Slowly, the hands opened a Plexiglas case. The act would have set off alarms throughout the mansion had he not entered the twelve-digit code known only to him. The alarms would have alerted the four security agents who patrolled the grounds, as well as the private security service a short distance away.
Above him, above the basement hideaway, were ten thousand square feet of opulence spread over three stories. Compared to the United Kingdom and the United States, Israel had few mansions like his. Property in Israel was too scarce and therefore too expensive for such wasteful self-indulgence. He had earned the right to be self-indulgent, and his wealth, when applied to the right bureaucrat, bought him special privileges, something he refused to let embarrass him.
With moves made easy by practice, he opened the case, removing the clear lid and then releasing the clips that held the sides in place. One by one, he lowered the sides until the object was exposed to the soft light that filled the room. The illumination poured from overhead bulbs designed to cast a neutral light, a light that would add no color to anything in the room. It was not enough just to look at an ancient artifact; the piece should be seen as it is. Harsh light could damage sensitive parchment or vellum; it could wash out centuries of patina on stone and prevent the observer from seeing the true essence of the centuries-old—in this case, millennia-old—object.
His breath caught in his lungs, despite having done this very act every day of the last fifteen years. For a moment, he understood how ancient people might be tempted to worship a bit of art made in stone. He, however, would not worship this object or any object like it. Still, his heart raced. He had never felt love for a woman, never dated, never married. He wondered if this emotion was what lesser men felt for a beautiful female. He would never know, and that fact never bothered him. His many mistresses bore names like Wealth, Power, and Influence. Artists had their muses; he had his. And they had been good to him.
The case lay open like a flower with its petals pulled back to reveal its sensitive heart. He bent over the slab of white marble and let his eyes pull in the color of the ancient artifact, the tint of a warm white stone with a light brown patina. He could smell the stone. Others would say he was crazy, a man who surrendered his mind a decade before, but he would swear that he could detect the stone slab’s unique aroma. If someone were to chip away a corner—something worthy of a slow and painful execution—and mix it with other bits of marble, he would be able to find it by smell alone.
He also knew every branch, every vein of white marbling. He had never seen such intricacies in any other piece of stone.
The man stepped away from the open case and moved to a small sink in the corner of his personal museum. There he washed his hands using a powerful disinfecting soap. He washed again. Then again. He should wear white cotton museum gloves, but he could no longer bring himself to do so. He wanted to touch what had been touched twenty-five hundred years ago, to finger the surface upon which the body of the great man had been laid.
He moved from the sink to the display case with his hands held before him, like a freshly scrubbed surgeon walking into a surgical room. He paused, preparing himself for what had always been a sensuous experience.
Gently, as if his touch could shatter the slab, he touched one of the raised ancient Hebrew letters and moved his hand from right to left, following the text. Unlike most ancient writings committed to stone in which a scribe chiseled letters in the surface, the words on this slab were in bas-relief—the letters were raised above the surface. Twenty-five centuries before, a man, in what had to be arduous handwork, chipped away the surface, leaving just the letters. How long had that taken? How many people had worked on the tablet?
He had no answer to those questions, but he knew why such a difficult approach had been taken: by creating the message in bas-relief, they had made sure no one could alter the message. Stone could not be added where it had been taken away. Any attempt to alter the message would be obvious to everyone but a blind man.
The coolness of the stone, the smoothness of the surface, the edges of each letter thrilled him. So lost in the moment, he had to remind himself to breathe. His heart pounded, smashing into the back of his sternum, his hands shook, and tears rose in his eyes.
So beautiful.
So majestic.
So important.
Over sixty generations had passed since the hammer and chisel had removed the last fragment of marble.
The words.
The sentences.
The message.
His hands began to quiver just as they did every time he repeated this exercise.
He had very little formal education, but once he had gained his power, his influence, and his wealth, he undertook a self-education program, hiring professors from around the world to teach him what he needed to know, such as how to read ancient Hebrew, a language and writing very different from the modern version of the language.
