Authors: Michael Byrnes
“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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
“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.