“The game isn’t over.” His tone was grim now. Determined. “My quarry has come to me. If Sayyed does his part, there’s no doubt we’ll triumph.”
Fatima’s heartbeat quickened, thinking how close they were to achieving everything they’d worked for. Hasan, his brother Farshid, her own brother, herself . . .
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “The Eye of Dawn is here—now—in Al Quds?”
Satisfaction suffused his voice as he caught her hands in his. “Yes, Fatima, the Eye is here. Exactly where we need it to be.”
46
Natalie awoke in a strange bed. She was in a small room where slatted wood blinds blocked any ray of light. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. She felt dazed and confused, with fuzzy remnants of dreams whirling in her brain. Then where she was—and why—came flooding back in a rush. She jerked upright in the narrow bed and winced. Her body ached all over, adding to her reconnection with reality.
The Mossad. The plane taxiing down the runway in Tel Aviv. The car ride at night to this safe house somewhere in a northern neighborhood of Jerusalem. A slim young Israeli woman in cropped white cotton pants, sandals, and a black tank top meeting them at the door, leading her and D’Amato up the stairs to their bedrooms. She checked under her pillow and scooped up the pouch, reassuring herself that the pendant was still safely inside.
As she stared at it, the words of Rabbi Calo and Father Caserta came back to her. The Light of Creation was in her hand. A smidge of it, anyway.
But a smidge so powerful, the whole world wanted it.
She tried to imagine what the crystal gem encasing this primordial light looked like. Tried to picture it hanging aloft in Noah’s Ark—powerful enough to illumine the darkness of the Flood. She imagined it aglow in Nebuchadnezzar’s palace and marveled that Daniel had managed to rescue it as the Persians charged the palace gates.
She caught the scent of coffee, heard the clink of kitchen utensils from below, and suddenly her stomach hurt from more than Barnabas’s kick. She was starving.
Throwing back the covers, she stumbled to the bathroom, showered gingerly, and dressed in the clothes Tali, the female Mossad agent, had left folded for her on a wicker chest near the sink.
The cropped khakis were a bit loose in the waist, a bit tight in the tush, but they were clean and fresh, as was the pale yellow T-shirt that Natalie tucked into the waistband. There was nothing she could do about the bruise purpling across her cheek, but she fluffed her damp hair, grabbed up her shoulder bag, and went down in search of that coffee.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she could hear the television. It was always on in Israel. Israelis hung on every word of the news as if their lives depended on it—which they often did.
“Boker tov.” D’Amato’s tone was dry as he wished her good morning in Hebrew over the low murmur of the TV on the counter. “As you can see, I still remember some things from my stint here with the network.”
“I guess you do.” She managed a smile as she slipped into the chair beside him. “I don’t know about you, but I slept like the dead.” She nodded at Doron, scrambling eggs at the stove. He was unsmiling. He looked tense. So did Lior, his brow crinkled as he handed her a cup of coffee, then slung himself into one of the four remaining chairs crammed around a small round table.
“This’ll revive you. Tali brews it so strong you could chew it.”
“Where is she?” Natalie asked, spearing a slice of melon from the plate at the center of the table. “And the others?”
“They have a different assignment today,” Lior replied. “Only Nuri and Yuvi are staying here with us—they’ll be back soon to escort you to the IAA. Prime Minister Rachmiel sends his regrets that he won’t be able to meet you there to thank you personally.”
“I imagine he’s a tad tied up today.” Natalie smiled.
Doron portioned out the pan of stiffly scrambled eggs and joined them at the table. “You can’t imagine the excitement at the IAA this morning. Two momentous events in Israel on the same day—peace and the tzohar come to Jerusalem.”
Lior set down his coffee cup. “As we say during the Passover Seder—dayenu—‘it would have been enough.’ Well, the prime minister’s office said, if only peace had come to Jerusalem today, dayenu. And if only the oldest biblical treasure in existence had come to us today, that would have been enough, too. But to have them both—and to know that the primordial light of the tzohar has the potential to illuminate the world—that’s a miracle of riches.”
