupt now. “The origins of the universe and creation. It is also a warning given by Moses about what resides within the Ark, how it should be feared and respected. And see there?” Centered on the Ark’s front side, he pointed to glyphs representing a feather, sun disks, water, and an ibis—all framed within an oval outline. “That is Akhenaton’s royal cartouche. His seal.” Charlotte regarded the Ark with equal doses of fear, reverence, and skepticism.

Another low-flying helicopter made the cupola rattle. Cohen’s anxiety visibly deepened.

Eyeing the Ark again, she fished for another question. “And the two angels on the lid? What are they?”

His reply was curt: “Each is a depiction of the winged female goddess that embodied the harmony of creation: Ma’at. But that is enough, Charlotte. It is time to proceed. Kneel before the Ark,” Cohen urged her in an appeasing tone. “Then I want you to remove the lid.”

She took a step back and held up her hands. “You’re a good storyteller. I’ll give you that. But I’m not on board with this whole end-of-times thing you’ve got going on here—”

“I’d hate to have to drug you and pull your hands like a puppet,” he soberly replied. “After all that we have gone through to get here . . .” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “One way or another, the Ark is going to be opened,” he flatly stated. “After all that you’ve sacrificed, and after all the hidden truths I’ve just shared with you, wouldn’t you like to be awake to see with your own eyes the secrets of the universe? Wouldn’t you like to see what Moses carried off from the Egyptians? Don’t you long to know that everything that has happened to you has had a purpose—a divine design? Do you think God is in you by accident?”

She didn’t know what to say. Her reluctance was starting to dissolve.

“You must be very curious as to what we’ve protected for so many centuries, no?”

Perhaps he was right, but she could tell that his curiosity easily trumped hers. The guy was practically jumping out of his skin. If this was the real deal ...

Then, as she looked back at the lid, a plan began unfolding in her mind. “Fine. Let’s open it.” Now she was the one going all-in at the poker table. However, the real question loomed large: was he bluffing?

Cohen’s face softened with a smile. “Handle it carefully,” he reminded her.

This wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to open Pandora’s box. Granted, the Vatican’s approach had been more pragmatic. As she eased down onto her knees before the Ark, her heart was jackhammering behind her breastbone. Now she began a silent prayer of her own. She could feel the rabbi drawing close behind her to watch over the ritual, and the final part of her plan fell into place. “Won’t this be too heavy?” she asked, hesitating and eyeing the lid. “It’s gold, right?”

“A thin gold sheathing covering acacia wood. A purposeful design, since the Israelite priests would’ve been incapable of carrying a solid gold box of this size. You’ll have no problems.”

Charlotte looked around for any opportunity to escape, but the two surviving gunmen were posted on opposing sides of the shrine, behind the rock’s cordons. And they were watching vigilantly.

“I beseech You, O Lord,” Cohen chanted in Hebrew, raising his hands up. “Grant atonement for the sins, iniquities, and transgressions that the entire house of Israel has committed against You. As it is written in the books of your servants Moses and Jesus, atonement shall be made for You on this day to purify all sins. Before the Lord shall we be purified.”

The priests unanimously responded with “Blessed be the Name of His glorious kingdom, forever and ever.”

Charlotte reached out and positioned both hands on the short sides of the lid, the tingling sensation coursing up through her fingers.

Cohen watched in astonishment as Charlotte’s hands spread over the elaborate lid—the Kaporet (“atonement piece”) or Mercy Seat. His focus homed in on the void beneath the outstretched wings of the gilded cherubim. For there, God’s presence, the Shechinah, would begin to converge to reign over Abraham’s altar, to judge and purify—to speak to humankind and provide guidance and law.

Curling her fingers tight under the lid’s braided rim, Charlotte took a deep breath and applied pressure.

86

******

At first, the Ark’s lid resisted.

Charlotte dug her fingers in tighter until they turned white. Then came a muffled pop, followed by the hissing sound of escaping

gas. The sound immediately brought a flashback of her and Dr. Giovanni

Bersei’s opening Jesus’s ossuary in the Vatican Museums.

Another incredibly preserved ancient seal had just been breached. As the lid unseated from the Ark, Charlotte could already detect a faint

glow emanating from deep within, forming a rectangular halo around the lid. At the same time, the tingling sensations had quickly migrated up her arms and spread into her chest. Now her curiosity was giving way to a raw, primordial terror that signaled danger.

Her eyes went wide as the void beneath the wings of the cherubim began to noticeably change—the distortion she’d detected the first time she’d touched the Ark. Like a tiny, gathering cloud, something was forming there. Mist? Smoke?

The rabbi’s excitement built with the Ark’s response. “Few have ever laid eyes upon this wonder. Moses, David, Solomon . . . Behold!”

Eyes fixated on the opaque orb, Charlotte detected a brilliant white glow at its core—a pinpoint of light that burned with the blinding intensity of a welder’s torch.

An electrostatic energy began to build, lifting short strands along her hairline. The atmosphere was changing. Impossible. Adrenaline poured through her system, threatening panic. But the tingling that had spread through her entire body brought forth a sudden transformation—an inexplicable calm.

“Now see what is inside,” Cohen urged her.

Tearing her attention from the orb, she reared up on her haunches to see what she’d uncovered, carefully resting the lid upon her lap.

On the right of the Ark’s interior were indeed neatly piled stone tablets—though it appeared to be hieroglyphs that covered them, not some form of ancient Hebrew as legend suggested. Laid atop them was a beautiful gold, gem-encrusted scepter in the shape of a serpent, its tail straightened along the short staff and coiling near the top to its fanged head, an ankh between its eyes.

But Charlotte was transfixed by the source of the most unearthly luminescence being generated on the Ark’s interior left half—a neatly packed human skeleton. And the eye sockets of its smooth skull were glaring directly up at her.

