by Dan Sofer
“It’s stuck.”
Jay ran to the duffel bag for the hammer and chisel.
The lid cracked on the first blow. Jay pulled out the fragments. The urn was packed with dirt. He chiseled out clods and spread them on the ground. No flicker of gold or silver. Just brown dirt, dry as bone.
“To hell with it,” Jay said. He kicked the urn over and cracked the side open. More dirt. He gutted the jar with the shovel like a trout and spread the insides.
“Nothin’,” Sol said. “Nothin’ but dirt.”
“Over there,” Jay said. “I hit something hard. Harper, bring the crowbar.”
He marched to his trench. Sol followed. The Harper sulked but did as he was told. Jay shoved the crowbar into the gap between the box and lid. A few hammer blows and the edge went in. Sol leaned on the rod and the lid gave way.
They stared into a box of brown sand.
Jay dug with his hands. He shoveled without mercy. He threw the shovel aside.
“What the…?”
Someone had gotten there before them.
But who?
He turned on the Harper. “You! What’s the big idea?”
The twat reeled.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you know there’s nothing here? Does the Teacher know?”
“What? No! Of course not. What are you, crazy? We came here to get the treasure.”
“Don’t call me crazy,” Jay said. “You think you’re the bloody Messiah.”
The Harper gave him a cold, hard look. “You think you’re the Messiah.”
“Yeah, well, I hear things. I see things. You don’t know your arse from your elbow.”
The Harper opened his mouth to reply but froze.
Jay heard the tinkle too. Behind them, pebbles tumbled.
Jay held a finger to his lips and pointed to the black mouth of the tunnel.
The thieves return to the scene of the crime, he thought.
With a sudden, clear intuition, he knew both who the intruders were and what he must do. He mimed instructions to the others, grabbed his shovel, and took position.
Welcome, Sons of Darkness. You’re right on time.
***
In the Teacher’s office, Dave raised his hands above his head. Shani, Ruchama, and John did the same.
Ornan aimed the gun at Dave’s chest.
“They’re unarmed.” Ornan spoke loudly and without shifting his gaze.
Who is he talking to? Wait a minute. Is that an English accent?
Dave thought the situation had maxed out its bizarre factor, when a fourth man entered the room. He wore shorts, a T-shirt, and a City of David cap.
Dave’s jaw dropped. “Ben! What…? How…?”
Ben raised his cell phone. “I got your messages. All eleven of them. A bit late, I know, but earlier I was… ah… a bit tied up.”
Ben indicated John with a nod of his head.
“He the one behind this?”
“No,” Dave said. “That’s John. He used to work for them but now he set us free. They call themselves the Sons of Light. They left about an hour ago. They took Mandy.”
Ben touched Ornan on the shoulder and Ornan lowered his weapon. The other two gunmen, the usher from the City of David restaurant and another brawny dark man, did the same. They wore the splotchy camouflage uniforms of a military unit but with no identifying symbols.
Ben read Dave’s thoughts.
“Ornan’s with us,” he said. “Or rather, we’re with him. I’ll explain later.” Ben smiled at the girls. “Shani and Ruchama, I presume. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“And you must be Ben,” Shani said.
Ben eyed the desk. “May I?”
He lifted the larger shards of pottery.
Dave explained. “I think I know why they wanted the scroll jars. Each jar contained another part of the Copper Scroll.”
It felt strange to be a step ahead of Ben for once.
Ben grunted. He did not seem all that impressed.
“They took the fragment but we managed to read the imprint it left on the clay. We think it leads to—”
“The cemetery at Qumran?” Ben said.
Dave’s jaw dropped a second time. “Yes. How did you…?”
“The stone,” Ben said. “Is it here?”
Ben had told Ornan about his booty. Is he on drugs? What the hell is going on here? Dave studied his friend’s face for clues.
“It was in the cooler with the scroll jar.” He pointed.
Ben spotted the orange box beside the desk and lifted the lid. He turned to Ornan. “They must have taken it. We have to move fast.”