“The IAA is extremely interested in the tzohar, since it’s our most precious antiquity,” Doron added, “but the government will be eager to explore its properties as an alternative source of fuel.”
“I’d be most interested in seeing them prove that,” D’Amato said wryly.
“So you, too, believe it has such power?” Natalie asked the Israelis in surprise.
“Thanks to you, we’re on the verge of finding out, aren’t we?” A pensive expression settled over Doron’s face. “I’m sure you’re familiar with tikkun olam—the Jewish concept that humans are here to repair the world, each person in their own way.”
As Natalie nodded, he continued. “I’m not a particularly religious man, but I’d like to think that the tzohar surfaced now to do some tikkun olam, too. It seems likely that the light that helped create the world could go a long way toward helping to heal it.”
The only sound in the kitchen was the low murmur of the TV newscast, until Lior stopped chewing and stared at D’Amato.
“Your injury—the explosion on bus 27,” the gray-haired Mossad agent said out of the blue. “Just so you know—remember how quiet Rafi became yesterday when you told us what happened to you? His cousin died on that bus.”
D’Amato went still. “Damn. For all I know, he could have been sitting right next to me.”
Lior set his fork down with a clatter. “You were lucky.”
“That’s what I keep reminding myself. I spent four eye-opening years here with the network, Lior. I know exactly what you’re up against.”
Doron grunted. “Well, we’re up against a lot more of it today.”
“How do you mean?” Natalie folded her napkin, wondering if he was worried about getting the pendant safely to the IAA.
The two Mossad agents exchanged glances, but neither of them answered her. Instead, they turned their attention back to the television.
“It would be nice if you leveled with us,” D’Amato remarked, as the newscast switched to video of President Owen Garrett’s arrival in Jerusalem, a smiling First Lady at his side.
Lior slid the remote closer and pumped up the volume.
“Is it the summit?” D’Amato guessed, noting Doron was equally riveted now to the screen. He sensed the increased tension thrumming through the two agents.
Lior pushed back his chair. “As you can imagine, not everyone is in a celebratory mood.”
“Are you anticipating trouble at the ceremony?” D’Amato asked.
Lior responded by stacking the plates and hauling them to the sink. He peered out the window, checking up and down the street. “Why aren’t they back already?” He drummed his long fingers on the countertop.
I’m right, D’Amato thought, watching him. Watching Doron’s frown deepen. He listened to what was left unsaid. Something is brewing over the ceremony.
“Yeah,” D’Amato said aloud. “We do need to get going. Natalie won’t relax until she turns the pendant over to the authorities.”
“You’re not going anywhere, D’Amato.” Doron scrubbed his hands down his face. “You’re expecting a visitor.”
“What kind of visitor?”
“Someone from your government. They contacted us in the event we found you first.”
Natalie’s gaze swung to D’Amato. Their eyes met, and she felt her stomach twist. The CIA. It had to be. Was he in trouble? Because he’d helped her?
“He needs to come with me,” she said instantly. “He’s a part of this. It
’s only right he see it through.”
“Not going to happen, I’m afraid.” Doron’s mouth was set.
At that moment, Lior spun from the window.
“They’re back.”
47
Nuri was talking intently into his cell phone as he bustled through the kitchen door, both eyes blackened now, and his nose even more swollen than it had been yesterday. He was joined a beat later by a sober-faced Yuvi.
Natalie caught only a few words of Nuri’s rapid-fire Hebrew. Nitsatsot shelo nitpotsa—he was saying something about . . .
“Ready to go?” Yuvi asked her. He jingled the keys to the Ford in his hand.
“What was that I just heard . . . about bombs?”
Yuvi’s olive eyes were fixed on her face, still with that solemn, neutral expression. “We’re always talking about bomb threats.” He shrugged dismissively. “Are you ready to leave?”