87

******

“Moshe,” Cohen gasped in vindication. “Moses,” he repeated for Charlotte’s benefit.

Could it be? Charlotte wondered.

He began reciting Deuteronomy 34: “ ‘Then Moses went up from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo and the Lord showed him all the land . . . saying: “This is the land I promised Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob when I said, ‘I will give it to your descendants.’ I have let you see it with your own eyes, but you will not cross into it.” So Moses died there as the Lord had said. God buried him in the valley and no one to this day knows where his grave is. Moses was one hundred and twenty years old when he died; his eyes were not weak, and his vitality had not left him.’ ”

She stared at the bones during his utterance. “So God interred Moses in the Ark?”

“Yes, Charlotte,” he replied, remaining behind her. “But notice in the words I just spoke that the Torah states that Moses did not die from physical ailment. He was a perfectly healthy one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old with the body of a young man.”

“So either he killed himself,” she surmised, “or . . . God killed him?”

“God sacrificed Moses’s body to free his spirit for the next realm,” he said in a soft tone. “The covenant—the Te stim ony —isn’t just the laws written on those tablets. It is an elevation of the human spirit to a boundless existence. These remains left behind—Moses’s bones,” he said, pointing inside the Ark, “are a physical connection to the most sacred legacy. The bones are the vessel through which the Testimony had been passed on to the next Messiah.”

“Jesus?”

He nodded. “And when the Spirit passed into Jesus, he preached the Lord’s word, then sacrificed himself atop Golgotha to seal the covenant God had spoken through Him—the Second Covenant. Or if you prefer, the New Testament.”

“I don’t remember Jesus willingly killing himself,” Charlotte countered. “Judas betrayed Him.” There was that whole story about Gethsemane when soldiers came to arrest him.

Cohen smiled. “Misinterpretation,” he sternly replied. “Judas was an Essene, certainly no traitor. Jesus sent him to the Sanhedrin to facilitate the final sacrifice.”

“That can’t be right,” she insisted.

“Oh?” He tilted his head. “I ask you, then: when Jesus named his betrayer at the final meal, did the other disciples try to stop Judas?”

Good point, she thought. “No.”

“In fact, they all went to the Mount of Olives to await the Temple Authority, just as Jesus had planned. The words are there, yet the truth is missed,” he said. “Another reason why the oral legacy is so vital.” He made a ball of his fist. “If one reads the texts according to their historical context, the Bible tells a most remarkable story of human existence, an evolution of spirituality that shifted from metaphorical rituals of animal sacrifice in the First Covenant to the slaughter of our own egos and pride that God taught through Jesus in His Second Covenant—the metaphors transformed into parables. Now we herald a Third Covenant.” He spread his hands over her head to indicate the glowing orb.

Charlotte watched as one of the priests presented something to Cohen —shiny, long.

“But like each of its predecessors, the New Covenant begins with blood. Sacred blood.”

88

******

Enoch snapped some bullets out of the spare magazine to fill the empty slots in Amit’s Galil and flipped the safeties off. He then insisted on going through the door first. His rationale was sound: “I’m a much smaller target,” he told Amit. “Standard protocol.”

Point taken. “Fine. I’ve got the right,” Amit said.

“Okay.”

“Just don’t shoot the hostage this time,” Amit teased. During one of the

Gaza raids, Enoch had planted three rounds in the buttocks of an Israeli diplomat.

“Funny,” he grunted.

“You scared?”

“Scared shitless,” he responded with a big smile.

“Godspeed, my friend,” Amit said, clasping his friend’s hand.

Since there were no exterior handles or knobs, Amit wedged his fingertips under the left door’s vertical stop and squeezed slightly to lever the door just enough to confirm that the lock was indeed breached.

In a sideways stance, Enoch was a meter from the door, weapon raised to his sodden right shoulder. His left hand stabilized the muzzle along his sight line, and his right index finger was hooked at the ready on the trigger—hunt-and-scope mode. Rolling his neck, he drew breath, held it, and signaled to Amit.

89

******

Before Charlotte could turn to get a better look at what Cohen had in his right hand, the fingers of his left hand had snaked through her hair and cranked her head back. A knee simultaneously jammed into her spine.

“Before the Lord shall we be purified!” he declared, his bestial eyes riveted to the bare flesh of her neck.

Now she had an upside-down view of the meaty gold blade Cohen was bringing down over her throat in preparation for a broad slice.

Just as her fingers clutched the glowing Mercy Seat, there came a loud disturbance from behind, immediately followed by gunfire.

The rabbi’s face showed surprise, but his gaze did not falter. He bared his teeth and prepared to cut her to the bone, to seal the covenant—at any cost.

But Charlotte had a different plan. As he crouched deeper to position the blade for a long, sweeping slash, she swung the Ark’s lid up into his face. It was unavoidable that the blade would cut her. How deep was the only uncertainty.

The sharp-edged wings of the gilded angels caught him below the chin. Crackling tendrils spat across the sphere’s surface and webbed over his face. Instinctively, he dropped the dagger midpull as his hands went for the lid.

Charlotte rolled out from under him, clutching at the blood spewing from the left side of her neck.

Grasping both sides of the lid like a serving tray, Cohen tried to throw the thing away, but the light held him steady between the angels, physically grasping at him, pulling his face forward. Shrieking in pain, he tried shaking his head free, but to no avail. The beard, earlocks, and hair sizzled away almost instantly. Then the light turned on the flesh, unfastening it, stretching it from the bones of his face, tearing it away in wet slabs.

More agonizing screams; tremors shaking the body . . .

