Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  © 2016 by Ronie Kendig

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3067-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016942749

  Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved. ESV Text Edition: 2011

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

  Author is represented by the Steve Laube Agency

  To the Special Forces veteran on the cover of this novel:

  Thank you for your tireless pursuit of justice and freedom, for the sacrifices you (and your family) have made.

  Sacrifices that separated you from each other and put you in harm’s way. Forever grateful . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Blessed Is He Who Preserves It

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  And Cursed Be He Who Steals It

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  And Cursed Be He Who Sells It

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  And Cursed Be He Who Pawns It

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Study the past to define the future.

  —Confucius

  Prologue

  — Kadesh Barnea, Israel —

  Circa 1440 BC

  “Separate yourselves from this assembly, so I can put an end to them at once!”

  The voice of the Lord froze Yehoshua. His legs quaked. He cast a look at Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, who stood with the two hundred fifty stirred up in rebellion. Moshe had warned them Yahweh would answer, that He would show them who were His chosen.

  The answer had come.

  With a shout, Moshe lay facedown with his brother, Aaron, beseeching the Most High. “O Lord, will you be angry with the entire assembly when only one man sins?”

  Yehoshua watched Korah and his band of rogues vanish around the corner, seeking refuge in their tents. They should be on their knees begging El Elyon’s mercy. Instead, they cowered like dogs. In that sacred moment, Yehoshua realized how easily Yahweh could have annihilated His people, just as he had the Amalekites at Yehoshua’s hand.

  Finally, Moshe rose to his knees, struggling to stand. Yehoshua rushed to assist and saw the determination etched in Moshe’s face. Aaron bore the same grim determination. Resolute in unwavering devotion to Adonai, Moshe pushed forward.

  The others gathered, and as one, they trailed Moshe to Korah’s camp. Korah waited, hand on the flap of his tent as he shouted something about Moshe’s skills with drama. Nearby, a tiny arm clamped around Dathan’s leg as he lingered with his family, his tent set up by his brother Abiram’s.

  Arms withered with age rose into the strangely dark dawn. “‘Move back from the tents of these wicked men,’” Moshe shouted, quoting Yahweh. With the warning came instruction not to touch anything belonging to them. “‘Or you will be swept away because of their sins.’”

  Swept away? Awe speared Yehoshua as the crowd parted, receding from the wicked just as the waters had split apart at the Red Sea. Perhaps the Great I Am would send a coursing flood through this rugged terrain. That would be a miracle. Or maybe the Messenger of Death would return. At the thought, Yehoshua shuddered.

  A shadow slunk along the earth, spindly black tendrils reaching for Korah.

  “See? He still resorts to magic and signs as he did with Pharaoh’s magicians,” Korah shouted. “Moshe, will you kill me as you did the Egyptian?”

  Breath stolen by the cruel words, Yehoshua could not keep his gaze from the creeping blackness that stretched forth. It coalesced and took form as an undulating shadow. No, as an undulating figure. A finger of the shadow draped across the children.

  A cry went out from Dathan’s tent. His little girl slumped to the ground, a bulbous shape now protruding from her neck. She lay still in death, Dathan’s wife cradling the child as the shadow receded.

  Shock riddled Yehoshua.

  “Resheph,” a man breathed, terror coating his tone.

  Recoiling at the name of the demon-god who spread disease through the use of his bow and arrow, Yehoshua’s insides quivered.

  A shriek rent the day.

  “This is how you will know,” Moshe promised in a loud voice. “‘If these men die a natural death and suffer the fate of all mankind, then the Lord has not sent me. But if the Lord brings about something totally new, and the earth opens its mouth and swallows them, with everything that belongs to them, and they go down alive into the realm of the dead, then you will know that these men have treated the Lord with contempt.’”

  Go down alive? Into Sheol? It seemed absurd. Impossible. But Yehoshua had come to learn that with Yahweh nothing was impossible.

  As if a horn had been sounded, the shadows snapped back, trickling into the earth like water down greedy desert cracks.

  The ground shook so violently that Yehoshua stumbled. A woman beside him screamed, clutching her child. Elders stood more bravely, but the confusion and shock shone plainly on their bearded faces. When the earth canted left, then right, Yehoshua stretched out a hand to steady himself.

  The ground opened as if it were a garment torn in two.

  Screaming, Korah dropped out of sight. Bodies vanished into the darkness of the void. Whoosh! His tent collapsed in withered defeat. Down it rushed into the yawning chasm of Sheol, dragging wi
th it Korah’s family.

  As Yehoshua’s mind registered the same fate devouring Dathan and Abiram with their families and tents, he stood speechless, uncertain whether to flee or lie prostrate.