Nuri snapped his phone shut. “Okay, we’re going to escort you now to the IAA. Out of respect for what you’ve gone through, Natalie—your sister’s death, the various attacks you’ve suffered, and your dedication in keeping the tzohar safe—you have the honor of personally handing it over to the authorities. It’s time we get going.”
She nodded, still troubled by what she’d overheard. “You wouldn’t tell us even if there was a bomb threat, would you?” She glanced from Nuri’s face to Yuvi’s.
“They wouldn’t, Natalie.” It was D’Amato who answered when no one else did. “In their line of work, everything is on a need-to-know basis. And they don’t think we need to know anything.”
Doron lifted a hand, palm out. “Enough. You Americans think too much. You don’t need to worry about anything but getting the tzohar to the authorities.”
Impatiently, Yuvi hoisted her shoulder bag from the back of the chair and handed it to her. “The pendant is still inside?”
She nodded, and pushed away every other concern.
“You’ll be here when I get back?” she asked D’Amato, hooking the strap of her bag securely over her shoulder.
If he was worried about the upcoming grilling by the CIA, or whoever it was who wanted to talk to him, he didn’t show it. He swung from his chair and gave her his slight, lopsided smile.
“Count on it.”
The Reverend Ken Mundy paced his suite at the David Citadel Hotel, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Gwen was still in the marble bathroom, completing her lengthy beautification process. He’d been trying to reach the Sentinel all morning, to no avail.
He was about to toss the phone on the bed in disgust, to give up on speaking to him before the ceremony, when suddenly he heard the familiar voice on the encrypted line.
“Where in God’s name have you been? There’s been no word from Barnabas, and I’m growing very concerned.”
“With good reason. Barnabas is dead.”
The words hit Mundy like a jolt from a taser. “How . . . ? When . . . ?”
“This isn’t the time for details. I only have a minute. The Light is here with us, Ken. In Israel.”
Mundy sank to the bed, trying to absorb this hopeful news along with the shock that his most promising protégé was dead. The boy who’d worked so hard for the chance to build the Third Temple with his own hands would never touch a single stone, a single trowel of mortar.
“How are we going to get the Light without Barnabas?” he asked, his tone as heavy as his heart. “Are you sending someone else—Derrek?”
“It’s too late for Derrek. You’ll have to depend on me—and our friends.”
Yes. The Shomrei Kotel, Mundy thought dazedly. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Barnabas.
“I don’t understand,” Mundy mumbled. “How could this have happened?”
“Ken.” The Sentinel’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “Enough. You have to pull yourself together for the ceremony.” The line went dead.
He’s right. It’s almost time for the ceremony. Mundy drew a breath and forced himself to focus. He walked to the mirror and began adjusting his tie, concentrating on perfecting the knot. In a very short time, I’ll be standing where the Temples stood. Where Jacob slept and dreamed of the ladder. Where Jesus threw out the money changers. His hands trembled with excitement as he tugged at the two ends of his tie until they were even. And where soon the Sons of Babylon will dig the foundation for the Third Temple. He held fast to the most promising news the Sentinel had told him.
The Light is here in Jerusalem.
48
Hasan read the text message as the car sped north on Route 60 and smiled to himself.
It was about time Sayyed finally delivered on his promises. He’d failed more times than he’d succeeded in the past, but Farshid had insisted he be given chance after chance because their parents had been neighbors in Tehran. Hasan had not been as patient. He’d beaten Sayyed once when he’d bungled the simplest of deliveries. Since then Sayyed had applied himself. He’d performed well in his latest endeavor. And now his efforts were finally coming to fruition.
But Hasan refused to give Sayyed all the credit. The Bahraini legend was right. It was the fortuitous pearl now gracing Fatima’s neck that was going to help deliver the Eye of Dawn into his hands.
Yuvi watched the odometer as he drove down the winding two-lane road, both hands on the steering wheel. The nail he’d shoved into the left rear tire while Nuri preceded him into the house should cause it to blow any time within the next two kilometers. In the backseat, Nuri was on the phone again. Distracted. Good.
