by C. M. Palov
“Solomon’s Temple?” Edie gave him a long wordless stare, her pupils contracting into microdots. As though she, too, suddenly realized the magnitude of the encoded message. “Oh, God . . . I didn’t know,” she murmured. “That changes everything.”
“The terrible thing about the truth is that sometimes you find it. Not only is the Temple Mount a holy site for the three major religions of the world, but over the centuries, it has been the most fought-over piece of real estate in the world.” Fraught with bloodshed, carnage, and internecine rivalry, the history of the Temple Mount was a fantastical tale almost too violent to be believed.
“I know that in 1967, during the Six-Day War, the Israelis captured the Temple Mount.”
“Although in an attempt to appease their Muslim neighbors, the Israelis permitted the Waqf, or Islamic Trust, to continue to act as the official administrators of the holy site.”
“So while the Jews have sovereignty over the Temple Mount, the Muslims maintain control of it.”
“And, as you undoubtedly know, this arrangement has been a point of contention between several generations of peace negotiators.” A heaviness in his heart inspired him to say, “Not for the first time have I wondered if the world would have been a better place had Solomon’s Temple never been constructed, the site being one of the most volatile spots on the planet.”
Slumping slightly in her chair, Edie stared at the innocuous sheet of lined notepaper.
Caedmon also stared at the deciphered message, stunned anew. “And now a madman has arrived on the scene, wholly intent on destroying the Dome of the Rock so he can build a Third Temple. With the Ark in his arsenal and a well-trained army at his disposal, he could easily bring about a series of events that mimic the events foretold in the Old Testament. Thus fulfilling Ezekiel’s prophecy.”
“We can’t let that happen,” Edie whispered, her body rigid with the strength of her emotion. “I don’t know if you’re aware that for some time now there’s been a strengthening alliance between Jewish and Christian fundamentalists.”
“Birds of the same dark feather,” he uncharitably remarked.
“Old Testament prophecies are shared by both religions. Which means that MacFarlane might possibly have allies inside Israel who would be more than willing to help him destroy the Dome of the Rock.”
Caedmon shook his head, the scenario having just become that much more frightening.
“Fanatical Christians working in league with fanatical Jews to incite the fanatical Muslims of the world. Incite any of the three and you have global instability. Incite all three and you have the makings of the next world war.”
Knowing that many a war had been ignited by the collective frenzy of which they spoke—the Middle Ages had been one big bloodbath of blind faith—Caedmon turned his head and stared at the churning water visible through the picture window on the other side of the club room.
They couldn’t get to Malta fast enough.
CHAPTER 80
Caedmon glanced up from the map spread before him on the bar counter.
A vacancy having come open at the last minute, he and Edie were seated at the Dragonara Hotel bar waiting for the maid to finish cleaning their suite. To his surprise, Valletta, the capital city of Malta, was quite the convention center; their seaside hotel was currently hosting a large gathering of British plastic surgeons. Because Malta had at one time been part of the British Empire, it was a popular destination with his countrymen. He’d purposefully selected the Dragonara in order to fade into the crowd. If a desk clerk or bellhop was questioned as to whether an Englishman had checked into the hotel, the reply would be “Yes, the hotel currently has two hundred English guests.”
Before returning his attention to the map, Caedmon surreptitiously glanced at the mirrored wall behind the bar, having resorted to old behaviors, scanning each and every bar patron, running mock scenarios in his head, trying to discern who among them would go in for the kill. He would have preferred sitting at an innocuous table in the back of the room, but the overflow of plastic surgeons swilling predinner drinkies had forced them to grab two stools at the bar.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask, is there really a big rock inside the Dome of the Rock?”
Caedmon nodded. “In fact, the rock, known in Hebrew as the Shetiyyah, is believed to be the foundation stone of the world. Before it was stolen by Shishak, the Ark of the Covenant rested on top of the Shetiyyah.”
