The Temple Mount Code

by Charles Brokaw

  A female voice spoke up quickly. ‘Oh, lurkers are still pretty scary at times.’

  The group laughed good-naturedly.

  ‘I’m always amazed at the wealth of history I find in a student’s Facebook pages. As I flip through the photographs, I can watch that student literally grow up within a few moments.’

  ‘Now that’s creepy.’

  Lourds smiled. ‘Maybe. But I can remember my own youth when childhood was something your mother dragged out in dusty photo albums. I have to wonder what our descendants are going to think about all of this a hundred years from now.’ Lourds tapped the tortoiseshell again. ‘One thing I’m convinced of: they’ll have a far better grasp of our history than any previous generation has of the one that preceded them.

  ‘So, is there anything special about that tortoiseshell?’ Baozhai asked.

  ‘Tortoiseshells are important to the Jiahu site. Since it is part of the Neolithic Yellow River culture that occupied these central plains, every archaeologist I’ve talked to is convinced that we’ve barely touched the history that can be found here. Tortoiseshells are an important part of this dig. The Jiahu script contains sixteen markings that we’ve been able to recognize.’

  ‘But, Professor Lourds, there are a number of historians and linguists who argue that the Jiahu symbols aren’t a language at all. They’re just drawings used to represent a concept.’ That came from a studious-looking young man in the back.

  Undeterred, Lourds leaned forward and inscribed a circle with an angled line through it.

  Ø

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘A mathematical symbol for zero.’

  ‘Is it?’ Lourds raised an eyebrow. ‘And if I were to inscribe a skateboard within its circumference? Or a gun? What would it be then?’

  No one said anything.

  Jimmy Woo looked around at the crowd. ‘Dude, it would be a sign. No skateboarding. No weapons. You guys would suck at Pictionary.’

  ‘Thank you, Jimmy.’ Lourds smiled.

  Jimmy shrugged and concentrated on his camera.

  ‘That symbol, used in that context, becomes a message. When skateboarding first swept through the United States, and young hooligans made the sidewalks and streets unsafe for man or beast or vehicle, signs used to be written out.’ Lourds trailed a hand through the air. ‘“No skateboarding.” In time, a picture of a skateboard was added. For clarification, I supposed.’

  ‘Or because they thought the great unwashed couldn’t read.’ That came from a particularly grimy young man at the forefront of the crowd.

  ‘Ah.’ Lourds smiled with pride as he successfully navigated the group into the lesson he wanted to deliver. ‘So, city fathers, in their understanding of their populaces, chose to recognize that not everyone could read. Or, perhaps, take the necessary time to read a posting.’

  ‘Skateboarding is a big word.’ The young man grinned and high-fived the guy next to him.

  ‘It is. So let’s take that concept for a moment. You have a population that’s largely uneducated and illiterate, what are you going to do to communicate with them quickly and efficiently?’

  ‘And you don’t have Facebook or Twitter?’ The young woman at the front of the crowd looked appalled.

  ‘Exactly. Think about the way silhouettes of men and women have replaced the designations men and women on public bathroom doors.’

  Taking a new water bottle from his backpack, Lourds twisted the cap free and drank. ‘Society tends to scale itself back to the lowest common denominator because the concepts are easier to pass along.’ He held up the tortoiseshell. ‘We know sixteen of the Jiahu symbols, and that knowledge was gained from tortoiseshells and bones. We know markings that compare to the oracle bone script for words like eye, sun, and day.

  ‘From that, linguists and historians have to interpret what’s written, what they know about the culture from other artifacts, and piece together as much of the language as they can.’ He peered at the studious young man. ‘So, in answer to your question, young man, some scholars may choose to view the Jiahu symbols as a type of protowriting, not a written language as we know it, but as a means of mass communication.’

  ‘Do you think everything that’s written is important?’

  ‘I do.’ Lourds nodded emphatically. ‘Suppose you learned that the country you live in was settled by brave sailors who faced the unknown places on a map to seek out new lives. Then someone came along and took out the word sailors because the interpretation was wrong, and you were in fact descended from pirates. Would that change your view of yourself?’