“We’re coming too,” Shani said.
“It’s dangerous,” Ben said.
“They’ve got Mandy. And we can help.”
Ben and Ornan exchanged a glance.
Ornan shrugged.
“Ready?” Ben said.
“How did you find us?” Dave sat with Ben, John, and the girls in the back of Ornan’s A-Team van. Ornan and his men sat up front.
After a quick search of the compound, they had tied John’s hands with rope and taken him along. Just a precaution, Ornan had said.
The van rose and fell over the bumps of the Jordan Valley road as it shuttled through the night.
“Ornan has some nifty equipment,” Ben said. “As soon as you turned on your phone, he triangulated the coordinates. This is the only building for miles. Tell me about the Sons of Light.”
Dave explained in broad strokes. Shani and Ruchama added the details they had learned from Mandy.
Ben spoke with a calm and modesty bordering on meekness. This was not the Ben he’d parted with outside the COD. But then, Dave supposed, he had changed too.
“The Sons of Light appear in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” Ben said. “So does the Teacher of Righteousness.”
“But the scrolls are two thousand years old,” Dave said. “Have the Sons of Light been running around since then?”
“Unlikely. Translations of the scrolls are readily available. Perfect fodder for Jerusalem Syndromes. But these days, I suppose”—Ben glanced at the driver’s compartment—“anything is possible. But why speculate. John, who is this Teacher of Righteousness?”
“Dunno. Jay found him on the Internet. An ad on Janglo was looking for the Pure of Heart to claim their Hidden Treasure. Had us chasing after the jars.” John’s silhouette shifted on the seat. “Sorry about your head. I tried to stop him, honest.”
“Dave, did you get a look at the Teacher?”
Dave knew what Ben was thinking: was Erez moonlighting as the cult leader?
“No,” he said.
Shani said, “What’s the deal with the stone?”
Ben peered at the men in the front seat and said nothing.
“The magical Foundation Stone?” Shani continued, knee deep in sarcasm. “Dave already told us that much. Is it for real?”
“I told her not to open the box,” Dave said.
Ben sighed from deep within his chest. “The Drinking Stone. The source of the watery depths beneath the Temple. Also known as the Weaving Stone. The point where God first wove Heaven and Earth. The doorway between the two. Wise use can effect change in the Spirit World. Overexposure drives men insane. In the wrong hands, the stone could unravel the fabric of time and space.”
“Ima’leh,” said Ruchama fearfully. The word literally meant mommy. “We sat next to it all day.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much. You probably won’t turn into frogs. I’m sure it’s just an old volcanic rock with unusual magnetic properties. Either way, Ornan wants it back and the Sons of Light might not be happy about that. They’ll be disappointed as it is.”
“Disappointed?” Dave said. “Because the treasure is a hoax?”
“Because the gold and silver are long gone. Dug up and spent years ago.”
“Dug up? By who?”
Dave was sure a billion-dollar treasure would have made the evening news.
> “Long story. But if the Sons of Light are banking on the treasure for their End of Days, they’ll be desperate.”
Dave swallowed hard. He had experienced their rough handling when they weren’t desperate. Good thing Ornan’s gang packed serious firepower. They would need it.
The van turned off the road, climbed a small hill, and passed through open gates.
Qumran.
In the front seat, Ornan’s men loaded their machine guns.
Dave had not thought he would return to Qumran so soon. The dark, deserted tourist trap glowed in the moonlight and shed its daytime aura of safety and security.
Dave’s car sat where he had left it. Two white vehicles parked nearby: the Hyundai van and an old Subaru. Both were empty.
“John,” Ben said. “You’ll have to wait here. Shani, Ruchama, you too.”
“No way,” Shani said. “Not until we see Mandy safe and sound.”
Ben didn’t argue.
Ornan led the way. He flanked the buildings, stepped over a low wall, and marched through the stony wilderness. Over the fall of the hill, the cemetery stretched out, its rows of neat cairns quiet and peaceful.
