The Sacred Cipher (19 page)

Johnson was grateful for the invitation to the Bohannons’ Memorial Day family picnic.
Holidays are difficult for the single.
And friendless
, Dr. Johnson thought.

Rodriguez was also there, with his wife, Deirdre, and their children. Rizzo, as was
his habit, kept everyone loose and laughing.

But no matter how hard Johnson tried to be “normal,” he continued to hear the Siren
call of the search seducing him, in spite of the paranoia that often dogged his days
and the nightmares that regularly plagued his nights.

From the glances he exchanged with his associates, their excitement about Abiathar’s
message was a shared collusion. Stuffed with meatballs, baked ham, and Tom’s revered,
secret-recipe potato salad, and too preoccupied to participate in the family ritual
of “do you remember when,” they eagerly followed Bohannon into his study.

“What do you think we should do?” Rodriguez asked, almost as soon as the door found
its jamb. No small talk, no pleasantries. “Do we keep going with this, or—”

“Or quit?” Johnson interrupted. He looked at the men in the room and knew their thoughts.
Somebody had to speak it.

Bohannon turned on the TV and tuned in to the Indy 500, but nobody paid any attention
to it. “I’m frightened,” said Johnson. “I won’t deny it. The memory of that incident
in the subway haunts me. I feel like a fool saying it, but I feel like my life is
turning into a bad spy movie.”

There were understanding nods from Rodriguez and Bohannon.

“The other night when we were leaving the Old Town,” said Bohannon, “I thought I was
being followed. It scared the living daylights out of me. I gotta tell ya, I’m beginning
to wonder what we’re doing here.”

“I was wondering that, too,” said Johnson. “There is certainly reason for us to question
whether we should continue with our quest to understand this message on the scroll.
And I am concerned . . . concerned about the welfare of us all. But then, I realized
something very important.”

“What’s that, Doc,” said Rizzo, “that your tailor is stuck in the Middle Ages?”

It suddenly struck Johnson that Sammy’s barbs carried a profound purpose. He was helping
them all laugh in the face of fear.

“No, my dear Mr. Rizzo,” Johnson bowed in his direction. “I realized that I want to
do this. And that neither terror nor threats have diminished my desire to understand
the message of the scroll. Nor has it deterred my determination to discover whether
this message could in fact be possible. There is no question I’m uneasy about our
situation. But I’m not scared, and I don’t want to give up. Not now.”

Nobody moved, or objected.

“Well, it looks like we’re all in,” said Rodriguez.

Johnson crossed the room and stood by the window, gathering his thoughts and switching
gears. “I’ve been doing some research—called a few friends, sent a few e-mails—tried
to come at this thing from the edges without making it too obvious,” said Johnson,
swirling his martini. “I haven’t been able to find anything yet that would either
confirm or deny the possibility of something unknown existing under the Temple Mount.

“What I did find is that Abiathar’s family, including his grandfather, Solomon; his
uncle Joseph; his father, Elijah; and Abiathar himself, could trace their history
directly to Ezra, one of the prophets of the Bible’s Old Testament. They were ‘Aaronites,’
or from the family of Aaron, the brother of Moses, making the men priests.

“And it was the priests who would have known how to rebuild the temple—what the measurements
should be, where things were placed. It was only the priests who could consecrate
the temple once it was built, only the priests who could enter the ‘Most Holy Place’
in the middle of the temple, only the high priest, one man, who was permitted to enter
the ‘Holy of Holies’ where the Ark of the Covenant would reside, and only once a year.

“So if Abiathar had not been a priest, it really would have cast a great deal of doubt
on the veracity of the scroll’s story. That he was a priest,” said Johnson, “doesn’t
prove it’s true. It only means that we should continue looking for a clear answer,
one way or another.”

Johnson, who was still standing, wandered over to Bohannon’s bookcases. “One other
bit of family news was interesting. Abiathar’s brother Solomon fled Jerusalem for
the Egyptian town of Suez when he and his brother were first informed of the European
Crusade. After some time, this Solomon was appointed Gaon and continued a line of
‘Gaonim’ in Egypt, serving under the Nagid. We can assume, then, a rather strong connection
between Abiathar and Egypt. But there is still no concrete evidence . . . no, not
even a suspicion . . . that a temple was erected under the Temple Mount.”

“How can we know whether it’s possible or impossible until we tell somebody exactly
what it is we’re looking for?” asked Bohannon, sitting down heavily in an old, tattered
but extremely comfortable recliner. “We can look from now until the fifth of Umptober,
and we’re not going to get any closer to the truth until we talk to somebody who has
firsthand knowledge and tell them everything we’ve discovered thus far. Until we risk
opening up what we know, we’re just flying blind.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Rodriguez, opening up his bottle of Bud and pouring it
into a nice, frozen mug. “I’ve been scouring the Internet and prowling through all
the archaeology and ancient history periodicals in the library’s vaults, and even
though there’ve been millions of words written about the Temple Mount, about the first
and second temples, about the archaeological finds in and around Jerusalem, I haven’t
found a single word or conjecture that there could actually be a Third Temple sitting,
waiting to be found under the most fought-over piece of real estate in the world.
But one thing all the writers agree on is that no one really knows what exists under
the Temple Mount platform.”

Bohannon kicked off his loafers and stretched out the recliner to its full length.
“So who are we going to find who is going to have all the information we’re looking
for? Who is going to share it with us and not turn us in as nut cases, or steal the
information and go looking for the temple themselves? Who do we trust?”

Drawn to Tom’s collection of books squeezed into every available space, Johnson began
slowly rolling over the Rolodex in his memory, looking for a connection with wisdom,
resources, and good character—a person of integrity, who could keep a secret. Flip
. . . flip . . . flip . . . the cards kept flipping, revealing name after name with
no response.

