My first stop was an anonymous Burger King near I-94, where I got down a Whopper, fries and a chocolate shake. A far cry from Jill’s plan to cook my favorite meal. I pushed her away, trying to keep focused, hurting as I let her go.
It was around 8:45 when I lit a cigarette, got the Taurus onto the interstate, and headed north. According to the rental map, I was a little more than thirty miles from Sarnia, Ontario, on the border between the U.S. and Canada. I guestimated I was now some 6,000 miles and two continents away from Israel, Jill, and the men who held her.
Traffic was sparse as I drove. My headlights reflected off the falling snow. I thought of spring in Nashville, Jill’s favorite season, when gusty breezes sent the small petals of Bradford pear trees flying across the road like flakes of snow. I thought of what lay ahead. And then it happened. The question finally surfaced, blunt and uncompromising.
Was I doing the right thing?
I had spent a major part of my life in the U.S. Air Force. I’m no super patriot. Nothing patriotic tattooed on my arm. Nothing stenciled on my T-shirt. But serving my country was something I took pride in. I always felt that if I had a real problem in some godforsaken corner of the world, Uncle Sam would get me out. Maybe I am a bit gung ho, but I’ve always believed we take care of our own.
That said, I seriously considered whether I should quit, turn back, contact the FBI. Agitate for troops to track down Jill’s captors. I had worked with the Bureau on a number of occasions. Maybe I had leverage.
But a call to the FBI would bring up sticky questions. Like why I had not contacted the Metro Nashville police, and what was I doing way up here in Michigan? They would check me out with Metro. There was also the possibility that Detective Adamson had alerted the FBI that I was a wanted fugitive. Either way, I would wind up in a holding cell until Metro could dispatch an officer to bring me back. I could ask the Bureau to confirm my story with OSI Special Agent-in-Charge Ted Kennerly, but chances were he was so covered up with the terrorism fallout they would be unable to reach him for hours. Meanwhile, the corporate jet bearing Jill would have landed in Israel, and she would have been spirited off to some secret hideaway by this contact known as Moriah.
As I thought about it, I suddenly remembered where I had heard that name before. Jake Cohen, our guide in Israel, told us Mount Moriah was another name for the Temple Mount. Now it was being used as a code name. I rubbed my face. The tenderness was still in my jaw.
From what Zalman had said, the Temple Alliance obviously had contacts within the Israeli government. Should the FBI, or any other U.S. agency, make an official inquiry about Jill, they would get a denial of any knowledge about her presence in the country. The Temple Alliance leaders would say the same thing. And they would not be lying. Using the old technique of plausible deniability, only the mysterious Moriah would know the details.
As my headlights picked out the roadside sign announcing the upcoming Canadian border, I knew I had no choice but to continue with my plan, whatever the outcome.
The armed and uniformed Canadian officer at the border post walked up to the car as I lowered the window. He stood tall and bulky in his padded jacket. His eyes were dark and expressionless.
“U.S. citizen?” he asked.
I nodded and held out my passport.
“What’s your destination, sir?”
“Toronto. I’m attending an archeological seminar at the university.” I smiled politely. It was a story I had decided on just in case they should look in my bag and find a parchment scroll.
“You’re lucky the snow ends this side of the 401 junction. The road should be in good shape, but please drive carefully.”
“That I plan to do,” I said. I raised the window as he waved me on.
Obviously, no one was looking for me yet. I forced myself to relax. It would take nearly four hours in this weather.
The rest of the trip was uneventful, with only a couple of coffee stops and a few cigarettes to break the monotony. I badly needed sleep, but that was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now. It was 1:30 a.m. when I pulled into the parking area at Lester B. Pearson International Airport. I decided to check out the flight schedule before ditching the Taurus.
Inside the brightly lit terminal, I tracked down the British Airways counter and inquired about flights to London with connections to Tel Aviv. A helpful blonde checked her computer, then gave me a pained expression.
“It looks like the best we can do will leave you laid over at Heathrow for a few hours.”
“Okay.”
While waiting for the flight, I agonized over many things. Where was Jill? What sort of conditions did she face? What would happen to her if the scroll got out of my possession, something that could easily occur with any customs inspection? I had no answers. But I also wondered what was happening back in Nashville. How far had Detective Adamson gone in his search for me? I wanted to check my answering machine, but if they were monitoring the phone, I would risk revealing my location. The other thing that bugged me was what David Wolfson had found in decoding the scroll. Why was he so adamant that I not let the Temple Alliance get access to it? That went totally counter to my plans. My whole intent in making this trip was to give them the scroll and leave with my wife.
Chapter 28
It was an entirely different Israel from the one I had visited only a week before. We had been blessed with abundant sunshine and summery temperatures. But the landing at Ben-Gurion International Airport at Lod came amidst a heavy downpour. The lights of nearby Tel Aviv were obscured by clouds. I could see the terminal glowing beyond the runway as a fuzzy package of twinkling colors in the haze.
