The Scroll

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  “Which is your way of saying that if he were brought to trial, there would be no evidence linking him to the crime,” the president said.

  “Exactly.”

  “So why do the interview?” Tony poured a cup of the president’s favorite African coffee for the commander in chief and one for each person present.

  “I’ll take that one,” Hobert Allen said. “It’s our job to keep track of various communications from suspected terrorists and others. Al-Malik has been on our radar for some time but to little avail. As Lew has stated, the man keeps his distance from problems. That doesn’t mean his hands aren’t dirty. I’ll bet next month’s paycheck that they are.”

  “What do you think he’s up to, Hobert?”

  “Nothing good, Mr. President. He has made no secret of his hatred for Israel. If a wind blew every Jew into the ocean, he’d do the dance of joy. But since that’s not going to happen, he has to learn to live with them and undermine every effort toward peace.”

  “And the interview?” Meyers retrieved his coffee and sipped it. Strong, smooth, no bitter aftertaste. Just the way he liked it.

  “My analysts agree on this, Mr. President. We think Al-Malik is sending a message through the interview.”

  The president set the cup down again. “I didn’t hear anything but the typical blasts of hot air and sour grapes.”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to work, Mr. President.” Hobert shifted forward in his seat. A tall man, he found every chair and sofa to be at least three inches too short. “He’s not sending the message to military troops but to followers, citizens who have been schooled to listen for key words and phrases. We’ve analyzed his message, voice patterns, and vocal inflections. We are seventy-six percent sure that he was sending a coded message to his civilian followers.”

  “Seventy-six percent? You couldn’t be more specific?” The president smiled, but the joke shot past his NSA director.

  “No sir. Seventy-six percent is high probability.”

  “Okay, what message do you think he was sending?”

  Lewis took the lead. “Mr. President, a few months ago, a team of biblical archaeologists began digging in and around Israel. There are small teams working in conjunction with one another. Dr. Abram Ben-Judah out of Hebrew University and the Institute of Archaeology heads the dig.” He paused just a second. “I should say, he headed the dig. There was an accident at one of the sites, and several workers were killed. Ben-Judah died in the hospital later. We have reason to believe that the accident might not have been so accidental. Sources tell us that the cave-in was caused by an explosion.”

  “How many died?” the president said.

  “We believe four were killed at the site; Ben-Judah died a few hours later.”

  The president cleared his throat and thought for a moment. “Someone connect the dots for me.”

  Secretary of State Vivian Roller took the lead. “We discussed some of this while we waited for this meeting. It gave us a little more time to make calls and chase a couple of leads. We think the archaeology teams are after something important.” She ran a hand through her light brown hair, hair that used to bounce and shine before she took what had to be the second most difficult job on the planet.

  “Important how?” The president leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

  “We don’t know specifically, but we have a guess, Mr. President. We have to ask ourselves what could a group of archaeologists be digging up that would upset the PLO specifically.”

  “Wait. The US has not considered the PLO a terrorist organization since 1991, and back in 1993 the PLO recognized Israel’s right to exist. They denounced terrorism.”

  “Perhaps,” Lewis said, “but no one knows how long that will last. The group is still composed of several radical, nonconforming factions. Dangerous ones, I might add. The region is still plagued with conflict. Anti-Jewish sentiment has grown over the last few years, especially in Iran. Mr. President, the place remains a powder keg. Something stupid could set off the whole thing. As you know, the world is like a table with dominoes set on end. Bump the table, and the dominoes fall. A chain reaction begins.”

  “They used to say that about the Communists, and it never quite worked out that way.” Meyers kept his voice casual.

  “It almost did, and several countries did fall to communism. I believe the analogy is still valid, Mr. President.”

  “I’m sorry, Vivian. You were about to say something else. You have an idea about what the archaeologists are doing?”

  She drummed her fingers on the arm of the sofa as if wishing she hadn’t brought it up. “This is a guess, sir.”

