The Illumination

by Karen Tintori

  He smiled to himself. Hasan would never anticipate what he was going to do instead. He’d had his fill of the insults Hasan had rained on him ever since Farshid had recruited him. While Hasan was in charge, he would never be anything but a lowly foot soldier. Oh, how he would relish his revenge. Soon he’d become more wealthy and more powerful than the Sabouri brothers and their esteemed council altogether. He’d no longer be subjected to Hasan’s evil eye. And evil tongue. Sayyed knew of the vast sums the Shomrei Kotel had raised, and he knew there was even more in the offshore accounts of the Sons of Babylon.

  He knew where Hasan would be standing by now, the precise spot. Just as he knew the combination of the shop’s safe and the cash bundles it contained. Most of all, he knew how that cash would help him get to Tunisia once he’d tracked Hasan to the Ramparts, put a bullet in his accursed heart, and relieved him of the Eye of Dawn.

  The tiny bathroom was as stifling as a sauna. Wedged behind the door, Natalie listened to the desk chair scraping along the floor. Fatima was scooting herself closer to the desk. Natalie heard the rustle of papers. Then Fatima began to hum.

  If she’s at the desk, her back is to me. It’s now or never. Clutching the hammer, Natalie eased out of the bathroom, planting each foot carefully upon the floor. But just as she neared the chair, the linoleum creaked and the woman whirled in the chair. Natalie sprang forward, raising the hammer.

  “Take off that hamsa you’re wearing. Put it on the desk.”

  “How did you get up here?” Fatima gasped, anger flushing her delicate features. “Who are you?”

  “Put it on the desk or I’ll knock you out with this and remove it myself.” She took a step closer. “Hurry up.”

  Fatima’s gaze took in Natalie’s determined expression, then shifted to the raised hammer.

  “So you’re a thief. All right. Calm down. I’ll do it.”

  She reached behind her neck and unhooked the small silver clasp. Shrugged. Set the necklace down atop the binder.

  But as Natalie reached across her to snatch the hamsa with her free hand, the woman moved like wildfire. One moment she was as still as a wood carving, the next she had grabbed up the scissors from the desk and was springing from her chair in one fluid motion.

  Using her hip, Natalie shoved the chair, striking Fatima at the knees. But the maneuver only threw the woman off balance for a moment.

  With a scream she was on full attack, slicing the scissors upward toward Natalie’s throat. Natalie jumped back, then aimed a kick, but the blow merely grazed Fatima’s thigh.

  Natalie kept her eyes on the point of the scissors. As Fatima drew back her arm, Natalie dove, seized her wrist, and twisted hard—but her left hand wasn’t as strong as her right, and Fatima held fast to the scissors. Grunting, Natalie drove her heel down on the woman’s instep, but it seemed to have no effect. Fatima was fighting in a frenzy, wild, determined, much stronger than Natalie would have guessed for a woman her size.

  She slashed out again, and the scissors tore into Natalie’s arm. The sudden pain brought tears to her eyes, stinging tears, but also kindled an instinctive response.

  She smashed the hammer into Fatima’s temple, and the woman crashed down like a toppled statue.

  And like a statue, she wasn’t moving. But she was still breathing, Natalie realized, as she knelt and found a pulse.

  So much for forcing her to tell me the combination, she thought bleakly.

  Breathing hard, she stumbled back to the desk and scooped up the hamsa. Despite her shaking hands, she finally secured it around her throat. And now the tears that stung her eyes sprang from the realization that only days ago, this hamsa had been around Dana’s throat.

  For a moment her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. But she turned her grief to fury and attacked the safe with the hammer, slamming it against the dial, again and again.

  It dented, but didn’t break.

  In desperation she filled a plastic cup with cold water from the bathroom sink and was about to dump it over Fatima’s face to revive her, to demand the combination, when she heard a sound from below.

  She froze. Her heartbeat roared in her ears as she strained to listen. A man’s heavy tread. Coming up the stairs.

  She dove for the bathroom again and slid behind the door, even as his footsteps stomped across the stubby hall.