Simultaneously, Cohen’s hands succumbed to the fury, the flesh rising up into horrid boils that blackened and split to release the ghastly redbrown ooze beneath. He fell to his knees before the Ark, pitching forward so that the lid fell back into place on the Ark’s base. Beneath the vestments, the entirety of his body was roasted within seconds, his organs bursting.

Then the robes went up in flames.

The light did not relinquish its hold until Cohen’s entire body had burned so fiercely that the gold frontlet and breastplate had melted into his blackened bones. Only then did the blinding glow subside and let the hideous remains slide onto the rock.

The fetid stench of burnt hair and flesh had Charlotte gagging as she scrambled away on hands and knees, blood trailing beneath her in splotches. The room seemed to be spinning as she struggled for air. How deep had Cohen cut her?

When she lifted her eyes and tried to get to her feet, her spotty vision captured one of the blue-suited gunmen in triplicate. He was pinned down behind one of the huge marble columns supporting the cupola. He swung his machine gun at her, his face snarling with hate. In that instant, she knew that her luck had run out.

She hoped that Cohen had been right—that God did have a plan for everything, that her life had meant something or had some divine destiny. Perhaps, as Donovan had suggested, in death there’d be another realm where the spirit would defy the flesh and roam free . . .

Knowing she’d cheated death one too many times, Charlotte Hennesey shut her eyes in peaceful surrender, just before she heard the gun let loose its fury.

90

******

After taking down one of the gunmen, Enoch rounded the ambulatory. That’s when seven robed men came charging across the rock, screaming like banshees. As far as he could tell, they weren’t armed. But he needed to get below the shrine immediately, which meant there was no time to negotiate. The best he could do was show some civility by shooting them low.

Enoch made three sweeps with the Galil, strafing the marauders below the knees, dropping six of them onto the rock. The seventh man managed to hobble even closer and gripped the railing to vault himself over it. A nasty shot to the groin put an end to those ambitions, and the man crumpled back onto the rock, screaming in agony.

Enoch went directly for the steps descending beneath an elaborate marble arch ornamented with gold Arabic text—the access way to the cave below the rock called the Well of Souls. He knew it to be a mystical realm where, according to legend, the voices of the dead could be heard. Running purely on adrenaline, he needed to remind himself not to be foolish and turn himself into one of the dead down there.

Ducking low, he peeked at the bottom of the steps. What little of the space below he could make out was brightly lit. There didn’t seem to be any shadows moving across the ornate Persian rugs covering the ground. It was also evident that there was nothing that would provide cover. If another gunman were hunkered down at the bottom of the stairs, he’d be a fish in a bowl. And this time, no Kevlar vest, either. Down there, at close range, head shots would be easy.

But if Cohen had secreted a bomb into the building, the cave would be the most logical place to position it: right where a strong explosion could be amplified enough to take down Islam’s sacred rock, right along with the foundation supporting the shrine’s walls.

And it all came tumbling down.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed forward, weapon at the ready on his shoulder, trying his best to keep his muscles loose and his trigger finger flexible.

The marble treads were like ice against his bare feet. He crouched low and dashed down the steps. Two thirds of the way to the bottom, he jumped and immediately did a tuck and roll when his feet connected with the ground. Heroism aside, he knew he stood a better chance moving abruptly and unevenly. Better than getting his legs shot out from under him.

One controlled tumble and Enoch rolled up into a well-executed crouch. He immediately depressed the Galil’s trigger and emptied a third of the clip in a wide sweep.

The biggest danger was the wild ricochets. One deflected round managed to graze his left shoulder.

The cave was empty. No hidden gunmen.

No bomb either.

Heart pounding, Enoch exhaled and pulled himself together.

That’s when he noticed the stark white angular casing of a newly installed security camera mounted high up the cave wall just beneath the stairs. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d swear that its lens winked in the light to tighten in on him.

“Crap.”

91

******

“Rumor has it you’re the next messiah,” a deep voice said.

Amazed that she was still alive, Charlotte eased her eyes open.

There was a broad-shouldered guy with a goatee standing over her,

smiling.

“Amit Mizrachi,” he said, introducing himself. He slung his machine

gun over his shoulder and maneuvered to help her to her feet. Dazed, Charlotte glanced over at the column, where, just beyond the

railing, Cohen’s last gunman was facedown and spread-eagle, soaked with

blood.

“Your throat all right?” He tried to see where the blood was coming

from but couldn’t make out anything.

Probing it with her fingers, she found that the four-inch gash that had

been there just seconds ago had already smoothed over. “Yeah. It . . . it

is,” she said. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if . . .” “Looks like you handled yourself just fine without us,” Amit said, giving

the rabbi’s charred corpse a sideways glance.

“Us?” Charlotte could see only dead bodies.

The rumble of rotor blades was shaking the cupola again, much

closer now.

Then the second man materialized through an archway to her left.

When he saw that Amit had secured the area, he slung his Galil over his

shoulder and let out a whistle. “All clear below.”

As Enoch hopped the rail onto the rock and made his way over, a repulsed look twisted his face when he saw what had happened to Cohen.

Despite the grotesqueness of it all, he found himself moving closer to

inspect the body, and more important the magnificent glimmering relic

looming over it. “What in hell—”

“Don’t touch the box!” Amit yelled over to him.

Startled, Enoch immediately fell back a step and held up his hands.

“What the— ?”

“Sorry,” Amit softly replied. “It’s just that . . . well, you can see what

it did to the rabbi.” He’d barely glimpsed the rabbi go up in flames upon

contact with the Ark’s lid.

“Gotcha.” He cringed again. It appeared to Enoch that the rabbi might

have been the victim of intense radiation burn. His eyes suddenly went

wide and he pointed to the Ark. “Is it nuclear?”

“Something like that,” Amit said. “But if you don’t touch it, you’ve got

nothing to worry about.” That piece of Ark legend certainly seemed true.