  “I’m not opposed to a little speculation, Madam Secretary. Let it fly.”

  She took a deep breath. “I come from an evangelical background. Something you already know. I’ve spent a lifetime in church. Everyone here knows my father was a minister.” She looked away. “There is a great interest among evangelicals in the Second Coming of Christ and prophecy. There are lots of viewpoints, of course, but I remember my father talking about biblical prophecy. He said that one day the Temple of Solomon would be rebuilt and the Jews would begin to worship there again.”

  Hobert Allen laughed.

  She turned on him. “Laugh if you want, Hobert, but I think that’s what’s going on down there.”

  “That’s a quite a leap, Madam Secretary,” Tony said.

  “I know, but it’s a reasonable leap. Listen, we’re not talking about a single team digging along the Dead Sea or in some ancient Roman bathhouse. You read Lew’s report. There are a dozen teams, maybe more, all working under Ben-Judah, until he was killed. And they’re still doing the work. That takes big money. Tell the president who is funding this, Tony.”

  The chief of staff pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking. He looked tired. He always looked tired. The president didn’t wonder. The COS’s schedule was worse than his. “At Vivian’s suggestion, I had the FBI do a little snooping. We believe John Trent is funding the whole thing.”

  “John Trent.” Meyers leaned back as if the revelation were a punch to his nose. “He’s one of my best contributors.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, he is.”

  “The law prohibits the CIA from investigating its own citizens, but our people in Israel have been able to verify his presence in the country several times over the last few months.”

  “Why would he spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to fund biblical archaeology?” the president asked.

  “Not hundreds of thousands of dollars, Mr. President,” Tony said. “Millions. Tens of millions.”

  “Wow. Have they found anything?” Meyers was beginning to feel unsettled.

  “Yes, but we don’t know what.” The CIA director shifted in his seat. “There have been no announcements. The teams avoid the media. In fact, a Jordanian reporter was shown the door by special security at the hotel where the primary archaeologists are housed. We were able to identify a couple of the security people. They’re Shin Bet.”

  That took the president by surprise. “Israeli internal security?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “But that would mean …”

  “Yes sir,” Vivian said. “Israel is part and parcel of this. Not only do they know about it, they’re involved.”

  “Unbelievable. Okay, Vivian, throw your cards down. What are they planning?”

  The secretary of state took a deep breath and then spat out the words. “Best guess, sir: Israel is going to rebuild its temple.”

  President Baker D. Meyers was thankful that he was already seated.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Five men led by Landau trudged down the sloping tunnel. Chambers made eye contact with the security man, who answered the unspoken question with a nod. Landau had told him he would check each man personally. No one could blame him for the deaths at the ancient Dead Sea compound, but Chambers could tell Landau was blaming himself. He didn’t speak of the event, hadn’t changed h
is behavior or attitude, but something in the man’s eyes said that he still felt the pain of his failure. Chambers knew that if he could excavate the man the way he did archaeological sites, he wouldn’t have to dig very far to find a trove of guilt and remorse.

  It took only moments to set up the power hammer with a wide, chisel-like blade.

  “I want everyone on the up-slope side and back a ways. That’s the closest exit should things go south.” Chambers moved to the chalk marks on the tunnel wall.

  “I’m staying close so I can record the work.” Amber raised the video camera.

  “No you’re not. You and the others are going to go ten or fifteen meters up the tunnel.”

  Amber frowned. “You don’t need to prove your bravery to me or anyone else—”

  “Amber, I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m just being cautious and logical. It doesn’t make sense to endanger anyone else. Besides, nothing else is going to happen.”

  “Then why send us back—”

  “Landau. Would you please escort Dr. Rodgers away from the area? Toss her over your shoulder if you need to.”

  “Why don’t you let me work the power tool, Doc.” Landau moved closer. “Or maybe one of the workers.”

