The Sacred Cipher (55 page)

Operating in a realm of unbelief, Bohannon barely squeezed out the “H” in hello, when
a voice crackled from the other side of the world.

“Bohannon? This is Ethan Larsen, Winthrop’s uncle. Listen, you boys are in quite a
fix. The Israeli military has squads of men coming at you from the entryway in Zechariah’s
Tomb. Seems you left them a nice trail of fluorescent dots to follow. And the Northern
Islamic Front has hundreds of men under the Temple Mount, prepared to protect their
sacred shrines to the death. You would be in deep spit if those were your only problems.
But now the southern wall of the Temple Mount has collapsed, a whole, big slab of
the thing, at least a third of it. And it’s still raining, so the Israelis are havin’
conniption fits that the rest of it is going to give way.

“All of which means to tell you, son,” said General Larsen, “that you and your buddies
better get out of there, pronto. Like now. Or you are going to be having company,
lots of company. And they’re not coming to throw you a party. You listening to me,
Bohannon?”

“Yes, sir . . . I . . .”

“Stuff it, mister. Keep your ears open. You’ve got no friends over there, and very
few friends over here. Israeli media has been fed a tip that Shin Bet’s been chasing
a pack of suspected terrorists who have disappeared underground into the Temple Mount
area. That’s got the Jews going ape. They’ve also got a report that Israeli military
found two Muslims, stabbed to death, in an area just south of the Mount. That’s got
the Muslims going ape. And now everybody thinks you clowns have blown up the southern
wall—you didn’t do that, did you?”

“Ah, no sir, we . . .”

“Well, that’s got everybody going ape. You listening to me, mister?”

“Yes si—”

“So you and your pals better get your sorry selves outta wherever you are, or you’re
going to get squashed. You only got one problem, mister . . .”

Bohannon was as stunned by the silence as he had been by the verbal battering ram
known affectionately as Uncle Ethan. There was a gap, and he didn’t know how to, or
whether he should, fill it. Ethan Larsen answered the unasked question.

“You’ve got nowhere to go.”

“What?”

The tough-talking general suddenly became Winthrop’s uncle again. “Tom, you guys are
virtually surrounded. Now that the wall’s come down, both the Muslims and the Israeli
military are going to be pressing after you with a renewed fervor. You can’t come
to the surface because, no matter where you pop up, somebody is going to pounce on
you. And we can’t help you. Us, the good old USofA, there’s nothing we can do to help
you. Otherwise, it would look as if we’ve put you up to it. And it would just get
us in the middle of a spittin’ storm.

“I’m sorry to say it, but you boys are on your own. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is.
Outside of this phone call, there is nothing I can do to help you.”

Bohannon didn’t know what to say. Uncle Ethan, he figured, had simply run out of breath.

“Son, I’ve got to ask you one favor.” The general’s voice had lost all its hard edges,
all its bravado. “Keep that sat phone with you but, before you get captured,
er
, if you’re going to get captured, destroy the phone and the handheld GPS units, anything
that could be traced. I promised to protect the guy I sent Winthrop to. What are you
carrying this phone in?”

Bohannon had to pick his stomach up off the floor before he could answer. He had never
allowed the idea of capture to really enter into his consciousness. Now, it covered
him like wet concrete. “We’ve got a metal-sided Pelican Case, padded on the inside.”

“Good, that’s perfect,” said General Larsen. “The satellite phone has a self-destruct
mechanism. Turn it over and look just below where your palm rests. There’s a metal
plate with clock hands on it. Push down on both ends of the plate and turn it with
your thumbs. Inside is a red knob that can point to three settings—thirty, sixty,
or ninety seconds. Set the knob, put the phone and the GPS units inside the Pelican
case, and tightly secure the case. There will be nothing but dust in that case if
anybody takes a look. You got that, Tom?”

“Yes, sir . . . you can count on us, General.” For a brief flash, Bohannon saw himself
in uniform, camouflage, on a mission for his country, the military motto echoing in
his brain. “There is no excuse, only responsibility.” Covering Ethan Larsen’s rear
was now his responsibility. Bohannon welcomed it.

“I know I can count on you, Tom. Winthrop told me you were a man of integrity, a man
he could count on. I appreciate that, it meant a lot to me then, means a lot to me
now. You men take care of yourselves. I don’t know where you’re going, but I wouldn’t
stay long where you are. And, Tom, I’ll be praying for you.”

Bohannon was touched.

“Thank you, General. That means a lot to me, sir.”

