Authors: Terry Brennan
“More care,” Mukhtar whispered. “Their security will do rounds.”
Ishmael stifled a string of Arabic insults, keeping the penlight in his mouth and
his attention on the next board. This one moved more easily, as did the next. The
opening was narrow, blackness on the other side. Ishmael listened to the blackness,
then tucked his head into the opening.
He swept the room with the intense beam, leaning his head in farther, tilting it left
and right. Ishmael swore and nearly dropped the penlight.
The surface of the table in the middle of the room was unoccupied. The doors of the
safe were slightly ajar. The shelves were empty.
Ishmael’s fist pounded the floor of the bellows room, catapulting dust. He pulled
his head back through the hole in the floor, pulled the penlight from his mouth, and
rested his back against the wall.
“It’s gone,” he said to Mukhtar. “Everything is gone. The safe is empty. The books
and documents are gone. The scroll has been moved.”
Ishmael felt Mukhtar’s eyes on him, and the unspoken question hung in the darkness.
“There is another way . . . a way to convince these infidels to return the scroll,”
said Ishmael. “A way that will bring the leader to his knees.” Mukhtar picked up the
pry bar and returned it to the tool bag. “Tomorrow, we begin to watch.”
The Wednesday after Memorial Day was the kind of spring day that revived hope in the
weary and warmed the bones of the aged. The sky, a cloudless cobalt prism, so magnified
the sun’s heat and light that Joe and Sammy flinched and shaded their eyes as they
exited the side door of the Humanities and Social Sciences Library. It took a long
breath to adjust.
Then Sammy Rizzo smiled, his eyes closed, his face lifted to the sky. “Oh, God . .
. this is wonderful.” Standing on the top step of the stone stairs leading down to
42nd Street, he turned to look up at Rodriguez. “Let’s eat in the park, eh?”
The mismatched pair crossed 42nd Street in the middle of the block while the lights
were red, dodging the odd car, and entered their local Chipotle restaurant, McDonald’s
Corporation’s successful diversification into Mexican fast food. Sammy loved Chipotle,
not only because its fajita burrito was out of this world, but also because it was
so huge he would have half remaining for dinner. He also got a kick out of the questioning
glances he intercepted as he trotted alongside the tall, long-striding Joe Rodriguez.
Let ’em scratch their heads. I’ve made my way in a big man’s world
.
Bryant Park, the square-block green oasis between Fifth and Sixth avenues behind the
library building, had been resurrected during Manhattan’s rebirth. Once a dark den
for drug deals and muggers, it was now a brilliant, thriving oasis—an outdoor Midtown
magnet both day and night. The gravel pathways surrounding the big, open green were
a midday riot of alfresco lunchers resting on the park’s dark green chairs while they
munched on their sandwiches and downed their health food.
Rizzo’s favorite spot was on the south side, near the carousel. He loved the sound
of children’s laughter.
This day, they were fortunate enough to score a table in the mottled shade of a just-blooming
plane tree.
Rizzo’s hands wrestled with the oversized half burrito, escaping salsa sliding down
his fingers. He didn’t come up for air until he was nearly half done.
Rodriguez was chuckling at him. “Have you eaten in the last two days?”
“Funny man,” Rizzo smirked, swabbing his hands in a pile of napkins. “I happen to
have a big appetite.”
“To go along with your ego?”
“To satisfy my hyperthyroid, dunce. It goes with the whole package.”
Rizzo backhanded a mangled napkin in Joe’s direction. “You . . . you eat like a sissy
ballet dancer. Salad is not a man’s meal.”
“I’ve got to watch my figure . . . Deidre likes me lean and mean.”
“You wuss.”
Rizzo went back to attacking his burrito but stopped in mid-chomp.
“What does Deidre think about this treasure hunt we’ve embarked on?”
“I haven’t told her much about it.” Rodriguez looked up as the carousel began another
circular voyage. “I’m not sure where this is going . . . and I don’t want to worry
her needlessly. I don’t know . . . I don’t know if that’s the right thing or not.”
