The Gates of Zion (50 page)

“I didn’t think you would. It’s okay,” Ellie said. “I’ll explain to Moshe.”

“Moshe.” Rachel repeated his name with a tenderness that caused Ellie to frown briefly.

“He’ll understand, Rachel.”

“He will think I have—”

“He won’t think you’ve run out on him. He’s an understanding man.

You’ll see him again, and it’ll be all right.” As she spoke, Ellie suddenly realized what she had seen pass between Rachel and Moshe. Putting a hand on Rachel’s arm, Ellie said gently, “You love him, don’t you?”

Rachel stared at the marble floor. “Ellie, I would never presume to … I care so much for you, too. For you both.”

“I’m a real dope sometimes, you know, Rachel? If there’s one thing more obvious than two people staring at each other, it’s two people trying
not
to.”

“But Ellie … Moshe doesn’t―”

“Never mind. I think Moshe is trying
not
to. There’s a big difference.” Ellie smiled, certain that she was seeing the truth. She looked at the big man and changed the subject. “How can I help with Rachel and Yacov’s grandfather?”

“Unless you have an ambulance to take him to Hadassah, I cannot think how you could help,” he answered. “No ambulance will come here.”

“I see.” She lifted Yacov’s chin. “I know you’re staying, but you’ve got to help me get out of here, son.”

“Shaul will take you home. And when you are done with him, send him back.”

“I’m probably safer with him than with the whole Suffolk Regiment,”

Ellie said under her breath. She turned to the big man. “Where are you taking Rabbi Lebowitz?”

“We shall not move him. At least for tonight.”

“He’ll be here until morning at least? Good. That’s good.” Ellie touched Rachel’s cheek. “I’ll see you again.”

Rachel’s chin quivered. “Oh, my dear friend!” she cried. “Please be careful.”

Ellie nodded, then said quickly, “Okay, Yacov.” She headed toward the door. “Where’s Shaul?”

***

Thousands of candles flickered in the dark street, illuminating young and old faces―faces filled with the hope of Hanukkah yet lined with the despair of their daily existence. Flames danced in the breath of mouths that sang an ancient hymn, celebrating the birth of the one called Immanuel, God-with-us.

Their donkey in tow, Moshe and Howard inched their way against the tide of the crowd moving slowly along the main thoroughfare of Bethlehem toward the church that some said marked the manger where Christ was born. Both Moshe and Howard had been to the shop of Elaram a hundred times, but always before, the streets had hummed only with the sleepy sound of flies buzzing in the marketplace against the backdrop of tourists haggling over the cost of a carved olivewood créche. And like the tourists, always before these archaeologists had haggled over the price of an ancient coin or a Bronze-Age tool. Elaram always drove a hard bargain, Moshe knew. He carried crisp new British pounds beneath his robes, tucked safely in his pocket beneath the heavy Smith & Wesson .38 in the holster at his waist.

At last they reached the corner that marked the street of Elaram.

Instantly they fell off into the deserted alleyway and turned yet another bend that led up a small incline. The voices of the pilgrims followed them, echoing like a choir in a cathedral. The donkey stumbled on a step in the street.

“Let’s tie her up here,” Howard suggested. “No one will steal her.”

Moshe smiled at him doubtfully. “How do you think I came by her?”

Howard clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Well then, maybe her owner will steal her back.” He looped the rope around an iron bar on the window of a deserted-looking house.

Moshe patted the donkey on the rump before following Howard up the steep stairway that led to the tiny shop of Moddy Elaram.

Howard was panting when at last Moshe rang the bell that hung beside the rough-hewn wooden door. Only a faint light shone through the windows. Moshe lifted the latch and gingerly pushed the door open, ringing yet another bell that hung above the door.

“Moddy?” he called, glancing around the musty shop. A gaslight hissed from the wall above a short counter covered with what, to the unpracticed eye, appeared to be debris from a potter’s trash pile.

Broken bits of clay pots were mingled with small unbroken bowls and half an ancient clay household god. “Some things never change.”

Moshe stepped in, eyeing the jumbles of pots stacked against the walls.

“Trash and treasures,” Howard said, walking behind him.

“Moddy?” Moshe called again.

“I don’t think we’re early,” Howard commented.