The bartender, a swarthy fellow with an amiable disposition, placed a tonic water and a cola in front of them. Then, with a practiced flourish, he presented Edie with a plate full of fried calamari and a small dish of quartered lemons.
“Grazzi,” she replied in Malti, the response earning her a toothy grin.
Out of the corner of his eye, Caedmon watched as Edie squeezed a lemon, not on her squid, but into her cola. He continued to watch as she pursed her lips around the end of a fuchsia-colored straw. He well recalled how her lips had clamped around him earlier in the day.
Careful, old boy. Now is not the time for prurient thoughts and adolescent longings.
With a renewed focus, he stared at the GPS receiver, continuing the business of transferring the coordinates that he’d discovered in the database file onto a local topographical map with the aid of a map ruler. In the event the GPS batteries died a sudden death, he wanted a hard-copy backup.
“From where I’m sitting, Malta doesn’t look like that big of an island.”
“Approximately three hundred square miles. About the size of the Isle of Wight.” He plotted the last set of coordinates. “Ah! I think I’ve got a location.” Excited to have made such fast work of it, he pointed to a small jut of land off the south-west coast of Malta.
Edie squinted as she peered at the map. “Calypso’s Point,” she read aloud. “Geez, it’s no bigger than my front yard. What do the dark wavy lines mean?” She pointed to the contour lines that distinguished a topographical map from the run-of-the-mill motorist map.
“It means we’ll have to scale a cliff wall. Although there’s a road leading to the point, we must assume that MacFarlane will have the roadway closely guarded.”
He signaled the bartender to step over. When the young man approached, he swiveled the paper map in his direction. “Are you by any chance familiar with a place called Calypso’s Point?”
The bartender barely glanced at the map. “Iva, I know it well. It used to be a hideout for the Barbary pirates until the knights defeated them. But”—he expressively shrugged—“why would you want to go there? It’s uninhabited. You will find only seabirds and the ruins of St. Paul’s torri.”
An abandoned tower . . . how interesting. No doubt a signal tower once used by the Knights of St. John.
“Actually, it’s the sea birds that I wish to see,” he glibly lied, turning the map back in his direction. “I am something of an amateur bird watcher. Would you happen to know anyone who would be willing to take us to the point by way of the sea?”
“My brother-in-law has a fishing vessel. I am sure he could be persuaded to take you there. Assuming the price is right.”
“He has but to name it, the only stipulation being that I would like to depart later this evening.”
If the young man thought it odd that someone would go bird watching in the dead of night, he gave no indication, scribbling his brother-in-law’s phone number onto a cocktail napkin.
Their business concluded, the bartender turned and waited on a portly surgeon who loudly raved about the “jolly good pasties.”
Relieved that the logistics were taken care of, Caedmon neatly folded the map. That done, he slid map and ruler into his anorak pocket. With one more task to attend to, he glanced through the glass doors that fronted the entrance to the bar, able to see across the lobby into the so-called business center. One of the hotel amenities was the free use of a desktop computer, a fax machine, and a color copier. For the last twenty minutes, the computer had been commandeered by a Suffolk s
urgeon.
“Is he still there?”
“If you’re asking if I can still see the chap’s tonsured pate, the answer is yes.”
“Why do you need a computer, anyway? We got everything we needed from the ferryboat computer. Or at least I thought we did.”
“I need the computer because I intend to put together a dossier for the British consulate. If by tomorrow morning we haven’t returned to the hotel, the dossier will be sent to the consulate office here in Valletta. From there, it will be forwarded to British Intelligence. Hopefully, the lads at Thames House will be able to succeed where we failed.”
“You’re talking about your old buddies at MI5, right?”
He nodded. “One doesn’t need the Delphic Oracle to know that Stanford MacFarlane won’t relinquish the Ark without a fight.”
“And a deadly fight, at that,” Edie murmured; Caedmon could see that she was still distressed by the encoded message they had earlier deciphered. For several seconds she stared at her cola glass, the only sound being the dull clink-clink as she continued to swirl her straw.
