16
Johnson was grateful for the invitation to the Bohannons’ Memorial Day family picnic. Holidays are difficult for the single. And friendless, Dr. Johnson thought.
Rodriguez was also there, with his wife, Deirdre, and their children. Rizzo, as was his habit, kept everyone loose and laughing.
But no matter how hard Johnson tried to be “normal,” he continued to hear the Siren call of the search seducing him, in spite of the paranoia that often dogged his days and the nightmares that regularly plagued his nights.
From the glances he exchanged with his associates, their excitement about Abiathar’s message was a shared collusion. Stuffed with meatballs, baked ham, and Tom’s revered, secret-recipe potato salad, and too preoccupied to participate in the family ritual of “do you remember when,” they eagerly followed Bohannon into his study.
“What do you think we should do?” Rodriguez asked, almost as soon as the door found its jamb. No small talk, no pleasantries. “Do we keep going with this, or—”
“Or quit?” Johnson interrupted. He looked at the men in the room and knew their thoughts. Somebody had to speak it.
Bohannon turned on the TV and tuned in to the Indy 500, but nobody paid any attention to it. “I’m frightened,” said Johnson. “I won’t deny it. The memory of that incident in the subway haunts me. I feel like a fool saying it, but I feel like my life is turning into a bad spy movie.”
There were understanding nods from Rodriguez and Bohannon.
“The other night when we were leaving the Old Town,” said Bohannon, “I thought I was being followed. It scared the living daylights out of me. I gotta tell ya, I’m beginning to wonder what we’re doing here.”
“I was wondering that, too,” said Johnson. “There is certainly reason for us to question whether we should continue with our quest to understand this message on the scroll. And I am concerned . . . concerned about the welfare of us all. But then, I realized something very important.”
“What’s that, Doc,” said Rizzo, “that your tailor is stuck in the Middle Ages?”
It suddenly struck Johnson that Sammy’s barbs carried a profound purpose. He was helping them all laugh in the face of fear.
“No, my dear Mr. Rizzo,” Johnson bowed in his direction. “I realized that I want to do this. And that neither terror nor threats have diminished my desire to understand the message of the scroll. Nor has it deterred my determination to discover whether this message could in fact be possible. There is no question I’m uneasy about our situation. But I’m not scared, and I don’t want to give up. Not now.”
Nobody moved, or objected.
“Well, it looks like we’re all in,” said Rodriguez.
Johnson crossed the room and stood by the window, gathering his thoughts and switching gears. “I’ve been doing some research—called a few friends, sent a few e-mails—tried to come at this thing from the edges without making it too obvious,” said Johnson, swirling his martini. “I haven’t been able to find anything yet that would either confirm or deny the possibility of something unknown existing under the Temple Mount.
“What I did find is that Abiathar’s family, including his grandfather, Solomon; his uncle Joseph; his father, Elijah; and Abiathar himself, could trace their history directly to Ezra, one of the prophets of the Bible’s Old Testament. They were ‘Aaronites,’ or from the family of Aaron, the brother of Moses, making the men priests.
“And it was the priests who would have known how to rebuild the temple—what the measurements should be, where things were placed. It was only the priests who could consecrate the temple once it was built, only the priests who could enter the ‘Most Holy Place’ in the middle of the temple, only the high priest, one man, who was permitted to enter the ‘Holy of Holies’ where the Ark of the Covenant would reside, and only once a year.
“So if Abiathar had not been a priest, it really would have cast a great deal of doubt on the veracity of the scroll’s story. That he was a priest,” said Johnson, “doesn’t prove it’s true. It only means that we should continue looking for a clear answer, one way or another.”
Johnson, who was still standing, wandered over to Bohannon’s bookcases. “One other bit of family news was interesting. Abiathar’s brother Solomon fled Jerusalem for the Egyptian town of Suez when he and his brother were first informed of the European Crusade. After some time, this Solomon was appointed Gaon and continued a line of ‘Gaonim’ in Egypt, serving under the Nagid. We can assume, then, a rather strong connection between Abiathar and Egypt. But there is still no concrete evidence . . . no, not even a suspicion . . . that a temple was erected under the Temple Mount.”
