“I didn’t call to get a taste of your Jerusalem humor,” Sharptin responded bitingly. “I called to make sure that the permit would be issued immediately.”
“Mr. Undersecretary, I can assure you we will place a very high priority on this request. As you know, however, I am required by our legal procedures to submit this request for archaeological excavation to our licensing committee for approval. That takes time. Now, Dr. Reichstad and his research center are certainly recognized experts. So the issue of scientific qualifications will not be a problem. But there is the issue of—well, how can I put this?—let’s just call it ‘religious geopolitics.’”
“That is why I am calling. I am speaking for the United States government when I say that if Israel wants America as a continued ally, then your absolute cooperation will be expected in this excavation. It is just that simple.”
“Mr. Sharptin, you are forcing me to be blunt. So I will be blunt. This is an unprecedented insult—an incredible intrusion by your government, into the internal affairs of the sovereign state of Israel. I know the history of pressure that has been applied to our tiny little country. I am fully aware of the inroads that a past President made into our internal election process and the pressure from your nation for us to comply with Palestinian demands for land, and for the creation of a Palestinian state. But this ploy—this form of diplomatic coercion—is outrageous! I suggest that if you want us to give priority to this permit, then the U.S. Department of State should follow normal diplomatic channels.”
“We’ve tried. Your ambassador has been stalling. Your prime minister won’t take my telephone calls. So I am warning you—if you do not handle this excavation request posthaste, and get it approved this week, I will exercise every bit of my influence among the nations of the world, and among antiquities scholars everywhere, to demand your resignation and to embarrass your nation. And make no mistake—my influence is considerable.”
“This week? That is going to be very difficult. Maybe impossible,” the Director responded.
“Dr. Reichstad is engaged in some court hearings in the U.S. next week. We would like the excavation permit to be approved this week, and digging to start over the weekend before Dr. Reichstad has to be in court.”
“Yes. The 7QA fragment lawsuit against Angus MacCameron,” the Director noted. “The trial starts on Monday, doesn’t it? Before Judge Jeremiah Kaye.”
There was a pause before Sharptin continued.
“It sounds like you know a lot about that case. I would be interested in hearing what you know.”
“Oh, Mr. Sharptin, let’s not be naïve. There were some ham-handed attempts to keep the publicity down on that case. But the nation of Israel has a history of gathering intelligence about those things that have an impact on our land, our people, or our future. Just check your Bible. It goes all the way back to Joshua and Caleb.”
“I want this permit for Dr. Reichstad this week. And further, I want a waiver of the procedures regarding ancient burial sites. Your own supreme court ruled in 1992 that burial sites can be excavated.”
“That’s true,” the Director acknowledged. “But we are also bound by the guidelines issued by our attorney general in 1994. If Dr. Reichstad finds a tomb—that can be excavated as an antiquity. But if they find a corpse in that tomb—well, that is very different. The corpse has to be turned over—at the site of the tomb—to the Ministry of Religious Affairs for reburial. If the corpse is of Jewish descent, then it must be buried in accordance with Jewish law, in a Jewish cemetery.”
“If Reichstad finds a corpse—and I am betting he will—then he is taking that corpse out of that tomb, and back to his lab for examination,” Sharptin stated pointedly.
“That is not going to happen, Mr. Undersecretary. You are not going to goose-step your way into our internal, domestic laws, and demand that we waive them for your pleasure. Besides, while I know that you spent some time over here in your past diplomatic days, I don’t think you can possibly imagine what is going to happen with this kind of dig.”
“Do you know who you are talking to?” Sharptin sputtered in a controlled rage.
But the Director kept talking through the undersecretary’s tantrum.
“First there will be the reaction of the Palestinians. The eastern, St. Stephen’s Gate entrance to the Old City of Jerusalem is right next to a Muslim cemetery. We will be lucky if there aren’t full-scale riots over the dig because of that fact alone. And because it is near the Temple Mount, some Palestinian anarchists are going to think that this excavation is just a ploy to start tunneling under the Dome of the Rock and the Al Aqsa Mosque, and they will want to start a war. Don’t you remember the history of riots on the Temple Mount?
“Then there are the ultra-orthodox Jews—our own people. They will object to any digging next to the wall of Jerusalem—and they will want absolute adherence to the laws regarding Jewish corpses. We have had demonstrations, riots, and violence over other burial sites in the past. We’ve had the grave markers of deceased archaeologists desecrated. But nothing like this. You have no idea what kind of nuclear bomb this tomb excavation will become.
“And I know what Reichstad is looking for. What if he finds a corpse and says it is the Jesus of Nazareth? The apocalyptic groups who want to usher in the End-of-Days violence are going to have a field day with that one. We will have to make that tomb excavation a full-scale military zone.”
There was another pause. Then Sharptin concluded the conversation.
“I look forward to the permit being issued this week. On behalf of the United States, I want to thank you for what I am sure will be your full and complete cooperation.”
After the Director hung up the receiver he rubbed his forehead. He looked up at the ceiling fan for a moment. Then he called to his secretary. “Get the chairman of the Licensing Committee on the line in ten minutes.”