“I know. Now haul out of there, mister. You don’t have much time. The Israelis are
making rapid advance. Godspeed, son. Godspeed.”

The voice was gone and the lights went out at the same time, leaving Bohannon staring
dumbly at this space-age marvel in his hand. He was almost transported to a land of
make-believe until he saw the look on the two faces opposite him.

“That’s gotta be bad news,” said Rodriguez, “that’s gotta be real bad news.”

Deep inside the earth of southwestern Israel, beneath the cover of a small petroleum
depot that helped hide their many satellite dishes (made to look like storage tanks)
and antennas, the Israeli army’s clandestine communications center constantly scanned
all electronic communications wavelengths.

“I’ve got a hit,” said the lieutenant. “Satellite phone . . . encrypted.”

“Location?” asked the captain.

The lieutenant clicked and scrolled, closed in on the coordinates. He looked at the
captain. “Temple Mount.”

“Lock in the coordinates. I’ll call the general.”

“We’ve got to move, right now.” That was all Bohannon said.

Within minutes, their gear was packed. Leaving dust squalls in their wake, they were
up and over the debris field in the northwest corner, squeezing through the hole in
the limestone wall. Bohannon was the last one through when Rodriguez suddenly shucked
his pack. “Here, hold this, I’ll be right back.” And he was gone, back through the
hole. One . . . two . . . three long, anxious minutes, before Rodriguez launched himself
through the hole and scrambled to his feet. “Get back!”

It sounded and felt and tasted like the tremor that awoke them, perhaps on a smaller
scale, but just as dramatic because of its proximity. A huge crash on the other side
of the wall, the rumbling sounds of caving earth, billows of blinding dust shooting
through the hole from the room on the other side. Pressed into the darkness, his helmet
slammed onto his head at the last minute, Bohannon looked at his brother-in-law.

“So? I closed the door. That column over there was just rockin’ on an edge, didn’t
take much to make it decide its fate. Now, even if the soldiers find that room, they’ll
have a tough time finding out how we left.”

“Okay, but, next time, how about a little warning so we don’t get clobbered.” Bohannon
reached over and gave the pack back to Rodriguez. “Doc, listen, we should . . .”

Bohannon had turned, the beam on his TAG lamp illuminating a portion of a hallway.
The wall to the right, and a portion of the floor, were intact, but everything else
looked like a mountain had caved in on it. And Johnson was nowhere to be seen.

Jonathan Whitestone was seated in an armchair, situated between and dominating the
two facing sofas in the Oval Office. His hair was black, his suit was black, and his
eyes were on fire. At that moment, his withering stare had fallen upon the FBI director.

“Well then, you
will
find out who they are, Bill, and you will find out, now!”

Whitestone’s fury swept all those in the room. The election was five months away and
the polls had him in a dead heat. Now, three Americans were burrowing under the Temple
Mount and inciting a Middle Eastern crisis that could impact the entire world. And
his advisors, some of the most powerful men in the world, knew nothing.

“This has disaster written all over it.” Whitestone seethed. “Find out all you can
about these men and give everything you find to the Israelis. They must be found,
and they must be stopped. I don’t care how. They must be stopped.”

Blue light was shimmering up ahead, to the right, the side that had not been destroyed.
Bohannon and Rodriguez had been prepared to shout Doc down, find out where he went,
until they realized they may no longer be alone . . . that sound could travel long
distances in these underground caverns. So they chased his shadow.

Inside the portal opening, they found Doc in a small anteroom or closet, the blue
cyalume stick in his hand held high to light the wall at which he was staring. He
was talking to himself. In Aramaic.
Here we go
, thought Bohannon,
back to the surreal
.

Rodriguez got right in his face. “Doc, why did you take off? Don’t you know the whole
Israeli army is coming after us, along with a few thousand Muslims pledged to end
our lives? Do you think that’s a good time to take a stroll?”

Johnson looked blankly at Rodriguez.

“But the inscriptions,” said Johnson, turning to point at the wall with his cyalume
stick.

They were exhausted. None of them was thinking clearly. There was so much input competing
for a place on their memory cards. Before Rodriguez could react, Bohannon put a hand
on his shoulder and stepped between them. He turned his head to get his eyes in front
of Johnson’s. “Doc, I know, this is amazing . . . Doc . . . c’mon, we’ve got to figure
out our next step.”

With a start, a look of surprise, Johnson’s focus switched from the wall. “But this
is
our next step.”