The landing reminded me of Jill’s excitement when we had arrived in the Holy Land. It was something she had wanted to do for years, almost like the way a Muslim looks forward to his pilgrimage to Mecca. Coming from a different background, I had been less than enthusiastic. I had grown up in a church-going family, but I got out of the habit after going off to college. My experience in law enforcement also left me skeptical. Jill had found getting me back into a pew a major challenge, and it wasn’t until we had settled in Hermitage and joined the Sunday School class that I began attending services regularly.
Recalling the bright, enthusiastic smile Jill had worn on our arrival in Israel, I missed her more than ever. I was encouraged that she had her faith and prayers to carry her, and I was more than ever determined to use every skill at my command to get her back in my arms.
I had managed a few strategic catnaps during the flight from London and felt rested. I was running on nervous energy. My stopover at Heathrow had been spent mostly nodding in a lounge. No one showed any interest in a weary American. I did make the acquaintance of a few fellow passengers later as we crossed Europe, learning they were part of a tour group on a junket not unlike the one Jill and I had just finished. I planned to use that knowledge to my advantage.
“Certainly enjoyed chatting with you,” said my seatmate on the right. We were gathering our belongings in preparation to deplane. A large, balding fellow in his fifties from Ohio, traveling with his wife and daughter, Oscar O’Halloran was a CPA with a big accounting firm.
“My pleasure,” I said with a smile. “I hope you enjoy your visit.”
“I’m sure we will. As long as things don’t get out of hand with the Israelis and Palestinians. Maybe you can dig around and come up with something exciting, too.”
I had explained that my trip was an archeological expedition.
After passing through immigration and security, getting the usual passport check (mine apparently rang no bells), we moved into the Arrivals Hall to await our baggage. I fared much better than at JFK, with my American Tourister showing up in the first wave on the carousel. I pulled it off and moved to the side, where I opened the lock and rummaged around as though looking for something. Actually, I was stalling. I was waiting for Oscar O’Halloran and his party to claim their bags and move toward customs. I figured my best bet at getting through
unscathed was to mingle with the O’Hallorans. Customs people don’t usually give tour groups much hassle.
I chatted with Oscar as we moved up in the line, letting the customs agent get the feel that I was just another Holy Land pilgrim. My bag was poked around in only briefly, leaving the plastic canister undisturbed. After giving the O’Hallorans a farewell wave, I wheeled my bag out to the bus stop, where I found an Egged bus schedule. Egged and Dan were the two major bus companies in Israel. The next coach to Jerusalem would leave in about fifteen minutes. It was just long enough to get back inside and exchange a traveler’s check for shekels.
The bus departed on time, and I slept the whole trip to Jerusalem. I had given my destination as the Hotel Patriarch, located in East Jerusalem and run by Palestinians. It was where we had stayed on our previous visit to the Israeli capital. I had no reservation, of course, but I figured this time of year, with all the recent problems in the area, I could get a room.
There were few people in the lobby, which contained several clusters of chairs around glass-topped coffee tables. Those who lingered appeared to be members of a German tour group. The desk clerk spoke English with an accent I couldn’t place. After filling out the registration form and signing a credit card slip, I was given the key to 219.
“How late is the dining room open for dinner?” I asked. All I remembered from before was that our group ate at 6:30.
“Eight,” she said. “Breakfast starts at seven. Would you like a wake-up call?”
“Please. Make it six-thirty.”
I figured I would be awake before then, but after all that had happened the past few days I didn’t want to oversleep.
My room had narrow single beds flanking the walls with limited space between. A small TV sat on a chest near the door to the bathroom.
I opened my bag, pushed the scroll can aside and took out my shaving kit. Then I washed my hands in preparation for heading down to the dining room. I had hardly hung up the towel when the telephone rang.
“Hello.”
“Welcome to Israel, Colonel McKenzie,” said a pleasant-sounding man.
It was starting already. “Who is this?”
“Just call me Moriah,” he said.
My heart skipped a beat.
“The Temple Alliance?”
“You surprised us by arriving so soon. We should have realized from your background how resourceful you are.”
And I should have stayed alert. I shouldn’t have put the Hotel Patriarch on that visa slip. My first failure had resulted in Jill’s abduction. Now if I didn’t smarten up, I could get her killed.
“I would like to speak to my wife and make certain she’s all right,” I said.
“She is fine,” said Moriah. “You may speak with her in due time. Get a good night’s sleep and we will talk in the morning. Shalom!”
I now had serious doubts that the parchment scroll was safe here. I decided to get out of the Patriarch.
Chapter 29
If Moriah were like his buddies Zalman and Lipkowitz, he wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate both me and Jill if he could get his hands on the scroll. I stared at the telephone book, an idea forming. But first I had to get around the fact that the listings were undecipherable . . . they were in Hebrew.
I called the front desk clerk and explained that I wanted to reach the tour guide who had been with us at the hotel a couple of weeks ago.
“What was his name?” she asked.
“Jacob Cohen.”
“Oh, yes. I know Mr. Cohen. I should have his number right here. Hold on.”
I waited, wondering if Moriah had my phone bugged, then decided he hadn’t had enough time. Not true, really, but I had to gamble. Moments later I heard the familiar voice of the man with the staff.
