The Sacred Cipher (46 page)

They sat in the dark, in the damp, in their thoughts. Supposedly a time of rest, it
became more a time of rising anxiety.

Johnson’s mind was running at warp speed, trying to figure out how he could bring
the order and certainty he felt in New York City into the dark chaos that was now
stripping away his hope.

Johnson and Larsen had planned to use the Mount’s geology as part of their strategy.
The Temple Mount was constructed on a long series of ridges, often called Mount Moriah
in Scripture. At the northern end was the Damascus Gate; at the southern end the City
of David. Mount Moriah was sloped, descending from north to south. When King Herod
erected the platform upon which the Temple was built, the northern end rested on the
bedrock of Mount Moriah. It was at the southern end of the platform that the bedrock
fell away steeply, and there, Herod had constructed a series of arches and pillars
to hold up the platform.

It would be fairly reasonable, Johnson and Larsen had surmised, to find an entry point
from the south and to continue to move northwest through existing arches and caverns.
While many considered the area between the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque as
the most likely site for the Temples of Solomon and Herod, there was an alternative,
south of Al-Aqsa, recently proposed by Tel Aviv architect Tuvia Sigva and gaining
support from scholars. It was here they planned to begin their systematic search,
as much as the mountain would allow.

In New York, it made sense. Here, in the cold and dark, an oatmeal clamminess encasing
his entire body, Johnson was beginning to experience anxiety, leaning dangerously
toward fear.
I can’t let this get to me
, he lectured himself.
I’m the one who’s supposed to know the way. These guys are depending on me. But where
do we go now?

Johnson searched the blackness for inspiration, and found only blackness. And it was
heavy.

For a time, they followed the tunnel leading from the “five forks” as they called
it. There were no highways in the limestone, but the tunnel from the Beni Hazir ran
generally in a westerly direction, gently sloping downward as it continued for several
thousand yards, becoming more narrow as it descended.

Johnson was not a fan of caves. He didn’t like the air. The lower they descended,
the warmer and more fetid the air became. The cave smelled of old, wet dirt. And decay.
The rot of flesh, long completed, seemed to ooze from the rock like deathly sweat.
At intervals, shallow, bone-filled chambers had been hollowed from the sides of the
tunnel. And always, out beyond the edge of their lights, came the faint scratching
of claws against stone.

They came to a second junction. Only two choices, they took the one to the right,
the one that appeared to be going more in the northwesterly direction they desired.
As he had at the “five forks,” Johnson took a small, fluorescent yellow, adhesive
dot from one of several sheets he carried. He stuck two small circles near the tunnel
floor, just inside the tunnel they were entering and on the opposite wall of the tunnel
they were leaving. He had pasted one spot inside their choice at “five forks” and
would attach three at their next point of choice. That way, if they doubled back on
themselves and found a mark, they would know exactly where they were. And the dots,
which they could retrieve, would also direct them to the way out.

This second tunnel was quite short. Soon, they stepped out into a large cavern about
forty yards wide and thirty yards deep. Facing them were two dozen arches, twelve
stacked on twelve, supporting what appeared to be a natural limestone ceiling. A tunnel
opening appeared at the mouth of each arch.

“Yes!” Johnson trumpeted as he ran into the cavern. “Yes. This is it.”

He stopped suddenly, aware of his impulsive reaction, and turned to face his two bewildered
colleagues.

“Look,” Johnson said, half turning with a sweep of his arm, barely able to control
his elation, “look, these are Herodian arches. See the way they are built up to support
the ceiling.” Breathless, he turned back to Bohannon and Rodriguez. “We must have
crossed under the Kidron Valley much more quickly than I imagined. The way these arches
are built . . . their height . . . this must be the southern edge of the Temple Mount
platform.”

Johnson turned once again to gaze at the arches. “This,” he said, his right fist pounding
on his thigh, “is a great stroke of luck.”

“Ah, Doc?”

Rodriguez’s voice pulled Johnson from his celebration. “Yes, yes. What?”

“Sorry, Doc, but the GPS doesn’t agree with you.”

Johnson spun on his heel as his stomach settled into the seat of his pants. He crossed
to where Joe was resting on one knee, his backpack on the ground, the GPS device in
his hands. Reluctantly, he looked over Rodriguez’s shoulder, Bohannon joining them
on Joe’s other side.

“See, we’re here,” said Rodriguez, pointing to their position on the map, “at the
bottom of the slope, but still on the far side of the Kidron Valley. We’ve still got
a long way to go before we hit the edge of the Mount’s platform.”

A long, deep sigh escaped from Johnson, who rested his forehead in the palm of his
right hand. “I thought we were so close.”

