The Sacred Cipher (51 page)

“The American president has given Baruk the freedom to execute these men, if necessary.”

“War frightens all of them,” said the Imam. “Has there been any clue as to their whereabouts?”

“No,” said Leonidas. “It’s as if the earth has swallowed them.”

The phone clicked dead as a thought came to life in the Imam’s mind.

Grateful for the silk long johns he had decided to keep on, but wet and cold nonetheless,
Rodriguez kept a steady, deliberate, but rapid cadence on the rope he was pulling.
All of them wanted to get the raft across the lake as quickly as possible; none of
them wanted to be reckless enough to capsize it.

Following Bohannon’s prayer, they decided that the wisest course would be for Rodriguez
to swim across the lake, the rope tied around his waist. It had taken longer than
he expected, the water was colder than he expected, but he had gained the far side,
where he found a wide platform standing before the three openings, much larger than
they appeared from across the lake. There was no time to waste. He had to get Bohannon
and Johnson across before the sleeping bags deflated.

“Okay, c’mon,” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the cavern walls. “Go,” he
heard from the distance, and he began to pull in a rhythmic, constant motion. Rodriguez
was concerned about the Doc. Johnson, remarkably, had joined in Bohannon’s prayer
but, afterward, appeared a bit wide-eyed and rattled. Before he got into the water
for his swim, Rodriguez caught Bohannon’s eye and nodded his head toward Johnson.
Bohannon got the hint.

Now Rodriguez could see them both kicking with a fury. The raft had clearly lost much
of its buoyancy. Desperately he pulled faster, and faster still. Water was on top
of the raft as they pulled close. Rodriguez had already dropped the rope and, as soon
as he could reach, began snagging the packs off the top of the raft. Bohannon and
Johnson were still in the water, but first Rodriguez gave the rope a strong tug, settling
the sleeping bags on the relatively drier platform. Next, he reached in with both
arms, grabbed Johnson under the armpits, and hoisted him to the platform. Then it
was Tom’s turn, and all three lay on the platform, sucking in deep breaths, stunned
that their stupid plan had worked.

They weren’t dead, yet.

Each man had stripped. Using Joe’s wool sweater as a towel, they rubbed away the water.
Then all three got into their still dry sleeping bags, zippered them tight, and fought
off the bone-numbing cold that had invaded their bodies. A bottle of water, trail
mix, and an energy bar joined each man in the comfort of his sleeping bag.

But Doc Johnson was far from comfortable. He knew that both water and food were running
dangerously low. And he knew he was lost.

“Da’ud, remain with your men, under the Mount,” the Imam said into his cell phone.
“But dispatch Famy back to the surface. He is to go into the Kidron Valley. I will
be sending him more men, by ones and twos. I want them to search the tombs on the
far side of the Kidron, the burial places on the Mount of Olives. Somehow, the Americans
got underground, unnoticed. Perhaps they found an opening in one of the tombs. Tell
Famy to scour the tombs, look for anything that may be out of the ordinary. There
is a way in, and we must find it.”

Johnson looked like the old man he was, and Bohannon was alarmed. What if his body
gave out, or his spirit? Then what?

All three were back in their sleeping bags, but they had moved away from the lake
and were resting their backs against the wall. They had slept for hours as their bodies
tried to recover from the strength-sapping cold. Joe looked okay, seemed to be snapping
back. And Bohannon felt his strength coming back. But Doc . . . Doc looked like death.
His silver hair was a wild mop, his face ashen, his eyes sunken and wild. He sat in
his sleeping bag, body stooped over at the waist, his head lowered against his chest.

“I’m lost, we’re lost.” The voice came out of a fog. “I have no idea where we are,
none of the gadgets are working, and I can find no symbols or clues on any of these
tunnel entrances to guide us in the right direction. I am afraid I failed you. And,”
a long sigh flowed out of his soul, “I’m afraid that I am simply afraid.”

No false bravado would mask the seriousness of their situation.

They had enough water for perhaps another day. Doc was close to cracking. The quiet,
the darkness, the cold emasculated their determination. It was 4:11
AM,
Thursday. Time was running out. They had to move.

“Okay, let’s get going.”

Bohannon peeled away his sleeping bag and dug into his backpack for dry clothes. “C’mon,
let’s go,” he said, pulling on his pants.

“Where?” Johnson’s voice was weak. “We don’t know where to go.”

Rodriguez was up and getting dressed.

“We’re taking the middle tunnel,” Bohannon said with authority. “That’s it. We’re
moving. We can’t stay here.”

Bohannon looked at Johnson. He hadn’t moved. He was still bent over at the waist,
his gaze reaching out, over the lake. Bohannon took two steps, crouched in front of
Johnson, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Doc, you are going to get up, and you are
going to get up now. I can’t carry you; Joe can’t carry you. But we’re moving out.
If you want to stay with us, you better get yourself out of that bag and into some
clothes. Otherwise, you’re going to be here by yourself.”

Johnson’s vacant eyes searched Bohannon’s face. Tom tried to put every ounce of resolve
into his eyes and hide every one of his fears. Something worked. Johnson slowly unzipped
and lifted himself to his feet. Rodriguez walked over with Doc’s pack in his hand.
“Here, you’re going to need this.”

Twenty minutes later, they entered the middle tunnel. They had no clue where they
were going.

“Captain Levin, this is Gefen. Some of my men spotted some Muslims gathered around
Absalom’s Pillar on the far side of the Kidron. They couldn’t see well enough because
it’s just getting light, and because of this lousy rain, but they thought the Arabs
were going inside, so we went over to check it out. When they passed Zechariah’s Tomb,
there were more Muslims, or the same ones, going into the Tomb. So they followed them
inside.”

Levin was surprised by the sudden silence.

“Sergeant Gefen?”

“One of the Arabs pulled a knife, sir. Slashed one of my corporals across the forearm,
cut his artery. My squad is carrying him to the ambulance right now. The Arab is dead,
shot several times. My guys were a little upset. They took the other three into custody.
But two things, sir.

“The Arabs said the Imam has hundreds of them out, searching for the Americans under
the Temple Mount, to prevent the Americans from blowing up the Dome of the Rock.”

Gefen was quiet again.

“How does the Imam know the Americans are under the Mount?” Levin asked both Gefen
and himself.

“Yes, sir, I know. The second thing, Captain . . . I think we found how the Americans
got inside. We’ve spotted some boot tracks on the floor. But more importantly, we
found three old burlap sacks stuffed behind a crypt down inside one of the tunnels.
They smell like tobacco.”

Levin could feel his spine stiffen. “Stay there,” he said, waving his arm at Stern
to pick up the other phone. “I’ve got two squads in reserve at David’s Tower. They
are on their way now. Leave the rest of your men in place. When the squads get there,
all of you move into the tunnels. Make sure you have clean communication. Track those
men down, Gefen. Get them.”

In the front, Rodriguez saw it first. But the others were close behind. They saw the
light.

“Where does the light come from?” Rodriguez asked the open space. No one answered.
They were too busy looking around.