Rizzo had known Joe Rodriguez a long time, more than ten years. He knew Joe and Deirdre
enjoyed a powerful, committed marriage, that Joe was devoted to his wife and family.
And he was confused.
“Joe . . . why are you doing this?”
“Huh? Doing what?” Rodriguez turned back to Rizzo.
“Chasing down this scroll, that’s what.
Doing what!
You moron. Who knows what we’re getting ourselves into? It seems like we’ve got a
bunch of whacko terrorists trying to track us down, we’ve come up with this scroll’s
message that could have worldwide impact, and our next stop could be in that secure
little resort of Jerusalem. So, yeah . . . why are you doing this?”
Rodriguez’s smile was weighted, its burden pulling down the corners of his lips. He
looked off in the direction of the carousel once more, the long, black curls on his
head silently nodding affirmation to some unspoken summons.
“My father died several years ago. We really didn’t have a relationship. He was the
macho Hispanic male, ruler of his world. He didn’t have time for me or much interest
in me.” Rodriguez pulled his eyes from the painted horses. “So when he died, to be
honest, there really wasn’t much to miss. Then last year, I was visiting my sister.
She told me there was something she wanted me to have, and she brought out this small,
wooden jewelry box. Dad’s jewelry. She opened it and took out a ring. ‘Here, I think
you should have this.’
“It was a gold ring with a large, square, rounded red stone encased in the gold. I
remembered my dad wearing the ring. And I was so proud to get it. It was the only
thing of his that I possessed.
“The ring was too big for me,” said Rodriguez, “but I wanted to wear it. I wanted
people to ask me about it, so I could tell them, ‘This was my dad’s ring. It was given
to me.’ I wanted to have a legacy. I guess I wanted to belong to him, be the son who
is bequeathed the king’s ring.”
Rizzo watched pain rise and fall in Joe’s eyes.
“I knew I either had to put a ring guard in it or get it sized smaller, but I procrastinated.
Kept telling myself, ‘You’ve got to get this ring fixed.’ And then I’d think, yeah,
okay, I’ll get it done.
“About two weeks after I got the ring, I was on the F train and got to the Bryant
Park stop. By the time I got to the top of the station stairs, I realized the ring
was not on my finger. I raced back to the platform, but the train was long gone.”
Bryant Park was crowded, but only the calliope music from the carousel interrupted
the silence around their table. Rodriguez pulled in a deep, sighing breath.
“I can only assume my dad loved me, because he never told me so himself. I didn’t
think I wanted any part of him. But then I got the ring. And I was proud to be his
son.”
Rodriguez looked up, stepped out of his memories.
“I’ve regretted losing that ring ever since. I’ve regretted my indifference and resentment
of my father. Who knows what he had to live through, who knows what made him the man
he was? And I’ve regretted my laziness and my foolishness for being so cavalier with
a precious gift.”
Rodriguez held up his hands and looked at his fingers.
“Part of me died that day. I don’t know how else to express it. I had a chance to
live a fuller life, and I lost it, squandered it.
“I’ve been looking for something, something I couldn’t define, for a long time, Sammy.
Maybe this is it. I’m not sure. But I know I’m going. I’m not going to live with any
more regret. And besides . . . somebody will need to keep you in line.”
“Me?
Me?
I’m the perfect traveling companion.”
“You’re a perfect pain in the butt.” Rodriguez leaned his elbows on the edge of the
small table. “Look, Sammy, you’re one of the brightest guys I know. You’re a critical
thinker with excellent logic. You’re a great asset to this team.”
“But?”
“But . . . sometimes you really turn people off. I know you’re just being a wise guy;
it’s part of the personality that makes you unique. And I’m used to your comments.
But others aren’t. Some of the things you say, or do, can seem pretty childish . .
. immature. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Sammy, but if you want to be taken
seriously by these guys, if you want to really be part of this
team
, then . . . and this is just my opinion . . . then tone it down a notch. Okay?”
Rizzo felt the burrito turn in his stomach. He wrestled with his defenses.