The quiet before the storm.
Ornan stopped at the edge of the third row.
The marker stones of the outer grave lay scattered beside a mound of dirt. Someone had dug deep into the earth. Ornan crouched and listened at the edge of the hole.
“They must still be inside,” he whispered. He turned on a small but powerful flashlight. It illuminated a square frame of white stone three feet down and then stairs descended out of view. “Stay close. And no talking from here on.”
One-by-one, Ornan and his men slipped feet-first into the hole.
“No.” Ruchama shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Here.” Ben handed her a flashlight. “Give us some light. Make sure nobody shuts the door.”
Ruchama took the flashlight gratefully.
Ben disappeared into the hole.
“Don’t worry,” Dave told Ruchama. “We’ll be right back.”
His voice sounded calm and collected. Maybe it would reassure him too.
He sat on the ground and dangled his legs into the hole. His shoes found the edge of the frame. Digging his palms into the dirt, he lowered his body until he felt the first foothold.
The steps were narrow and slippery. Ruchama’s yellow beam flashed over the sides of the hole. On a shelf six feet under, a skull grinned at Dave through broken yellow teeth. He shuddered but made no sound.
You just climbed into an open grave in the middle of the night on the heels of a violent and delusional cult.
The things he did for love.
Love. That’s what this was. Or stupidity. Dave saw no other explanation. He might not find Mandy. She might not want him back. For his trouble, his only reward might be a bullet in the head. But he kept going. He had tasted single-minded purpose. There was no other way to live.
Shani blocked the flashlight above and the flickers of light below faded. Dave steadied himself against the cold stone walls and felt his way, one step at a time.
The ground flattened into a tunnel. A circle of soft, wavering light surrounded the shapes of Ornan and his men. They crouched, guns at the ready, and peered into the opening. He looked over Ben’s shoulder. Buildings, walls, and bridges filled the scene, and he felt as though he was sitting at the window seat of a landing airplane.
Over the breathing sounds of the men in the tunnel, Dave heard the billowing of flames. The pungent smell of alcohol invaded his nostrils.
What is this place?
And where are the Sons of Light?
A muffled whimper drew his attention. At the back of the cave, between the two pillars of a square building, a girl dangled uncomfortably by her arms like a dragon’s offering.
Dave squeezed Ben’s shoulder and pointed. He fought the urge to charge into the light and shout her name.
***
Mandy’s shoulders burned. She struggled to keep her toes on the threshold. The Teacher had looped the thin rope through the tape that bound her wrists, pulling upward and pressing the tape into her flesh.
Then he’d scurried through the doorway behind her and she no longer heard his footfalls. At the other end of the cave, the three men dug furiously.
Mandy could handle the physical discomfort. What hurt more was the lack of hope.
Nobody’s coming to save you, Mands.
Dave had a new girlfriend. Shani and Roo had tried to rescue her and failed, and all three sat, helpless, behind locked doors.
Mandy knew that hollow feeling well.
“Don’t worry,” her father had said from his hospital bed. A thin tube ran beneath his nostrils. Liquid dripped in a plastic IV bag. “I’ll beat this. I promise. I’ll be home by Chanukah.”
Mandy had believed him. Her father had conquered Kilimanjaro. He had swum with tiger sharks in Mozambique. Next summer, they would finally fly to Israel together and follow in the steps of Father Abraham and King David.
He had probably believed it too.
Chanukah came and went and the doctors no longer smiled. The bad cells had spread. By the time the first flowers bloomed, she and her mom stood beside a hole in the ground and listened to the sad chant of the rabbi. Mandy was fourteen years old.
Movement in the cave interrupted her reverie. Jay and Damian ran over to Sol and the three men huddled together, talking excitedly.
She didn’t care about their treasure. She wanted to go home. But where was home? Her tiny room on Mendele Street? Her studio on the Upper West Side? Her mom had sold their house after the funeral but Mandy could still picture her bedroom. Pink frills. Posters of winged fairies and unicorns. A part of her had never left that room. A part of her was still fourteen years old.
