The Sacred Blood (37 page)

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 con
fused? 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.

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 Vatican 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:

h

“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 old-looking 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 shock
ing 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.”