“Right, Charlotte?”

She pictured the glowing bones inside the Ark. Moses? Her eyes went

back to Cohen’s charred corpse. Shaking her head, she didn’t quite know

how to respond.

“Ah. There’s one up here too,” Enoch blurted, pointing to the cupola’s

base where his gaze happened upon another discreetly mounted security

camera. “Have a look.”

Taking two steps closer, Amit craned his head until he saw the device’s

tiny lens glinting in the light. “Well, that should make things a bit more

interesting.” If the camera wasn’t just for show, the Muslims were sure to

have a field day with the footage.

“A camera downstairs got a great shot of me shooting up the Well of

Souls, too,” Enoch confessed. “That can’t be good.”

Both Amit and Charlotte looked at him and cringed.

“What were you shooting at?” Amit said.

Enoch’s cheeks immediately reddened. He shrugged, saying: “It was a

precaution.”

Amit’s eyebrows tipped up. A stupendous mess. And the Israelis were

going to have one helluva a time spinning it all. Striding to the Rock’s

edge and clambering over the railing, he inspected the walls above the

ambulatory. Immediately he spotted another camera glaring down about

three meters behind the Arab he’d riddled with bullets. He groaned in

frustration.

“Another one?” Enoch yelled over.

“Yep,” he sighed.

“You did what you had to do,” Charlotte said. “If you hadn’t stopped

him . . .” She motioned to the rabbi’s remains and the Israeli’s eyes followed. “Can you imagine what might have happened?”

“I suppose.” Slouching on the railing, Amit momentarily transfixed

on the Ark. Did Cohen really believe that by returning the legendary

relic to the Foundation Stone he’d invoke God’s retribution upon the

Muslims? Did he expect legions of angels to come liberate Zion? Then

again, what if Cohen had actually fulfilled his ambitions? Suddenly sensing the enormous weight of the death spread about him, Amit felt a cold

chill come over him.

He knew the maelstrom had only just begun.

92

******

Amit and Enoch immediately collected the weapons from the two dead Palestinians and Cohen’s six guards and piled them in a faraway corner. Confirming that the seven robed men were all immobile and posed no threat (thanks to Enoch’s crafty shooting), they tossed their own weapons on the pile too. Then they sat beside Charlotte, in clear view of the shrine’s open doorway.

“Best to raise our hands so they don’t confuse us with the bad guys,”

Enoch suggested.

They all raised their hands high.

A minute later, the rover bot came treading over the threshold and

squeaked to a stop three meters from the door. Its camera arm telescoped out and panned side to side, then settled on the three survivors.

“Wave hello,” Enoch said. He waved and flashed a thumbs-up. Then he loudly reported his name and rank for the bot’s microphone. “All clear in here,” he added.

Within seconds, soldiers began funneling into the shrine with weapons drawn, fanning out along the ambulatory.

“Just don’t touch that big gold box over there!” Amit yelled to them as they passed by.

Charlotte conveyed instructions to the Israeli commanders on how Cohen’s men had safely covered and transported the Ark. Then Amit assisted her out of the shrine, holding her by the arm.

Amit was still buzzing with excitement. This night had far and away surpassed the raw excitement of any raid in Gaza. And having beheld firsthand the Ark of the Covenant was the ultimate archaeological dream come true.

The scene outside was chaotic: helicopters set down on the Dome of the Rock’s raised platform and Israeli troops as far as the eye could see. And Enoch was at the center of it all, taking quick drags on a bummed cigarette between sentences. Encircled by IDF commanders, he was recounting in great detail what had transpired inside the dome.

Charlotte looked up at Amit. “Do you really believe that’s the Ark of the Covenant in there?”

The question surprised Amit. “You saw what it did to Cohen. Absolutely, I’d say it’s the real thing.”

“And how about me being a messiah?” she jested.

He paused to consider this. “Rabbi Cohen might have been a bit crazy. But if he believed you were . . .” He shrugged.

“Hey!” a female voice yelled over to Amit.

Glancing up, Amit was surprised to see Jules tottering over to him, shirt tied below her chest and clutching a bandage taped to her left side. Grinning widely, he stopped in his tracks.

“What is this?” Jules said with pretend offense. “I’m gone only an hour and you’re already in the arms of another woman? Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

Amit shook his head. “You’ve got chutzpah, I’ll give you that.”

Jules threw her arms around him and held him tight for five seconds. “God, I was worried sick about you.”

“How did you— ?”

“The police got to me before the ambulance arrived. When I told them what happened, they were kind enough to share their first aid kit and give me a ride here.”

“Good to see that chivalry is still alive and well,” Amit said.

“After all you told me about the temple and the Ark, I knew they’d find you here.”

“Clever.”

“Thanks.”

Amit formally introduced Charlotte.

Jules had been so focused on Amit that she hadn’t noticed the woman’s neck was covered in blood. Alarmed, she said, “My goodness, Charlotte . . . Are you all right?” Gently cradling Charlotte’s chin, she tried to find the wound. “Is this your blood?”

“Yes, but—”

“Where are you hurt? We need to take care of this.”

“Actually I’m fine, Julie. It’s a bit complicated. But thank you. How about you?” Cringing, Charlotte pointed to her bandaged stomach.

“I’ll get to the hospital later. It’s just a graze.”

“Actually, maybe I can help you with that.”

93

******

Three Days Later

As Ghalib had hoped, the Israeli prime minister and president were claiming no responsibility for the events that had taken place at Temple Mount. Naturally, they were having great difficulty explaining why the Israeli army had laid siege to the site, and why an underground tunnel had been secretly excavated beneath the site by a fundamentalist rabbi who’d been a former member of the Knesset. The firefight that had erupted inside the Dome of the Rock, however, proved most difficult to spin.

