Recalling the small paperback copy I intended to purchase, but ended up stealing, from the vendor in the Old City, I reach into my bush jacket pocket and pull it out, set it on the table that still contains some of Moshe’s blood stains.
I go on, “The book talks of seven seals that, when broken, will usher in the end of days. But only when the seventh seal is broken will the final battle of Armageddon begin, and guess who gets to lead the charge?”
“Jesus,” James says.
“Bingo,” I chime.
“And the metal books?” he asks.
“Our employer is convinced they are the books that correspond to the end of the times,” Magda says, passion in her voice. “I’ve seen them once before with my own eyes. I know they are real . . . That they exist.”
“Are they sealed?” James says.
Magda shakes her head. “The seals on six of them are broken. Which means the first six evils have already been unleashed upon the earth.”
“How so?”
“Islamic extremism and Christian genocide, severe weather, starvation, plague, financial collapse, too many people and not enough food, possible nuclear war . . . Need I go on?”
“There’s a seventh seal then,” James says. It’s a question.
“Yes,” Magda says. “The seventh seal is intact.”
Stealing another sip of the whiskey laced coffee, I jump in, “You see, James, apparently the seventh seal — the most important seal — is impossible to break. The metal utilized in its construction is something that’s out of this world.” I throw up my hands. “So I’m told.”
“But it exists nonetheless,” Magda says. “And if we don’t find it and transport it to someplace where it will be safe from all humanity, and from men and women who might be able to develop a technology to break the seal, then the world as we know it can, and will, finally be wiped clean by the wrath of the new Messiah.”
James sits back, runs his hand over his tight face. I get the sense he believes our story but that he’s on the fence with the end-of-the-world bit. Can’t say I blame him.
“You two ever heard of the Megiddo Valley?” he says.
“Up north, above the Jordan Valley,” Magda says. “It’s where the final showdown between good and evil is supposed to occur.”
“Just recently,” James says, “the Israeli government announced they will be drilling for oil and natural gas in the valley, thereby eliminating any need for foreign oil.”
“In other words,” I say, “they are thoroughly pissing off the Arab states that surround them, setting the stage for a pretty decent fight of Biblical proportions.”
“It all comes down to oil . . . energy . . . who controls it,” Magda interjects.
“Those Arab states not only depend on the oil trade for their fortunes, but they also want to see Israel wiped off the face of the earth.”
“And now the codices appear after two thousand years of being hidden away,” Magda says.
“As if God wanted it to happen that way.”
“Could be the stage is already being set,” James says.
“For what?” Magda asks.
“The end of the world,” James says.
CHAPTER 25
We finish our coffees, stand.
“You said you saw the codices with your own eyes once before, Magda,” James says.
“Yes,” she replies. “In the bookshop inside the Old City. The shop where we were almost murdered.”
James pulls down on the brim of his old hat so that it covers his forehead entirely. “And when did you say you last saw them?” he questions.
“Last summer when I was working on the dig just around the corner.”
“You might have mentioned that to me at the time.”
“I didn’t realize their significance, other than their archaeological importance, James.”
He holds up his hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay,” he says, “but things have changed. Now, whoever revealed them to you is gone, perhaps murdered. And the new caretakers are guarding them as if they were priceless.”
“I’m not so sure this is about money,” I add, “any more than I believe it’s about oil and who controls it.”
“How’s that?” James says.
“I think this is about power, plain and simple. Whoever possesses the seventh codice, or book, essentially rules the world.”
James bites down on his bottom lip. He says, “If it were to get into the hands of the wrong people, say a doomsday cult, it could bring about a really bad day for all humanity, now couldn’t it?”
“Those men who were wearing black,” Magda interjects, “their hair cut into Mohawks.”
“They were soldiers belonging to some kind of army,” I say. That’s when a vision comes to me. The framed photo on the wall above the safe in the back room of the bookstore. “The picture of Ansar al-Mahdi on that wall. Was it there when you were last in the shop?”
Magda shakes her head.
“Mahdi,” James says, “The expected one. The Muslim God who will usher in the end of the world.”
“The god who will break the seventh seal,” I say.
“Looks like whoever owned that store has been bought out by a group — an army, if you will — who wants to break the seal.”
“James,” Magda says, “we need to find the seven codices, and we need to find them now. Can you help us?”
“Be like trying to find seven specific grains of sand in the middle of the Sinai desert.”
“We have to try,” I say. “And we’d appreciate any help you have to offer. Of course, we’re already indebted to you.”
James pulls out his .45, pulls back on the slide, thumbs the safety on.
“I’m gonna make a check on Moshe’s wound,” he says, “and then we’re gonna start looking for these damned books.”
“Where do we start, James?” Magda asks.
“In the most obvious of places,” he says.
“Where would that be?” I say.
“Inside the cradle of the Holy Land. And that goddamned bookstore inside the Damascus Gate.”
