“Good point,” I agree. “And I’m beginning to see why you don’t want Cross to know about all this. If he takes possession of the codice, he’s liable to obsessively spend millions having the seal broken just to see if it can be done.”
“Or worse, he’ll sell them to someone for an out of this world price. He might sell them to a bad government belonging to a dangerous country. Iran for instance.”
The woman’s got a hell of a point.
I say, “So where are the books in relation to the Damascus Gate in the Old City?”
“That’s just it. When I went back to the shop with several colleagues of mine who were working the dig, the proprietor was no longer there.”
“Maybe he had the day off.”
Another vicious shake of the head. Or what’s the better word . . . adamant.
“If only that were the truth, Chase. The man who was now behind the counter, a tall, broad-chested, balding man in his sixties, insisted that the proprietor in question never existed in the first place.”
I look her in the eyes. “Never existed . . . And the seven books?”
“In the bald man’s words, ‘Belief in such things is pure fantasy. The stuff of legend. Seek out the codices no longer.’”
Popping the last forkful of crepe into my mouth, I wash it down with what remains of my second cold beer.
“You know what we have here, Doc?” I say, wiping my mouth with a napkin.
“Tell me.”
“We have us a conspiracy of Biblical proportions.”
“Literally,” she says.
“Maybe it’s time to call the History Channel,” I say.
CHAPTER 12
Dr. Azzahra tries to put up a fight when the bill comes, but she’s been an invaluable asset in what’s already turning out to be a rather Cloak and Dagger search for the seven missing ancient books. Besides, my, or should I say our, employer is inevitably paying all bills from this point forward anyway. That said, I make sure to grab a receipt from the waitress.
Outside on the sidewalk, Magda holds her hand up to hail a cab. She manages to nab one right away. The taxi driver pulls up to the corner. She goes to open the rear door.
“Hey, Doc,” I say, “how do I get in touch with you if I need to?”
She locks eyes on me, bites down on her bottom lip.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Chase,” she says. “As crazy as this is going to sound, I’m a little nervous about discussing the codices with you alone more than we already have.”
My body deflates. A few minutes ago, she was spilling her guts about the metal books. Doing it behind Cross’ back. Now she doesn’t want anything to do with discussing them further. Or maybe I just think she’s super cute and super smart and single, and I’d like to see her again. Chase the hopeful.
“Was it something I said?”
She smiles, touches my hand with her free hand. I think she’s onto me and my little crush, despite our little age difference.
“Oh no,” she says, “it’s not that. Turns out you’re a fun date, if I don’t say so myself. I asked you here tonight because of one thing and one thing only. There’s something very powerful and mysterious wrapped around those books. Death surrounds them. And a whole lot more death surrounds that sealed seventh book should it be found. That seventh seal must never be breached.”
She smiles again. It makes my stomach go tight.
“Will I see you again?” I ask.
“Would you like to?”
“I gotta answer that?”
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a card, hands it to me.
“Good luck on your quest, Chase. Do me this one favor. If you discover the codices, promise me you’ll tell me first.”
She gets into the cab, and the driver pulls away. I pocket the card and decide to walk back to my apartment while I contemplate what Dr. Magda Azzahra looks like in her underwear.
CHAPTER 13
It’s dark. I decide to walk through the park on the way home, retracing the steps Magda and I took earlier. The old iron lamps are lit up, and they cast a dim yellow glow on the grass and the winding asphalt paths. To my left, a young college age couple are sitting shoulder to shoulder, sharing a single cigarette, perhaps planning a future together that will never happen. Chase the cynical.
To my right, an old man is searching through a trash receptacle, looking for something to eat. I tap him on the shoulder while reaching into my pocket for some money. Peeling off a ten spot, I hand it to him.
“God bless you,” he says, his voice sounding like it’s detaching itself from the back of his throat. His cracked, white whiskered face makes me sad.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll need it.”
I keep on walking, but before I get too far, he speaks to me again. I turn to face him once more.
“She’s following you,” he says. “She will kill you.”