“An attack upon Islam’s third-holiest shrine will not be taken lightly,” Ghalib’s delegate promised the prime minister.

Finally, a clear line had been drawn in the sand—the tipping point.

What Ghalib’s eyes had seen over the closed-circuit cameras he’d installed in the shrine had been astounding. He’d played silent witness to the uncovering of a most profound relic. Islamic legend told that the Ark of the Covenant heralded the coming of the true Messiah—and the beginning of the Last Judgment. He’d witnessed the woman open the box. He’d witnessed how it so horribly burned the rabbi alive in mere seconds.

Shortly thereafter, he’d watched the IDF secure the building. The goateed Israeli and the woman whom Cohen had taken hostage had coached the IDF commanders on how to safely remove the relic, how to cover it first with the blue cloth and animal furs. The audio feed had crisply recorded the entire conversation.

Less than an hour after the Israelis had locked down the shrine, the relic had been ferried outside by a team of men in blue jumpsuits, heavily guarded. They’d brought it down to the Western Wall Plaza and loaded it onto a truck.

Outside, Ghalib had used his digital camcorder to secretly shoot video of that too.

All that remained now was to compile the recordings onto a single DVD, carefully edit the footage, then have a courier deliver the video to Ghalib’s contact at al-Jazeera.

Soon the world would witness firsthand the savagery of the Israelis: the carnage, the desecration, the defilement. The audacity of it all. The Islamic outcry would be deafening.

This would breathe new life into the intifada and force the Arab nations to formulate a response to the Jewish nation’s growing threat to the region. No doubt, the coalition would grow by the day as the entirety of the Middle East would be forced to take a stance—to choose a side.

His tired caramel eyes gazed out at the Dome of the Rock’s cupola, which shimmered like liquid gold against the morning sun. “Allahu Akbar,” he whispered. “Taqwa.” Fear God.

“Sorry I am late,” a breathless voice said from the doorway. “I came as fast as I could.”

Ghalib turned to the bearded Palestinian toting a laptop bag—the Waqf ’s lead IT specialist, who managed the council’s Internet sites, telecommunications, and press releases. “You are forgiven, Bilaal,” he said with a crooked grin, waving the young man inside. “Come. I am anxious to finish this.”

While Bilaal settled in at the conference table and powered up his laptop, Ghalib set beside him the mini DVD from his digital camcorder and the slim removable hard drive from the Dome of the Rock’s surveillance system.

“I need both of these on one disc—this one first,” Ghalib instructed him, pointing to the hard drive. “You can splice the videos, yes?”

“I can do anything you want,” he assured Ghalib.

Standing with arms folded tight, Ghalib watched over the tech’s shoulder.

Bilaal fished a USB cable from his bag and used it to connect the hard drive to his laptop. Then he activated a video editing program and accessed the files on Ghalib’s hard drive. “We’ll run through the video first. Then you tell me what you want to do.”

“Remember, Bilaal. You are not to tell anyone about this. Do you understand?” Ghalib warned him.

As he looked up at the Keeper’s baleful expression, an uneasy feeling came over Bilaal. “You have my word.”

Back on the screen, nine video clips simultaneously came to life in a neat three-by-three grid. The tech immediately recognized the various vantage points—all interior shots of the Dome of the Rock. He tried to recall if he’d ever seen cameras inside the shrine, but nothing came to mind.

Bilaal initiated playback.

On-screen, two plainclothes Palestinians anxiously paced the shrine’s dim ambulatory with semiautomatic machine guns, slipping out of one camera frame and into another. On the audio tracks, all was silent except for their bare feet plodding along the ornate Persian carpet and their heavy breathing. Camera nine provided an unchanging view of the empty cave beneath the rock—the Well of Souls.

When Bilaal studied the tiny date stamp and running clock in the lower right corner of each video window, his muscles went rigid. These were the minutes preceding the nasty firefight that had taken place at the shrine only three days ago. He’d only heard shocking rumors about the siege. But none included these armed men—these Muslims—being inside the shrine just before it all went down.

Ghalib bent and whispered, “We’ll need to delete these scenes. Understand?”

“I understand,” he tremulously replied.

“Now move it ahead about twenty minutes.”

With shaking fingers, Bilaal sent the recordings into fast-forward.

The video counter spun wildly for a few seconds. “Ah! There! Stop there.”

Bilaal clicked on the play button. The two gunmen were now screaming back and forth to one another, agreeing to immediately begin shooting the moment anyone entered the shrine. They shouted out blessings to one another as well as praise for being chosen as martyrs. Seconds later, creaking hinges made the two gunmen retreat and take positions with their weapons trained on the shrine’s southern doors.

“Now watch, Bilaal.” Grinning, Ghalib eased back and folded his arms. “We begin here.” Ghalib tapped the images captured by camera one: doors slowly parting, moonlight spilling in through the opening.

Bilaal leaned closer to try to discern the dark silhouettes that appeared in the shrine’s doorway, but he couldn’t make out any of it. Then something completely unexpected happened. In chorus, all nine video frames filled with static as the feeds went off-line.

“What the—”

“What did you do there?” Ghalib snapped. “Fix that.”

As he shrank in his chair, Bilaal’s fingers worked feverishly at the keyboard, rewinding, fast-forwarding. Ghalib’s sharp chin was practically resting on his left shoulder, so close he could feel the Keeper’s hot breath on his neck.

After the fourth attempt, the static still came back.

“What did you do?” he hissed, nostrils flaring.

“I—I—” Bilaal was shaking his head in bewilderment, holding his hands out at the screen. “Nothing. I swear. It’s the recordings. They just ... They stop.”

“Impossible! I watched it all happen! I watched everything through those cameras!” Ghalib slammed a hand down on the table beside him. “Did you erase the files?” Crazed, he jabbed an index finger at the tech’s face. “Tell me you didn’t erase them, Bilaal!”