“Guys . . . I think we have a bigger problem,” said Bohannon.

Doc looked up and saw the light from Bohannon’s helmet sweeping across the arches
on the other side of the cavern.

“Which of these tunnels do we take next?”

To conserve their resources, they had agreed to use their power-cell lanterns only
when on the move. But the darkness had a different plan. It was so black, it had a
living presence—isolating, crawling, invading. They began to hate the darkness.

Three times, they returned to the cavern of the arches after hitting dead ends in
one of the tunnels. Twice more, they came to the cavern, coming out from an arch that
was different than the one they entered. Several of the arches led not to tunnels,
but to something more like fissures in the limestone, tight, confined cracks. With
the gear they were carrying, it was hard work moving forward. Each time they returned
to the cavern, they were moist with perspiration. Because the air was so damp, they
never dried.

They had invested four precious hours and had come no closer to their goal. Cold,
damp, tired, and frustrated, they sat in the dark. And waited for inspiration.

Major Mordechai was on the phone again, his generally pale complexion now mottled
red.

Captain Levin was amazed the telephone still functioned after the beating it had taken
from Mordechai’s frustration.

“No, General, we can’t send troops out now, poking around the Temple Mount, not with
thousands of Muslims already staging a demonstration in the courtyard. There are so
many of them, they are sprawling over the edges of the courtyard and down the sides
of the Mount. If we put any more soldiers out there, it would be a provocation that
could spark all-out riots.”

Levin looked again at the monitors. The rain continued.

“No, sir, we don’t know where they went. Yes, sir, I know. We’ve got extra details
of men in here right now, we’re poring over every inch of videotape from the last
two days, from the first moment Captain Levin became suspicious of these three men.”

Mordechai looked at Levin as he listened to the general on the other end.

“General, I was here in the Aleph Center continuously from late last night. I can
assure you that Captain Levin and his men did everything humanly possible to track
and capture these people. They’ve been on duty for days.” Another pause. “Absolutely
not, sir. If I believed any of them were impaired, I would have pulled this squad
off-line immediately. These men have performed admirably. Yes, sir, I agree. We missed
something. And we are determined to find out what it was and how it happened. But
I can tell you without a doubt, General, there’s no fault to be found here. We all
know none of these systems are perfect. But I also know Levin’s squad has done the
best they could, the best anybody could, to get these men into custody.”

Mordechai fiddled with the phone cord while he listened. “Yes, sir . . . yes, sir,
I understand.”

The major settled the handset into the cradle much more gently this time. Then he
turned to face Levin.

“He doesn’t care,” said Mordechai. “The general said we will find those men, and we
will do it quickly, or someone else will have this job.”

Arch eleven rescued them from the cavern and restored some portion of hope.

Bohannon had checked his watch on the way into the cavern. Now its hands mocked his
expectations. The explorers had spent twelve costly hours deadlocked in the cavern
of the arches, and it nearly broke their spirits. Finally, Rodriguez picked up a rock,
threw it over his shoulder at the wall of arches, and, following the rock, they found
what appeared to be, so far, the way out. Even though it was less than six feet high,
causing them to stoop painfully, this route was truly a tunnel, sections of it clearly
carved out with tools.

Johnson was in the lead again, pressing forward with the dogged determination of a
man on a mission. They passed through a sea of smells—the bitter sweetness of animal
urine, like old apple cider turned to vinegar; the wooly musk of ancient dead—and
plunged deliberately to the edges of darkness.

Two hours later, his energy sapped, Bohannon pushed himself forward, closing the gap
with Johnson. “Doc.” The sound of Bohannon’s voice was a shock. The last few hours
in the cavern they had all been quiet, unwilling to speak for fear of sounding retreat.
Now his one word bounced off the walls and brought each of them to attention.

“Doc, we’ve got to stop soon and get some sleep.”

In the glare of his lamp, Bohannon saw two eyes that were not yet registering comprehension.

“Doc, all of us have been awake for nearly forty-eight hours. We’ve got to stop and
get some rest.”

Bohannon felt as if his words had popped an adrenaline balloon. Suddenly, all three
were on the floor, sprawled into a small alcove that had widened the tunnel slightly.

“We should all get into some dry clothes before we pass out,” said Rodriguez. Rapidly,
the three men stripped to the skin, put on dry underwear and socks, and crawled into
their sleeping bags. Propped against his backpack, Bohannon began to rifle through
some of its side pockets and resurrected some trail mix. As he turned with an offer,
both Rodriguez and Johnson were already asleep.
Not a bad idea
, thought Bohannon. He stretched himself out and was snoring before the trail mix
bag hit the floor.