  “It’s going to swallow us, too!” an elder shouted, pushing past the others to distance himself from the judged.

  Just as fast as it opened, the earth closed over the claimed lives, the dirt garment stitched back together. The way the Red Sea had taken the Egyptian warriors, a sight seared upon Yehoshua’s young eyes.

  Three massive gaps in the camp left echoes of what had once been. Space no longer marked with people and life, but with emptiness.

  Without warning, a raging wall of fire burst from the Glory of Yahweh. Scalding and devastating, the flames spiraled over the camp. Shielding himself, Yehoshua bent away.

  When quiet fell over the camp, Yehoshua looked to Moshe, whose face bore the expression of grief. Heavy, terrible grief.

  Levites, Reubenites, Gershonites—all manner of tribe and people—fell to the ground, fearing the wrath of the Lord. The fire had shot through the camp with intent. The two hundred fifty who had burned censers with Korah, Dathan, and Abiram the night before now lay as ash, seared forever in their rebellion.

  Weeping women and shrieking children were the only music to be heard this grim day. Moshe stalked to Eleazar, son of Aaron and gripped his arm. “Remove the censers from the charred remains.”

  Stricken, Eleazar looked to the still-smoking, blackened field.

  “The censers of the men who sinned at the cost of their lives . . .” Moshe seemed to have aged years in that moment. His weary eyes finally found Yehoshua, and together, they both considered the cost of rebellion, the full weight of Yahweh’s answering justice. “Scatter the coals some distance away, for the censers are holy.”

  “Wh-what am I do with the censers?” Eleazar asked, his voice quiet, desperate.

  “Hammer them into sheets to overlay the altar, for they were presented before the Lord and have become holy.” Determination glinted hard in the Lord’s chosen. “Let them be a sign to the Israelites.”

  Somber, Yehoshua sat and stared at the field. The clinking of hammer against bronze sounded as heartbeats through the night. Banging reminders of rebellion, of justice, of Yahweh’s answer. That none save a descendent of Aaron should burn incense before the Lord or he would become like Korah and his followers.

  Yehoshua knew, even with the deaths at his hand as God’s warrior, this day would ring in his mind for the rest of his years. Even as morning dawned, he remained sitting, watching, listening.

  A murmur caught his ear. He turned, noticing two men who’d emerged from their tents. “They’ve killed the Lord’s people,” one said.

  Yehoshua came up with a start, ready to defend Moshe’s honor.

  A touch on his shoulder. He jerked around and faced his bent master. “Have you not yet learned? Yahweh will answer. He will defend His.”

  But as the sun rose, so did the complaints, the murmuring. Yehoshua could not believe his ears. The people would rebel? Again? Had they learned nothing with the burning of their own?

  An assembly gathered, shouting at Moshe and Aaron, and moved toward the tent of meeting. Suddenly, a massive cloud covered the tent. Hot and white, the glory of the Lord appeared.

  “Quickly.” Waving his brother over with wrinkled hands gnarled but strong, Moshe dragged Yehoshua to the front of the tent. A strange wail went up somewhere outside. The sound of intense grief, so great that it sent a chill down Yehoshua’s spine.

  “Get away from this assembly, so I can put an end to them at once.”

  Moshe and Aaron threw themselves to the ground, faces to the dirt. Moshe motioned to his brother. “Take your censer and put incense in it, along with burning coals from the altar, and hurry to the assembly to make atonement for them. Wrath has come out from the Lord; the plague has started.”

  Aaron scrambled to his feet, grabbed his censer, and rushed to carry out Moshe’s command.

  Screaming poured through the air as they rose and followed him to the assembly. Yehoshua was taken aback at what greeted them. Half among them already showed signs of the plague. A man tumbled to the ground, dead. Another.

  And another.

  Aaron offered the incense and made atonement for them, standing between the living and the dead. That day the dead numbered nearly fifteen thousand, save three hundred. Had Aaron not made atonement, the plague would have ravaged the entire camp. So many paid the price for rebellion, for questioning Yahweh’s chosen. For making themselves gods.

  Future generations must be warned. Protected.

  1

  — Ten Days Ago —

  Jebel al-Lawz, Tabuk Province, Saudi Arabia

  Vindication tasted like sweat. Backbreaking, limb-aching sweat. Tzivia Khalon pushed onto her knees and used the back of her gloved hand to wipe away the perspiration plastering her hair to her face and neck. She needed a break. In the logbook, she recorded her progress, sketched what the B23 grid site resembled, then stood and started for the sorting tent.

  Noel Garelli, her assistant, looked up from B20. “Giving up?”

