by Ronie Kendig
Noel laughed. Too hard and too loud.
Using her calves and thighs, careful not to create more damage, she pushed upright, out of the muck. She used her shoulder to wipe the mud off her face. As she did, Tzivia noticed a rock in the wall had slid back, now sitting at least an inch farther in. She bent forward, her head lamp beam tracing it. “What . . . ?” She’d seen this before—secret hiding places. She swiped her muddied hand down her pant leg as she smoothed her left hand around the stone. It resisted.
“Did you find something?”
Tzivia dug her fingernails into a type of mortar created as years hardened the dirt. She pried. No good. She grabbed the small pick from her tactical belt. Gently picked the mortar away. With a noisy scrape, the rock gave. She drew it out. Rock in hand, she arched back to cast her head lamp into the void.
“Ah,” Noel muttered over her shoulder, disappointed. “Just a loose rock.”
Light caressed a color variation. She reached in. Three . . . four . . . six inches. The width of her arm blocked her view. Maybe he was right—it was nothing. Loose dirt sifted. She flicked it. Felt something firm but not rocklike. Something . . . She brushed it with her fingers, using her mind’s eye to put the shape together. Finally, she found the edges. Lifted it out. As she did, she felt resistance and heard a clanking.
Tzivia frowned and stepped back, letting Noel’s lamp bathe the hole. “Parchment,” she whispered. Something was tied to it. Clattered out of the hole. She caught it, her heart thudding. Disbelief coiled around her as she stared at the dark piece, marred with mold. “A miktereth!” Number four. A length of red cord tied around the parchment had been secured with wax. Her heart skipped a beat at the seal—Templar! She traced the corner of the parchment, noting it’d been folded. The edges torn. As if it’d been . . . “Bound.”
“Then not Bronze Age,” Noel said. “But why is it with the miktereth?”
True. Books weren’t bound until much later.
“No idea.” Tzivia unfolded the parchment. She gaped, staring at the inked lettering. “Early Roman.” Such beauty, the precision of writing in columns. Three columns. Wait. She counted the lines . . . twenty-eight. The words at the top: “cursed be he who steals this” and others. But mostly—“Cantillation,” she breathed.
“What?” Noel asked, his tone pitched. “Are you serious?”
Different handwriting in the margins. Excitement fluttered through her chest. Tzivia whirled. “Baggie!”
Noel frowned but retrieved one from his supplies.
She tucked the miktereth in the plastic bag and sealed it. “I have to find Dr. Cathey!”
“Why?”
Exhilaration shoved her out of the tunnel. She hurried, anticipating his joy. Imagining the look in his weathered gray eyes. Little excited the old professor—he’d done much. Seen even more. But this . . . !
Tucking the parchment beneath her shirt, she hurried up the narrow, thinning tunnel to the cave entrance. Immediately, the heat of Saudi Arabia accosted her as she hopped down from the opening, even though the tent covered it. She sprinted past the topside excavation site, drawing looks from the workers. Ignored the white medical tents the Saudi Ministry of Health had set up.
“Dr. Cathey!” Tzivia felt like a kid who’d discovered her first fake dinosaur bone at a museum dig. She stopped short, finding him in the sorting tent. With Maloof. The colonel couldn’t care less about Dr. Cathey’s credentials. Here, he had no authority when it came to this officer.
“Ah, Ms. Khalon.”
Fire shot up her spine as she locked gazes with Colonel Maloof of the Saudi Commission for Tourism and National Heritage. He had been scavenging from their dig—lamps, pottery shards, wood pieces—since he’d arrived a few days ago. Tzivia froze, praying Maloof didn’t notice the miktereths. “We’ve found nothing new—”
Dr. Cathey moved toward her. His elbow bumped the sorting shelf. A miktereth rolled out from a cubby onto the table, its unusual shape rocking to a stop between them.
Maloof lifted his brows as he retrieved the artifact. “And this?”
Tzivia cursed herself and Dr. Cathey. But she wasn’t going to give in easily. Not again. She started forward.
