The Sacred Cipher (31 page)

I am a spy
, he suddenly thought to himself.

Another thought was beginning to form in his mind in response to the first one, when
the desert attacked again. It took only one step through the sliding pneumatic doors,
and Bohannon’s rebelling body began to soak the short-sleeved oxford—the signature
blue cotton button-down that he wore with unfailing regularity, except when he wore
a white one. Immediately, he regretted the poplin suit. Jealously he looked at Rizzo’s
green and blue plaid shirt over fluorescent green, nylon running shorts—garishly glaring,
but disgustingly more practical than anything Bohannon was now sweating through.

“It’s hot,” said Rodriguez, now at his side. Bohannon resisted comment.

Other than Rizzo constantly pestering the attendants, there had been very little conversation
during the trip. Bohannon was lost in his own thoughts, and the others appeared to
be suffering in their own pain. Prior to the trip, Bohannon had not noticed how alike
he and Johnson and Rodriguez were in makeup. In the face of grief, each of them retreated
to a safe place, behind the protection of well-constructed walls. It was there, also,
that Bohannon wrestled with the forces of fear that he could seldom understand or
describe.

Rizzo, who had brought only a backpack and kept it under the seat in front of him,
preceded the others out of the airport and into the heat, a head-turning neon apparition.
The other three looked the part of who they were, experienced travelers who packed
light and kept themselves mobile. But none of them had dressed correctly for this
heat. Even though it was early June, each was beginning to visibly wilt in the desert’s
midday swelter. Then Bohannon saw her winding her way through the knots of people
waiting for shuttles or waving down taxis. Rather, he saw the hat . . . broad-brimmed
straw Stetson, western style, the sides tied up tight under a leather thong. Even
more distinctive was the green and blue tartan ribbon wrapped around the base of the
hat’s crown.

As she drew closer, Bohannon made observations below the hat. “Sammy Rizzo, you dirty
old man,” Bohannon whispered with admiration.

Kallie Nolan was wearing a fairly standard archaeologist outfit: khaki shorts, short-sleeved
khaki safari shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder, and well-traveled leather
boots. But it wasn’t the clothes that drew Bohannon’s attention. It was how the clothes
wore Kallie. Golden bronze, the fitness of a runner, Nolan was a stunning, healthy,
well-built, thirty-something who was all legs, arms, golden strawberry ponytail, and
dazzling emerald eyes that overflowed with a joy of life that infected all who entered
her orbit.

Everyone was watching Kallie, but she wasn’t watching anyone except this little guy
in the fluorescent green shorts. Sammy stopped in his tracks and stood open-mouthed,
staring at Kallie as she approached.

Putting his bag down, ignoring the catatonic Rizzo, Bohannon took two steps toward
Kallie and grasped her outstretched hand.

“Kallie, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bohannon said sincerely. “This is Doc Johnson
. . . and Joe Rodriguez. And that guy . . .”

Before Bohannon could turn toward Sammy, the plaid and green flashed past his eyes
and landed in Kallie’s open arms.

“Kallie . . . it’s your kissin’ cousin, home from his travels,” Rizzo crowed, wrapping
his arms around Nolan, who had dropped down to one knee, and hugging her close as
she hugged him right back. Bohannon then realized that Rizzo’s shirt was the same
tartan design that Kallie had wrapped around her Stetson.

She unwrapped Rizzo from her neck and held him at arm’s length. “It’s good to see
you again, Sammy Rizzo. And good to see that you are still in one piece. I’ve been
worried about you.” She looked up. “About all of you. Your last few messages were
frightening. I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Larsen.”

Rodriguez and Johnson both shook her hand with the same warmth and sincerity as Bohannon.
But she quickly turned her attention back to Rizzo, who hadn’t left her side.

“I was beginning to think that I would never see you again,” Kallie said to Sammy,
who was soaking up all of the amazed stares that were directed his way. “I didn’t
think I’d have the opportunity to tell you how much I respect you and how much I have
valued your friendship.”

Bohannon watched in amazement. For the first time in his memory, Rizzo had morphed
from the master of wisecracks and put-downs into a man of gentle sincerity.

“Thanks, Kallie . . . I’ve missed you, too,” Rizzo said, looking into her eyes as
if there were not a thousand people within earshot of his comments. “Thank you. I
don’t think I’m worthy of your respect, but I’ll take it, gladly.”

Rizzo the gentleman gave Nolan a tender embrace.

But it was Rizzo the instigator who turned toward his three companions.

“So, you human sweatbands, I would say I’ve just hit a grand slam, eh? Rizzo, four—the
rest of you clowns, zero.” Taking Kallie’s hand in his, Rizzo turned away from the
terminal. “So, one of you can carry my bag. Lead on, my beauty.”

Bohannon, Rodriguez, and Johnson began to evaporate in the heat. “Come on,” said Kallie,
over her shoulder. “I’ve got the university’s van over in the parking lot. Let’s get
you guys to the hotel. Then we can talk.”

All felt their spirits lift: air-conditioning!

“Sorry. The van’s not air-conditioned. But the hotel’s not too far. And we can keep
the windows open.”

It was hot . . . heat hot . . . jungle hot . . . Africa hot. The windows were not
going to help.

The one thing they had talked about on the trip over was that they would keep Kallie
Nolan out of this project as much as possible. If nothing else, just to protect her.
Who knew where the Prophet’s Guard would turn up next.

Now in Israel, the obvious slapped Bohannon silly. What they had been trying to avoid
thinking about for weeks was all around them, living, breathing, and speaking. Men
in robes and head coverings; women with veils over their faces; men in uniform, automatic
weapons cradled in the crook of their arms; women in uniform, their eyes relentless,
always on guard.

