Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

“What if we leave the scroll with some troops in a vehicle parked outside the Fortified Medieval City? You and I go in to the rendezvous. If they have your wife as promised, we radio the troops to bring in the scroll and escort you two back out.”

  I took a sip of coffee. “It might work,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll have plenty of reinforcements, but I don’t believe they’d want to get into a fire fight with a bunch of American troops. The only other possibility I’ve thought about is that kibbutz.”

  “Kerem?”

  I nodded. “As I recall from the booklet we looked through, they have a retail store and offer wine tastings and tours of the winery. It might be worthwhile to pay them a visit.”

  Jarvis blew on his coffee. “We might nose around and ask a few questions, but I’m not sure how much we would learn. As I understand it, people on these kibbutzim are close-mouthed when it comes to strangers prying into their business.”

  “Maybe so, but it probably depends on how you go about asking questions.”

  The telephone rang and the colonel reached for a portable lying on the table. He glanced at the caller ID. “It’s a Jerusalem number,” he said, then answered it.

  After listening a moment, he said, “McKenzie’s sitting here. You can talk to him.” He held out the phone and mouthed, Cohen.

  “What’s up, Jake?” I asked.

  “I just got off the phone with Wolfson. When I told him what had been happening, he got terribly excited. He said he was in his office and would wait there until you called.”

  “What’s he so excited about?”

  “He said you should destroy that scroll.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he would explain it to you when you called. What have you decided to do about Jill?”

  “We’re thinking about going up to check out that kibbutz. Maybe we can find someone who has seen or heard about a strange woman there.”

  “Don’t count on getting much out of those people,” Jake said. “They’re like a big family. They won’t talk about each other, and they may simply turn off if you start asking questions.”

  “That’s what Colonel Jarvis says. We’ll just have to take that chance,” I said, trying to sound more optimistic than I felt.

  “Tell you what, I’ll come over there and go with you,” he said. “I’ve been to Kerem before. As a tour guide and a Hebrew-speaking Jew, I’d have a lot better chance at getting some answers.”

  “Look, Jake, you’ve done enough–”

  “Don’t worry about me, Greg. This isn’t the Guardians of Palestine. With my beard, I’ll fit right in with the scenery. I’ll look as natural as a grapevine. I can be at Colonel Jarvis’s place within the hour. We could be at Kibbutz Kerem by five o’clock.”

  It made sense. He could relate to a group of Orthodox Jews a lot better than a couple of American Gentiles. I still didn’t like getting him further involved, but his help was too valuable to reject. I copied down David Wolfson’s phone number and told Jake we would wait for him.

  When I repeated what Jake had said, Jarvis disparaged the idea. But I had the impression he just didn’t trust civilians. I suspected his contact who came up with the info at Ben-Gurion was from Israeli air intelligence. The colonel’s status at the embassy came in handy, though, as he got David on the line within seconds.

  “You’re up early, my friend,” I said. It was around seven a.m. in Nashville.

  “Just tell me you haven’t given them the document.”

  “I haven’t yet,” I said, “but we have a meeting set for seven this evening to make the exchange.”

  “Cancel it. I can’t tell you why on the phone, but you must not let them have that document. In fact, I would advise you to destroy it.”

  “Destroy it?”

  “Right. Remember when you and your friend were here at my apartment and I told you what the bad guys had in mind?”

  He was talking about the Temple Alliance, about their raising money to build a Third Temple on the Temple Mount, where the Muslim holy sites currently stood.

  “Yeah,” I acknowledged. “I remember.”

  “And I said we’d be talking World War III?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, this thing could be the trigger.”

  “You’re kidding.” I couldn’t–or didn’t want to–believe the scroll I possessed could hold such awesome power. Especially since Jill’s safety depended on my delivering it to the Temple Alliance.

  “I’m deadly serious. Burn the thing.”

  “You don’t understand, David. They have my wife and this is the price for her freedom.”