Keep it hidden. Keep it buttoned up
. He heard the children’s laughter.
He felt like his heart was going to leap from his chest and go running down the gravel
path.
“At least you had a dad.”
Don’t cry!
“Sammy, I . . .”
Rizzo held up a hand. “It’s okay. Looks like this is the time for True Confessions.”
He pushed the soiled napkins in circles around the table.
It’s okay . . . it’s okay
.
“My parents were normal-sized people,” Sammy said, his eyes still on the napkins.
“I’m a dwarf. There’s some medical name for it—some one-in-a-thousand shot. But it
was a shot my dad couldn’t take. Maybe he thought it was his fault. Maybe he couldn’t
take the comments. I’ll never know. He left when I was two. Never seen him since.”
Rizzo grabbed a bunch of the napkins and squeezed them in his fist, unconsciously
depicting the ache in his heart. “It nearly killed my mom. Most of my early memories
are of her crying. First, I felt it was my fault. As I got older, I realized just
how much her heart was broken by my dad.”
Sammy remembered the small apartment in Brooklyn where his mom always kept the shades
drawn. How the blankness of her soul had slowly taken possession of her face.
“So I became the clown. I was the dancing elf with the endless wisecracks . . . the
only one who could make her laugh.” Eyes on the tabletop, Rizzo’s hand went to his
mouth, rubbed down and over his chin. “It was that way until she died.” He sniffed,
and held his breath.
“I’m sorry, Sammy.”
The carousel stopped.
Another deep breath.
“I know, Joe . . . thanks.” He waited a moment to gather himself, then looked up at
his friend.
“I’ve known other short people who are really angry . . . really angry,” Rizzo said.
“They blame everything on big people. They’ve got some score to settle. Well, I came
to peace with that a long time ago. I’m not anybody’s fault. I just am. Sometimes,
unfortunately, part of who I am is that dancing elf with the endless wisecracks. It’s
in there and just comes out. So thanks for the attitude check, Joe. I really want
to be part of this team. So I’ll try to keep my mouth in check. But no promises, eh?”
Rizzo forced a smile onto his face.
“Why do
you
want to go, Sammy?”
Sammy felt his smile warm. “Now you’re really digging.” He laughed. “You’re going
to think I’m even weirder.”
“Impossible.”
Rizzo picked up the intact half of his burrito and stuffed it back into the Chipotle
bag. Then he looked at Joe.
“You remember Kallie Nolan?”
“The archaeologist . . . the one you said you put a move on, right?”
Rizzo nodded his head. “Yeah, a really bad move.” He leaned into the table. “I’d go
anywhere if it gave me a chance to see Kallie Nolan again. She was . . . special.
She treated me like a normal guy. It was like she never noticed anything different
about me. I never had a woman friend before, somebody I felt so comfortable with.
And of course, being a guy, the hormones kicked in. One night when we stopped at her
place after doing research at the library, I went over the edge. Way over. She kicked
me out. Didn’t talk to me much after that, then went back to school and on over to
Jerusalem to study.”
“Didn’t you ever apologize?”
“I did . . . I tried . . . but after that night, it seemed like I could never break
through. Like she was determined to wear a mask.”
Rizzo’s attention was drawn by the carousel. “I’d seen that mask before,” he said.
“It was the same one my mother used to wear to hide her pain. That’s why I have to
see her again, Joe. I need to make sure the mask is gone.”
Rizzo grabbed the lunch bag, slid off his seat, and headed down the gravel path back
to the library. “C’mon on, you sack of sweat. You’ll make me late with all your sob
stories.”
“Excuse me, guys,” Larsen said, his mind reeling from what he had just heard. “Let
me get this straight. You found a scroll you believe to be a thousand years old, in
an extinct language, in code. Somehow you broke the code, and the message claims the
Jews built the Third Temple of God under the Temple Mount. All of this has remained
secret for a thousand years, and no one has found this temple in the most archaeologically
active six square miles on earth. And you are asking me if it’s a hoax?”