Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest

by Roger Herst

  Prayers, meals, meditations, and household duties followed a fixed routine. A bell tolling at half-hour intervals normally propelled the monks into robot-like motion. They moved smartly throughout the day until retiring at 2000 hours. Soon after, the monastery went dark until a reveille bell rang at 0400 hours for morning song. As he was scanning and coding the fragments, he had noticed that the brethren went their separate ways during the day, but congregated together for morning prayers at 0500 hours. This, he determined, would be the best time to escape. The only tool needed to implement his plan was a cutting instrument to sever a line from the gondola's pulley.

  He was hungry, but refrained from entering the refectory. He was tired, but avoided his sleeping cell. Though his feet ached from long hours of standing in the workroom, it was necessary to stay afoot and in constant motion. The risk of entering his workroom to fetch a utility knife used for cropping transparent paper in the scanning process was considerable. But since he could think of no better way to obtain a cutting tool, there was no alternative.

  When he left the workroom earlier in the day, he had carefully turned off the electricity, including power to the business machines. But when he returned, electrified green LED lights punctuated the darkness, a sign that someone had been there after him. By candlelight, he surveyed his workroom, not surprised to discover the picnic coolers filled with the Qumran fragments gone. Accompanying them was his laptop computer, along with several unopened Ziploc bags he had left stacked on the worktable.

  "Let him have it," Tim mumbled to himself, noting that Father Benoit had also taken DVD copies of the scanned documents, though even with the software installed in his laptop, it wouldn't be easy for him to assemble fragments into readable form. At the moment, these relics from the dawning of the Common Era seemed less valuable than a common utility knife needed for his escape. To his relief, Father Benoit had focused on the artifacts and ignored the tools needed in the sorting and scanning process. Tim's knife rested on the second refectory table, exactly where he had last seen it.

  At 1900 hours, a bell tolled the final hour before bedtime, followed by a new sequence Tim did not recognize, perhaps a signal to search for him. Moments later, lights throughout the monastery went dark, including exit lanterns illuminating the passageways. Each monk on the move now carried either a flashlight or candle. Tim slipped into a niche in the limestone wall near his sleeping cell to watch how the brethren departed from their evening routines. Having observed that, in their passion for silence, these monks had developed uncanny hearing, he resolved to move as little as possible. With so many men now prowling near the sleeping quarters, he needed a new hiding place.

  His choice was a compromise between available spots and those he could find without light. A half-hour later, he squeezed into a cavity in the outer wall of the chapel, north of the central courtyard where the stones trapped the night's cold, penetrating both his thin desert clothing and his thick monk's habit.

  Near midnight, an emerging gibbous moon cast a slight tinge of illumination to the darkness. He was bitterly cold, exhausted from hugging the stonewall, hungry, and inexplicably thirsty. In the wee hours of the morning, he assumed that some of the monks had retired because their activity slowed. The dial of his wristwatch illuminated upon demand, but he feared even the slightest light might give him away.

  At 0330 hours, he took advantage of the dark to stretch his cramped muscles in preparation for the reveille bell calling the brethren to morning song. After that, he had to move quickly to the lift. He clung to the limestone walls, tiptoeing as silently as possible past the refectory, then a laundry, a bakery, and individual cells where a chorus of snoring sleepers muffled the sound of his footsteps. A vegetable garden blocked his path and sent him around a workshop where his shoulder dislodged a standing garden hoe, sending it to the ground with a loud crack, followed by a second unnerving clatter as it bounced. He froze in alarm, breathlessly waiting to see if it had woken any of the brethren. Habit would have him return this instrument to its original place, but its future use as a weapon couldn't be overlooked, so it stayed with him.