  “I do understand, Greg. Ted Kennerly down at Tullahoma told me all about what happened, why you were headed over there.”

  “I hear Detective Adamson talked to you also.”

  “He found my number on one of the messages I left on your answering machine. He asked a lot of questions. How I knew you, what I knew about your wife, when I last talked to you.”

  “Has there been anything in the newspaper about me?”

  “No. Kennerly said Adamson probably hadn’t gone public because he didn’t want it to look like the police were prejudiced against you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So maybe I’m off the hook with Metro. But that isn’t going to help us tonight. Why can’t I hand it over?”

  “It’s very simple,” David said. “The hidden message gave the location in old Roman cubits from a certain prominent landmark. I located a scale drawing of the real estate in question–the place we discussed at my apartment.”

  The Temple Mount. The landmark was probably one of the gates in the old wall that led to it, maybe the Golden Gate.

  “When I plotted out the location,” he continued, “the ‘X’ fell at the edge of that popular tourist attraction. The one we discussed.”

  I felt like my chin had dropped at least six inches. We had discussed only one popular tourist site. I looked up at Colonel Jarvis and covered the telephone mouthpiece.

  “Those golden candlesticks are hidden beneath the Dome of the Rock.”

  Chapter 38

  As soon as Jake Cohen arrived at Colonel Jarvis’ apartment, I gave him the bad news.

  He stared at me in shock. “Remember my comment that all they needed was a halfway decent excuse?”

  I held the scroll canister and twisted it slowly in my hands. How true it was, I thought, that the most powerful explosives came in the smallest containers.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And this roll of animal skin would do it.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time somebody tried digging for buried treasure on the Temple Mount,” Jake said. “Back in 1960, a member of the Dead Sea Scrolls editorial team went on an expedition searching for treasures from Herod’s Temple. They were detailed in the Copper Scroll, found in one of the Qumran caves. When his team started digging on the esplanade of the Dome of the Rock, the government put a stop to it. That was back when East Jerusalem was part of Jordan. If some Jews were to try it now, after all the controversy over that area, all hell would break loose. I’m afraid I have to agree with David. The scroll should be destroyed.”

  When he saw the look on my face, he suddenly realized the import of what he had just said. “But, then, how do we get your wife released?”

  That was the question. For me, it was priority. I did not relish the idea of being the guy responsible for pushing the button on World War III, but I was not going to sacrifice Jill McKenzie to avoid it.

  “If we want to get to Kerem before dark, we’d better get moving,” Jarvis said.

  “I need a weapon,” I said. “Do you plan to carry one?”

  “In this country right now it’s always advisable,” he said. “I have a little Beretta Jetfire .25 you can use. Not much stopping power but easy to carry.”

  Jarvis had been strangely silent for most of the past hour, following an initial burst of concern after David Wolfson’s call. While he agreed with the need to keep the scroll from falling into
the Temple Alliance’s hands, he felt a heavy burden of sympathy for my plight. It was too close to what he had experienced with Abby Farrell. He offered an alternative.

  “Why don’t we substitute another roll of parchment at Caesarea? Maybe we could be gone by the time they caught onto the switch.”

  I managed a smile. “I trust you have a few old parchments around the apartment. I forgot to bring any more with me.”

  “What about some heavy paper? I could write a bit of Hebrew on it. I’m sure Cohen would help. These guys are intelligence types. They aren’t archeologists.”

  “True. But they aren’t dummies, either. You told me Levin would be a tough nut to crack. He’ll know the difference between a roll of paper and an ancient parchment scroll. Fact is, so would my next door neighbor.”

  “Okay. It was a lousy idea.”

  I sighed. “Maybe so, but I appreciate the motive behind it.”

  We drove up the coastal highway past Netanya, where Jill and I had spent our last night in Israel less than a week ago. We had a fourth floor room with a small balcony that looked out on the blue Mediterranean. A cool breeze blew across the balcony and we huddled arm-in-arm as the sun lowered itself toward the sea, a fiery ball that looked as if it would create a cloud of steam when it sank. Jill talked about the trip, the thrill of walking where Jesus had walked.