He glanced over at Natalie Landau in the passenger seat alongside him. She’d been holding onto the tzohar long enough.
There was a sudden deafening pop as the tire blew. The Ford began to tremble out of its lane, and an oncoming Mercedes swerved to the shoulder, splaying dust across the road as Natalie Landau gasped and Nuri swore. Yuvi wrestled the car under control. It took all of his strength to steer it onto the narrow shoulder of the hilly road.
“A damned flat,” he yelled disgustedly and threw open his door. His hands were shielded from their view as he headed toward the trunk. It only took him one second to key in their location and send Menny the text message.
“Right on time.” Menny Goldstein pushed his sunglasses higher up on his nose and scanned the incoming text message. The next instant he jerked the car away from the curb, his foot stomping a little too heavily on the gas pedal, lurching them awkwardly onto the lonely back road.
Excitement thrummed through his fingers as he tapped the steering wheel. He was elated. “Yuvi had it figured almost exactly. They’re less than five minutes from here.”
“Baruch ha Shem, praise God’s name,” Shmuel said beside him.
The tzohar is home, Menny thought. And he’d be a man privileged beyond his merit when he held it in his hands. Very soon now.
Then, God willing, the Shomrei Kotel would keep it hidden and safe until Moshiach—the Messiah—came at last, and the tzohar could shine once more in the Third Temple.
He tried not to think about the gun beneath his seat, which would be in his hands very soon also. Not that he was hesitant in the least to use a gun—he had shot one in the army. But never as a civilian. And never at a fellow Israeli.
He deliberately refocused his thoughts, switching instead to how fortuitous it was to have such good Christian friends as Reverend Mundy and the Sons of Babylon—men as equally committed as he and the Shomrei Kotel to rebuilding the Temple. The Sons of Babylon were trustworthy and zealous partners in this sacred mission. More than the politicians and the diplomats, they understood the truth of the Torah’s prophecies. They’d help defend Jerusalem against any takers.
The signing today of the absurd, meaningless peace documents was designed solely to mollify an ignorant and misguided world. Many in Israel and around the globe understood that the peace would never hold. The decades-long indoctrination of Palestinian schoolchildren against Jews and Israel would see to that.
Palestinian children’s t
elevision programs, video games, and textbooks had for years glorified martyrdom and jihad, while denouncing the establishment of Israel as an “evil crime.” It was impossible for a piece of paper to create peace, Menny thought, when Israel didn’t even appear on maps in Palestinian textbooks, and when so many young Arabs had grown up learning hate along with math and science.
Still, the return of the tzohar to Jerusalem on this very day gave Menny hope. He took it as a sign from God that Israel would endure.
“Think of it—the Temple will be rebuilt in our lifetimes, Shmuel,” he said joyously, turning to regard his friend. “Our children will worship there—and Moshiach will soon return.”
But Shmuel was all business, his gun already in his hand, his eyes trained on the road. “There they are.” He pointed ahead to where two men were changing a tire and a woman stood, arms crossed, alongside a green Ford Focus.
49
Nuri had just fitted the spare tire onto the wheel when Yuvi saw the silver car approaching fast from the south. It was just distant enough ahead of them that it shimmered in the heat, like the dusty pavement that stretched toward the center of Jerusalem, an optical illusion in the broiling Israeli sun. Nothing else moved in the rocky hillside that hugged the empty road where he stood behind Nuri, tire iron in hand.
Yuvi waited, watching the front wheels of the oncoming car as they angled toward the shoulder. Now. He turned and lifted the tire iron just as Nuri glanced up, squinting at the silver car that had stopped in front of theirs, its motor still running.
In one brutal stroke Yuvi drove the iron against the back of Nuri’s head. He flinched despite himself as the man he’d worked with for the past six months toppled onto his side. Yuvi didn’t think he’d hit him hard enough to kill him, though. He hoped not. Glancing down, it was unsettling to see blood seeping from the gash behind Nuri’s ear.
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