Dark green tapestry curtains covered the doorway into the back of the shop. Suddenly they parted and a young man, dressed in an ill-fitting suit with frayed cuffs and collar, stepped from behind the curtain. “You wish to see my uncle?” he asked, eyeing them warily.

Moshe and Howard exchanged glances.

“He asked us to meet him here.” Moshe fumbled in his pocket and took out the letter, which he handed to the serious young man. Moshe watched the lean Arab read the letter. His black eyes appeared almost lifeless. He had several days’ growth of beard around a mouth that looked pinched and hostile, drawn down at the corners as if stitched by some thread of bitterness. His tousled hair fell in greasy curls across his forehead. He finished reading the letter and looked up at Moshe without expression. “My uncle is in hospital at Jerusalem, unfortunately. But I look after his affairs.”

“What is it? How long has he been ill?”

“His heart, alas.” His voice held no emotion. “Just a week ago. We have hope for his recovery. But now I must look after his affairs.”

“As you can see, he asked us to meet him here, along with the Bedouin shepherds. In regard to the scrolls.”

“Ah yes. You are expected. My uncle tells me you are coming and when you are coming and what you shall wish to see.”

“When are the shepherds to arrive?” asked Howard.

“Alas, no. They shall not come.”

“But what about―,” Moshe protested.

“They have come and gone again, leaving this matter in my hands. If you will have patience, Doctor Professor Sachar …” He raised his index finger and shook it at Moshe. Then he gave a half smile.

“There is time. There is time.” He turned toward the curtains and disappeared behind them.

Howard bent close to Moshe’s ear. “If it took the first letter three weeks to reach us, there wasn’t time enough for him to get word to us,” he whispered.

“I just hope all of this is not for nothing.” Moshe frowned with irritation.

The young man slipped from behind the curtain. This time, Moshe noticed, the Arab’s eyes had clicked to life. “Be seated, gentlemen.

Be seated.” His smile seemed more genuine, putting Moshe at ease.

Moshe looked for a chair, noticing that every available space had been taken by piles of old newspapers and artifacts. Howard moved a jumble of dusty prayer rugs from the top of a rickety stool, scooted the stool up to the counter, and plopped down.

“Ah, my uncle.” The young man sighed. “His little shop is far from neat, is it not? Perhaps one day if it is mine …” He left the sentence unfinished and directed his gaze toward Moshe. “Sit. You see this gentleman here. He moves things from the chair. It does not matter.”

“No, thank you.” Moshe rested his back against the counter. “I will stand.”

“As you will have it.”

Moshe studied the heavy leather pouch the young man held. “You know our names, but I don’t believe you mentioned yours.”

“A thousand pardons, Professor Doctor.” He bowed slightly. “I am Ral Irman. Forgive my rudeness; you see, one cannot be too careful. I was told what you look like and was not expecting one dressed as you. Also, I was expecting only one―” he nodded toward Howard― “not two such distinguished persons such as Professor Moniger.”

Moshe frowned and waved his hand toward the leather pouch. “We have come a long way and have a long way yet to go. What is it Moddy wanted us to see?”

Ral Irman arched his eyebrows. “Ah yes.” He laid the pouch on the countertop, then swept back the broken pottery with his arm. “The scrolls.”

Howard leaned forward, his eyes intent on the cracked leather of the pouch.

Moshe fought the urge to tear the thing from the spiderlike hands of Moddy’s nephew. “Yes,” Moshe said quietly, “the scrolls.”

The mouth of Ral Irman turned slightly upward as though he enjoyed the tension he had engendered in the two men. Slowly he untied the pouch, his focus never leaving Moshe. His hand seemed to crawl into the opening, and his eyes widened as he grasped something and pulled it out.

Moshe’s heart fell. There, before him, was a shriveled brown roll about the size and shape of a newspaper. It had the appearance of tree bark, and time had welded its folds together.

Ral Irman’s smile faded. “You are not pleased, Professor Doctor?”

Moshe and Howard examined the scroll in the dim light. Tar and small bits of fabric clung to it.

“It’s never been opened,” Howard said.

“And it will not be without special equipment,” Moshe returned.

“We have others.” Ral Irman upended the pouch, dumping its contents carelessly onto the counter. Five more crumbling scrolls tumbled out.

“You idiot!” Moshe snapped at the young man. “Didn’t your uncle tell you these are fragile?”