“I wouldn’t.” Maloof’s weapon whipped toward her. “It is our right to reclaim our cultural heritage.” A primeval grin smeared across his face. “Even if you Americans do all the work.”
“It is not right!” Dr. Cathey declared.
The weapon swung at him.
“No!” Tzivia shoved herself between the men. Held up her hands, knowing that with a well-placed knife-hand strike she could cut the breath from the impudent Saudi colonel. But he had soldiers. And more would come if she attacked. Then they’d undoubtedly shut down her dig. “I will take this up with your superior.”
“Do that.” With a smug, satisfied nod and the censer, Maloof ducked back into the afternoon.
“Why did you let him take it?”
Tzivia whirled. “You just had to bump that shelf!”
“It was an accident—it should have been properly secured. Besides, why did you not use your street skills to stop him?”
“Krav Maga doesn’t make me equal to an entire unit!” Tzivia pushed him back to the table as she double-checked that Maloof hadn’t returned. “Anyway, look!” She spread the parchment over the table, being sure it wasn’t visible to anyone who entered.
Hesitating, Dr. Cathey slid on his glasses and bent over it. He pulled in a long breath. “Tzivia,” he breathed. He started mumbling as his thick, hairy fingers traced the lettering but didn’t touch it. “This . . .” He shook his head, as if he didn’t believe it. “It’s a leaf from the Keter Aram Tzova—the Aleppo Codex!”
She bit her lip, watching. Feeling as elated as he looked.
He smiled down at her. “But you already guessed that.”
“You’re sure?” If Dr. Cathey said it was, then that was as good as carbon dating. Sometimes better.
“Not without more tests, but I am more sure than I have been before.” Gray eyes peered over silver rims. “You found this here?”
“In the tunnel where we located the censers.” She wagged her hand at Noel, who entered the tent. “And look what else!”
Noel showed him the fourth miktereth.
Dr. Cathey’s eyes went grave as he returned to the parchment. That it was not in English was no obstacle to the multilinguist.
A nervous bubble popped her excitement. “What?”
He read,
The Lord said to Moses, “Tell Eleazar son of Aaron, the priest, to remove the censers from the charred remains and scatter the coals some distance away, for the censers are holy—the censers of the men who sinned at the cost of their lives. Hammer the censers into sheets to overlay the altar, for they were presented before the Lord and have become holy. Let them be a sign to the Israelites.”
So Eleazar the priest collected the bronze censers brought by those who had been burned to death, and he had them hammered out to overlay the altar, as the Lord directed him through Moses. This was to remind the Israelites that no one except a descendant of Aaron should come to burn incense before the Lord, or he would become like Korah and his followers.
Tzivia stared. “Why do you look like death warmed over?”
Dr. Cathey met her gaze. “It’s from Korah’s rebellion.”
“And?”
“And there was a plague that killed some fourteen thousand Israelites.”
Tzivia rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t deny the squirming in her stomach. A plague then. A plague now.
“It was only checked by—”
“No.” Tzivia held up her hand. “No, I’m not listening. I’ve already had a bad enough day without your proselytizing.”
“We must consider this—a miktereth found tied to the leaf. And so close to the others?”
She swallowed.
Dr. Cathey drew out his tablet, tapped and swiped, then showed her the screen. “It is from Numbers 16.” He read
,
Moses said to Aaron, “Take your censer and put in it fire from the altar, and lay incense on it; then bring it quickly to the congregation and make atonement for them, for wrath has gone forth from the LORD, the plague has begun!” Then Aaron took it as Moses had spoken, and ran into the midst of the assembly, for behold, the plague had begun among the people.
Tzivia took an involuntary step back, her gaze drifting to the medical tents. She thought of Basil, unconscious with some strange illness.
Without looking at the tablet, Dr. Cathey quoted, “‘So he put on the incense and made atonement for the people. He took his stand between the dead and the living, so that the plague was checked. But those who died by the plague were 14,700, besides those who died on account of Korah. Then Aaron returned to Moses at the doorway of the tent of meeting, for the plague had been checked.’” He lifted his head. Looked so defeated.