  Chambers lowered his head and his voice. “It’s my call. This is going to be the way it is. Understood? Now beat it.”

  “Come on, Dr. Rodgers. Your man seems intent on doing this alone. It seems he has a stubborn streak.”

  Amber started up the low grade. “You have no idea.”

  “I heard that,” Chambers said.

  For the next three minutes, Chambers studied the marks, then decided to start at the top and work his way down each side. If he had read the GPR returns correctly, he would have a meter-wide opening that stood a little over a meter-and-a-half high. Not big, but big enough. His primary concern was the limestone facing giving way before he was done cutting, especially since the GPR revealed a loose material sealing the auxiliary tunnel.

  He slipped on a pair of noise-suppressing ear protectors, hoisted the twenty-five-pound demolition hammer a little above his head, placed the three-inch-wide hardened-steel chisel to the rock face, and took a deep breath. He squeezed the trigger.

  The noise, compounded by echo, ran the length of the tunnel. Even with a protective headset on, Chambers cringed at the sound. If it was possible to raise the dead, this noise would do it.

  Bits of rock flew up and out; dust swirled, then hung in the air and clung to his goggles. He could taste the dirt. The blade cut the soft stone easily, and soon chunks were falling at Chambers’s feet. It took ten minutes to cut across the top of the narrow rectangle he had inscribed. He started down the sides, chiseling down a short distance and then cutting another horizontal line to keep the stone from dropping on him as a single slab. Something he assumed might hurt.

  Once he had created cut lines that marked off a meter wide by a half meter high, he stopped the power. “Sledgehammer, please.”

  A worker started forward, but Landau stopped him. He took the long-handled tool to Chambers but refused release it. “Stand back.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I got more meat on my bones than you archaeology types. Whatcha think? Hit it right in the middle?”

  “No, really, I can—”

  “I’m sure you can, but what you can’t do is take the sledge away from me. Now move back.”

  David backed up, grumbling with each step.

  Landau set his feet, swung the sledgehammer, and hit the wall dead center in the rectangle Chambers marked off with power hammer. It moved but held its place. Again, Landau put his back into the swing, and the stone facing cracked. One more swing knocked a hole in the material. The next swing shattered the rock and it crumbled. A stream of sand poured from the opening and onto the ground. It took several minutes for the flow to stop.

  “Well, now we know what the loose material sealing the auxiliary tunnel is,” Amber said. She moved to the mound at the base of the opening and fingered the granules. “Nothing out of the ordinary. At least to the eye.”

  Chambers moved to the opening and peered in. He pulled back, activated his helmet light, and looked in again. “Folks, we have a tunnel, but it’s not big.” Claustrophobia began to roil in his stomach again. “Okay, let’s finish this.”

  He picked up the power hammer, then felt a hand on his shoulder. “Let one of the workers do it, David.” Amber looked worried. “You’ve made your point.”

  “I didn’t have a point.”

  “Look, the tunnel seems sound. These men were hired to do this kind of work. You’re embarrassing them.”

  Chambers looked at the group of men in dirty work clothes, then held up the power tool. A man stepped forward, and Chambers retreated up the tunnel. The man had been watching carefully. He followed Chambers’s example, cutting the remaining portion of covering into two rectangles. Then he used the sledgehammer on each piece. The rectangles gave easily, crumbling at his feet and releasing sand into the tunnel.

  Using shovels and a broom, the workers cleared the entrance of sand and rubble, piling the debris along the base of the tunnel’s other wall.

  Crouching, Chambers studied the opening. It was ragged, lacking the refined technique of the workers who had created Herod’s tunnel.

  “It looks like a natural fissure,” Amber said.

  “Perhaps. It would make sense that they would use a natural geological formation, or maybe they just want us to think it’s natural.”

  “Why would they do that?” Landau asked.

