by Ronie Kendig
Baum nodded. “Yes, yes. The Jews were so concerned about protecting their national treasure, it was kept locked in a safe and took two keys to open—each held by a different rabbi. Those who held the keys were blessed.” His index finger didn’t point—it almost looped as he stabbed it in the air. “And the opposite: Anyone who stole or sold the Codex was cursed.” His expression went grave. “They believed a plague would wipe out the Jewish community if it were removed from the synagogue.
“At the tops of some of the pages, the Aleppo elders inscribed a warning to ward off thieves: ‘Sacred to Yahweh, not to be sold or defiled.’ And elsewhere they wrote, ‘Cursed be he who steals it, and cursed be he who sells it.’ Among some Jews, especially the Aleppo Jews, those fears persist even today.”
“This is asinine,” Tzivia said. “A curse didn’t cause the outbreak we saw in Jebel al-Lawz.” She brushed her bangs off her face, knotted with frustration. “We aroused some latent bacteria. This has nothing to do with the Codex.”
“You must read Tiberius” came a soft voice from the alcove—Sokolov.
“Bah!” Baum scoffed. “Why send them to chase fairy tales, Natan?”
“His writings are—”
“Myth! In fact, Tiberius is a myth,” Baum said. “His writings are just recitation of lore, nothing more. It would be a fool’s errand to track them down.”
“His writings are founded in fact and proven time and again.” Sokolov spoke with conviction.
Face red, Baum shook his head. “Only if you have had too much wine!”
“No, it—”
“Silence, Natan! You know not of what you speak.” Baum glowered at the younger rabbi. With a weighted huff, he looked back to Ram and Tox. “Forgive him. ‘A wise man conceals his intelligence; the fool displays his foolishness.’” He gave a final harrumph, then added, “Tiberius is a myth!”
Dejected and frustrated, Sokolov reached for a small jar. Opened it, then turned toward them and blew across the top.
Almost immediately, Rabbi Baum sneezed. Coughed. He scowled at the younger rabbi. “Must you use that? You know it aggravates my sinuses!”
“My apologies,” Sokolov said, hurrying to a small fan, which he turned on. Penitence was as far from the rabbi as arrogance.
Eyes watering, Baum sneezed again. Then coughed. And coughed again—and again . . . until his face was turning red.
Tox shifted and unfolded his arms, ready to administer CPR or a trach if necessary. “Rabbi . . . ?”
Baum struggled to his feet from the stool before shuffling toward the door. “Forgive me.” Through another cough, he added, “I will return.”
Why had Sokolov sent the aging rabbi into a coughing fit? Tox glanced at Ram and saw the same question on his face. They both focused on the younger rabbi.
“Listen.” Sokolov scurried toward them with the book he had retrieved a few minutes earlier and spread it on the table. “‘Though I am no physician, it would seem from the writings I have collected that there is some link between the plague the Hebrews experienced and the plague I witnessed with my own eyes after my brother-knights plundered Jerusalem.’”
Quiet mushroomed over the room, silencing even the storm in Tox’s mind.
“See?” Sokolov, his eyes bright with excitement, smiled at Tox. “Ti Tzaddik has the writings of Thefarie of Tveria, the Templar Knight who faced what you are experiencing. You must find Tiberius’s Writings—”
Tox pointed to the book. “That’s not it?”
Brown hair dusted the man’s forehead as he shook his head. “This is only a copy of a fragment. Find Tzaddik and Tiberius’s books, and you will find the answer to stopping the plague.”
Tox roughed both hands over his face. To Ram he said, “This is like a black hole. Every time I think we might get answers, we only find more questions.”
He planted his hands on the table, staring down at the scroll. Felt Haven watching him. How did he always get tangled up in messes like this? Why couldn’t soldiering be as “simple” for him as it was for most? Find the bad guys. Neutralize the bad guys. Go home.
Tox turned to the rabbi. “Where do we find this Tzaddik?”
Rabbi Sokolov widened his eyes. “Find him? You do not find him.”
Of course not. That’d be too easy.
“I know where to find him,” Ram said.