  D’Amato hurried along Via Dolorosa. It was far from the first time he’d traversed this street where Jesus had trudged to his crucifixion, but this was the first time he was completely oblivious of the crosses and signage noting the Stations of the Cross.

  The limestone beneath his feet was uneven and slippery. He scanned the facades of the buildings left and right, looking for the shop he sought, ignoring the welcoming calls of the merchants in the doorways.

  “Ahlan wa sahlan.” “Come, you are welcome.”

  He dodged around a group of boys kicking a soccer ball, absently kicked it back to them.

  Where the hell was that damned shop?

  “D’Amato!”

  He spun to see who was calling his name.

  60

  It was Doron, racing toward him, his face nearly as red as his hair as he dashed recklessly across the path of a pushcart laden with produce. “Natalie—”

  The Mossad agent skidded to a stop as D’Amato froze, fearing the worst.

  “An American woman matching her description approached an IDF soldier not a half hour ago,” Doron panted. “I’ve been trying to reach your cell, but the towers are only working sporadically—”

  “Are you sure it was Natalie?” D’Amato interrupted. “What did she say?”

  “She claimed there were bombs in the ceiling of a tunnel beneath the Temple Mount. Before the soldier could question her, they were separated by the crowd.”

  “If it’s her—” D’Amato felt hope for the first time in a long time. Natalie got away. “Where was this?” he asked quickly.

  “Near Herod’s Gate.” Doron’s eyes were roving all along the street, darting at everyone, everything, in a constant surveillance sweep. “We’ve got men searching for the tunnel entrance she described right now. The soldier told her to go to the U.S. consulate—Lior’s on his way there. I’m canvassing this area. Keep your eyes open for her, and if you find her, both of you get to the U.S. consulate on Nablus. And stay there!”

  * * *

  Sayyed stopped in his tracks. What was this? Fatima on the floor, bleeding from the ear, her pink scarf soaked in blood. The chair on its side, a pair of scissors inches from her hand.

  Without touching her, he placed a finger beneath her nose and felt warm breath.

  He wondered if she and Hasan had argued. But he didn’t wonder long. He stepped over her, toward the safe, and it was then that he saw the dents in the metal dial.

  Was she stupid enough to have tried to steal from Hasan? Almost amused, he went to work on the dial. Many times he’d stood fuming in this very office while Hasan harangued him. Many times he’d surreptitiously watched Hasan work the combination while he’d pretended to concentrate on unloading boxes of stock.

  The dial was slightly damaged, but it still worked. Sayyed eagerly yanked back the metal door, then jumped back, startled, as light poured out, radiating throughout the room.

  The Eye of Dawn. Right here in this safe.

  He laughed out loud. What a fool you are, Hasan Sabouri. Eagerly he grabbed the bundles of money, stuffed them in his backpack then, his hands trembling with excitement, he lifted out the pouch with the crystal gem and drew out the Eye of Dawn.

  To his surprise, the glowing jewel wasn’t hot to the touch. But its light was still brilliant in the daylight. It was intense, much whiter and clearer than any light he’d ever seen or imagined. Like the light of heaven, of Paradise, Sayyed thought, almost giddy with the triumph of holding it.

  It was then that he heard the woman.

  Closed.

  The hand-lettered sign mocked D’Amato as he finally reached the souvenir shop
door. He jiggled the handle. The door was locked.

  All around him the other shops stood open, the cafés overflowed. The street was full of chattering people, everyone buzzing about the canceled summit and speculating about why the Israelis had cut their power and suddenly reneged on the promised peace.

  Only this shop, the one Ahmad had sent him to, was closed. He stepped back, peered up at the second-story window overlooking Via Dolorosa, and wondered if anyone was up there.

  He rapped on the door. Once, twice. And then a third time, louder.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he moved away to lean against a wall near the storefront. I’ll give it five minutes, no more. If no one shows up, I’m breaking in.

  Fatima had pushed herself, moaning, to a half-sitting position. With one hand braced on the floor, she was staring at Sayyed and at the Eye of Dawn, her mouth agape. Then, from downstairs, came a sudden rapping on the door. More than once. Insistent.