“What?”
He glanced down at the fourth censer. “This was Aaron’s censer.”
“You don’t know that.”
“But if it was, this—”
“Stopped the plague?” She snorted, hating how harsh it came out, but if he could be vocal with his belief, she could be just as vocal.
“No.” He scowled, drawing together those bushy eyebrows. “No, the plague was checked because Aaron offered a sacrifice.” Another scowl and he lifted the leaf, muttering to himself.
Tzivia shook her head. “I don’t care two wits about some ancient tale as long as we keep the remaining censers out of Maloof’s—or anyone else’s—hands. At least until we can verify them.”
“But now that Maloof has taken one”—he shrugged—“we cannot complete the cycle.”
“What cycle?”
He pointed to the leaf. “Unearthing the censers, more specifically, removing the first three from the chest, unleashed the plague Aaron made atonement for.”
Anger spat through her veins. “Stop, please. Just . . . stop.”
“You have seen the sick and dying!” He motioned toward the medical tents. “Four—four have died this week alone. Same illness—protrusions, blackened digits. This is not a coincidence. It is—”
“Don’t you dare call it a curse!”
“Then what, Tzivia?”
She tried to swallow against a mouth filled with the sands of Saudi Arabia. The censers. The sick people. “It’s just a coincidence.” If only her voice carried conviction. But this challenged her scientific reasoning. “We . . . we must’ve disturbed something when we found the censers—opened the chest,” she conceded. “Or a latent bacteria . . . in the wood . . . seeped into the water.” Yes, that made sense. Didn’t it?
“You fail me with your doubt.”
“What would you have me do, Dr. Cathey? Burn a censer from an altar with holy fire?”
“Of course not!”
She sighed in relief.
“You are not from Aaron’s line—it would do no good.”
“Bah!” She waved a hand dismissively. “God wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”
He turned, shoulders slumped. “It is painful enough for me to listen.” He started toward the entrance.
“Where are you going?”
“I must talk with a colleague.” He wagged the leaf at her. “And you should immediately request that fourth censer back. And stop digging.”
“Stop—” Tzivia lunged for him. This site was her chance to redeem her name. “Are you crazy? This is my life’s work! We have to seize every minute possible before one of those organizations finds a reason to shut me down. I’m not stopping now.”
“Yes, I am crazy—people are dying and I actually want to make sure nobody else does.”
****
— Day 5 —
Washington, DC
Exhaustion tugged at Galen as he returned to the White House. He made his way to his bedroom, unknotting his tux’s bow tie and stifling a yawn. His mind was weighted. Not with the delicate serenade of Asian officials but the turbulent tango coming.
Where was he? Why hadn’t Tox shown yet?
Galen warned his chief of staff to add guards and be alert. But Barry had already done that. Realistically, Tox would link Galen to what happened in Nigeria. He’d assume Galen sent the team.
“Was it good?”
Galen turned at the sweet sound of Evie. His daughter stood, holding the jamb of her door, hair braided and eyes sleepy. He wandered back to her and planted a kiss on the crown of her head. “Boring.”
“Figures,” she mumbled, deflating against the wood.
“You ready for your trip tomorrow?”
She almost looked alert. “Def!”
“I could tell Eleanor to cancel it. I’m sure she could—”
“Just try keeping me in this asylum.” She tiptoed up and kissed his cheek, then whirled around, shutting the door as she called over her shoulder, “’Night, Daddy.”
Daddy. The word lodged in his chest. She hadn’t called him that in a long while—a sure sign she was excited about going to London. Smiling, he tugged his tie off and unfastened the first two buttons of his shirt. Evie was the most precious gift Brooke had left him. He made his way to his room, waving good-night to the Secret Servicemen. “’Night.”
“’Night, sir,” they said in unison.
Galen dressed for bed and then stopped. How could he have forgotten? He moved to the credenza at the window, poured himself a glass of bourbon, then tipped it toward heaven, stars dimmed by the lights of downtown DC. “Happy anniversary.”
“Got a glass for me?”