Then he opened his desk and pulled out a little personal notebook of telephone numbers. Under “M” he looked up the word “Mossad,” the name of the Israeli intelligence and espionage service. Under that listing he found the name of an old friend. Next to it was his telephone number.
The Director quickly called that number, and waited for his friend to pick up.
When he heard the voice on the other end, he said, “Nathan, this is Jacob over at the IAA calling. We’ve got a situation here. A permit request for a highly unusual burial excavation. U.S. Department of State is really putting the pressure on. This thing is an international time-bomb. We could use your help.”
The voice on the other end said, “I keep telling the agency I’m supposed to be in retirement. You know, I am just starting to make some real money in my little art and antiquities shop.” The voice laughed.
“Come on,” the Director responded, “why do you get to retire so young? What are you, fifty-three? Besides, you know that spies never really retire—especially in Israel.”
“So, how do I fit into this ‘situation’ of yours?”
“Well,” the Director explained, “we’ve got Professor Reichstad, the researcher who revealed the 7QA fragment. He’s got the backing of the State Department, and he wants to dig up an area where he thinks there is a first-century tomb located. First problem—the site is at the eastern gate, right there at the old Jerusalem wall. And if they uncover the tomb of an ancient Jew—well, you know what that means! The ultra-orthodox will fight to the death over that. And then there is the second little problem—he is proposing to dig right next to a Muslim cemetery. And of course the whole thing is within view of the Temple Mount. That’s begging for riots. And then there is this other little problem—he is going after this burial site because he thinks that is where he can locate the corpse of Jesus and lay waste two thousand years of Christian belief in the resurrection.”
After a pause, the Director asked, “So, what do you think?”
“What you are describing—this is not exactly what I would call a ‘situation,’ my friend,” the voice answer
ed.
“Oh? Then what would you call it?”
“I think I would call it—Armageddon.”
57
IN THE AFTERNOON, FOLLOWING THE COURT hearing before Judge Kaye, frantic phone calls were made between Will Chambers and his experts, J-Fox Sherman and his experts, and Judge Kaye’s court.
By the terms of the judge’s order, each group of experts were not only to be given access to both fragments, but they also were to be witnesses to the scientific examination by the opposing side at a “neutral site.” The hot issue was the location of the proper “neutral site.”
Judge Kaye had his clerk call a friend at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. The University hastily agreed to make a large laboratory available for several days. It was big enough to house several researchers simultaneously, as well as their equipment. The University officials agreed to pledge absolute secrecy to the project. Sherman insisted on that, and Judge Kaye ordered it.
By the end of the day, Reichstad and two of the scientists from his research center, together with Dr. Giovanni and Bill Kenwood, who was Will’s materials engineer, were finally gathered together at the lab room in Baltimore.
An armored car with four armed security guards accompanied Reichstad’s delivery of the 7QA fragment. The tiny piece of papyrus was enclosed inside a bullet-proof, vacuum-tight, barometrically controlled glass case.
Angus MacCameron showed up at the laboratory with the 7QB fragment, but with a great deal less technological sophistication. He carried it in a little plastic zip bag, inside a tattered mailing envelope.
The experts all agreed to work in shifts—from seven o’clock until two in the morning for the first shift, and from two until nine in the morning for the second shift. Bill Kenwood would work the first shift for the defense side, with Dr. Giovanni taking over on the second watch for her examination. Everyone brought cots, sleeping bags, and Thermoses, most of which contained black coffee. Dr. Giovanni brought packets of “stress-relieving” herbal tea.
Will stopped by the office for a few hours that night, and received a few calls from Dr. Giovanni about Bill Kenwood’s progress. It was great news, although not unexpected.
Kenwood had done a preliminary microscopic examination of the right edge of 7QA and the left edge of 7QB. There seemed to be no question in his mind that 7QB had originally been part of 7QA; that they had been joined exactly where MacCameron and Giovanni had guessed. Further, it appeared that a modern, fairly sharp cutting tool (either a razor blade or an artist’s blade) had been used to score the surface of the fragment. The fragment had then been torn at the scores into three pieces, yielding an irregular appearance at the torn edges. It was Kenwood’s opinion that 7QA and 7QB were two of those three pieces because, when 7QA and 7QB were fitted together, it left an irregular vacant space in the upper right quarter.
Now there was no doubt: There had to be a third piece—7QC—still out there somewhere.
Will relayed the news by telephone to Jacki Johnson, who was working on the case every night from her home. Will thanked her again for the legal research she did that had been so influential in Judge Kaye’s decision. A little after midnight, Will collapsed into bed at his apartment.
The next morning Will was about to leave for the day when his doorbell rang. He was greeted at the door by two FBI agents. They said they had been contacted by law enforcement agents in Nevada. They wanted to talk with Will about his alleged encounter with Abdul el Alibahd. Will had been half expecting them.