Seconds ago it seemed like he could hardly work up the strength to utter a God bless you. But now his words come to me clearly, without distortion. As if they were spoken by a far younger man directly into my ear.
I lock eyes on the old, crooked man, his too thin body draped in an old, ill-fitting black suit. He’s showered in the dim yellow light, his face pale, cheeks concave, head bald, the fingers on his hands like broken twigs.
“Excuse me?” I say.
But he doesn’t respond. He pockets the ten-dollar bill and walks away into the darkness.
Back inside my apartment, I’m feeling out of sorts. Spooked is the better word for it.
She’s following you. She will kill you . . .
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who is she, and how does he know about her? Is he talking about the Vanessa, the woman I left gagged and bound in the bathroom on the train in Austria? How in the world could he possibly know about her?
Just to keep my mind off of the ramblings of a crazy man, I repack my bag for the morning. It doesn’t take very long, but by the time I’m finished I’m feeling exhausted. Like I’ve been injected with a sedative.
Without bothering to undress, I lie back on my bed, eyes peeled on the ceiling. The red neon light from the electric exterior-mounted restaurant sign across the street flashes against it. It reminds me of blood. The kind that pours warm and wet and fresh from the vein. My mind fills with faces. Cross, Magda, Vanessa . . . I even picture the old man who spoke to me in riddles out in the park. Then, I think about the books. The codices.
Are they for real? Who would have stolen them from the proprietor of the Jerusalem bookshop? Why steal them at all when they should be studied and examined by the same antiquities experts who are still studying the Dead Sea Scrolls? Maybe, unlike the scrolls, they are something that authorities, both religious and military, do not want to be found. Maybe that’s why Cross wants them so badly. Because they are entirely unattainable. For certain, that’s why Magda is going behind his back. Because if he should take possession of them, he risks destroying mankind.
“Okay, Chase,” I whisper. “Cut the crap. As usual, your imagination is getting the best of you.”
After a time, I feel myself drifting off and then suddenly, I’m falling into a deep sleep. A dreaming sleep.
I see myself standing on a vast, desert plain. I’m sweating profusely, the heat so searing it’s as if I’m on fire. The earth beneath me trembling like an earthquake. But then, it’s not an earthquake. It’s something else. Something that hasn’t revealed itself yet. I see something coming toward me from out of the distance. The heat rising from the earth creates a translucent haze that distorts the vision. But within seconds, I see that it’s someone on horseback.
The closer the person comes, the easier it is to tell that it’s a woman, her hair flowing over her shoulders. Blonde hair. The horse she’s riding is pale white, matching her hair. But her clothing is all black. I feel the urge to turn, to run. But I can’t. I’m entirely paralyzed. Suddenly, the trembling and rumbling beneath my feet reach a crescendo, and the
earth opens up. Thousands of bodies emerge from their graves.
The woman on horseback rides through the crowd of living dead until she reigns her horse in and comes to a stop just a few feet away from me. So close I can see her deep brown eyes and her sad smile. Vanessa. In her hand, she’s holding the seventh metal book. The metal seal on the book is broken.
The sky turns black, jagged bolts of lightning strike the earth.
“Nooooo!” I scream, but my voice is drowned out by thunder. Vanessa laughs, but her voice is no longer her own. It’s that of the old man in the park. Her face is no longer her own, either. It becomes the old man’s face. But even that old face sheds its old skin to reveal the skull beneath it.
“Our Father,” I whisper, “who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.”
The sky opens, and a bright, white light fills my eyes . . .
When I wake, I’m covered in sweat. I don’t recall taking my clothes off when I passed out in the bed, but at some point, I must have woken up and shed them. What the hell is happening to me? I haven’t even left my apartment yet and already I’m being followed. Only, not by flesh and bone, but, instead, evil spirits.
Maybe Magda is right.
Maybe there is something to the legend of the seven metal codices after all. Maybe there’s information contained within them that is not to be found within the Dead Sea Scroll parchments. Something powerful and God-like. Satan-like. Something not of this world, anyway.