Although he could recite the message forward and backward, he approached the material as if reading it for the first time, and in the custom of the ancient Jews, he read aloud.
“Blessed be HaShem, Lord of all, and his servant—”
A soft chiming filled the basement space. The man froze, his hand hovering over the next raised letter. He sighed, straightened, and looked at the ceiling-mounted, voice-activated intercom. “What.”
“They’re here.” The male voice seemed unbothered by the man’s curt response.
“Understood.”
He returned to the tablet and began reading again. “Blessed be HaShem, Lord of all, and his priest Ezekiel son of Buzi …”
The limo—long, white, new—was a nice touch, as if being flown in a private jet owned by the State of Israel hadn’t been enough. Chambers had been in many limos. Anytime he appeared on a talk show, a limo would be sent. He soon realized he could judge a show’s ratings by the size of the limo. A simple sixty-dollar-per-trip Lincoln Town Car meant the talk show was struggling; a stretch limo with a loaded bar meant cash was flowing into the coffers.
This limo said something else: Abram Ben-Judah had friends—powerful, wealthy friends. Field archaeologists were accustomed to less luxurious modes of transportation.
“I think he’s trying to impress you, you know.”
Chambers looked to his side and saw a smiling Nuri. “Yeah? How so?”
“Trust me, Ben-Judah would not send a limo like this for me. I’m just a lowly academician struggling to survive on a teacher’s salary and what little I can squeeze from supporters.”
“We’re not far apart on that.”
Nuri laughed so hard he came close to spilling his vodka tonic. Chambers sipped water from a plastic bottle but wished for strong, hot African coffee. His head hurt. Air travel never agreed with him, something he usually attributed to the stale, recycled air he was forced to breathe. In the rare moments he was honest with himself, he knew the head pain was somehow related to his mild claustrophobia.
“Oh, please, Dr. Chambers. You have two books on the New York Times bestseller list. You can’t convince me you live in poverty.”
Chambers shrugged. “I do all right, but I’m no Stephen King.”
Nuri knocked back the last of his drink. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve read both books, and they struck me as horrors.”
“You missed your calling, Nuri. You should have been a comedian. Then you could have brought some real value to the world.”
“Let’s not fight, David. We are here on a great mission.”
Chambers bit his lip. “What is it with guys like you? You pick a fight, and as soon as someone tosses it back in your face, you act the innocent victim. You don’t get to take free potshots at me, Nuri. You start a fight; I’ll finish it. If you want to pretend to get along, then fine. Just keep your mouth shut around me.”
“Fighting is second nature for Middle Easterners, or haven’t you heard? We’ve been fighting for centuries. We are born with a bad attitude and barrels of mistrust.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to bathe in it, or worse, splash it around on everyone you meet.”
Nuri poured another drink. “What can I say? I am a product of my upbringing and culture.”
Chambers let the conversation wane in hopes of its death. Nuri sipped his freshened drink and stared out the window. “All the world comes here, David.” His tone was civil, almost polite. “Just look at the people: white, black, Asian, Arab, Jews—”
“Who could have guessed Jews would be in Jerusalem.”
Nuri didn’t react to the jab. “They say Jerusalem is the center of the world. I once heard a radio preacher say that countries to the west of Jerusalem write from left to right; those east of Jerusalem pen their words right to left. Like Hebrew.”
“And the Chinese write from top to bottom. Not everything a preacher says is true, Nuri.”
“You’ve changed, David. You’ve become bitter like seawater. There is a reason people do not hug porcupines.”