  A Chinese youth in the front looked hesitant, then spoke. ‘It depends on how tight you were with your ancestors. How much that family history is used to build on.’

  Lourds smiled and nodded. ‘Exactly right. Again, it depends on how close a culture is to its past. There are still several cultures that are. One facet of language, one shred of new understanding, one reinterpretation or missed interpretation, has the profound ability to make a culture change its view of itself.

  Baozhai took the conversation back to what clearly interested her. ‘Do you see any new facets in that tortoiseshell you found, Professor Lourds?’

  Peering at the tortoiseshell, Lourds took a penlight from his shirt pocket, illuminated the shell, and held it up to the crowd. Under the light, distinct lines gleamed through the patina. One of the symbols looked like a mountain that had been dyed blue-green. ‘Actually, I think this is a map.’ He held the tortoiseshell up to his eye. ‘Isn’t that interesting?’

  4

  Ma’an (Gaza City)

  North Gaza Strip

  July 23, 2011

  ‘If I am caught talking to you, Professor Strauss, there are men who will kill me,’ the shopkeeper said.

  As he stood in the gloomy, dust-laden room, Lev Strauss felt perspiration trickle down his spine, and he had to quash the instinct to run.

  ‘Men are already hunting me, Abu. I am also taking my life in my hands to be here. But here I am.’ Lev stood in front of Abu Tamboura, dwarfing the small old man even though he was not a tall man himself.

  Tamboura was an old-school smuggler who had made and lost small fortunes during the years of tight blockades and embargoes enforced by the Israelis. Things had since loosened up off and on, and he now owned several legitimate businesses, but he’d never left smuggling completely behind.

  ‘You come to my place of business with men hunting you?’ Tamboura knotted his fists and didn’t try to hide his rage. His wispy slenderness emphasized his short stature, and he was bald as an egg, though bushy eyebrows stood at attention over his glasses. His suit was cheap but well cared for, indicating a frugal but fastidious man.

  The ‘place of business’ wasn’t much for show either. The small room was at the back of one of Tamboura’s legitimate businesses. Cheap pottery and soaps lined the wooden shelves. A small card table and three mismatched chairs sat under a naked bulb that hung from the low ceiling.

  ‘I didn’t bring them here.’ Lev hoped that was true.

  After a moment of hesitation, Tamboura waved to the table. ‘Sit.’

  Lev sat, grateful to get his weight off his left leg. He’d lost everything below the knee more than thirteen years ago and, although the plastic-and-metal prosthesis that had replaced it served him well, he’d been pushing its capabilities over the last several days.

  ‘What do you need from me?’ Tamboura fidgeted as he sat.

  ‘The same thing I have always needed. Information.’

  Tamboura licked his lips and nervously drummed his fingers on the tabletop. ‘What information?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a writer named Yazid Ibn Salam?’

  Tamboura gave the name some thought, then reached inside his jacket and took out a small PDA. ‘Should I know this name?’

  ‘As an author?’ Lev shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t think so. I only stumbled upon a book he’d written lately myself.’

  ‘You are a languag
e professor at the University of Jerusalem. Please forgive me for pointing out that books are your business, not mine.’

  ‘I have reason to believe that any book written by Yazid Ibn Salam would be worth a considerable amount to anyone looking for it.’

  Tamboura scrolled through the PDA. The ghost gray of the screen reflected against the hard planes of his face. ‘If I had such knowledge, it might be costly.’

  Lev smiled. Greed was a constant in Tamboura’s world, as true as due north on a compass. ‘I can pay.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Some of my contacts can be quite costly.’ Tamboura searched his database. Several international art houses and insurance companies would have loved to know what was in that database. He glanced up and shook his head. ‘I can find nothing about your author.’

  Lev sighed.

  ‘Perhaps I could continue searching for information about this author.’ Tamboura put his PDA away and regarded Lev with his dark eyes.