  She said, “I don’t think I’ve been that moved since the day you asked me to marry you.”

  We made love passionately that night. I could feel the warmth of her body against mine now, though all I saw through the windshield was the chill of a rain-splattered highway. I tried to concentrate on the job ahead as Colonel Jarvis steered the Cherokee toward Caesarea. To stay focused I rechecked the little Beretta, popped up the barrel, checked the clip, carefully lowered the hammer to half-cock.

  Just south of the old Phoenician port of Dor, we turned on the road to Zichron Yaakov, which would lead us to Kibbutz Kerem. Jake told us Baron Edmund de Rothschild had bought up a large area a hundred years ago. He’d hired French agronomists to plant vineyards, and it had developed into one of the country’s major wine production centers, with the largest Israeli winery located here. The area lay along the southern edge of Mount Carmel, with the port of Haifa to the north.

  “Never mind the travelogue, Jake,” I said, my nerves shredding. “Let’s concentrate on finding Jill.”

  Sitting in the back seat, Jake shrugged. “Kerem spreads across a hillside, lots of grapes.”

  “Does it have a fence around it?” Jarvis asked.

  “Right. The place is ringed by steel fencing. The old kibbutzim were surrounded by walls.”

  “How about the road, does it run along the bottom of the hill?” I asked.

  “That’s where the main entrance is located. I think there’s another near the crest, maybe at one side. It’s probably used by trucks and farm equipment.”

  Jarvis looked around as the road began to wind its way uphill. “Where’s the winery?”

  “Just off the main road. There’s a parking area in front.”

  “Our best bet would probably be to go in and look around,” I said. “See who’s available to provide some answers.”

  “Why don’t you two wander about asking touristy questions,” Jake said, “and I’ll try to find someone who can provide a little inside information.”

  “Jake?” I turned to look at him.

  “Yeah, Greg.”

  “I got scratchy back there. I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  The highway ran through a wooded area, something rare in most parts of the Holy Land, and as we rounded a sharp curve the Kibbutz Kerem sign suddenly appeared at the side of the road. It announced the winery entrance one kilometer ahead on the left. Symmetrical rows of grape arbors stretched up the hillside before us. Small houses clustered beyond the vineyards, next to a few larger structures Jake said would be the dining hall and administrative buildings. The winery was nestled among some trees a short distance away, flanked by a graveled parking area. Only a handful of vehicles were parked near the building. Dusk had arrived early, the setting sun hidden by a sky that was gray and overcast. The Jeep’s headlights flashed across a sign that showed a 5:30 p.m. closing.

  “If we’re going to come up with something,” I said, “we’d better do it in a hurry.”

  Outside, the place had a rustic look, but when we strolled through the door, we found ourselves inside a surprisingly large and modern retail store. Wines of various varieties and vintages were attractively displayed on racks. Books, brochures, glasses, corkscrews and other paraphernalia were arranged on tables. A bar at one side was set up for tasting. Judging from the signs, one of Kerem’s claims to fame was an extra-sweet Kiddush wine used for Jewish blessings on various occasions.

  We saw no more than half a dozen people wandering about the place. As the colonel and I headed for the bar, Jake strolled toward the wine racks where a thinly-bearded man appeared to be restocking.

  A few stools sat in front of a dark wood bar. The counter top was Formica. Thin-stemmed glasses stood on their heads at one end, with a selection of wine bottles arrayed to the side. A young couple sat at the bar, sniffing, sipping and doing all those things I suppose one does in judging a wine. The bartender wore a look of anticipation as he poured wine into a glass.

  “Be with you in a moment,” he said to Jake and me.

  “I like this one,” the woman said in English. I wondered if they were tourists. “It has a robust flavor but a delicate bouquet.”

  I wasn’t up on wine talk. Jill was the wine buyer. I liked something white and sweetish.