“And even with that, unless Tzaddik wants to see you, he will not be found. Ti Tzaddik only makes himself known to those whose lives are tethered to God’s will,” Sokolov said. “Just as the angels and demons are.”
Right. Great. Tox pushed off the table and paced, hands behind his head to keep them from throttling someone. He felt Haven’s gaze and saw concern in those rich, green eyes.
“The book,” Sokolov said, nodding to the one lying between his hands, “was written by a man named Tiberius in Byblos. It is a history of—”
“Bah! Why are you bothering them with this? Confusing them?” Rabbi Baum rushed into the room with more speed and power than a man of his age and condition should have. He flapped a hand again at Sokolov. “Be off! Back to your scroll copying. Enough with your fool-speech.”
Baum stood over the younger rabbi as he scuttled back to his station, head down. “Forgive him.” He sighed, his face a lighter shade than when he’d left. “Do not listen to his ramblings. He has been too long with the parchments and ink.” He laughed.
Tox was beginning to identify with Sokolov, going crazy trying to sort out this mission. Though Kafr al-Ayn had made him believe he was losing his mind, this mission convinced him he had. What was he doing chasing artifacts? He was a soldier, a warrior.
From somewhere aboveground drifted the Muslim call to prayer. A chill skidded through his veins. The permeating, haunting sound of the muezzin was an odd and unsettling intrusion, considering where Tox stood, surrounded by the inked history of the Jews.
“Ah, and that tells me I must go.” Baum inclined his head. “As you must.”
Shadows seemed to peel off the walls and manifest in the forms of well-muscled men. Mossad. Tox’s gut churned—why hadn’t he sensed them before now?
“They will see you out,” Baum said.
“You haven’t given us answers.” Tox glanced at the men. Groaned at the hoods in their hands.
“You know entirely more than you should,” Baum said, his tone no longer friendly and accommodating. “Shabbat shalom.”
33
— Day 12 —
Jerusalem
It’d been a long day, but they were getting nowhere fast. Finding more questions instead of answers. Time to change that. After briefing the team, Tox headed toward Cell, who sat at a bank of computers in the warehouse. “What’re you working on?”
“Everything,” Cell mumbled, his right hand working one mouse and his left another as his eyes bounced between the two monitors. “Setting up a date with an Israeli soldier-hottie I met in the market, planning a family reunion, getting my dog groomed.” Even with his sarcasm, Cell never stopped clicking or tracking.
Tox pushed into a chair beside him at the table. “I need you to do something.” He rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. “Off grid.”
Cell glanced at him. “Ooo-kay.”
“Find whatever you can on the Arrow & Flame.”
“And while I’m at it,” Cell said, his words monotone and lifeless, “I’ll start planning my funeral.”
“Well, you’re so good at multitasking . . .”
“Now you grow a sense of humor, when I’m dying.”
“Nobody’s dying.” Tox edged closer. “Find names. Find something we can track. We need to get them off our back.”
Cell scribbled some code on a piece of paper, then tossed the pen down and continued. “Shouldn’t SAARC be doing this?”
Tox squinted. “They should—so why haven’t they?” It bugged him.
“Maybe they have.”
“Never knew you to be a devil’s advocate.”
“Hey, if the
devil keeps me alive, I’ll be his best friend.” Cell grunted. “Heck, I’ll even marry him.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll probably judge you for it.”
“Hardnose.”
“You know it.” Tox slapped his shoulder and stood. “Let me know what you find. And Cell?”
“Yeah?” Brown eyes pulled away from the computer.
“Be smart about it.”
“When am I not, Sarge? When am I not?”
Tox patted his shoulder again and strode back to his work station. He snatched a folder from the table, some tape, and headed to a wall at the far end of the building. There was little light, but that was all he needed—well, that and some isolation to get perspective on this mission.
In the center, he taped a paper with the word PLAGUE on it. Around it, he added: JEBEL AL-LAWZ, TANIN, RABBIS, TIBERIUS, INDIA, CHATRESH/BHAVIN, ARROW & FLAME, CENSERS/THE CODEX.