He had taken note of Bohannon’s taste in reading. It was an eclectic grouping, nothing
remarkable, but generally good, foundational literature and the requisite professional
reference material.

“There are plenty of scholars who have the knowledge,” Johnson said, continuing his
mental catalog, “but there are very few I would trust with information that is incredibly
valuable on so many different planes.”

Turning to a new bookcase, Johnson’s pulse quickened, and his admiration for Bohannon
skipped to a new level. First edition, numbered set, nineteenth century, illustrated
complete works of Shakespeare . . . First edition, complete set of Victor Hugo . .
. wow!—autographed copy of
Last of the Mohicans
displayed under plastic, with the front cover opened to the autographed flyleaf.
That is rare, probably should be in a museum
, thought Johnson. “You have a nice collection here, Tom,” he said, continuing his
inspection. Signed copy of
The Great Gatsby
. “Very nice.”

“It’s a hobby,” Bohannon said from his prone position, “something to fill the time
with value.”

Johnson turned quickly on his heel, breaking away from his bibliophilic reverie. “Bohannon,
you never cease to amaze me. A hobby. Once again, I think you may have uncovered the
answer.”

“What?” Bohannon mumbled from the edge of sleep.

“No, not
what, who:
Winthrop Larsen. I’ve been wracking my brain for a professional I could trust, but
I never thought of Winthrop. He’s a teacher here in New York. Teaches social studies
to middle school students, even though his family is “Old New England” and old money.
But Winthrop has an interesting
hobby
, Mr. Bohannon. Saying Winthrop is an avid archaeologist would be like calling the
Titanic
a rowboat. Winthrop brings a passion to his study and dedicated study to his passion,
along with a wealth of resources which allows him to apply the most sophisticated
and modern technology to his efforts. He’s blessed with a schoolteacher’s schedule
and spends every summer either on a dig somewhere in the world or in the bowels of
the British Museum, increasing his knowledge.

“I’ve known Winthrop for more than a decade,” said Johnson. “Several summers, we collaborated
on our assignments at the museum. And there are two things that make Winthrop Larsen
remarkably important to us: He has a genuinely sincere heart and is of the finest
character; and he is an expert on the history and archaeology of Jerusalem . . . authored
a monograph on the debated discovery of the first wall of David’s palace, parts of
which were published in the
American Archaeology Review
. If Winthrop can’t help us, perhaps no one will.”

“Hey, Doc.” Johnson turned to his left. Rizzo leaned against a low table that flanked
Bohannon’s recliner. “If this guy Winthrop is rolling in dough like you said, what’s
he doing teaching public school? Why not ride the money train and spend his life digging
in the desert?”

Rizzo may enjoy playing the roll of class clown, but his mind was quick and his logic
flawless. To Johnson, intellect was a saving grace.

Johnson leaned his shoulder against the end of the last bookcase. “It’s likely a combination
of things, but primarily, Winthrop doesn’t want to live either on his family’s name
or on their wealth alone. I don’t know if it’s rich man’s remorse, but Winthrop refuses
to accept privilege. He wants to earn his own way, and he is determined to spend his
life personally helping those who do not enjoy privilege. To live off his family’s
wealth and only pursue archaeology . . . well, it would betray his own soul.”

“So,” said Bohannon, “let’s go. Where does he live?”

There was a knock on the door, followed by Annie’s head peeking into the room. “Come
on, you guys, the family is out here. You’re not going to spend another day holed
up in a cramped room. Dr. Johnson, there are some children out here who want to hear
more stories of knights and dragons. Sammy? And you two, get out here and pay some
attention to us.”

Johnson saw the knowing glance pass between Rodriguez and his brother-in-law. “C’mon,
Tom,” said Rodriguez. “It’s a wise man who knows when to say, ‘Yes, dear.’”

“Doc?” Bohannon asked.

“I’ll call Winthrop tomorrow,” said Johnson, joining the exit, “and see if we can
get together as soon as possible.”

They came in from Freeman Alley without a sound. Now that only two remained, they
were much more careful. Two dead, and no closer to the scroll.

On Friday at the end of his shift with the renovation crew, Ishmael had slipped a
wooden wedge between the latch and the frame of the Bowery Mission’s back door, the
one with the deadbolt lock.

They pushed past the trash bins, silent in their soft-soled shoes, and raced up the
backstairs to the first landing. It was well after midnight Sunday night, and the
mission was quiet. Monday was a holiday, so no workers were expected. Mukhtar needed
only moments to unlock first the door to the volunteers’ dorm area, then the lock
to the men’s bedroom, and finally the last locked door, leading to the storage area
that flanked the space behind the organ pipes . . . and Klopsch’s hidden office.

Two weeks ago, Ishmael had watched as the men climbed through the renovations and
entered the previously hidden space. Twice before, they had tried to gain access,
twice before they were nearly detected.

Their leader demanded the scroll, regardless of the risk. So they tried again.

Ishmael grasped the thin penlight in his teeth and climbed the old, wooden ladder.
Mukhtar followed with the tools.

The bellows room was the size of a large closet, but only half as high. It smelled
like damp dog and mouse droppings. Every surface was plastered with the dusty grime
of decades. Ishmael crawled to a corner of the room, his nostrils immediately clogged
with a foul powder. He reached back his hand, and Mukhtar filled it with the pry bar.
With the caution of a safecracker trying to pick a lock next door to a police precinct,
Ishmael eased the bar under the edge of a board and slowly applied pressure. With
a pop that stopped their hearts, the board snapped free of its nails. There was no
other noise.