“Jake. This is Greg McKenzie from Nashville. I don’t know if you remember–”
“How could I forget? That worry wart Wolfson has called me twice in the last twenty-four hours.”
“About what?”
“About you and your problems. He didn’t make a lot of sense. Something about a document and some people with your wife. He had heard you were on your way over here, and he thought you might contact me. Said I was probably the only person in Israel you knew.”
The shock waves were hitting me broadside. Where did David Wolfson hear that I was on the way to Israel, and who else might know? I wasn’t surprised that David didn’t go into much detail on the telephone, knowing his background with the National Security Agency. The guys at NSA routinely record overseas phone calls and use computers to ferret out key words, things like “bomb” and “hostage,” which are followed up by turning the transcripts over to intelligence or law enforcement agencies. Congress recently got upset over reports of NSA’s domestic phone snooping. They heard such stories as the secretary who got questioned after a conversation in which she mentioned that her boss’s son got “bombed” the night before. She was referring to his basketball team. I had heard the Israelis operated a similar game on a smaller scale.
“Did he mention the Temple Alliance?” I asked.
“No, but I had an idea that was what he was referring to. David tends to talk in circles. I’m sure it comes from dealing with this Bible codes business.”
“Did he say anything about the codes?”
“He hinted at it and said to be sure I had you call him as soon as possible. He was really worked up over something. Where are you now?”
“I’m at the Hotel Patriarch, but I’m getting out. Some people are aware I’m here.”
“Now you’re sounding like David,” said Jake. “But if you want to move somewhere else, I can help.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“No problem. I’m between tour groups. As you know, we’re not getting too many these days. If you want to move now, I could be down there in twenty minutes.”
After hanging up, I stuffed things back into my bag, zipped it and locked it, then headed for the elevator. I stopped at the front desk and explained to the clerk that a friend had unexpectedly invited me to stay with him so I was checking out.
I wheeled my bag through the arched entrance and happily found myself alone on the narrow paved plaza at the front of the hotel. There I watched for Jake’s small tan Dodge. To the best of my knowledge, Moriah had not placed a guard at the hotel. Guess the old American was meant to fall asleep exhausted.
Jake showed up soon and pushed open the passenger-side door.
“Just stick your bag on the back seat,” he said.
I slipped in beside him and closed the door.
“I really appreciate your doing this,” I said. “I’m sort of flying blind here. I picked the Patriarch because it was the only one I was familiar with. I thought nobody knew I was arriving, but I had no sooner gotten to my room than this guy with the Temple Alliance called.”
“I take it you aren’t on such good terms with those people?”
“That’s for sure.”
“You say you just got here?”
“Yeah. No more than forty-five minutes ago.”
“Have you had supper?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t eaten since Germany or Italy . . . somewhere over Europe. Anyway, I’m starved. If you’d like to stop at a restaurant, I’ll fill you in while we eat.”
“I had supper an hour ago,” he said. “You like spaghetti?”
“Sure. That’s one of Jill’s specialties.”
“Well, I don’t know how mine will measure up to hers, but I’ve got plenty left. Want to go to my place?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “Do you live far from here?”
“I’m close to the Haas Promenade. Remember the stop we made on the way back from Bethlehem? It was a high overlook where we got a panoramic view of Jerusalem. Lots of flowers and tree plantings.”
I recalled the sweeping view of the Old City with its massive stone walls and battlements, the golden Dome of the Rock, spires and domes of churches scattered amo
ng hundreds of sand-colored buildings. Through telescopes you could see the narrow streets crowded with vehicles, mostly small cars, and people clad in everything from normal Western styles to colorful Arab kaffiyeh, Jewish skullcaps, Muslim shawls, and the round black hats and fringed black suits of the ultra orthodox.
As we drove through the darkened streets into south Jerusalem, I recalled what Eli Zalman had told me during that fateful encounter in Nashville. “Have you heard anything about a girl at Middle East Tours getting in trouble with the authorities?” I asked.
Jake looked around, surprise registering on his face. “How did you know?”
“What happened to her?”
“Well, she was fired. Just about the time we were winding up our tour. The owner told me she had committed some sort of ‘grave indiscretion,’ as he put it. Something about giving out information regarding the agency’s tour groups.”
“And that’s all you’ve heard about it?”
“I always thought a lot of the girl. I called a cousin of hers to check on her, a guy who used to work for MET.”
“Did you learn anything else?”
“I talked to him just after you called. He said she was okay but pretty shaken by the questioning. I suspect Shin Bet was involved.”
“What did they question her about?”
“He didn’t say. He was pretty reluctant to discuss it at all. But one of the other guys at the agency had told me it probably involved her brother. He’s been in trouble for radical activities.”
“He was correct,” I said. “Have you heard of the Guardians of Palestine?”
“Oh, yes. As a tour guide I try to stay on top of all the political alliances.”
“Well, according to my information, your girl at Middle East Tours gave her brother all the details on our group. Names, addresses, itineraries. The Guardians of Palestine picked my name out of the list.”
Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) Page 15