  Tzivia snorted. “In your dreams.” Though they’d all thought about it. Two weeks onsite, and they’d uncovered nothing of significance, nothing directly connected to the Bronze Age or the Israelites. But there was no way she’d walk away so soon. Dig sites could go from mundane to extraordinary in the space of an inch.

  Just an inch. I just need an inch. Just 25.4 millimeters to clear her résumé of the Kafr al-Ayn disaster three years ago, when a toxin from an artifact stolen from her mentor, Dr. Joseph Cathey, nearly wiped out a village. The president of the United States had been killed in the aftermath. Despite being cleared of negligence and wrongdoing, Tzivia bore the dent in her reputation from that incident. It had endangered grants. Stalled donations.

  Jebel al-Lawz was her chance to expunge that humiliating experience from her life. One amazing find, and she would be sought after. Respected. She wouldn’t let anything or anyone ruin this chance. Not even her nosy brother in the States. Or his brooding, handsome friend, Tox Russell.

  Tzivia huffed. Tox had died three years ago. It still stung. Not to mention the way he’d shut her out when they arrested him. Told her to move on. “It’s for your own good.”

  She had moved on—she was now Doctor Tzivia Khalon. Had it not been for the weight Dr. Cathey’s name carried, Kafr al-Ayn could’ve destroyed her career and life. But being an authority on Ancient Near Eastern studies, he pulled a few strings and had them cleared of misconduct. When she compared her résumé against his, she might as well be in kindergarten. Her focus had strictly been Ancient Near East, but Dr. Cathey had degrees in Hebrew Bible and semitic epigraphy as well as Ancient Near Eastern Studies. With two doctorates, he now served as an adjunct professor with Oxford’s Oriel College.

  She scanned the archaeological dig site. Her site. With the help of Dr. Cathey, they’d won the grant to search for answers about Jebel al-Lawz, the land purportedly where the Israelites had encamped. Gaining the permission of the Saudi Commission for Tourism and National Heritage to work this site hadn’t been easy, but the promise of cooperation and sharing all artifacts got her team onsite. Having Dr. Cathey backing the dig gave her clearance to even be here, gave the dig credibility, and provided her with an authority who could review any recovered artifacts.

  Years ago, the Saudis had erected a fence with a guard hut around this area to keep out looters and vandals. They believed something significant happened here, and she shared that belief, though she wouldn’t fall prey again to Dr. Cathey’s religious ideals—that was his one detraction. Or should she call it “distraction”? He believed the Bible to be more than a piece of literature. He believed Moses had been here. That the blackened mountain in the distance was where the Hebrew patriarch received the Ten Commandments.

  Many scholars refuted the site. Some had outright called her desperate for coming here. S
upernaturally carved tablets or not, she and her team would attempt to answer whether this site truly was the biblical Mount Sinai.

  “Just one inch,” Tzivia whispered as she pivoted.

  Earth gave way beneath her feet. Rocks scraped and clawed her legs, yanking her downward. With a scream, she shielded her face. Terror grabbed her by the throat. Dirt and rocks smothered her face.

  Then didn’t. She felt the world fall away. Coldness wrapped her tight in the split second before she thudded to a stop.

  Pain slammed into her back. She landed, staring up at the hole. It seemed impossibly small for her to have fallen through. Dirt dribbled into her eyes. She jerked away, peeling off the ground. Her hand suctioned against mud. Mud? This arid region wasn’t exactly fertile terrain. She squinted around. To the left, a short, two-foot-high stone circle. Worn, broken boards straddled the stones.

  Plop! Plunk!

  Water rippled. Water! The stones encircled the lip of a well.

  Wiping muddy hands on her tactical pants, she climbed to her feet. Before her—she froze. Mud bricks laid out in a consistent pattern. A wall? She bent, her fingers tracing the mortar that had formed through the years between the bricks. No, not years—centuries!

  “Tzivia!”

  “Here,” she called, waving a hand behind her but unable to take her eyes off the wall. Something protruded from the ground at the base. Gloves back on, she gently brushed aside the silt. “Noel, c’mere!”

  “Sending a rope down.”

  Tzivia followed the lower edge of the wall with her gloved finger. How far back did it go? Bricks crumbled at her touch. Her heart climbed into her throat as years of history were reduced to rubble and dust. “No no no.” She drew back her hand, afraid to create any more damage before it could be logged. Afraid she’d undo the miracle just discovered.

  The wall stood about six feet tall. What was this place? A dwelling? It didn’t look right for Bronze Age. Her hope dimmed. She shifted and checked right and left. It stretched the entire length of the underground cave.

  But there was a well here. So . . . Tzivia stepped back a few paces. Took in the wall. What’s behind you? She went to her knees. Shoulder to the wet ground, she peered into the new hole. Darkness. She yanked the torch from her hip holster and flashed it into the darkness.