  ‘That might not be a good idea.’

  When Tamboura’s eyes glittered, Lev realized he’d said the wrong thing.

  ‘Are other people searching for books by this man?’

  Lev stood, and the pain in his leg throbbed to renewed life. He put money on the table. ‘For your time, Abu.’

  Tamboura looked at the money for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I haven’t done anything to earn it.’

  ‘You confirmed something that I would have wasted time trying to find out.’

  Tamboura scooped the money up in one hand. ‘Then I’m glad to have been of service.’

  As Lev turned to go, the doorway suddenly burst open, and a man stepped through with a pistol in his hand, followed by others.

  Lev saw Tamboura already in flight toward the back of the building. Moving quickly, Lev slammed a fist into the naked lightbulb, shattering it and plunging the room into darkness. He ran after Tamboura. The wily smuggler always had a way out.

  In the darkness, Lev collided with a wooden cabinet. Pottery splintered against the concrete floor in a kaleidoscope of noise. Evidently the man in the doorway thought he was being fired on because he began shooting.

  ‘Stop shooting, you fool! He must be taken alive!’

  Lev had an arm in front of him, fumbling at a run through the dark.

  Then Tamboura pulled open a door almost hidden behind a wide bookshelf filled with boxes of soap. The little man scurried into the evening as traffic noises echoed inside the small room.

  The doorway let out into a small alley that ran between stone buildings. To the left, a wooden fence barred the way. To the right, the alley opened up onto the street. Tamboura ran toward the street, and Lev was at his heels.

  Before they’d gone a half dozen steps, a car turned down the alley and raced at them. Tamboura froze, trapped in the bright headlights. The doors opened, and men stepped out, all holding guns.

  ‘Professor Strauss. We don’t wish to harm you.’ He spoke in English, but his accent was Arabian.

  Lev turned immediately and ran in the other direction. Tamboura wheeled around as well and started to pull even with Lev, showing surprising speed. Then shots erupted, and Tamboura’s head shattered into a bloody mess. His corpse managed one more faltering step and fell on the cobblestones without a sound.

  Even with the prosthesis, Lev made good speed. He hurled himself at the fence and climbed as quickly as he could. Before he could top the fence, he felt something thud into it and thought that one of his pursuers had reached the barrier as well.

  Then a man crested the top of the fence on the other side. He looked at Lev. ‘I’m with Mossad, Professor. You’re coming with us.’ He thrust the snout of a wicked machine pistol over the top of the fence and fired strategic bursts.

  Lev pulled himself over the top and dropped to the ground as bullets hit the fence behind him. The prosthesis buckled underneath him, and he fell, catching himself on his hands.

  ‘Get up.’ A man caught Lev by the arm and yanked him to his feet.

  Lev stood and practically fell forward into a stumbling run. The man held on to his arm and tugged Lev forcefully. Two other men had joined the Mossad agent at the top of the fence. Bullets knocked one of them down, and he sprawled in the alley with blood covering his face. Lev yanked his attention forward to a van waiting across the street.

  ‘Faster, Professor Strauss, if you want to live.’ The Mossad agent was young and fierce-looking. He carried a pistol with an extended magazine in his free hand.

  Men set up outside the van with weapons at the ready.

  The sudden din behind Lev caused him to look back over his shoulder. The car that had stopped in the alley now roared through the fence. The two Mossad agents at the top of the fence flew backwards.

  Immediately, the Mossad agents in the street opened fire. The van’s side cargo door opened as bullets drummed against the vehicle. The man with Lev heaved him forward as another man caught his free arm and pulled. Lev sailed forward and landed on his stomach. The second man yanked him away from the opening as the other agent slammed the door shut.

  The man who had pulled Lev to his feet and gotten him across the street slapped the driver’s shoulder. ‘We’re secure. Go.’

  The driver hit the gas, and the van shot forward as more bullets peppered its side.