He cowered in his chair. “This isn’t something I could’ve done. You’ve been watching me this whole time. I could not have . . .” He kept shaking his head. “I erased nothing— I swear it!”

Over the next hour, Ghalib kept at it with Bilaal, going over the corrupted footage again and again . . . and again. Bilaal adjusted settings, tested the connection, swapped cables, ran diagnostics on the hard drive. Yet each time, at the very moment the shrine’s doors opened, the static would take over. For good measure, Bilaal went through the entire process again using a second laptop that was his backup.

Same thing. Static.

Finally, dripping with sweat and pale as goat’s milk, Bilaal tried to play back the footage Ghalib had shot with his own camcorder. That’s when something even more astounding appeared—more static. The entire disc had been wiped out.

“What are you doing!” Ghalib erupted. “See what you’ve done now! What have you done!”

But after he saw the inexplicable fate of the second disc, Bilaal’s demeanor had changed dramatically. The man was spooked. “What happened to these videos,” he calmly replied, shaking his head slowly and steadily, “I cannot explain it. I can only take your word that there were videos here. But if there were pictures on these discs . . . and now they have been erased without explanation . . . ,” he weakly replied. “Then with all respect, I must ask something of you, Ghalib. Perhaps the same question Allah might ask.”

“What might that be?” Ghalib growled.

“What have you done?”

94

******

Rome

The sterile corridors of the Agostino Gemelli University Polyclinic were a stark reminder of an alternate fate that might have befallen Charlotte Hennesey. Behind every door of the critical care wing, Death was patiently waiting.

Knowing that she’d been endowed with the ability to change the fate of so many was overwhelming. There was no guarantee that she could reverse the damage of every malady. But ALS would certainly be considered one of the toughest, and she’d handled that one swimmingly. According to the Gospels, the laundry list of Jesus’s healings included the lame, the crippled, the paralyzed, lepers, the deaf, the mute, and the blind. Of course, there were His multiple exorcisms too. Not to mention the granddaddy of them all: raising the dead. What was Charlotte Hennesey supposed to do about that one? How dead was dead? Was there a limited window of time to repair the effects of death? Regardless, it was already too late for Evan. His body had been cremated the same morning her abductors had flown her to Israel.

“Permesso!” a loud voice called from behind.

Startled, Charlotte immediately quickstepped to the wall. “Sorry.” A quintet of paramedics and doctors sped past with a stretcher between them. Their neat formation—two on each side, one at the rear—brought to mind Olympic bobsledders. The poor man laid out on the cushion, bare from the waist up, had suffered terrible burns to the chest, arms, and face. His eyes were wide open in shock, limbs twitching.

The tremendous urge to stop them, to intervene, to lay her hands on the poor man, was agonizing. Breathless, she watched the triage unit disappear behind the burn unit’s mechanized double door at the end of the corridor.

The raw emotions tugging at her made her feel like a drug addict undergoing withdrawal. It got her thinking about how Jesus came to cope with all this. Had he been scared too? Had he had doubts that he was worthy of such a thing? After all, though God may have touched Him, He still had been human. Did He also feel lonely, lost, and confused? How did Jesus choose who to heal, how many to heal?

Such power could provoke so many different responses, from full-blown magnanimity to runaway misanthropy—perhaps even delusional mania. No doubt she needed guidance, temperance . . . faith. But where was she supposed to find the right answers? This wasn’t exactly suitable material for psychoanalysis.

That’s when she knew that the best place to begin was here, in Rome. Get it together.

A young woman in sky-blue scrubs came over from the nurse’s station.

The garments’ color had Charlotte flashing back to the robe that had once covered the egomaniacal misanthrope who’d been reduced to ashes at the foot of the Ark of the Covenant.

A quick glance at Charlotte’s YMCA duffel bag confirmed the nurse’s hunch that Charlotte was a fellow American.

“Are you all right?” the nurse said in English with a heavy New England accent.

“Yes.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Sorry you had to see that,” she said, motioning with her eyes to the burn unit. “The toughest cases come through these doors. Takes some getting used to.”

“Think he’ll make it?”

The nurse’s head tipped sideways. “We have to believe he will. Sometimes, when you think there’s no hope”—she shrugged and smiled—“you get a surprise.”

The nurse’s eyes went down to the yellow laminated visitor’s pass Charlotte was holding.

“Who are you here to see?”

“Patrick Donovan.”

“Ah,” she said. “He’s one of mine. I thought he had no family.”

“He does now,” Charlotte gently replied.

“Really nice of you to visit. Come, he’s just down the hall. I’ll take you to him.”

Charlotte walked beside the nurse.

“How is he?”

The nurse’s sorrowful gaze turned to her.

“Not so well, I’m afraid. Lots of trauma to the chest. If he makes it through the next few days, he stands a good chance of pulling through. He’s a real fighter.” She flashed an encouraging smile and said, “I have a feeling he’ll surprise us.”

Suddenly, she pulled Charlotte to the wall as a cardiac team came racing around the corner pushing a defibrillator. Another race against time and flesh. She could feel Death grinning.

“Sorry,” the nurse said. “There’s another reason we call them ‘crash carts.’ ”

They continued down the corridor.

“You might not like what you’re going to see,” the nurse apologetically explained. “Since he’s not breathing on his own, we’ve got him on a ventilator. Lots of tubes in his chest and throat. For the time being, we have him under heavy sedation.”

Hearing this, Charlotte got choked up, and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Okay.”

They walked by two more rooms that had clear glass walls. Inside the third, Charlotte spotted Donovan propped up in a bed. With so many tubes taped over his mouth and nose, he was identifiable only by his hairless scalp and drooping eyebrows.

