The Sacred Cipher (37 page)

Kallie guided the large, black SUV into the tourist parking lot at Bev Shaloan. She
popped out quickly and put on her official bucket hat with the garden guide logo so
prominently stitched to the side. The bucket hat, the logo, she could abide those.
The rest of the uniform was typically Israeli, stern and simple. Leaf green, short-sleeve,
button-front shirt along with rolled-up shorts of the same color. The winter uniform
was just a longer version of this. No, it wasn’t the uniform. It was the stupid, little
“G/G” pennant, held aloft from the brim of her bucket hat by a long, stiff wire.
It makes us look like targets in a shooting gallery
, she thought. So the hat always went on last.

“Gentlemen, I would like to show you one of the more interesting and rarely visited
sites in the Old City of Jerusalem.”

“Negotiating for a bigger tip, eh?” said Rizzo, getting a head start up the pathway.
Rodriguez also strode past Kallie and began consuming the path with long, athletic
strides. Like the others, he had on his backpacker outfit, including a wide-brimmed
hat all of them were wearing for protection from the sun. Only Rodriguez was still
wearing the kibbutz shorts he had purchased at Tzuba. “They are just so much more
comfortable than the ones I brought from New York,” he told the others.

Kallie looked at the other two. “We’ll walk along that pathway, around to the other
side of the hill. Would either one of you like me to share my training, give you a
more detailed, historical description?”

The two men looked at each other, looked at Kallie, and then looked along the path.

“No offense,” said Tom, taking her arm, “but let’s go. The only thing I want to know
is out there, underground. And for it to look right, you need to lead us. So, lead
on.”

Kallie shook her arm free, spun on her heel, and, with the abhorred pennant bouncing
with every step, led the men along the path to the hill, behind which was the partially
obscured entrance to the King’s Garden Tunnel.

Kallie presented her identification and garden guide credentials to the guard and,
after a small gift for his family was arranged, led her clients around the barrier
with “No Admittance” written in Hebrew, Arabic, and English and into the tunnel.

“Nothing, Captain,” said Stern, reviewing all the screens. “It’s still pretty early.
Only a few tourists out, trying to beat the heat. Some shoppers, some at the Wall,
a garden guide showing a few the entrance to the King’s Garden Tunnel. Nothing yet.”

The Hawk was rocking on his chair. They had lost track of these men, and he wasn’t
happy.

Rasaf’s car was so old, it barely held itself together. A Subaru wagon some affluent
Westerner had abandoned, its fenders were of mismatched colors, only one door opened,
and the air-conditioning had long since vanished. But it was reliable, the engine
and drivetrain still running strong. Already dusty from following the black SUV into
Jerusalem, Rasaf sat in his car at the far edge of the car park, just south of the
Western Wall. He held a small, collapsible telescope to his eye, trained on the hill
behind which was the King’s Garden Tunnel, while in his other hand he held a cell
phone to his ear.

“Yes, Effendi, the guide just took them into the tunnel entrance. No, Effendi, I cannot
see the entrance. Yes, Effendi, they are searching.” Rasaf listened carefully to the
instructions coming through the phone. “Yes, Effendi. I will call them. We will be
prepared. Yes, Effendi, tonight.”

Rasaf clicked the phone shut and stuck it in his pants pocket. Like his car, his clothes
had seen better days. They were as nondescript as Rasaf, the pants a dull, dust color,
his shirt only a vague reminder of its original green. On his head sat a round kufi
of worn, sweat-stained brown leather. In the morning air, he still wore a light, faded
blue jacket. Even with the jacket, and the temperature inching up, Rasaf shivered
at the demands of the old man.

Allah preserve us
, he thought. Then he sat back in the creaky seat, and waited.

Midday had passed, and evening was well upon them. The Hawk was now pacing at a feverish
tempo. The day had escaped with no further contact with the four men who had raised
their suspicions the night before, so Levin released Stern from surveillance and assigned
him to review all the tapes they recorded that day. With three screens rolling at
the same time, it didn’t take Stern long to see something that had been missed earlier.

“Captain, look at this,” and Levin was immediately at his shoulder. “Remember those
tourists we noticed going into King’s Garden Tunnel this morning? Well, here they
are, coming out. Sir, look at the time.”

“Roll that back again, Stern,” Levin whispered. Levin was gnawing on his pipe and
berating his caution.
Immediately, I should have acted immediately
.

“Here, sir, you see? The four tourists with the garden guide.”

Checking the running time at the top left of the video, Levin spoke, as if to himself.
“Ten thirty, and they entered just after six this morning?

“Four hours . . . more than four hours,” Levin said. “How could they be in there for
four hours? There is not that much to see. Only the entrance is accessible. Not even
a garden guide would have access more than a few meters into the tunnel. Stern, zoom
in. I want a better look at those people.”