CHAPTER 26
Leaving Moshe and Itzy behind in the trailer, we pile into James’ old, white Land Cruiser and head down the hill on our way back to the Old City in the Jerusalem center. While we drive, I feel compelled to pull out the New Testament and once more begin reading John of Patmos’ Gospel. I’ve skimmed the Gospel before, especially prior to a dig I might have been preparing for that required a Biblical reference or two. But this is the first time I’ve read it with a specific word shooting out at me. Or, not a word necessarily, but a number.
Lucky seven.
“Awful lot of sevens all over the Book of Revelations,” I say from the back seat of the Land Cruiser. “Seven churches, seven spirits, seven stars, seven codices. It just seems to go on and on.”
“The other John’s gospel — as in Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John — is all about the sevens, too,” Magda says from the front shotgun seat. “It’s almost like they were the same guy. He mentions seven of the twelve disciples explicitly — Andrew, Peter, Phillip, Nathanial, Judas, Judas once more, and then Thomas. He also focuses on seven men and seven women, Pilate and Mary Magdalene among them.”
“Your namesake,” James says, both his hands gripping the wheel as he speeds along the desert road, the city looming before us.
“There’s also seven witnesses,” Magda goes on. “Seven ‘I ams’ as in, ‘I am the bread of life.’ And more importantly, seven signs to come.”
“Such as?” I say.
“The raising of Lazarus from the dead, the walking on water, and the curing of the feverish son thought to be dead. John’s Gospel is also the only one to detail Jesus’ crucifixion. Where it took place and how it was carried out.”
“Just like the codices,” I point out.
“Just like the codices,” Magda nods.
We head into the city, the skull-like wall beside us on our left overlooki
ng the bus garage.
“Is that it on the left?” I say. “The place John’s Gospel speaks of? Golgotha or Skull Place?”
“Depends on who you’re talking to,” Magda says. “As you already know, most people believe the true site is that of the Holy Sepulcher. But many also believe that the hill you’re looking at looks an awful lot like a skull. Certainly does to me. It’s also close to the Damascus Gate and is located along what would have been the Damascus Road two thousand years ago, which John’s Gospel also points out.”
“There’s something else that’s interesting about Skull Hill,” James says as he pulls into a parking space close to Herod’s Gate along the old stone wall.
“What’s that?” I say.
“It’s the highest natural point in Jerusalem. From that point, you can see the entire old city, and conversely, be seen.”
“Pilate would have wanted to make an example of Jesus,” Magda surmises. “As Roman Prefect, he would have wanted the execution of the King of Jews to be viewed as a warning of how not to challenge Rome’s ultimate authority.”
“All true,” James says, turning to us both. “But there’s something else you’re both missing here.”
“What’s that?” I say.
“The top of Skull Place is seven hundred seventy-seven meters above sea level,” James points out.
“More sevens,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “Something tells me there is indeed something very special about Golgotha, the Skull Place.”
We exit the Land Rover.
“Listen,” James says. “This is your show, Chase, but I’m going to suggest we don’t just walk back in through the Damascus Gate and then through the front door of that bookstore. We need to take the back way.”
“Suggestions?” Magda says.
“Follow me,” he says.
James heads for Herod’s Gate, and, as ordered, Magda and I follow close on his tail. The big gray stone gate isn’t nearly as crowded as the Damascus Gate further up the hill to the west. It becomes obvious the second I step through it that few tourists enter into the Old City via this gate, while it is instead frequented by locals shopping for fresh fruits, vegetables, meats and meat parts for the family table.
At least six Israeli soldiers guard the exterior of the gate and just as many on the interior. They all seem to stare at us as we make our way through. Makes sense since we’re not dressed anything like the locals, but, instead, like something out of a Hollywood adventure movie.
James carries his pistol out in the open, and they don’t seem to give it a second thought as if they know precisely who he is and what he’s doing inside the gate. Whatever the case, we’re moving quickly along a narrow interior road like we own the joint.
When we come to a narrow alley on our right-hand side, James turns on his heels and enters into it. Rugs and clothing hang off lines that extend from one side of the exterior stone walls across the narrow length of the alley to the other. We come to a stone staircase that leads up to a landing covered by a stone arch. James takes the stairs two at a time to the top of the landing. It’s all Magda and I can do to keep up with the far older man.
The landing belongs to someone’s house, and a handful of kids are playing on it, using it for a pitch while kicking a soccer ball to one another. A woman dressed in a burka is cooking something in a round metal fire pit that’s situated next to a television satellite dish. She gives us a cursory glance like westerners pass through her front yard on a daily basis. In the background is a green-topped minaret. There comes the squeal of a loudspeaker and what follows is the call to prayer.
We move on regardless.
On the opposite side of the stone landing is a tall wall that leads up to another level of houses. A metal ladder is attached to the wall. James begins climbing the ladder, not taking it slowly but, instead, scaling it like he’s Spiderman on a mission.
I’m feeling the heat of the mid-day by now, and the alcohol hasn’t helped any. I’m sure Magda has to be feeling it, too, but we’re doing our best to keep up. At the top of the ladder is a long, narrow platform created by two stone walls joining together. James crouches as if to hide his presence as much as possible. He also thumbs the safety off on his .45, draws it from its holster. The move tells me I should at least pull mine out.