“Here we are.” The nurse stopped outside the door. “You may want to say a prayer for him.” She placed a consoling hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “I truly believe it helps. If you need anything or have questions, my name is Maryanne.”

“I really appreciate everything you’ve done. Thank you, Maryanne.”

The nurse made her way back to the triage station.

For a long moment, Charlotte stood by the door, frozen in place. Finally she made her way to his bedside, pulled a chair close, and sat beside him facing the door. The tears came harder, and when she brushed them away, she stared long and hard at her glistening fingertips, thinking how the healing powers in her DNA had so easily transferred to Cohen’s son. But she kept wondering: would the boy’s genome have completely recoded to resemble her own . . . and Jesus’s? It couldn’t be that simple, or Joshua would’ve had no trouble coming into contact with the Ark.

At the genetic level, something has to be different inside me.

But how could such a distinction, such a genetic selection, be made? The concept set myriad scientific principles on end. The rabbi’s proposition seemed impossible—that she’d been among the “chosen.” But how could a box filled with stone tablets, a scepter, and bones distinguish her from any other? Then again, those were no ordinary bones, the way they glowed like moon rocks. And that incredible light on the Ark’s lid . . .

The all-powerful eternal light.

The idea that the ancient Egyptians had somehow stumbled upon the secrets of creation and God seemed far-fetched. Even modern genetic study couldn’t come close to unlocking those mysteries. But what if there was some truth to what Cohen had told her? Moses’s exodus. One supreme god somehow embodied in light?

Carefully, she placed her hand on Donovan’s forearm and studied the clear intravenous tubes snaking into his hand.

He felt cold, so cold.

From her bag, she pulled a small syringe one-third filled with her blood and uncapped it. She glanced back through the glass partition to verify that no one was watching. Concealing the syringe in her hand, she pierced the needle through the IV’s injection port. Uttering a silent prayer, she depressed the plunger with steady pressure until the cylinder emptied.

Another anxious glance at the corridor. No one watching.

She withdrew the syringe, capped it, and slipped it back into her purse.

Studying Donovan with hopeful anticipation, she found it hard to imagine what was happening inside him at the genetic level. Recoding of genes? Cells repairing themselves? But one thing was certain: the damage was being undone—dare she think, miraculously ?

“You’re going to feel some tingling,” she whispered, stroking his arm.

Epilogue

******

Belfast

Charlotte ambled beside Father Donovan, her hiking shoes swishing through Milltown Cemetery’s dewy grass. A chilly breeze rustled some yellow-tinted leaves off an oak tree’s branches, portending autumn’s early arrival. The sloping hillside provided a dramatic panorama of the city, just beyond the A501 motorway bordering the property. Lively jazz music echoed up from the Cathedral Quarter, where the Belfast Music Festival was kicking off its second day.

Donovan was wrapping up a very important call that he’d received on his mobile just as they’d gotten out of the car. Smiling, he slipped his cell phone into his pocket, then glanced over at her and flicked his eyebrows.

“So?” She swept her red curls back from her face. A bulky Blarney

Woollen Mills sweater kept her warm.

“The Swiss Guard apprehended him last night as he tried to leave Vati

can City.”

“What will happen to him?”

“Nothing good, that’s for sure. Father Martin falsified documentation

to allow those two men in . . . the deskman was killed, you were abducted—”

“And you were left for dead.”

“That too,” he humbly replied. “Being an accomplice to these things . . .”

He shook his head gravely. “Some serious charges. The commandante told

me there’ll be a trial in a few weeks. We’ll both need to testify, of course.” “Of course.”

“And when will you be returning to Israel?”

“A few days, maybe. Told them I’m still recuperating.”

“But you will do it?” he asked with insistent eyes.

She sighed. “I’d be a fool not to. Besides, they seem to be having trouble

opening it. And when they found out I have the magic touch . . .” A playful shrug.

He smiled. “I must admit I’m quite envious. To be able to study the

Ark of the Covenant?” It was difficult for him to grasp the profundity of

the story she’d told him about the events following her abduction from

Vatican City. But the very notion that she’d likely touched the Bible’s

most legendary relic? He shook his head in disbelief. “An incredible opportunity.”

“You know, if I agree to this, I will be needing some help—theologically

and otherwise. I’ve already made a couple friends in Israel—an archaeologist and an Egyptologist. I recruited them for the project. But I was thinking, if you have some time, maybe you can accompany me . . . lend some

support?”

Beaming, Donovan eagerly replied, “You think the Israelis will allow

it? I mean, I don’t suppose they’ll fancy me being a Catholic priest and

all.”

“As I see it, if they want these puppies to open that box”—she splayed

out all her fingers and wiggled them—“they won’t have much choice now,

will they?”

Donovan chuckled. “I suppose you’re right. Well then, I am honored

and you can count on me.”

“I knew I could.”

He led her through a maze of gravestones and monuments dominated

by tall crucifixes—traditional and Celtic alike—crafted from marble and

granite.

“I don’t remember much after I hit the floor,” Donovan explained to

Charlotte. “But I had a strange vision of this place right before I went

unconscious.”

“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte said, looking out to the distant rolling hills. It wasn’t the view he was referring to. “There’s a quarter million

souls buried beneath us,” he said. “Barely any space left for newcomers.

But luckily, some years back, my mother convinced my father to buy

a couple of plots. He wasn’t keen on it, of course,” Donovan said with

a smile. “The man celebrated life, didn’t want to speak a word about

death. Though I remember he’d toast the old-timers at the pub by

saying, ‘May you be in heaven a half hour before the Devil knows you’re

dead.’ ”

Charlotte laughed.

“Right over here,” he said, pointing to a humble cross-shaped gravestone. “You would have gotten on marvelously with my parents, Charlotte.

