The Solomon Scroll

CHAPTER 30

Major Dov Yosef brushed a speck of dirt from his uniform and cursed the faulty air-conditioning that had turned his office into a sauna. He contemplated a plaque on the wall with the motto and winged sword of the Israeli Duvdevan.

The quotation was from Proverbs. Once it had been the official motto of The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, better known as Mossad. That had been changed to a different proverb reflecting the idea that many counselors were needed. Dov thought it suited the officious bureaucracy of Mossad perfectly. He was of the opinion that the fewer counselors the better, particularly when it was time to mount a mission. As often as not Dov's orders came from Mossad's headquarters in Tel Aviv. Sometimes too many cooks had been stirring the operational soup.

Duvdevan wasn't the official designation of Dov's unit. The word meant cherry, a nickname that reflected the unit's unique position within the Israeli Defense Force. The cherry was the fruit at the top of the tree, just as the Duvdevan was at the top of its particular tree, the most elite of a very tough army's special forces.

Alone within the IDF, the Duvdevan operated independently of other Israeli units. Unit operatives spoke fluent Arabic and often dressed in Arab civilian clothes, blending in with Arab populations. Many of Dov's men spent a lot of time in Gaza. The Duvdevan operated throughout the Arab countries surrounding Israel as well as within its borders. It was a difficult and dangerous job. If an operative was caught, he was a dead man.

Dov's unit had no specific mission except relentless defense and counter attack against the enemies of Israel. Because it was under the Judea and Samaria division of the IDF it could move anywhere within the country without answering to the normal army chain of command. It was the unit of choice for secretive and dangerous counterterrorism missions in the Middle East. Other field units in Israeli intelligence, like the lethal Kidon, fanned out across the world to carry out their operations. The Duvdevan stayed close to home.

The heat wasn't the only thing on Dov's mind. He'd just finished reading a report on two ancient scrolls that spelled trouble. He thought of them in his mind as the French scroll and the English one. X-ray pictures of the French scroll and translations of both were part of the report. The primitive code that pointed to the probable location of the tomb of Solomon had been easily broken by Israeli intelligence.

The report speculated that the destruction of the night train to Rome and the explosion in Grenoble were connected to the scroll examined in France. It ended with a promise of further investigation.

Dov had seen reports like that before. Further investigation could mean anything, reveal nothing. In the meantime Dov had been told to plan a mission to find out whether or not the tomb of Solomon and the Temple treasure still existed. It was like being told to find water in the Arabian desert, only worse. There were satellites that could do that. He felt a headache start up.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come."

Dov's commanding officer came into the room. Dov started to rise.

"Colonel."

"Stay where you are, Dov."

Colonel David Cohen was pushing fifty. He looked as fit as many men half his age. Dov was ten years younger than the Colonel. Even so, he had a hard time keeping up with his superior during their frequent runs together. Dov was tall and lean, bronzed by the desert sun, with a body that was mostly hard muscle. Cohen was shorter, dark and wide. He looked like he should be carrying a short sword with the rebels at Masada in the days of the Roman war. There was something ancient looking about him, as if this current incarnation as a warrior was just one more in a long history.

Dov, on the other hand, was the essence of an officer in a modern army which preferred Tavor assault rifles to swords and spears. His eyes were blue, the result of some unknown European ancestor. His looks were marred by a patchwork of scars where plastic surgery had repaired burns on the side of his face. It gave him a dangerous look. He was a reasonable man except when confronted with someone he believed to be an enemy. For Dov there were many enemies but he reserved special hatred for the Arabs.

Four years before he'd been vacationing with his wife and child at Eilat when an Arab terrorist decided it was time to martyr himself for the cause. Dov had survived. His wife Hannah and his daughter had not. As far as the Arabs were concerned, Dov had no interest in either forgiving or forgetting.

"Take a walk with me to the canteen, Dov," Cohen said. "It's too damn hot to be sitting in these offices."

"I could use something cold. Let me secure this."

Dov got up and went to a safe, opened it and placed the report inside. He closed the heavy door and spun the dial.

"That the report on the scrolls?"

"Yes," Dov said.

"This one is going to be tricky."

"They all are."

"We have to follow up on this."

"I don't need to be convinced. If this tomb exists and if it's in Saudi territory, we have to find it before they do."

"The word is out about what that Italian discovered," Cohen said. "I'd be surprised if the Arabs didn't know about it. Certainly the Americans."

"That would be a safe assumption," Dov said. "We should try and find out what they know."

"I put in a request. Relations have been strained with Washington," Cohen said. "I'm not sure if they'll tell us anything. Not that they usually do."

They came to the canteen, went in and ordered iced drinks. They took a seat in the corner, away from the few others in the room.

"Have you had time to think about it yet?" Cohen asked.

"I only got the report an hour ago," Dov said.

Cohen waited.

"The murder of the Italian and the explosion in the train. They're obviously related. Then a second scroll taken from the British Museum and another murder. Who did it? Whoever it was has got the scrolls, would you agree?"

"I would."

"I don't know what their agenda is but it can't be any good for us."

"You have any ideas?" Cohen made circles on the table with the condensation from his glass.

"Has anyone analyzed the explosive used on the train?"

"Yes. It was Semtex, manufactured during the Bosnian war. There's plenty of it on the black market. Some of it has been showing up lately in the bombings."

Dov heard bombings. Cohen's words blurred with the sound of the ceiling fan over their table. Memory flooded in.

He's walking in the market with Hannah and Rebeka. It's a beautiful day and the market is crowded. People are in a good mood. Rebeka is holding a strawberry ice and trying not to get the melting drops on her school outfit. Music from street musicians floats in the air. Hannah points at a stall selling bolts of cloth.

"I want to look at that one," she says. "The color is perfect for a new tablecloth."

They are standing next to a stall selling small tanks of propane. She looks at him and smiles, her face full of love. They start toward the cloth stall. From the corner of his eye, he sees a man suddenly stand still in the midst of the crowd flowing around him. He's an Arab, out of place in this market. Something sounds an alarm in Dov's mind. It's too late. The man reaches under his robe and everything disappears in flame and heat and noise. The shockwave knocks him to the ground. The propane tanks nearby erupt in violent flame that scorches over him, over Hannah, over Rebeka, over the crowd. He sees the blistered bodies of his wife and child lying unmoving on the pavement before he fades into unconsciousness.

"Dov? You okay?"

Colonel Cohen's voice brought him back.

"Sorry."

Cohen sighed. "You were remembering, weren't you?"

"Yes. It was when you mentioned the bombings."

"Have you been seeing someone about it?"

"I'm fine, don't worry about it." He shook off the heavy feeling that always accompanied the flashback. "We were talking about the Semtex. Are there any leads on who supplied it?"

Cohen decided to let it go. "Not yet. If there is one, it will turn up." He paused. "You're going to have to look for that tomb."

"Yes, sir. I'll put the mission together."

"I don't need to tell you that the Arabs will shit a brick if they catch you."

"They won't catch us," Dov said. "If they get lucky and do, they'll wish they hadn't."