“I haven’t traveled halfway around the world to earn hugs.” He let his eyes take in the sights of Jerusalem and the irony it had become: ancient on one hand, a technological marvel on the other. Tourists crowded the bazaars and endured the cries of street vendors. Locals moved through them like trout swimming upstream, oblivious to anything but their destination. Armed soldiers dressed in green—men and women—stood on street corners eyeing everyone who passed. Jerusalem police officers, dressed in light-blue shirts and dark pants, patrolled the shops, letting their eyes linger on anyone who looked like a suicide bomber or gunman. The sight reminded Chambers that this land was as it has always been: a place of violence and hatred. The “Jeru-Shalom,” city of peace, had seldom known peace. Yet Nuri was right: people traveled to the city, despite possible danger, to walk the streets of the world’s most famous city.
The city itself catered to three of the largest religions on the globe: Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. Three major faiths, none comfortable with the others.
When Chambers drew his eyes away from the street scene, he saw Nuri staring at him. “Are you now that cynical? Are you now such a misanthrope that only money and fame can motivate you?”
“I didn’t say anything about money and fame.”
“Not with words, this is true.” Nuri frowned and looked away.
The limo driver lowered the privacy glass that separated the front seat from the large seating area in the back. “Five minutes more, Doctors.”
“Thank you, driver,” Nuri said.
Chambers said nothing.
Hebrew University was one university in several locations: Mount Scopus in northeastern Jerusalem, Giv’at Ram in western Jerusalem; Ein Kerem in the southwest part of the city; and the agricultural school in the city of Rehovot. What began as a humble effort in 1918 grew into one of the top universities in the world. Albert Einstein and Sigmund Freud served on the first board of governors. Four of Israel’s prime ministers graduated from the facility; seven graduates had been awarded the Nobel Prize. Here 22,000 undergrads and postgrad students studied under the tutelage of 1,200 faculty. The school trained doctors, engineers, mathematicians, and scientists.
The driver parked the car and then opened the passenger door. Nuri slipped out first, leaving his glass tumbler on the surface of the tiny wet bar. Chambers followed. The air was heavy and surprisingly warm for the season and the 2,500-foot elevation. A wave of excitement rushed through Chambers as he looked at the three wings of the building that housed the Institute of Archaeology. Two of the wings had been constructed from dressed Jerusalem stone; the newest wing from sawn stone. The color and use of block stone gave the structure an ancient yet still very modern look, appropriate for its reputation, work, and location.
Chambers trotted up a short set of steps and marched toward a glass-and-anodized window wall and doors. He saw no need to wait for Nuri. As he neared the entrance, the door swung open and a disheveled man in tan pants and a wrinkled white shirt exited, his arms held wide and a large grin beaming from his gray-bearded face. A yarmulke covered the crown of his head. Despite his sour mood, Chambers couldn’t stop the growing insistent smile. He was slow to grant respect, but Abram Ben-Judah had earned a lifetime of esteem a long time ago.
“David, my boy. Mah Shlomcah?”
Ben-Judah looked frail, but Chambers knew him to be strong in body as well as mind. Still.
“Dr. Ben-Judah. Mamash Tov.” He let the older man embrace him and kiss him on both cheeks. The dark cloud that had followed him from his home dissipated. He patted the man’s back.
“That’s enough of formalities, David. You’ve served academic protocol; now let’s speak as friends.” He held Chambers at arm’s length. “You do look well.”
“As do you, Abram.”
“Nonsense. I’m getting old and losing weight.”
Chambers heart hesitated. “You’re not ill, are you?”
“I am afflicted with age, that is all, David. No need to worry about me. I can still outwork my grad students.”
There was no doubt in Chambers’s mind about that. He had worked several digs with his mentor and often run out of energy long before the older man.
Ben-Judah stepped away and greeted Nuri. “Shalom, Nuri. It is good to see you again.”
“Shalom, Professor. The joy is mine.”
“Come, come.” Ben-Judah motioned to the door. “I have refreshments waiting.” He moved into the building.
“Is—”
“No, Nuri. Not yet.”
Chambers shifted his gaze from one man to the other. “Is … what?”