Sunday night, when Will was being taken away from Mullburn’s “Utopia” by the squad of police officers, two of them had told him they would drive him to a cab stand along the Strip so he could catch a cab to the airport. On the way in, however, Will had sounded them out, giving them a few cautious details about his weekend with Alibahd’s terrorists. He had assumed that the officers would stick him squarely into the category shared by bigfoot hunters and the people who complain of being medically probed by space aliens. But when the name of Warren Mullburn was implicated, their eyes had brightened up with interest.
The officers had called ahead to the airport, asked them to delay the last “red-eye” flight to Washington, D.C., and then gunned their squad car to the airport with lights flashing. As Will had jumped out of the car, the senior officer had said he would be contacting the regional office of the FBI.
It was nearly noon when the agents finished their interview with Will in his apartment. They suggested that a security detail be assigned to him, since he was now a material witness to Alibahd’s own implied confession. Alibhad’s words “the only dogs I kill are the kind that wear shoes, and business suits, and work on Wall Street,” were the clincher in tying him to the Wall Street bombing. This time, Will quickly agreed to the safety measures. As the two agents left they said they would also be calling the investigators about the fire at Generals’ Hill.
That last comment gave Will some renewed hope that he might be cleared, once and for all, as a suspect in his house fire. But just a few hours after that, it became a full-blown reality.
Will was back at his office, poring over the MacCameron file, when he heard someone in the lobby. He glanced around the corner and couldn’t believe it.
Fiona was standing there, her cheeks flushed, and a huge, dimpled grin across her face. She was holding a small box in her hands.
“Do I have a present for you!” she exclaimed.
“What are you doing here?” Will asked, confused in his delight at seeing her.
“I’ve been turning my condo upside-down, rummaging through garbage cans, looking under my bed, tearing my closets apart looking for it—”
“Looking for what?” Will interrupted.
“…my attic, my storage space, my briefcase. I looked everywhere. I said to myself, Fiona, there is no way that this dear man is going to jail for this arson charge when he is obviously innocent. This is not going to happen. After everything he has done for your Da, you are not going to let this happen.”
As Will was looking Fiona in the eyes, his problems with the fire marshal’s office seemed strangely far removed.
“So, I found it!” Fiona exclaimed.
“What?”
“The box. The box that came with the crystal Statue of Liberty you gave me. I knew we had to prove you had been in New York that day. The name of the shop in New York was on the box. So I called them up. I gave the people at the shop the date that you had been up there. They faxed me a receipt for the purchase of the statue. When I described you, the girl who was the sales clerk says she even remembers you being there.”
“How did you describe me?”
“I’m not telling!” she said laughing.
“Fiona, I don’t know what to say. This is incredible. You are so kind.”
“The salesgirl’s name and telephone number are on the fax with the sales slip.” And then she added, “Isn’t God good?”
“Well…there may be something to that,” Will said.
“Of course there is!” Then she put her hand on his and said, “And Da told me about you being attacked, kidnapped, and your life being threatened. I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through. There is no way I can thank you for the risks that you have taken—and for being my father’s advocate, and his friend, through all of this.”
“Coming from you, that means more than you will ever know,” Will replied. For a moment there was an awkward silence as they merely smiled and nodded to each other.
“Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help you with Da’s legal case.”
“Oh—how is your mother?”
“Bless her heart, every day is a struggle. Everyday she slips away from us a little. But we thank God for every minute we have with her.”
Then Fiona said goodbye and left the office with a little wave. As soon as Fiona was gone Will faxed a copy of the sales receipt to the fire marshal’s office, along with a letter inviting them to contact the sales clerk to verify his presence i
n New York earlier on the day of the fire, and alerting them to the FBI’s anticipated involvement in exonerating him.
Forty-eight hours later, Will received a call from the chief arson investigator. His message was terse, but hugely welcome. “You’re cleared on the fire investigation. You are no longer a suspect. Your insurance company tells us they will be in touch with you to arrange payment for your fire loss.”
After weeks of feeling like a man swimming under ice in the dead of winter, looking for an opening, Will was finally reaching the air.
Soon the insurance proceeds would be made available to him. The insurance company would start reimbursing him for his temporary housing costs. And he was cleared, finally, of the ridiculous but horrible suspicion that he had burned down his own house, and then killed his own beloved Clarence to make the whole thing look like someone else had done it.
Will also felt better about the Reichstad lawsuit. Jacki was a skilled lawyer, and the value of her help on the case was immeasurable. Just as important, Will liked the feeling of working again with his former associate and friend. Will was also beginning to be more optimistic about the outcome of the case. Bill Kenwood’s conclusions that 7QA and 7QB had been parts of the same fragment upped the chances that 7QA was one of the fragments possessed by Richard Hunter before his death. It also supported MacCameron’s allegations in his magazine article that Reichstad was scientifically sloppy in rushing to judgment about the meaning of 7QA without having all of the other evidence in front of him.
On the other hand, Dr. Giovanni’s findings about 7QA and 7QB were less than stellar. She called Will the next morning after her examination of the fragments.
Yes, she affirmed that she could testify that Riechstand was unprofessional in rendering opinions about 7QA when it should have been obvious to him there were critical parts of the fragment which had been torn away—and which were still missing when he published his findings.
The Resurrection File Page 33