Good people with big hearts. Now see here.” He pointed to the symbol

etched in his father’s gravestone:

Ch

“Do you know what this symbol stands for?”

Growing up Catholic, she had seen the overlapping P and X many times before—mainly on priests’ chasubles and on altar linens. But its meaning escaped her. She shook her head.

“Chi and rho are the first two letters of the Greek word for ‘Christ’—X and P. But as they’re pronounced, they correspond to C and H in our alphabet. Christ,” he repeated. “ ‘The anointed one,’ or ‘the chosen one.’ ” Now he looked at her and smiled.

Stunned, Charlotte looked down at the new grass that had sprung up from the plot. “Jesus’s bones are here?”

Donovan smiled and nodded. He explained how his father’s oversize casket included a smaller coffin inside it—an ossuary. “The safest place I could think of. So now you know. Just you, me, and Him.”

She was speechless.

“There’s something else you’ll need now.”

Charlotte watched him dip into his pocket and pull out some very oldlooking paper sealed in clear plastic.

“Remember our discussion about how the Gospel of Mark originally ended with the empty tomb, how the ending had been amended?”

She nodded.

“Here’s the real ending,” he said. “The world’s only copy. Taken from the first Gospel, written by Joseph of Arimathea—the man who interred Jesus’s body in that ossuary you studied.” He’d cut the shocking epilogue from the journal of secrets just before shipping it back to Jerusalem.

She accepted it. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that your initials are C-H.” He tipped his head back toward the gravestone. “I believe you were meant to have it.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

******

Special thanks to my wife, Caroline, my fountain of inspiration. To D. Michael Driscoll’s keen eye. Once again, my hat goes off to Doug Grad for his incomparable editorial skills. To my friend and agent, Charlie Viney, for his unwavering encouragement and market savvy. Thanks, Julie Wright, Ian Chapman, and everyone at S&S UK. And cheers to the fabulous team at ILA—Nicki Kennedy, Sam Edenborough, Mary Esdaile, Jenny Robson, and Katherine West—for enabling me to share my stories in so many languages.

The Sacred Bones and The Sacred Blood feature hardy infusions of theology, science, and history. Since I’m a control freak when it comes to research, I take full responsibility for any unintended errors.

Multiple manuscripts of the oldest known gospel, Mark (circa 60–70 c.e.), did indeed close with the empty tomb. The confusion and disappointment this presented for Christianity’s early pagan converts is believed to have spawned Mark’s multiple addendums. Most scholars contend that Mark is the common source—aka the Quelle or Q—for the synoptic gospels of Matthew and Luke. Some also suggest that Q is comprised of both Mark and an even earlier undiscovered gospel—the “lost gospel.” I’ve fictionalized this lost gospel’s discovery, what the text might tell us, and its authorship by Joseph of Arimathea—in my estimation, the only likely broker for procuring Jesus’s body from the cross.

I’ve stretched the current parameters of genetic research, though only time will tell if a more refined genome might be discovered or engineered. The ethical issues surrounding these breakthroughs should prove challenging for religion and humanity. Though I strongly believe that faith itself will remain strong, as it always has.

The religious squabbling and bloodletting over Jerusalem’s Temple Mount is scarily real, as it has been since King Solomon supposedly laid its first cornerstone over three millennia ago. In its modern incarnation, this bitter turf war exemplifies Israeli and Palestinian discord over land rights and national sovereignty. Though the Mount resides wholly within Israel’s borders, it is tacitly controlled by a Muslim trust, or waqf. Therefore, an act of terrorism committed there could easily ignite a third world war.

Josephus and Philo provide the most definitive accounts of the highly secretive Jewish community, the Essenes, who inhabited Qumran. The Essenes’ obsession with the purity of body and soul present many tantalizing parallels to Christ’s ministry and the emergence of Christianity. Most intriguing are their elaborate and ambitious plans for reshaping Jerusalem into a grand temple city that would herald the earthly Messianic Age. Many scholars credit the Essenes for transcribing and preserving the world’s oldest copies of the Old Testament and Jewish apocryphal texts, collectively known as the Dead Sea Scrolls. The hunt for more scrolls is still under way.

Theories abound as to the fate of the Ark of the Covenant, most maintaining that a foreign empire invaded Jerusalem and claimed it as booty. In antiquity, however, sieges against heavily fortified cities like Jerusalem took months—not hours or days. So suffice it to say that the temple priests would have hidden the Ark—the centerpiece of Jewish faith, the relic that symbolized the Israelite nation—well before any combatant could have pillaged the temple. Once in hiding, the vulnerable Ark would likely have been clandestinely moved around. Inevitably, the safest hiding place would have been within a fortress’s keep, behind walls, and protected by an army. Enter Josephus’s chronicling of Onias’s Jewish temple city in ancient Egypt’s Heliopolis, complete with a homegrown army ...and imagine the possibilities.

Finally, on navigating the minefield of the three Judaic religions . . . I recently met a very wise and pious Muslim who attributed his impressive optimism in the fate of all things to “The Higher Power.” I sensed that he avoided a more decisive label so as not to create a barrier between us. I must confess that I liked his approach. Because though most religions seek to build community based on rigid—many times, exclusionary—doctrine, faith is a very personal journey that reflects a universal need in each one of us to connect with the mysterious, indefinable power(s) responsible for our world and our mortality—in other words, something bigger, or “higher,” than ourselves. In my stories, I explore the various paths along which this most remarkable quest might take us.

About the Author

MICHAEL BYRNES attended Montclair State University in Montclair, New Jersey, and earned his graduate degree in business administration at Rutgers. Byrnes lives in Florida with his wife, Caroline, and daughters, Vivian and Camille.

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The Sacred Bones

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.