This was not America, not even post–9/11 America.
Israel was not even like New York City
, thought Bohannon,
where the scars were deepest and the expectation of “again” the highest
.

Life in New York City had changed forever. More and more buildings had surrounded
themselves with flower planters—those huge, concrete, reinforced planters that doubled
as car bomb protection and fooled no one.

Downtown, the precautions were even more draconian. Streets around the New York Stock
Exchange were still blocked with police barricades and uniforms with automatic weapons.
But it was around the federal buildings that New York looked more like Baghdad. The
streets were impassible, secured by thick, metal, pneumatically controlled barricades
that were lowered only after presentation of highest security clearance ID, and only
after the vehicle was subjected to a thorough search.

Grand Central Station was constantly patrolled, not only by the NYPD but also by roving
squads of military in their camo, each entry under heavily armed guard. Subway stations
now routinely, but randomly, were under close surveillance by squads of specially
trained NYPD officers. Most New Yorkers were aware of, and thankful for, these heightened
security measures. But what most New Yorkers failed to notice was the “army of the
normal.” New York’s antiterrorism squads had been well publicized. No one spoke of
the spooks: the taxi drivers; UPS deliverymen; street vendors; moms with baby carriages
. . . the hundreds of plainclothes disguises that made up the thousand officers who
comprised Rory O’Neill’s “army of the normal.”

Daily reminders of how life had changed were dotted all over the New York City landscape.

Yet the flow of New York had not changed.

There was no fear. Concern, but no fear. Millions still rode the A train or the N/R
from Queens without a second thought. They ate in restaurants, went to work in ridiculously
tall buildings, raised their children. The city continued to grow, rents continued
to climb. And people moved from place to place, building to building; neighborhood
to neighborhood, city to city, with few worries. America remained an open society
even in the face of unseen warriors fighting an unconventional war against Western
civilization.

Being driven out of Tel Aviv Airport, past fortified checkpoints, Bohannon realized
just how much freedom was being taken for granted in his home city. Israelis were
serious about security; they had to be. They were all targets, and their enemies surrounded
them. At times, their enemies were right in their midst. In New York, Bohannon admitted,
the soldiers made him feel safer, more at ease. Here in Israel, the soldiers made
him feel like a suspect, as if they were just waiting for a wrong move. And his guilt
was magnified by the secret he carried with him.

Kallie turned the van east on Highway 1, pointing it toward Jerusalem and trying to
gain enough speed to bring some relief to these guys who were looking pretty damp.
Rizzo was riding shotgun and appeared to be enjoying the scenery . . . Kallie’s legs.
Bohannon, Johnson, and Rodriguez each sprawled across one of the bench seats, the
luggage stuffed in the rear.

“I’ve confirmed the arrangements you made,” said Kallie, her eyes straight ahead and
both hands firmly on the steering wheel. But the aging van had a mind of its own,
rapidly drifting right at any slip in concentration. “Hotel Tzuba is confirmed, a
nonsmoking suite, and the rental car will be there, waiting for you. It took some
convincing for the rental company to find and supply the kind of big SUV you requested.
There’s not much demand for big cars like that over here—gas is so expensive. If you
hadn’t been so specific and so insistent with the company, I doubt you would have
gotten what you were looking for. By the way,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant,
“why will you need such a large vehicle?”

Bohannon turned in his seat to look at her. “Kallie, I thought we had an agreement.”

“Oh, come on!” A sudden shift in posture, and the van began tracking for the shoulder,
so Kallie had to return her effort and attention to controlling the beast. “Do you
guys actually think I’m going to allow you to come here on a quest for antiquities
and leave me sitting home while you have all the fun? Who’s the archaeologist here?
Who’s the one who dug up the information on Abiathar when you needed it? So you’re
tracking down something that has to do with Jerusalem at the time of the crusader
conquest, you won’t tell me what it is, and you won’t let me help you out, right?
Well, that just stinks. I’ve got half a mind to drop you off right here and let you
walk the rest of the way.”

“Where is here?” a sleepy Rodriguez asked from the depths of the van.

“We’re just coming into Latrun,” said Kallie, trying to relax her forearm muscles
for a moment. “There’re the ruins of a crusader castle over there on the right—the
Castle of the Knight. You could practice your treasure hunting over there while you
were waiting for some schlump to pick you up.”

“Schlumps? Yeah, that’s us,” said Rizzo. “A bunch of schlumps from Schlumpsville.
Hicks on a hunt.”

“Aw, come on you guys. I know you’re up to something that has adventure all over it.
Do you know how absolutely boring it is to be an archaeologist? Ninety-nine percent
of the time we’re using a paintbrush to move dust one particle at a time. There’s
not much adrenalin rush in this business. Except for this stupid van,” she said, trying
to wrestle it into submission.

She felt a gentle hand come to rest on her right shoulder. “Kallie, it would be an
honor for us to include you in this project,” Johnson said quietly. “In one way or
another, you’ve been a part of this almost from the beginning. Including you would
be the right thing to do. With all that being said, don’t you understand that there
must be another, overriding, reason why we are trying to keep you at arm’s length?”

Nolan kept driving, the clenched muscles of her jaw losing traction against common
sense.

“We are all traveling in uncharted waters here; we have no idea how, when, or where
this will end up. It’s possible,” said Johnson, “that we could get ourselves into
some significant trouble. And, Kallie, none of us are willing to put you in that position,
even though you are more than willing to sign on. I’m sorry, dear, but you’re just
dealing with three old, overly protective academic types who are scared of our own
shadows and our dear Mr. Rizzo, who doesn’t have an ounce of sense in his diminutive
body.”