  Near 0400 hours, he could just make out the silhouette of the lift in the moonlight, now partially obscured by cumulous clouds. Two monks were seated beside the pulley mechanism, their hands buried in their cloaks, their heads hooded against the mountain cold. He felt confident that, when the bell tolled for morning prayers, they would abandon their post quickly. But when it sounded on the half-hour they didn't move, forcing him to await new developments. In the meantime, he crept forward until he reached the rack with car keys. During the long evening's wait, he planned to take with him all sets to prevent anyone from following on the single-lane dirt track from the monastery. With the choice of three vehicles, he was certain to find one operating sufficiently well to take him as far as Jericho. Three sets of keys made an unnerving jangle in his pocket.

  Thirty minutes later, he was further frustrated to see that, while the existing guards prepared to leave for morning song, a fresh team arrived to relieve them. One was short and stout, the other a foot taller, walking with an athletic bounce in his step. The pair assumed their posts with a series of arm signals, dashing Tim's hope to gain unimpeded access to the pulley lines. This required still another change of plans. He briefly considered aborting his escape, with an appeal to Father Benoit's sense of honor and reason. But upon reflection, he was sure he had not misread the Dominican's intentions.

  He paused to gather his resolve then, no longer worried about being seen, sprinted across the courtyard, swinging the garden hoe above his head like a medieval sword. The guards turned toward him in alarm, but, faithful to their vows of silence, did not cry out for help. For defense, they had nothing but their arms. The athletic one angled his muscular shoulder to receive the first blow. It struck harder than Tim intended and caught the undefended man off balance, sending him to his knees, his hands raised above his head for a shield. The steel hoe began a second descent for what was likely to be an injurious wound to the head. But at the last minute, Tim pulled back, allowing the instrument to swish harmlessly through the air.

  The fat monk stood paralyzed, his eyes staring through thick glasses, his hands still buried in his pockets. A mixture of disbelief and anguish twisted his features.

  "Français? Ivrit? Español? English?" Tim broke the silence to demand what language the monks understood.

  Still on his knees, the downed monk could barely manage a response in a low whisper, "Ivrit."

  Tim said, "B'seder. Akshav, takshivu li, Okay, now listen carefully to me. I don't expect you to break your vows and answer. Just listen to what I'm telling you."

  When neither monk shook his head in disagreement, Tim addressed the plump one. "I'm sure you don't know why Abbot Nicholas sent you to stop me from leaving. I'll tell you simply that I need your help. If you refuse, I'll bash the head of your colleague with this hoe." Tim circled his weapon over the kneeling monk, dropping it close to his shoulder, simulating a sinister blow, then lifting it high in preparation for striking.

  The bewilderment on the stout monk's face morphed into abject fear.

  "You know I have been working here for five weeks. I've been sorting fragments from scrolls discovered at Qumran. One is so important to the Church it must be removed immediately. Otherwise, there will be fighting over its ownership and it may be lost or destroyed forever. I intend to deliver it to the Antiquities Authority for safekeeping. We can all study copies once the original is in responsible hands. Now, help me with the lift."

  The monk on the ground pointed to the padlock securing the gondola and shook his head to indicate that neither he nor his companion possessed the key.

  "All right, then," Tim immediately resorted to his original plan. He withdrew the knife he had brought from the workroom and handed it to the standing monk. With his index finger he pointed to a spot on the pulley line. "Cut here."

  The monk hesitated until Tim swung his hoe over his partner
's head. Reluctantly, he began slicing into the hemp. The line was thicker than Tim had anticipated and the short blade less than ideal for the task. The possibility of more guards arriving threatened to end this laborious process, but Tim convinced himself that the monk was doing his best, at least until he was forced to rest hands that were unaccustomed to such labor. Tim immediately commanded his partner to switch places and, when he hesitated, his cooperation was ensured by a mild blow to the shoulder of his cohort.

  The larger, athletic monk brought more strength to the cutting process. While the hemp line resisted until the last strands, it finally succumbed. Tim quickly gathered and coiled approximately forty meters, sufficient to lower himself to the ground outside.