  Lev pushed himself to a sitting position and looked at the man beside him. ‘You’re Mossad.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘We came to get you, Professor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The decision was made to bring you in and put you under protective custody. My superiors want to know where the book is.’

  Lev looked at the grim-faced men around him. ‘What book?’

  The man shook his head. ‘I don’t know what book. But my superiors do. They want it – and you – protected. Too many people are after you. Including the Ayatollah.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘That back there should prove that to you. Trust us. We’re your friends.’

  Lev blinked. ‘There’s no book,’ he said, shaking his head. But if the book is true, he thought, and the world finds out, everything will change.

  5

  Behesht-e Zahra (The Paradise of Zahara)

  Tehran

  The Islamic Republic of Iran

  July 24, 2011

  ‘You have no right to keep us from paying our respects!’ Liora Ravitz stood at the front of the angry mob gathered at the cemetery entrance.

  Reza stood at her side and raised his voice with hers. ‘She is our martyr! We demand to be allowed entrance!’

  The Basij militiaman in front of her ignored her as he stood behind his Plexiglas riot shield. He was young, as most of them were, dressed in military fatigue pants, jump boots, and a gray button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to midforearm. His equipment belt held a baton, but he kept a hand on the folded-stock AK-47 assault rifle that hung at his side.

  ‘Let us in!’ Liora stumbled forward slightly as the crowd baying behind her surged forward. She felt frightened, and that spiked her anger even more. If she touched the Basij, the man would surely shoot her.

  ‘Liora. Please be careful.’

  She turned to face the young man she loved. Reza was serious and intense, with a beard aging his baby face only a little. ‘If we are careful, dear Reza, we will never be free in this country.’

  ‘Let us in!’ A man farther down the line spat on the Plexiglas shield of the Basij in front of him.

  The Basij only spat and cursed at the man.

  Two of the protestor’s friends quickly hauled him back as he threw himself at his tormentor. The crowd collapsed on itself as the two men carried their friend farther back into the protection of friends.

  Fear swelled Liora’s throat. She was eighteen years old and was enrolled at Islamic Azad University. This was her first protest. Her mother had discovered her intentions and fought with her about it, but Liora had gone anyway.

  Wh
en she’d first arrived, she’d been afraid, especially because she hadn’t been able to find the other girls she’d agreed to join. She wondered if they had been forbidden to come, or if they had gotten too afraid to show up.

  The protest had turned out much larger than she’d expected.

  As she chanted and shouted, she wondered if this was how Neda Agha-Soltan felt the day she was shot for protesting the Iranian election two years ago. Liora didn’t know how anyone could willingly face death. She didn’t plan on dying, but then she didn’t think Neda Agha-Soltan had either.

  The young woman had been only twenty-six, with her whole life ahead of her.

  But it was a life here, under the rule of a misogynist despot. Liora could barely stand the thought. Things had to change.

  But even with the ascension of the new Ayatollah, things continued to be the same.

  ‘We weren’t allowed to pay our respects on June 20.’ Another man railed at the assembled Basij. ‘You cannot keep us from visiting her grave.’

  Posters of Neda Agha-Soltan showed her as she had been in her best health, and as she’d lain dying on Kargar Avenue. In the one, Liora thought the woman looked like an angel. In the other, Neda looked broken and torn, blood running from her mouth and nose, her eyes unfocused.

  Liora had first seen the videos of Neda’s death at sixteen. She’d been young and impressionable, still smarting from a broken romance.

  But Neda had given Liora someone to focus on, someone to hope to be. Neda Agha-Soltan had given her life trying to get the voice of women and reformists who stood against the Ayatollah’s rule heard. Her memory deserved to be honored by those that loved her.

  Taking a deep breath, Liora joined in the shouting again. ‘Let us in! Let us pay our respects! We will not be silenced!’

  Reza joined her, but he remained quieter than she though she knew his voice could be much louder.

  A jeep cruised slowly through the crowd, protected by a circle of Basij carrying assault rifles. Protestors yelled imprecations and curses, but they all backed away from the armed men.