So that’s why I’m still single.
Mandy had searched for her father in the eyes and smiles of young Jewish men and none of them had measured up. None could. But she had caught a glimpse of her father in Dave.
Heroes are dead.
She shifted her weight onto her other foot. Flakes of stone rained on her head. She looked up. The Teacher had looped the rope through a circular outcrop of stone. Strands of fiber stuck out of the rope like the feelers of an insect. Mandy leaned to one side. The rope chafed against the rough stone surface, and more strands popped.
Her heart quickened in her chest.
Heroes are dead, Mands. You’ll just have to save yourself.
She seesawed her arms, pulling down on the rope, tiptoeing on one foot then the other. Her eyes stayed on her captors. The men argued inaudibly but never looked her way.
A low wall snaked away below her.
Cut the rope. Dive behind the wall. Crawl to the tunnel.
Not much of a plan but it would have to do.
Mandy looked up. The frayed ends formed bushes around the gash.
Just a bit more.
Mandy stepped up the pace of her straightjacket aerobics. She panted through her nostrils. Sweat trickled down her temples.
The three men stopped arguing and moved quickly. Mandy froze. The Sons of Light grabbed their shovels and ran for the exit.
Were they leaving without her?
But the men stopped short of the tunnel. They stood on either side of the black mouth, their backs to the wall, shovels raised like baseball bats.
A beam of light flickered in the tunnel then shut out.
Someone was coming!
But who? The tunnel was too dark to make anything out. Her chest almost burst with anticipation. In her mind, the vision of one man rode to her rescue.
Could it be?
But if it was him, he was about to walk into a trap. And Mandy was the bait.
She squirmed against the ropes. The strip of tape still sealed her mouth shut. She had to warn him.
At the edge of the tunnel, Jay turned his head. He looked straight at her. Then he smiled that terrible smile and placed a finger over his lips.
/>
***
The Teacher thumbed on his flashlight. The flat, chiseled corridor stretched into inky blackness like a mine shaft. The air was still and stale. Water dripped somewhere deep within. He advanced with care, examining the smooth, rock walls for crevices and clues.
The Copper Scroll did not specify the location of this particular treasure, but the mini Temple was the obvious choice.
Again his free hand wandered into his shoulder bag and caressed the cool surface. He found the stone strangely reassuring.
You are on the right path, it seemed to whisper.
With each step he journeyed deeper within the rock wall of the cave, toward the heart of the miniature Temple; the Holy of Holies, the sanctuary that had housed the object of his desire for millennia.
The passageway widened sharply. The Teacher followed the wall. The beam of his flashlight fell over relief images and animated them: winged creatures with the heads of lions, eagles, bulls, and men.
Cherubs.
Goosebumps broke out over his arms and legs. He had felt the same tingle of discovery a year before in the bowels of the Hebrew University.
“You’ve got an hour,” the clerk said and ushered him into the archive room. The small room contained a worktable and wheeled stools. A single object sat on the steel tabletop: a weathered clay jar.
“There must be some mistake,” he said. “I was told I could view the scroll fragments of Cave Three.”
“This is all that was authorized,” the clerk said and closed the door behind him.
He approached the table. He lifted the lid of the jar. Months of tiresome bureaucracy and all they had granted him was a single, empty jar. Their arrogance knew no limits.
The mute jar mocked him. He lifted the clay vessel and ran a finger over the three letters etched in the pockmarked surface.
Then he let go. Shards of two-thousand-year-old pottery scattered over the tiled floor.
Next time they’ll think twice before—
He paused, mid-thought. A sliver of metal glinted amid the ruins.
He lifted the cracked base of the round jar and crumbled the patina of clay with his fingers. A square of copper, the surface covered with tiny, deliberate markings. He drank the letters thirstily. Then he tucked the lost scroll into his shirt and, without a word, he left the campus.