Quite abruptly, she set the straw adrift.
“I keep thinking about that proverb, ‘Everything has an end.’ And I can’t help but wonder . . . is this the beginning of the end?”
His thoughts running a similar course, Caedmon cast his gaze at the second set of French doors, which opened onto a terrace; the hotel was set on a scenic perch overlooking the water. The sun had already begun its descent into the sea, creating a glorious explosion of tangerine and magenta. So beautiful, it was almost painful to watch. To his right, the baroque city of Sliema, a burnished maze of stone façades, rose up as if spawned from the sea.
How did he get himself into this mess? More important, how had he gotten Edie so deeply involved in it?
At first it had been simple academic curiosity. The Ark of the Covenant. If he could find it, if he could lay his hands upon it, he could prove himself worthy of the man who’d overseen his ouster from Oxford. Prove to his long-dead father that—
“I’m afraid,” Edie said, her tremulous voice breaking through the silence. “What if we can’t stop him? We were powerless to stop him from walking away with the Ark.”
Turning his head, he peered into Edie’s sad brown eyes. “Although MacFarlane may best us, we’re not as powerless as you seem to think. Knowledge has a power all its own.”
“It’s the guns and bullets that have me worried.”
“They can only kill you. But knowledge lives on.”
Placing a hand on his knee, she leaned toward him. “So does this,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his.
CHAPTER 81
Like a miser counting pennies, the crescent moon stingily cast a jaundiced light upon the choppy sea. Its lantern extinguished, the small fishing vessel steadily made its way toward the barren chunk of limestone in the distance. Calypso’s Point. The captain, a wizened salt who spoke no English, stood at the helm. Having been amply compensated for his services, he had turned a blind eye to the peculiarities of the voyage.
Caedmon glanced at Edie, only the pale oval of her face visible in the inky darkness; both of them were garbed in dry diving suits with matching black hoods.
“You know, maybe we should let British intelligence handle this,” Edie said in a hushed voice. “It’s not too late.”
Seated across from her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the top of his thighs. “Until MacFarlane actually steps foot inside Jerusalem, there’s little that British intelligence or Mossad can do to stop him. Those chaps don’t hold much truck with doomsday prophecies. And though the intelligence agencies will do all in their power to prevent a terrorist act from occurring on the Temple Mount, they won’t be able to act until they have material proof that MacFarlane intends to commit the unthinkable. I, however, am no longer bound by such dictates.”
“Yeah, but short of killing Mac—” She slapped a hand over her mouth. A second later, she lowered it. “That’s exactly what you’re intending to do, isn’t it?”
“In order to destroy a serpent, one must decapitate it.”
“But what if the snake turns around and bites you?”
Rather than answer the question put to him, he instead said, “I think you should return to Valletta with the captain.”
“I told you once already, you’ll have to knock me unconscious to stop me from going with you to Calypso’s—What’s happening?” she hissed, clearly startled.
“No need for alarm. The captain has merely cut the engine.”
“So this is our stop, huh?” She stared at the remote and off-putting promontory that loomed above the small vessel.
Caedmon peered upward. The limestone cliff rose approximately two hundred meters above the sea. “Yes, I know. It has a decidedly Gothic aspect.” As he spoke, he stepped over to the side of the boat, his neoprene booties softly smacking against the deck. Edie followed in his wake, dashing his hope that she’d have a change of heart at the last.
“Right. Let’s get to it,” he said, swinging his leg over the side. A second later, he plunged into the cold sea, grateful they had only a short distance to traverse.
Treading water, he watched as Edie jumped ship and proved herself an able swimmer.
A few minutes later, shivering from the cold and breathing heavily from their exertions, they emerged onto a spindly strip of land that was strewn with chunks of rock that had fallen from the cliff face. At a glance, Caedmon could see that the fishing vessel had already begun its homeward voyage, the captain not bothering to confirm whether they had safely landed.