  "Tie this end to the frame," he commanded the standing monk, taking the knife into his own hand. But the man had clumsy fingers unaccustomed to such work and could not fashion a knot capable of holding Tim's weight. Tim had no alternative but to relinquish altogether the hoe while he relieved the monk and tied a common cinch knot himself. The monks could have seized the moment to attack him, but being thoroughly cowed, they remained passive.

  After testing the knot for strength, Tim abandoned the hoe completely. Before climbing to the parapet, he evaluated his adversaries. Would they strike while he climbed the ladder? Or sabotage the line as he rappelled off the wall? More likely, he decided, they would run to the chapel for help. With a little luck, that would give him enough time to reach the ground. After a moment's hesitation, he tossed the knife over the wall like a baseball player tossing a ball into the outfield.

  Nothing was said as he climbed the ladder, the coiled line on one shoulder. Once on the parapet, he uncoiled what was left and dropped it over the stone wall. Then, placing the secured end behind his back and taking hold with both hands, he prepared to leap into the darkness, estimating that it would take less than two minutes to reach the bottom. His weight shifted backward, his knees bent, he took a deep breath for reassurance, and pushed off, planting one foot below the other. With the line held taut by one hand behind his back and the other feeding it out, he began his descent.

  He was several meters from the ground when someone flipped the main electrical switch, illuminating the monastery with lights blazing from many windows. Above him, Tim could hear movement on the parapet. No voices, but the bell now rang without stopping to signal a general alarm. Above him, the shadows of hooded monks appeared. Their lanterns cut wide swaths into the darkness. A searchlight suddenly shot a long shaft of light into the morning sky, but could not be maneuvered to focus on the monastery's outer wall.

  Tim's right foot touched the ground and in another instant was met by his left. Abandoning the rappelling line, he took his first step to freedom, looking for the path he knew would descend the hillside to the parking area and the dirt track leading to Jericho.

  "Timothy!" The familiar voice of Father Benoit howled from atop the parapet, shattering the inviolate rule of silence. "I know what you have taken. You won't get away with it." The priest's shriek revealed a visceral, almost animal, hostility.

  Tim could hear monks pounding flat spaces on the wall with the palms of their hands to condemn this violation of their sacred silence. Tim called back, "I've left you all the rest, Benoit. Do what you want with it. Enjoy your days in an Israeli prison."

  "You know what I'm talking about," Benoit howled in unconcealed rage. "You have no right to it. I'm speaking now in the name of the Holy Father!"

  Tim responded for generations of fellow Protestants in their five-hundred-year dispute with the papacy, "What Holy Father? Yours perhaps, but not mine!"

  "The Pope speaks for all Christians."

  Tim wanted to move quickly from the monastery and felt little compunction to debate. But he also wanted the last word. "Your holy Church, Father Benoit, not mine. My Savior is not the Christ your Church invented for its selfish purposes. Jesus is the Christ of history who lived and died near this place. He was flesh and he was blood. I can prove it now. Let your Holy Father speak for you, but not for me."

  "You're a thief, Reverend Matternly."

  "And so are you, Father Benoit. We'll share equally the fate of thieves."

  Tim found the cars by the side of the single lane dirt track. Having taken all the keys, he could have selected any vehicle for his getaway. But the sound of Benoit's shrill voice triggered a transforming thought. Father Benoit had facilitated the theft of his Hyundai SUV without his permission. Now it seemed proper to reciprocate by disposing of the Dominican's beloved Buick. After turning over the sedan's ignition and watching its headlights illuminate the track, he climbed out and stepped over to a Fiat and Peugeot belonging to the monastery. There, he tossed two sets of ignition keys to the ground, thinking that by the time the monks found them after sunrise, he would be either in, or at least near, Jerusalem.

  Once on the floor of the Jordan Valley, Tim stopped the Buick to shed his clerical robe. He considered abandoning this monastic garb on the roadside, but thought better of it. Instead, he bundled the frock and stuffed it into the trunk.