“A thousand pardons then.” The young man pouted, stepping back near the shaky shelf of clay jars behind him.

Howard and Moshe pored over the pile of six ancient cylinders, reverently and carefully placing them in a row. One appeared to be made of papyrus, and another, sealed tight, was definitely copper.

“We don’t dare attempt to examine them in these conditions,”

Howard said. Then he looked up at the brooding face of Ral Irman.

“Where is the other scroll?”

“The other?” Ral Irman glanced at him doubtfully. “I have been instructed by my uncle first to settle a price of these six before you.”

“And what is his price?”

“A thousand pounds. Cash. Tonight.”

Moshe peered at the young man. “A thousand, you say?”

“For the six. Together.”

“And what of the seventh? We want to see it before we settle any price on these six,” Moshe insisted.

Without a word, Ral Irman slipped behind the curtain again. After what seemed like several minutes, he returned carrying another cylinder, this time carefully wrapped in a soft cotton fabric.

Moshe’s heart pounded wildly in his throat. The scroll of Isaiah, perfect after two millenia. The Word of God as it existed in the day of Christ! Its prophecies concerning the return of Israel and the coming of the Messiah had remained unchanged over two thousand years of the Diaspora.

“Let me see it,” Moshe demanded, unable to conceal the emotion in his voice.

“I am instructed to see your money first,” Ral Irman taunted, holding the precious cargo tighter to himself.

“For goodness’ sakes, Moshe,” Howard pleaded, “pay him for the other six.” He began to carefully replace them in the pouch, making room for the scroll on the countertop, as Moshe dug into his pocket and pulled out a wallet containing more than enough to pay for the six. He counted out ten 100-pound notes, watching as Ral Irman’s eyes suddenly danced to life.

“All right,” Moshe said. “One thousand pounds. Now let us see the seventh scroll.”

Ral Irman grabbed the bills from the counter and dropped the final scroll before them, his eyes gleaming with greed.

Moshe and Howard carefully unwrapped the covering of the scroll.

Howard drew an astonished breath. Tears came to his eyes as he gazed at the warm, rich texture of the scroll. The edges were crumbling, but unlike the others, it unrolled easily with a mere touch of Moshe’s index finger, its perfect, precise lettering revealing the ninth chapter of the book of Isaiah. Moshe cleared his throat and read the words, caressing them with his eyes, lifting them high with his voice.

“
For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the
government shall be upon His shoulder: and His name shall
be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The
everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.Of the increase of
His government and peace there shall be no end… .”

When he had finished, Moshe looked at Howard and smiled.

“We have found it together, my friend.”

Howard could only nod.

Then the greasy voice of Ral Irman broke in. “You learned doctors are pleased with our little gem? We do not doubt, seeing you read it, that it is indeed genuine and valuable perhaps.”

Moshe resumed his businesslike posture. “How much have you been instructed to ask for this scroll?”

“This scroll is not for sale.” Ral Irman smiled cruelly.

Moshe lifted his chin, feeling a rush of anger at this sleazy little insect. “Why not?” he demanded brusquely.

“Because,” the voice became arrogant, “it belongs to another.”

“Who?” Moshe’s voice became louder, and he stepped menacingly toward Ral Irman, whose smile faded instantly.

From behind him, the curtain rustled, then parted. Moshe’s eyes fell first on the gleaming blue barrel of a revolver extended by a black-gloved hand over the shoulder of Ral Irman. Framed by the curtain, a cruel face offered a gap-toothed smile. “It belongs to Haj Amin, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem,” said the sinister voice.

Moshe stepped back as though he had been struck. This had all been set up as a trap, he realized. “Hassan!” Moshe said, spitting out the hated name like poison.

“And so we meet again, brother of my friend.” Ibrahim Hassan shoved Ral Irman to the side, leaving him to scramble into a stack of books.

“You are no man’s friend, Hassan,” Moshe returned.

“Perhaps not. But it is not wise to hurl insults at the one who holds the gun.”

“What have you done with Moddy?” Moshe demanded.

Hassan’s eyes narrowed in evil amusement. “Did you not hear? His heart.” He jerked his head toward the back room. “Messy business, these weak hearts.” Hassan stepped forward as another Arab parted the curtains behind him and entered the room.