Tox worked it, making a note here and there, but mostly, he stared. Let the words, the locations connect. Cross-connect. Explore possibilities. He’d been doing this without the data wall for the last two weeks as they worked to stop what was happening. But the tangibility helped.
At least, he hoped it did. He relaxed into the problem-solving but unfortunately felt no closer to solid answers.
“Want some food?”
“Not hungry,” he said, only peripherally aware the question had been asked. His brain energy diverted into finding solutions.
Hours later, Tox leaned back against the table, squeezing a hand over his mouth and dragging it down over his jaw. What am I missing?
Someone walked in front of his data wall, saying, “We have a problem.”
Tox blinked.
Cell stretched up to one of the pages taped to the wall and started writing on it.
“Hey!”
Cell rotated. A symbol now glared back from the page marked Arrow & Flame. “We have a problem,” he repeated, this time more ardent as his light brown brows knotted.
Tox scowled, tugging his gaze from the flaming arrow symbol. “What?” Then his brain caught up, his gaze once more on the drawing. “Where did you see that?”
“C’mere.” Cell returned to his station.
Dread simmered in Tox’s gut. He followed the communications expert, and though he sensed eyes watching them, he did his best to play it cool. Cell’s monitors were dark, oddly turned off, making the dread roil as the techie scooted in his chair and jabbed the monitors on.
Tox glanced at the first—CANNOT FIND PAGE. Then the next. And the next. On every monitor. “These—”
“Every one is a different system, self-contained.” Cell flicked his finger backward at the monitor directly in front of him. “This is what I get when I hunt around for you-know-who.” He pointed to a task bar at the top. “Different search parameters.” He tapped the screen. “Same result—page couldn’t load.”
“Is our ISP being blocked?”
“Negatory.” Cell tucked his pencil in his mouth and typed LYNETTE EASON into the central monitor. A screen splashed to life with hundreds of listings for the author. “I can look up everything and anything except the Arrow & Flame.”
How did that even make sense? “Did you try glowing arrows?”
“Yep. And fiery arrow organization and terrorists . . . every combo you can imagine.” He arched an eyebrow. “I haven’t just been sitting here for the last four hours.”
“What’s going on?” Ram asked.
“I even tried digging around that error message, but it’s”—Cell shook his head—“it’s impenetrable. Anything related to Arrow & Flame comes to this.”
“What?!” Ram shouted, lunging forward. “What are you doing?”
Tox jerked up. “Working this mission.”
“If you look for them, they—” Ram yanked off his beanie and spun in a furious circle. “You stupid—” He flipped out his phone. Started dialing. “Everyone, pack up! Now!”
“No!” Tox surged after his friend, motioning to the others. “Disregard that!”
Wild, angry eyes met his as Ram spoke a series of unintelligible words.
“Who are you talking to?”
Tzivia was at his side. “Hebrew.”
Tox lunged. “Mossad? You’re talking to Mossad?”
With a glower, Ram shoved him off and jogged toward his bunk. He threw his gear into a sack, Hebrew spewing still.
“What’s he saying?” Tox asked over his shoulder to Tzivia.
“‘We’re compromised,’” Tzivia whispered, her voice trembling as she translated her brother’s words. “‘Orders were violated.’”
Orders? Dread washed over Tox, the wave scalding and terrifying as he saw the expression on Ram’s face. That wasn’t just anger—it was terror.
Crap. “You heard him. Pack up!” Tox glanced at Tzivia again, who stood watching her brother, shock riddling her features.
“He’s following something called Joshua Protocol,” she said, lifting her shoulders in apparent confusion and shaking her head. “‘Chances of survival’—”
“Go!” Tox knew she didn’t need to hear the rest. “Get the professor!” He swung her in the direction of Dr. Cathey, who was moving as fast as he could.
Tox sprinted and grabbed his ruck. Then ripped the pages from the data wall before herding the others, unnerved, toward the exit.
“What was that?” The gasp in Ram’s word caused a hush to fall over the entire warehouse. He whipped to Tox. “Incoming!”