I glance at my watch.
4:30 in the morning.
Where did the night go? It’s not like me to sleep for hours on end without waking. My ride to the airport is scheduled for dark-thirty. It will be the break of dawn within a half hour. Which means, I’ve got to get my ass up and out of bed.
Crawling out of bed, I run myself under the shower and get re-dressed in the uniform I require for a trip to Israel and Palestine. Levi jeans, cotton work shirt with breast pockets, bush jacket stuffed with passport, cash, notebooks, medical history — including vaccination records, should the worst happen and I end up at the hospital. The jacket also houses some simple first aid items like surgical tape, Band-Aids, a small tube of Neosporin, a little bottle of Advil, and even fishing line and a hook. Lastly, I strap an old black nylon bag around my shoulders. This isn’t a man purse so much as it’s what I use to cart around the treasure I might be going after which, in this case, will constitute seven very special ancient metal texts.
Slipping my shoulder holstered .45 caliber Model 1911 over my shoulder, I also slip two extra magazines into the left-hand pocket on my jacket. No need for leaving it behind since I’ll be flying in Cross’ private jet and I can bring a howitzer aboard if I feel like it. It’s still dark, but the pizza joint is open downstairs, and I head down for a quick coffee. It’s while I’m carrying it out of the shop that I spot her getting out of a taxi, tossing an orange and blue Tough Traveler knapsack over her shoulder.
Magda.
The taxi pulls away, and she stands there staring at me.
I say, “Is it me? Or did I somehow expect not to see you again until I returned the ever triumphant explorer, the fate of the world resting in my hands in the form of seven metal books, the seventh one of those sealed until the day God unseals it?”
She approaches me, takes the cup of coffee, steals a careful sip, then hands it back to me.
She says, “After I left you last night, I went home and tried to sleep. But all I could think about were the codices. How important it is that they are found. How important that the seventh seal isn’t breached. How very important it is that we are able to examine them first before handing them over to Cross.” She smiles. “Plus, I figured two sets of eyes are better than one.”
I sip some coffee. It’s still piping hot.
“Or maybe you just missed me,” I say, not without a sly grin. Chase the tease.
Her smirk says it all.
“I’ll plead the fifth on that one.” She looks at her watch, and adds, “That’s pretty good coffee, by the way.”
“Coming right up,” I say.
Naturally, I get the hint. Chase the gentleman.
I head back into the pizza joint, grab her a coffee and bring it back out. That’s when the black Suburban with tinted windows pulls up.
“Looks like our ride is here,” I say.
Both the driver and passenger side doors open, and two men emerge from inside the big SUV. They are not big men, but huge. Both of them dressed in traditional Hasidic Jewish garb. Black pants and matching suit jackets. White shirt with the tassels hanging off their belts on both hips. They’ve got these big black Stetsons on their heads, and long black hair that’s braided on both sides hanging down to their shoulders.
“Chase Baker,” says the taller of the two, his voice a combination exotic Israeli and tough-guy Brooklyn Heights. “We’ve been instructed to accompany you to the airport.”
“I think there must be a mistake,” I say. “You must be confusing me for someone else.”
“Why should there be a mistake?” the second, shorter Hasidic Jew says in the same oddly accented voice. He takes a step forward on the sidewalk, halting under an inverted ark of sodium lamplight. “You trying to say we look funny?” He opens his black jacket just enough to reveal the pistol grip on a Mini-Uzi 9mm machine pistol.
These guys might be men of God, but they’re not fucking around . . .
“Nice kosher convincer,” I say. “I guess that’s as good as ID. Cross really knows how to pick his employees. You two buddies or bros?”
“Both,” Tall Hasidic Jew says. “And yes, Cross knows what he’s doing. Now, if you don’t mind, the plane is waiting.”
“I need to head upstairs, grab my bag,” I say. Shifting my gaze to Magda. “But my partner can load in now.”
Short Hasidic Jew is quick to shake his head, make slashing motions with his arms like a referee indicating a missed field goal.