  “We’ll take two,” her companion said. The man behind the bar pulled two bottles from beneath the counter and placed them in a plastic bag. He charged their credit card, handed over their order and moved down to us.

  “We’ll be closing shortly,” he said in an apologetic tone. “What can I show you?”

  We had been looking at the list on a board behind the bar and Jarvis spoke up first. “How about the Riesling?”

  “That’s a favorite with Israelis.” The bartender set a glass in front of him and poured a small amount from the bottle. He turned to me. “And you?”

  “Let’s try the Zinfandel,” I said. It was one Jill liked.

  As he poured, I looked up innocently. “Is it too late for touring? I wanted to see the vineyards. I’m interested in growing grapes.”

  “Visitors aren’t allowed in the vineyards,” he said. “With the weather like it is, you would be a muddy mess anyway. Come back another time and we’ll show you through the winery. There’s a big window over there where you can see some of the process.” He pointed across the room, squinting. “That looks like the vineyard superintendent in there now.”

  I could see several large gray vats and a stack of wooden barrels. Two men stood in front of the vats talking. I sipped the wine.

  Jarvis looked up at the bartender. “You sound like an American. Where are you from?”

  “I was Canadian. Toronto. I’m an Israeli now.”

  “Did you start out here as a volunteer?”

  “Yes. I did a probationary period, then became a member. Where is your home?”

  “Indianapolis, originally. But that was a long time ago. I work at the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv.” Jarvis swallowed the last of the Riesling. “Have you run into an American woman who just arrived at the kibbutz in the past few days?”

  There was a shift in the man’s eyes from Jarvis to me and back. The guarded look told me a lot. As an agent, I had learned a concept called NLP, or Neuro-Linguistic Programming, that helped identify deception through eye movement cues. I knew his next statement would be a lie.

  “I am not aware of any such person. If you’re talking about a volunteer, I don’t know of any joining us in the past week or so.”

  I pushed my glass back, thanked the bartender and turned to Jarvis. “Let’s go take a peek at the winery.”

  “Did y
ou believe him?” The colonel murmured as we strolled across toward the large window.

  “He was lying. Jill is here.” And something gave me an odd sensation that we were close.

  A door stood beside the window that offered a view into the winery. As we approached it, a tall, lanky man dressed in work clothes and an orange baseball cap walked out and turned toward the rear of the store.

  “Pardon me,” I said, stopping him.

  He turned, a questioning look on his face. “Yes?”

  “I’m interested in growing grapes,” I said, smiling. “Are you the vineyard superintendent?”

  “I am.” He was a raw-boned man in his fifties.

  “Can I ask a few questions about your operation?”

  “If you’ve a mind to.” He sounded British. His dark eyes had a look of forbearance.

  “How large are your vineyards,” I asked.

  “Sixteen hectares.”

  “What’s that in acres?”

  “Around forty,” Jarvis said.

  I nodded. “I guess it keeps you quite busy at harvest time.”

  “We gather seven tons every other day.”

  “That much? Do you have a machine to pick them?”

  “No. We do it by hand.”

  “You must put everybody to work picking,” Jarvis said.

  “Quite a lot.”

  “Could I use tractors to haul the grapes?” I asked.

  “Of course. We use tractors with other crops as well as the grapes.”

  “Could I drive one through my vineyards?”

  “Only in a few places. The rows are planted too close to accommodate a tractor.”

  Just then we heard the bearded bartender call out, “It’s closing time. If you want to make a purchase, please bring it to the bar now.” When he spoke in Hebrew, I presumed he was repeating what he had just said in English.

  I looked around to see Jake Cohen hurrying toward us. He looked excited.

  Behind me I heard the vineyard superintendent’s voice saying, “I will return for you shortly.” Turning, I saw he was talking through the doorway to the man inside the winery. Then he scooted off toward the back of the store.

  “What’s up?” Colonel Jarvis asked Jake.