  Alarm in his belly, Sayyed jammed the Eye of Dawn deep into the right front pocket of his jeans. The pouch into the other. First things first. Then he slid the silencer from his backpack and, with practiced ease, screwed it onto the gun.

  Fatima’s eyes grew wide with terror. She shook her head in silent pleading. “Say . . . yed . . .”

  He fired.

  Quickly, he removed the silencer and shoved his gun back into his shoulder holster. Listened again. Silence. The tourist had given up.

  Without a glance at the dead woman at his feet, he leaped over her body for the door.

  Gripping the edge of the bathroom door to keep from swaying, Natalie listened to his footsteps pounding down the stairs. That bastard had the tzohar. She’d seen its light flood the office. And now it was gone again.

  Stomach lurching, she forced her legs to move as the shop door banged shut below.

  Go. Follow him, a voice screamed inside her head. Then she was running, averting her gaze from the body on the floor, nearly tumbling down the stairs in her haste.

  She screamed as a figure charged through the shop door.

  D’Amato.

  She hurled herself at him, grabbing his arm. “Did you see that man leave the shop just now? Which way did he go? He’s one of the men who kidnapped me—he has the tzohar!”

  61

  Sayyed was striding quickly down Via Dolorosa, not running. He was headed east, toward the Lion’s Gate, Natalie realized. She and D’Amato were following from nearly half a block away, darting around carts and kiosks, past men in doorways playing shesh-besh, dodging peddlers and pilgrims, fighting to keep the tall, solid, always moving figure in sight. D’Amato had warned that if Sayyed turned and spotted her, he’d bolt.

  Or shoot.

  So they kept their distance but stayed as close as they dared. Discreetly, Natalie filled him in as they walked. He was stunned when she told him that the crystal inside the pendant actually did possess an incredible, ethereal light, which she believed was linked to the electrical disturbances going on around them. Still trying to absorb the magnitude of what she’d told him, D’Amato managed to bring her up-to-date on what he’d learned.

  “The Mossad is looking for the tunnel right now?” she asked breathlessly, as they rushed past two wizened men sipping their Turkish coffee as if nothing else in the world mattered. “Thank God!”

  D’Amato tried his cell again, hoping to reach Doron.

  “Don’t worry,” she muttered as he cursed in frustration. “Right now, I think Sayyed is doing us a favor by exposing the tzohar. As long as it’s in the open, they won’t be able to detonate the C-4 with their cell phones.”

  “Where in hell is he headed?” D’Amato squinted at the tall figure dodging purposefully through the pedestrians ahead. “So you’re actually convinced that the pendant really contained the tzohar?”

  “I don’t know any other way to explain what I saw,” Natalie said.

  They reached the juncture where Via Dolorosa ended and street signs announced its transition into Lion’s Gate Road instead. They hurried to keep up as Sayyed picked up his pace.

  “Are you okay?” D’Amato asked. Beside him, Natalie was drawing ragged breaths. She looked like hell. The bruises on her face were puffy and purple, and the gash in her arm didn’t look too good either.

  She nodded, and for the first time he noticed the necklace she was wearing. How the hell—?

  “Is that Dana’s hamsa?”

  “One and the same. That son-of-a-bitch Hasan gave it to the woman in the shop, the one Sayyed killed.”

  Her voice sounded stronger now, as if thinking of the charm she wore had refreshed her energy. Their quarry was nearing the Lion’s Gate.

  “Look, he’s turning left.” D’Amato pointed suddenly. “He’s going into that courtyard.”

  “That’s the Church of Saint Anne.”

  Melting into the midst of a small tour group, they slipped into the church compound after him, entering a courtyard dotted with palms and drooping pepper trees. Waving her red flag, the tour guide sent her charges surging toward the vaulting stone entrance to the tall Crusader church. Natalie and D’Amato’s eyes, however, were not focused on the impressive architecture, but on the burly, dark-haired young man veering off toward a garden that hugged the side of the building.

  It was suddenly much quieter here, within the grounds, than outside on the teeming, bustling cobbled streets. A tangible serenity seemed to fill the space as they broke from the tour group just short of the door. Quickly, they crept along the wall toward the garden, breathing in the tangy clean scent of sage and mint.