Removing her hood, Edie jutted her chin at the imposing sea cliff. “Without climbing gear, I don’t know how we’re going to get up that sucker.”
“I have it on good authority that there’s a narrow trail not far from here.” That authority being none other than the hotel bartender, who had laid claim to ascending the cliff on many a youthful outing. Something of a local rite of passage.
He swung a rubberized rucksack off his shoulder. Opening it, he removed yet another watertight bag, from which he removed a coil of wire, a sheathed diving knife, a green laser light, two torches, the GPS receiver, the topographical map, and two pairs of athletic shoes. Inventory verified and double-checked, he unzipped and removed his dry suit. Like Edie, he had worn black hiking attire beneath his suit.
“Guess it’s time for the final reckoning, huh?” Although Edie attempted a brave smile, she fell woefully shy of the mark.
“Yes, I’m afraid that the time has come.”
Rearing back his arm, his right hand balled in a fist, he delivered a quick, precise blow to the side of Edie’s head.
Instantly, her eyes rolled backward, Caedmon catching her as she pitched forward in an unconscious heap. KO’d by the ghost fist that she never saw coming.
Very gently he laid her on a bed of saltwort, using the empty rucksack as a pillow for her head. He then placed a torch in her lax hand. If he didn’t return before she came to, or if he didn’t return at all, she would be able to signal for help.
Still on bent knee, he leaned forward and softly kissed her on the lips.
I’m sorry, love. You gave me no choice.
CHAPTER 82
Unable to stop what had become an almost compulsive behavior, Stan MacFarlane again glanced at the innocuous shipping container on the other side of the tower room.
Before permitting the Ark to be packed for transport, he’d spent hours gazing upon it. Awestruck. For someone accustomed to the severe austerity of a Baptist church, the Ark had about it an almost pagan beauty. From the fierce pair of winged cherubim mounted on the gold lid to the strange and incomprehensible symbols incised on all four sides, it bespoke an ancient and holy heritage. A time when Moses led the Hebrew children to the land promised to them by God.
Anxious, he pushed his folding chair away from the camp table and reached for the pair of night-vision goggles. NVGs in hand, he walked over to the squar
e-cut opening on the other side of the circular room. The tower had once been used by the Knights of St. John to monitor sea travel. This night, it served the same purpose, as Stan watched for the luxury yacht that had set sail from Israel earlier in the week. Owned by Moshe Reznick, a Knesset member and cofounder of the Jerusalem-based Third Temple Movement, the yacht would briefly anchor in the bay, pick up its precious cargo, then make the return trip to Haifa. From there, the Ark would be transported to Jerusalem. Stan and his gunnery sergeant, Boyd Braxton, would accompany the Ark on its sea voyage. The rest of his men would fly into Ben-Gurion Airport. Christian tourists making the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
The yacht was due to arrive within the hour.
There were many who would argue that having been uncovered, the Ark should be placed in a museum. But there was only one place for the Ark, that place having been ordained by God. The yet-to-be-built Third Temple in Jerusalem.
Once constructed, the Third Temple would stand for a thousand years. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel.
Stan was being aided in his endeavors by the members of the Third Temple Movement: Jews who fervently believed in the prophecies foretold by Ezekiel, certain that out of the ashes of the great Battle of Gog and Magog, a new Messiah would step forth.
Although some Christians condemned the Jews, accusing them of having killed the Savior, he knew that Jesus had himself been a Jew. As had been his parents. And all his forebears. Each and every member of the first Church had been a Jew. The Jews were the Chosen People, the custodians of the First and Second Temples, the original guardians of the Ark of the Covenant. And in the great battle to come, the Jews would prevail, fulfilling the destiny envisioned for them by Ezekiel.
Hearing a high-pitched chime emanate from his laptop computer, Stan lowered the night-vision goggles and walked back to the camp table.
Praise be. The much-anticipated e-mail from his comrades at the Third Temple Movement.