  Dawn was breaking as he looked for the Damascus Gate, leading into the Arab Quarter inside Jerusalem's Old City. Palestinian merchants crowded the plaza, weaving pushcarts heavily laden with winter melons and slaughtered sheep through the narrow medieval portal. Traffic congestion slowed Tim's progress as he circled the square looking for a place to abandon Father Benoit's car. A legitimate space, where the police might do no more than issue a parking ticket, would not do. Rather, he wanted somewhere overlooked until nightfall when drug dealers, black-marketers, and pimps replaced the stall merchants and shop owners. It took more than twenty minutes to find what he had in mind, a spot two blocks from the plaza, beside a bedraggled hotel with bars on the windows dating from the Ottoman presence in Palestine. Tim parked the Buick, deliberately leaving the keys in the ignition. Sometime after dark, a car thief was bound to notice this windfall and drive it away. A little work in a local garage, perhaps a new paint job, and Benoit's beloved Buick would be ready to join his Hyundai somewhere in perpetual exile.

  ***

  Itamar normally avoided asking favors from his colleagues because they would invariably seek a payback, some privilege which ultimately compromised the Antiquities Authority. This was particularly true when a government official petitioned the Agency to keep a particular archeological treasure—that had, under shady circumstances, found a home in their private collection—from appearing on a list of protected artifacts. Since the IDF and the border police had designated Cave XII at Qumran off-limits to all visitors, Itamar made an exception and sought special permission for Gabby, thinking that she represented his best chance of finding, and perhaps arresting, Tim Matternly before the treasures from Qumran slipped out of the country.

  On the day scheduled for their visit to the new cave, Itamar insisted on an early start from Jerusalem and drove Gabby into the desert at breakneck speed in an all-terrain vehicle, the front doors painted with the official seal of the Antiquities Authority. Nine kilometers shy of the Allenby Bridge fording the Jordan River, they left the bitumen road to travel south on a dirt track, forcing Itamar to slow down. Desert poppies and buttercups painted the wilderness with pinks and yellows, spotted with an occasional flash of paintbrush scarlet. At Nabal Qalya, he removed an M-16 rifle from the backseat and locked it into a gun-rack attached to the dashboard.

  "Anticipating trouble?" Gabby asked.

  "It happens when you least expect it," Itamar said. "Terrorists wait until they catch you off-guard, then strike. We have military patrols in this region, but I'm now responsible for an important visitor from America."

  The sight of seven black tents on the valley floor below the Qumran caves surprised Itamar. "Bedouin," he announced. "My team reported that they were here weeks ago but eventually left. I've never known nomadic peoples to return to an area they grazed only weeks before."

  This struck Gabby as coincidental. "Could they be here in connection wit
h Cave XII?" she asked.

  He remained silent until she repeated her question.

  "Perhaps," he mumbled.

  "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  He glanced at her for an instant before returning his eyes to the dirt track. "Major Zabronski told you that a murdered shepherd boy was found in a wadi nearby. His kinsmen brought the body to the police for help finding his killer. The police think the unfortunate boy was shot in the cave."

  "Could his tribesmen be here to honor their dead son?"

  "Perhaps," said Itamar before changing the subject. "I'm taking your word that you know how to use rappelling lines."

  "I can play a pretty neat game of tennis, compete in a mini-triathlon, and sing in the choir. That should qualify me for rappelling, right?"

  They left the dirt road to follow tire tracks left by military vehicles. After another kilometer, they parked their 4-wheeler, then stuffed backpacks with halogen headlamps, a first-aid kit, lunch, and six bottles of water. On foot, they hiked through rugged terrain marked by large boulders and deep wadis. Three Israeli soldiers encamped above Cave XII to discourage amateur archeologists welcomed them with assault weapons with long-range sniper scopes at the ready. A scruffy-looking corporal in need of a bath, who was obviously unhappy with his assignment, read Itamar's permits issued by the border police along with confirming permission from the sector's military commander. As soon as he was confident Itamar and Gabby were authorized to be there, he drew their attention to the Bedouin tents while handing Itamar rubber-coated military binoculars for a closer look.