  Suddenly, D’Amato skidded to a stop, one hand on Natalie’s arm, holding her still. From around the corner came the quiet murmur of men’s voices.

  “Show it to me.” Ken Mundy had waited long enough. He had no desire to exchange pleasantries with this man—Shmuel or whatever his name was at the moment—who’d betrayed him and Shomrei Kotel. His contempt showed on his face, but he was far from caring. If this Judas thought he was going to continue calling all the shots, he could guess again.

  “Show me the money.” “Shmuel’s” broad grin was cocky, triumphant. He shot a glance at the briefcase clutched in Mundy’s manicured hand.

  But the Sentinel wasn’t having it. “You first.” His tone was that of a man used to being in command. “Be quick about it. The longer we stand here, the more dangerous this becomes. For you as well as us, I’m sure.”

  Shmuel gestured toward the centuries-old church and the excavated Pools of Bethesda beyond. “You’re worried about those nuns going in to stand on the famous star-shaped stone to sing before the altar? They frighten you?”

  “Cut the crap, Shmuel, or whoever you are. Either let us see the Light or our business with you is finished.” Mundy shook off the warning hand the Sentinel put on his arm. No. I’m not going to pull any punches. Not when everything I’ve been working for is within my reach.

  It grated on him that his success was now dependent upon this smug, arrogant traitor. The Sentinel had risked the most of all of them, risked everything. The next moment or two would determine whether it was all for naught, whether Mundy would have to return to the Sons of Babylon and admit to them that the Light had slipped from their fingers again.

  “Do you want the ten million? Or don’t you?” The Sentinel’s keen gray eyes bored into the man’s grinning face.

  * * *

  D’Amato tensed, hunching closer to the corner of the building. “I know that voice,” he whispered in disbelief.

  “Whose is it?”

  He leaned around the stone for a quick instant, needing a visual confirmation. He jerked back, incredulous. “I don’t believe it. Your government at work. That’s Elliott Warrick—our Assistant Undersecretary of Defense.”

  The burly young man snorted in contempt. “My price is now fifteen million. And this is what you’ll get in return.” He dug deep into his right front jeans pocket and withdrew a tin matchbox. He lifted the lid to reveal a glowing crystal.
Light pulsed from it, bathing the garden in a dazzling aura as brilliant as a streak of lightning.

  Mundy choked back tears. It was luminous, beautiful beyond words. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the Light. He reached toward it, aching to touch it, but Shmuel jerked it back with a laugh, his fist clamping over the ancient jewel.

  Warrick flashed a swift glance around, checking to see if anyone else had entered the garden. “Where’s the pendant it was sealed in?” he demanded. “That’s part of the bargain.”

  Mundy drew a breath. Yes, Daniel’s pendant of carnelian, lapis, and jasper. He’d been so dazzled by the Light that he’d forgotten about the jeweled pendant that had concealed it for thirty centuries. He needed that, too.

  “It’s gone. You’ll have to settle for this.” Shmuel produced the worn leather pouch, painted on each side with eyes of protection. “Now the money. Wire it to my bank account in Cyprus, and we’re finished here.” He shoved a slip of paper at the Sentinel.

  “Do it,” Mundy ordered, still hypnotized by the magnificent light spilling from between Shmuel’s chunky fingers.

  But as Warrick lifted his phone, his expression darkened. “The cell towers are down again. It’s impossible to transfer the funds.”

  “Then we have no deal.” For the first time anger simmered in Shmuel’s deep eyes. “You are screwing with me? Fine, I have other buyers.” He dropped the tin cover back in place and shoved the matchbox, along with the pouch, back into his pocket.

  Instantly, a dense cloud seemed to descend over the church grounds, yet the sun still glowed unobscured in the sky.

  “No—wait!” Mundy cried.

  Shmuel regarded him with insolent eyes. “I have no time to wait—not for you, not for the cell towers.”

  “I have five million dollars in this briefcase,” Mundy bit out in a low, furious tone. “That’s a down payment. You’ll get ten more when the damn cell towers start working.”