Authors: Michael Byrnes
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-century-b.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.
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.
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.
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.
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.