“Cross did not say word one about a girl joining us,” he says. Then, turning to his taller partner. “Hey, Moshe, did Cross say anything about a girl?”
“Nah, Itzhak,” Moshe says. “He most definitely did not. Or I would have remembered it.”
Dr. Azzahra looks at me like, what do we do?
“Tell you what, Moshe, Itzhak,” I say, “why don’t you give Cross a call now. Go ahead and wake him up. Ask him if it’s okay that I bring along an expert in the field of the ancient metal texts I’ve been placed in charge of finding. I’m sure he’s been up almost all night playing Tekken or Tetris or Final Fantasy or whatever video game it is he’s trying to beat the crap out of these days. But then, he’ll be happy as all hell to be woken up out of a sound sleep to field your justified concern.”
Moshe turns to Itzhak.
“The Goyim has a point, Itzy,” he says. “Cross is a good boss, but he’s cranky too.” Nodding at Azzahra. “Okay, lady, you can come.”
Itzy takes hold of her knapsack, carries it around to the back of the SUV, opens the hatch, tosses it in. Meantime, I go upstairs, put some food in the bowl for my pit bull, Lulu, who is no doubt sleeping under my bed. Knowing she will be well taken care of with all the pizza crusts she can eat by the guys who work the pizza joint downstairs, I grab my bag, head back down the single flight of stairs and out onto the sidewalk.
I go to hand Itzy my bag. But he looks at me like I just stepped on his Old Testament.
“I’m not your slave, Mr. Baker,” he says. “And last I looked, you ain’t no pharaoh. You can do your own packing.”
“I’m not Egyptian,” I say. “Not even a teensy bit. But I was an altar boy, and I know that the Jews escaped the Pharaoh when Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea.”
He looks at me wide-eyed, then turns to Moshe. They both start laughing.
“Looks like Chase Baker has watched Ben Hur one too many times,” Itzy says.
Moshe responds, “It’s not Ben Hur, Itz. You got it all confused with The Ten Commandments.”
“Yeah, b
ut he was in Ben Hur. He played the good part. The Jew. That Roman asshole stepbrother of his tried to crash his chariot.”
“Charlton Heston is bad ass, Itzy. He played a killer John the Baptist in The Greatest Story Ever Told.”
“That was a good one, yeah. He should have played Jesus. Not that German guy. What’s his name?”
“Max Von Sydow.”
Itzy laughs hard. “Imagine a blonde German playing Jesus. He’s a big fat Goyim like our boy Chase here.”
They both belly laugh over that one. I laugh too. Not because anything’s funny. But because I’d rather laugh with them than be laughed at.
We all pile in.
“This is going to be a fun drive,” I whisper to Magda who’s seated beside me in the back seat.
“My guess is it will be the most fun we have in the search for the lost codices,” she predicts.
We proceed out of Manhattan, in the direction of the rising sun, just like Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt.
CHAPTER 14
Cross must have some real pull with the TSA (not to mention dough) because Moshe is allowed to enter through a series of secured gates and directly onto the tarmac beside Terminal 4 at JFK International. The white Gulfstream G650 is already powered up with engines idling. We pile out and immediately board the luxury plane. A flight attendant is standing at the open door to greet us. She’s wearing a short blue skirt and matching jacket, tight fitting white button down, her long blonde hair veiling her smooth-as-silk face. Obviously, Cross believes in his eye candy.
She leads Magda and me to our leather bucket seats with a smile and hands us a glass of chilled champagne a piece.
“This is what I call a gig,” I say over my shoulder. “Now I know how Leonardo DiCaprio feels.”
“Leo is a strong advocate for the environment,” she says. “Even if he does travel the world in a gas guzzler.”
“We can’t all be perfect. Maybe he’ll buy one of my pot boilers, make it into a major Hollywood production.” Setting down the champagne and spreading my hands to imitate the big screen. “What do you think? Leo DiCaprio as Chase Baker.” Picking the champagne glass back up by its stem. “Kind of has a ring to it.”
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