Galen spun, the brown liquid splashing over the crystal.
Shadows, heavy and dark, concealed the owner of that voice. Though he didn’t need a visual to know, Galen squinted at the form in the armchair by the other window. He gulped the adrenaline that exploded in his veins.
“Tox.”
6
— Day 5 —
Washington, DC
Somehow, the shocked expression on his brother’s face bore the same fear Tox had seen in too many eyes before he’d neutralized the threat they posed. And Galen posed a massive risk to Tox. “Why?” he managed around the breath that seemed trapped in his throat. “Why’d you send them?”
Sleeves rolled up, his brother stood like one of the statues lining the gilded halls.
Anger coursed through Tox’s veins like venom, hot and poisoning. “I did what you asked—neutralized the threat and vanished.”
“I—” Galen shook his head. “It wasn’t me, Tox.”
Three large strides delivered him across the semi-darkened room. His fist drove straight into Galen’s face. His brother went down hard, unconscious.
Tox stood over him, hand throbbing. Molars clamped did nothing to tame the storm within. Trembling, he eased himself onto the edge of a nearby chair. Elbows on his knees, he watched a stream of blood slip from his brother’s lip. As Tox waited for the adrenaline to fade, for the shaking to stop, he stared at the carpet.
He hadn’t lost control like that in a long time. Chiji would be disappointed.
Who was he kidding? Tox was disappointed. But his brother had always been able to bring out the worst in him. Turned everything into a competition. All their lives, Galen had everything—the girls, the grades, the pretty-boy looks . . .
Dad’s approval.
Tox had one thing—Brooke. The best thing since the Glock 22.
Then Galen took her. Popular as royalty, Galen and Brooke had climbed the political ladder to the White House, complete with their perfect child. Tox hadn’t talked to them since their wedding.
But just like he’d walked into that trap in West Africa a week ago on the off chance his niece was in trouble, he’d come here. To give his brother the opportunity to explain.
Just like his choice in love, Tox’s choices in life had sent him on a bullet train to disaster. Didn’t matter that he’d qualified for Special Forces school as one of the youngest in history. Didn’t matter the medals he’d earned
. Didn’t matter the lives he’d saved. Dad had never approved. Mom only feared for his life, couldn’t see the hero behind the uniform or the ultimate good he’d done. Army life fed him, clothed him, and drove him. Right into the federal pen, where shame smothered what little pride he had left.
Tox rubbed his knuckles, his gaze sliding around the room and ignoring his brother’s unconscious form. The original artwork. Signed baseballs. Leather-bound books. Pictures . . .
A gold-framed photo on the nightstand snagged his attention. Even from here, he’d recognize her—slightly rounded face, dark brown hair cut to her shoulders. She’d worn it long in high school. He could still remember its silkiness in his hands. And her brown eyes. They had been “the” couple in school. But he hadn’t wanted a life like his parents’ nor did he have Galen’s political aspirations. So he went to Basic. Then Iraq. And lonely Brooke found power-hungry Galen.
He curled his fingers into a tight fist. He needed answers, and though he’d created interference on the security feeds to protect his movements tonight, it wouldn’t last long. He shouldn’t have coldcocked his brother. Couldn’t get answers from an unconscious man. But the anger had possessed him like a demon.
Chiji had warned Tox about coming. Said he’d end up in prison. Again. He wished for a comms piece to talk to his friend. To hear the steady voice that acted as his conscience.
His gaze slid to the door, where light peeked over the threshold. Two Secret Service agents were within shouting distance out in the hall. Well, they were unconscious agents right now, but that wouldn’t last long either. Knocking them out was necessary, but there were other, much more conscious agents throughout this cold marble castle of Washington.
And none of them had stopped Tox from reaching his brother. He could’ve killed Galen. A piece of him wanted to.
Galen groaned and shifted on the floor.
“You used Evie.”
His brother started, mind still swimming in apparent confusion at how he’d ended up on the floor. His blue eyes met Tox’s as he used the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his mouth. “You knocked me out. You know what they’ll do to you—”