“This way, gentlemen. The Institute has been good enough to let us use one of the executive conference rooms.”
“I’m pretty sure the Institute does whatever you ask.” Nuri moved alongside Chambers. “You are the executive director.”
“Was, Nuri. Past tense. I no longer hold that position.”
The news stunned Chambers. “What? Since when?”
“One month, two weeks, three days ago.”
The two hustled forward until they were walking at Ben-Judah’s side. “They fired you?” Chambers asked.
“Of course not, David. I quit. I have tea and hamantashen.” He raised a hand as he walked, as if waving off unspoken objections. “I know it is not the festival of Purim, but an old man can have a cookie when he wants. No?”
The image of a three-cornered cookie filled with fruit preserve flashed in Chambers’s mind. In Hebrew the pastry was called Oznei Haman: “Hainan’s ears” after the evil Haman in the book of Esther—the Megillah. Every year, Jews worldwide celebrate the salvation of the Hebrews from the pogrom promoted by the Persian leader working under King Xerxes.
Ben-Judah led the two down a hall. Students parted before him like water before the bow of a mighty ship. Chambers and Nuri followed in his wake.
Although it had been many months since Chambers last walked the corridors of the Institute, everything seemed familiar and comfortable.
Ben-Judah cut down another hall, his stride long and determined, belying his advanced years. How old was he? Chambers tried to recall. Seventy? Seventy-two? It didn’t matter; his mind was faster and keener than any twenty-something undergrad. Living in the past seemed to fend off the future.
At the end of the hall, Ben-Judah opened a door and stepped into a large room dominated by a wide table. Unlike the contemporary furnishings found in other parts of the building, this table had a distinctive midcentury look. There was something familiar about it. Chambers laid a hand on its surface. “Is this the table?”
Ben-Judah was at the far wall lowering window shades, cutting off the view to a stone plaza and the faculty and students who walked there. “What’s that, David? The table? Yes, of course. That is the table.”
“Am I missing something?” Nuri said.
“Albert Einstein sat at this table. So did Sigmund Freud. They were two of the men on the first board of governors.”
Nuri seemed impressed. “I would
like to have been a mouse in the room when they were talking. What would the world’s most famous physicist and the world’s most renowned psychologist talk about?”
“Probably more than the weather.” Chambers looked around the room. It was plain in every way. No art. No photos. No expensive wall treatment or thick-pile carpet. It was a room designed for the discussion of educational business, not a place to luxuriate. “Are we early?”
Ben-Judah closed the last of the shades. Sunlight filtered through the fabric, silhouetting the people moving outside. “Yes. Your driver made good time. Better than we anticipated. He is taking your luggage to the hotel.”
“So he said.” Chambers watched as Nuri snapped up a couple of the cookies and sat at what Chambers thought of as the foot of the table. For a moment he thought the man would prop his feet up on the historic piece of furniture. To his credit, he didn’t.
“I see you found the hamantashen, Nuri. I was going to tell you to help yourself, but …”
“My apologies, Abram. I had a drink or two—”
“Or three,” Chambers added.
Nuri sighed like a long-suffering father. “It was two drinks, David. Let’s not exaggerate. Anyway, I thought a little food might be helpful.”
The phone at the head of the table chimed, and Ben-Judah answered. A moment later he set the hand piece back in the cradle. He nodded at Nuri, who set the cookies he had taken on a napkin and strode from the room.
“Where’s he going?”
Ben-Judah moved to the table and pulled a tea service close. He poured hot brown liquid into five cups. Five cups, five people. Chambers expected more.
“Is it just me, Abram, or are you still being secretive?”
“Let an old man have his games, David. Soon the curtain will be drawn back, and all will be known.”
Laughter oozed into the room from the hallway. It made Chambers tense. His mind began to sprint from thought to thought. He turned as the door opened. Nuri entered with a woman on his arm. Both were grinning; both looked like they had just won a lottery.
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