  “Who knows? To make treasure hunters think there was nothing in there to find. We have no way to know. The Essenes used natural caves to hide the Dead Sea Scrolls.” He paused. “Well, let’s see what’s been kept under wraps for all these centuries.”

  Chambers heart began to pump like a piston in an Indy car, and sweat dotted his brow. For a moment, he thought he saw the ragged opening close like the mouth of a giant cave creature. He took a deep breath, then another.

  “You okay, Doc?” Landau sounded concerned.

  “Yep. Why?” He knew why.

  “Because you look like you’re about to toss breakfast, and I want to make sure I’m out of the way when you do.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Amber squatted beside him. “He’s right. You look ill.” They exchanged glances.

  “Gee, thanks.” He looked back into the opening. “I’m going to have to take my helmet off. It narrows … quite a bit in there.” He took hold of a flashlight.

  “Let me go, David,” Amber said. “I’m smaller than you. It only makes sense.”

  “No, I’m going in first. I’ll keep you posted as I go along.” Chambers didn’t wait for another objection, nor did he want to give his claustrophobia time to intensify. He crawled through the narrow opening. He was just an inch under six feet tall, which meant he was close to a foot too tall to walk in standing up.

  He moved forward, his helmet in one hand, a flashlight in the other. “The passage narrows and lowers the deeper I go.”

  “How do you feel?” Amber asked.

  “I feel like I’m in a vise.” He pushed on but not before cracking his head on the inclined ceiling. He turned sideways and inched deeper and deeper in the crevice, pressing his back against one side of the rugged passageway. “I can’t imagine trying to do this with just a torch. Those guys had some guts.”

  Every muscle tensed as Chambers lowered himself to his side and tried to push forward along the ground like an oversized snake. Every few feet the opening narrowed more, and his fear level hit maximum.

  He stopped.

  He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t draw air into his lungs.

  The front and back walls touched his body. Sweat streamed from his face and into his eyes. His hands shook. His legs trembled. The walls were closing, pressing in, squeezing him, crushing him, pressing him flat.

  Nonsense. Walls don’t move. They’re in the same place they were five mi
nutes ago; the same place they were two thousand years ago. It’s in your mind. When he was in college, he heard his psychology professor say, “The mind cannot distinguish between fiction and reality. It’s why we jump while watching a scary movie. We know the image is nothing more than a two-dimensional representation of actors playing a part, but when the killer jumps at the girl, we jump anyway.” He now understood what the old prof was saying.

  Keep going. Don’t think. Don’t imagine. Just squiggle and squirm forward. It has to get bigger. It has to. And if it doesn’t? Don’t think that. Just move. Move. Inch forward. Move. Move. Move.

  Sand filled his pockets and pushed beneath his belt. The grit dug at his skin.

  A Bible verse flew to the top of his mind. Something from Paul. From the second book of Corinthians: “We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.” Hard pressed. The phrase had new meaning for Chambers.

  He clenched his teeth, tired of inhaling dust and dirt, and used his legs to push on. It took several efforts to move a meter, but he was moving. He had planned to estimate the length of the ragged passageway. His first guess was ten meters, but it was starting to feel like ten kilometers.

  Still he pressed. Still the opening narrowed until he had just enough room for his chest to expand when he inhaled. If it narrowed any more, he’d have to turn back—except there was no way to turn. Slithering backward would be twice as hard, and not being able to see where he was going twice as claustrophobic.

  “Having fun yet, Doc?”

  “Every inch is a party.” Chambers heard the concern in Landau’s voice.

  In the temple days, the priests used to tie a rope around the high priest’s ankle before he entered the Holy of Holies to offer a sacrifice for the sins of the nation. They believed that if the high priest was unclean, God would kill him on the spot. If that happened, who would be brave enough to go in and retrieve the body? The rope around the high priest’s ankle was a low-tech way of retrieving the corpse. Chambers wished someone had tied a rope around his ankle in case he became wedged between the rock face or lost consciousness. A good idea. Late, but good.