Stern moved his mouse and used the scroll button to zoom the picture in closer. A
female garden guide and four men, or three men and a child, the guide clearly identifiable
because of the pennant on her hat, the men less so because their wide-brimmed hats
obscured their faces. Stern could feel both Captain Levin’s hot breath on his neck
and his growing anxiety. “Closer, Stern, closer on that man on the left.” Again the
mouse scrolled the zoom, bringing the image closer, but beginning to lose its resolution.
Without warning, Levin’s strong hand was on Stern’s shoulder, digging into the meat
with a sudden fierceness.

“Print that . . . pull back two clicks and print that, also.”

The Hawk moved swiftly to the other side of the room and ripped last night’s photo
from the bulletin board. He swept past the printer, snatched up the two photos, and
spread the three images on the desktop next to Stern’s computer. Experienced, knowledgeable
veterans of surveillance, Levin and Stern looked at the images, then at each other.
The man, the kibbutz shorts, the visible features, they were the same.

“Pull up the records starting at 10:30 this morning, and get it on all the screens.
Follow the trail of that SUV. They’ve got a ten-hour lead on us, but we should still
be able to find out where they went. That black SUV will stand out like a beacon.
All of you,” The Hawk said, pulling away from Stern’s monitor, “work with Stern. Follow
his directions.” Two quick strides, and he was at his desk, grabbing the phone. First,
Surveillance Command, no greetings, no pleasantries. “This is Levin. I want full Vehicle
Tracking on line immediately. We need to track a vehicle from this morning. Stern
will give you the specifics in a moment.” His finger stabbed the Cancel button and
then speed-dial number two to Shin Bet headquarters. “Lubich, this is Levin. Ready
four squads; full gear. And get a bird in the air. I’ll come back to you with a target.”

Hovering again over Stern’s shoulder, Levin tried to focus on all three photos at
once. “Is that a child or a midget?” he said to the back of Stern’s head.

“He moves like an adult, not like a child,” said Stern.

“The other two,” Levin asked, “English or American?” Stern snapped a quick glance
to his left. “American . . . this one could be British. But the other is clearly American,”
he said. “It’s the same men as last night.” Looking back to his screen, Stern was
relieved. “Here, see, the black SUV. All of them got in it. Pulling back onto the
Ha-shilo’akh Road. North,” he called across the room, “10:37 and heading north.”

Stern froze the image on his computer screen.

“Got it,” said Levin, who was already moving. “Keep going after them.”

Speed-dial number two. “Lubich . . . black, Toyota SUV . . . late model . . . plate
number IV 3-77AY. No, they had no bags, no backpacks going in or coming out. It was
reconnaissance. We get them, we don’t have to worry about the tunnel. Stern,” he snapped,
pulling the phone away, “what have you got?”

“They looped around the Old City, heading west on the Bar-Lev. We’ve still got them
going west. Looks like they may be headed for Highway 1.”

“Still west . . . I know if they leave the city, we’ll lose contact. I know, Lubich,
I know.”

The handset slammed into the cradle. Levin looked at his watch . . . 20:15 . . . be
getting dark soon. How would they find these men?

“Captain.” It was Sergeant Ehud, across the room. “The guides say they have no record
of anyone being hired this morning for a visit to the tunnel. And the Toyota is rented
to an American from New York City. They gave their local address as Hotel Tzuba.”

Speed-dial number two. “Lubich . . . forget before . . . Hotel Tzuba . . . get the
bird in the air to look for the black SUV . . . alert two squads and get them moving
toward the kibbutz, but carefully. No sirens, no notice. Keep the other two on hold
for now.”

Speed-dial number three. “Major? Yes, we have a bird up and two loaded squads en route
to the kibbutz, two in reserve. Yes, at least one is positive as an American. Stern
has e-mailed you all the details for you to share with the consulate. No, not sure
of the others, but one certainly looks like a local. Yes, sir . . . the King’s Garden
Tunnel. Yes, sir, if the Toyota SUV is there, the squads will be in place in an hour.
Yes, sir, no sirens. Yes, sir . . . we’re all still on duty. Thank you, sir.”

Captain Levin turned on his heel, took a deep breath, and once again thanked God that
he worked for a commander who understood his work and his men. While The Hawk was
ripping up his own insides for failing to move more quickly, the major was only complimentary.
“Good work, Stern,” said The Hawk, a much gentler hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder.
“Good work, men. The major sends his gratitude and compliments. But we need to remain
vigilant. We’re still not certain where these men may be, or what they may be planning.
Stick to it, and question everything.”

The Hawk returned to his perch. His face was a steely mask, reviewing the images on
every screen. Inside, he was furious at his own blunder.
I had him. Last night, I had him
.