“Go go go!” Tox sprinted toward the door, ruck over his shoulder. He spun, scanning the warehouse to make sure everyone was out. Ram had swept the professor into a fireman’s carry and hoofed it out the door with Tzivia on his tail.
Tox whipped around, eyeing the exit. Bodies bottlenecking to get through. Adrenaline spiraling through his veins pushed him hard. Drove him forward. “Go!” He plowed into Cell and Maangi, who were pushing Haven and Wallace out the door.
Compression and release. He shoved, their arms and legs tangling. Maangi and Cell broke free. Ran hard.
Over the drumming of his heart, the whoosh of his breath, Tox heard the unmistakable, high-pitched scream. A missile. His tactical mind knew he wouldn’t clear the building or blast radius in time. Safety hovered out of reach. Too close to the target. Just . . . too close.
The ground rattled. Shifted. His feet twisted and turned. Pavement scored his knee. He reached down to brace himself.
Thunder cracked against his ears. Vacuous silence suffocated his hearing. He was lifted off the ground. Feet came up behind him. Flipped over. He sailed through the air. Scalding air that felt as if it were on fire. It rushed around Tox and swallowed him whole.
34
— Day 12 —
Jerusalem
Numbing vibrations wormed through Tox’s skull. He blinked and groaned, the pain akin to a skewer driving through his temple.
“Sarge.” Cell’s voice plucked at him.
Tox peeled himself off the ground. Blinked, confusion acute. He looked around—flames roared from a pile of rubble. Chiji rushed toward him. “Haven.” His head pounded.
“Got her,” Cell said as he and Chiji gripped his arms. “Let’s go.”
They ran away from the missile strike and caught up with Ram, who was in a light jog. “Where are we going?”
“SAARC wants us at Fiq Airfield. Forty-minute hike.”
They moved silently through the night, rattled by the explosion but determined to make it to the jet alive and unharmed. When they arrived, the jet was waiting as promised. They boarded, and Tox zeroed in on the long, thin conference table flanking a forty-inch monitor.
The plane raced down the airstrip. Turbulence jostled them, pitching him forward. Tox planted a hand on the curved hull to brace himself.
Ram went to the monitor and tapped a button. The wall sprang to life with the faces of Robbie Almstedt and Barry Attaway. “Great balls of fire!” Almstedt exclaimed. “You boys left a mess for us to clean up.”
&
nbsp; “Wanted to make an impression, ma’am,” Cell muttered.
“Well, you did that and then some.”
“We need to know about the AFO,” Tox said, leaning to the side to mitigate the ache in his ribs and head.
Attaway bent toward the camera, his graying hair and Italian features making him appear forbidding. “Russell, the first thing is that you opened a boatload of trouble digging around for them.”
Tox lifted his chin. “Kinda figured that out already. But I have a mission—to find Tanin and stop this plague. And when someone gets in my face about it, I need to figure out why and how to stop them. Standard MO.”
“Which is why you aren’t on the first jet back to the Leavenworth.”
Tox curled his fingers into a fist. “A threat?” After what they’d been through? After the insane parameters of a mission involving a plague?
“Easy, boys,” a voice came from off-screen. Dru Iliescu moved into view. “Russell, the AFO has been on our radar for decades.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Little.” He nodded into the camera. “Each time we thought we were getting close, the smoke screen would blow over and we’d be left standing there, holding our butts.” He huffed. “They date back centuries—their mark found even among Templar seals and letters. We haven’t proven it, but I think they were even mentioned among the Saracens.”
“Who?” Wallace asked.
“Dude—only the fiercest Muslim assassins known to history,” Cell said. When Tox looked at him, Cell shrugged. “I play Assassin’s Creed.”
“The Templars were known to war with the Saracens,” Iliescu explained, “yet there was a great respect between the two breeds of warriors on holy missions.”
Tox’s stomach knotted. Not only were they not finding answers, they were falling back in history to dark, deadly times. “Are you saying the Saracens were part of the AFO?”
“Honestly, we don’t know. There are indications they infiltrated both the Templars and the Saracens—and political seats all the way up to the thrones of some countries.”
“Wait—you mean there were kings or queens who were AFO?”