We traverse the long, harrowingly narrow, sunbaked platform for maybe three hundred feet, crossing over arches that span several congested market streets, the people and soldiers that occupy them like ants inside a colony, not the least bit aware of our presence. Or so it seems. Until we come to a place that looks down on a small square courtyard. It takes me a brief moment or two, but soon enough I realize what I’m looking at is the back of the bookshop where, just a few hours earlier, its proprietor, Mahdi, tried to assassinate us.
We duck down while James presses an extended index finger to his lips, telling us to keep quiet. Something is happening down in the courtyard. Maybe a dozen of those black uniformed bandits are down on their knees on prayer rugs, all of them armed to the teeth and all of them praying to the words being broadcast from the minaret loudspeakers. They form a circle and standing in the center of the circle is Mahdi. He’s holding something in the palms of his hand.
Magda turns to me.
“Mahdi has got the seventh book, Chase,” she says, her voice a whisper. But a loud whisper. “He had it the whole time.”
“He’s gotta be in possession of all seven books,” I say.
James turns to us.
“Quiet,” he insists.
Mahdi is chanting something in what sounds like Arabic.
“What’s he’s saying?” I whisper directly into Magda’s ear.
“I don’t understand,” she says. “It’s not Arabic. I think it’s Aramaic.”
Mahdi continues with his chant while he raises the book with both his hands, as though using it to communicate with God. Something happens then. The sky above us begins to grow dark. Raising my head, I look up toward the heavens and make out thick rain clouds that seem to be collecting directly over the bookstore courtyard.
“What the hell is happening?” I whisper.
When the sun is completely blocked, a streak of bright, laser-like light shoots down from the clouds and connects with the book. It’s like a lightning strike only brighter and far more sustained. There is no flash, but instead, a beam of bright white light that is attracted to the book.
“It’s God,” Magda says. “It’s God breaching the seal.”
Her voice is raised now, and it captures the attention of one of the praying bandits. He raises his hand, points at us. Mahdi breaks his concentration and turns toward us. The light beam disappears, and the clouds open up, once more revealing the sun.
“In the name of Ansar al-Mahdi and the Soldiers of the Expected One,” Mahdi screams, “Kill them!”
CHAPTER 27
We run.
James doesn’t double back but, instead, sprints along the elevated platform further into the Old City. We do our best to follow while gunshots ring out, the bullets ricocheting against the stone platform, the shards of shattered rock spraying up into our faces. Located at the end of the platform is a metal gate and, beyond it, a landing and what I’m guessing is a short descending staircase.
More shots are fired. The bullets strike the platform only inches from my feet. I manage to glance over my shoulder. Two bandits on my tail. Planting a bead on them, I fire, dropping the lead bandit on the spot. But the bandit directly behind him jumps over his fallen comrade, keeps coming at us, undeterred.
The bullets whiz past my head, explode at my feet. Up ahead, James rapidly descends the steps to street level. Magda and I follow close behind. A quick glance at the sign embedded into the stone wall beside me tells me we are on the Via Dolorosa, the path that Jesus Christ was forced to walk with the weight of the heavy cross bearing on his scourged shoulders. How very appropriate that this is the same spot in which we are running for our lives.
Up ahead, two black-clad bandits face us.
James stops.
“Double back!” he shouts.
I about-face, but what I see makes doubling back an impossibility. Another six bandits block our path.
“You are surrounded,” barks a tall bandit ahead of us. “There is nowhere for you to run.”
James raises his .45 and, calling the tall bandit’s bluff, shoots him in the chest.
“Run!” James shouts. “No matter what happens to me, just keep running.”
We barrel forward while the bandits behind us open up, the bullets sparking off the stone walls and the smooth cobbles. I’m convinced we won’t make it another ten feet when something miraculous happens.
We see Jesus.
Scratch that . . . Not the Jesus, necessarily, but a man who is acting the role of Jesus. He has a bright purple robe draped over his shoulders, and he’s wearing a crown of thorns over his long, black hair. He’s also carrying a large wooden cross. Surrounding him on three sides is a large group of Christian parishioners who are holding cameras and rosary beads. They are deep in prayer and taking up almost every available space along the narrow road.
James stops in his tracks as Jesus comes upon the shot bandit who is lying on the ground face down. He drops his cross, the heavy wood making a loud thunk inside the stone, tube-like street.
“Medic!” Jesus screams. “We got a man down here! We need a doctor now!” The man looks just like the Biblical Jesus, but his voice and accent are South Central USA Bible belt.
James shoots us a look over his shoulder while returning his .45 to its holster. I take the hint and do the same thing, placing my piece back inside its holster under my bush jacket.
Turning, I see the bandits back-stepping, retreating. One of them eyes me with dark, if not black, eyes, runs an index finger across his throat. I guess the gesture is meant to frighten me. Turning back to James and Magda, we slowly make our way as unassumingly as possible through the congested crowd of Christians, keeping close to the wall on our left while a band of Israeli soldiers plows through the people, their assault rifles gripped in their gloved hands.
Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) Page 9