“How can we know whether it’s possible or impossible until we tell somebody exactly what it is we’re looking for?” asked Bohannon, sitting down heavily in an old, tattered but extremely comfortable recliner. “We can look from now until the fifth of Umptober, and we’re not going to get any closer to the truth until we talk to somebody who has firsthand knowledge and tell them everything we’ve discovered thus far. Until we risk opening up what we know, we’re just flying blind.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Rodriguez, opening up his bottle of Bud and pouring it into a nice, frozen mug. “I’ve been scouring the Internet and prowling through all the archaeology and ancient history periodicals in the library’s vaults, and even though there’ve been millions of words written about the Temple Mount, about the first and second temples, about the archaeological finds in and around Jerusalem, I haven’t found a single word or conjecture that there could actually be a Third Temple sitting, waiting to be found under the most fought-over piece of real estate in the world. But one thing all the writers agree on is that no one really knows what exists under the Temple Mount platform.”
Bohannon kicked off his loafers and stretched out the recliner to its full length. “So who are we going to find who is going to have all the information we’re looking for? Who is going to share it with us and not turn us in as nut cases, or steal the information and go looking for the temple themselves? Who do we trust?”
Drawn to Tom’s collection of books squeezed into every available space, Johnson began slowly rolling over the Rolodex in his memory, looking for a connection with wisdom, resources, and good character—a person of integrity, who could keep a secret. Flip . . . flip . . . flip . . . the cards kept flipping, revealing name after name with no response.
He had taken note of Bohannon’s taste in reading. It was an eclectic grouping, nothing remarkable, but generally good, foundational literature and the requisite professional reference material.
“There are plenty of scholars who have the knowledge,” Johnson said, continuing his mental catalog, “but there are very few I would trust with information that is incredibly valuable on so many different planes.”
Turning to a new bookcase, Johnson’s pulse quickened, and his admiration for Bohannon skipped to a new level. First edition, numbered set, nineteenth century, illustrated complete works of Shakespeare . . . First edition, complete set of Victor Hugo . . . wow!—autographed copy of Last of the Mohicans displayed under plastic, with the front cover opened to the autographed flyleaf. That is rare, probably should be in a museum, thought Johnson. “You have a nice collection here, Tom,” he said, continuing his inspection. Signed copy of The Great Gatsby. “Very nice.”
“It’s a hobby,” Bohannon said from his prone position, “something to fill the time with value.”
Johnson turned quickly on his heel, breaking away from his bibliophilic reverie. “Bohannon, you never cease to amaze me. A hobby. Once again, I think you may have uncovered the answer.”
“What?” Bohannon mumbled from the edge of sleep.
“No, not what, who: Winthrop Larsen. I’ve been wracking my brain for a professional I could trust, but I never thought of Winthrop. He’s a teacher here in New York. Teaches social studies to middle school students, even though his family is “Old New England” and old money. But Winth
rop has an interesting hobby, Mr. Bohannon. Saying Winthrop is an avid archaeologist would be like calling the Titanic a rowboat. Winthrop brings a passion to his study and dedicated study to his passion, along with a wealth of resources which allows him to apply the most sophisticated and modern technology to his efforts. He’s blessed with a schoolteacher’s schedule and spends every summer either on a dig somewhere in the world or in the bowels of the British Museum, increasing his knowledge.
“I’ve known Winthrop for more than a decade,” said Johnson. “Several summers, we collaborated on our assignments at the museum. And there are two things that make Winthrop Larsen remarkably important to us: He has a genuinely sincere heart and is of the finest character; and he is an expert on the history and archaeology of Jerusalem . . . authored a monograph on the debated discovery of the first wall of David’s palace, parts of which were published in the American Archaeology Review. If Winthrop can’t help us, perhaps no one will.”
“Hey, Doc.” Johnson turned to his left. Rizzo leaned against a low table that flanked Bohannon’s recliner. “If this guy Winthrop is rolling in dough like you said, what’s he doing teaching public school? Why not ride the money train and spend his life digging in the desert?”
Rizzo may enjoy playing the roll of class clown, but his mind was quick and his logic flawless. To Johnson, intellect was a saving grace.
Johnson leaned his shoulder against the end of the last bookcase. “It’s likely a combination of things, but primarily, Winthrop doesn’t want to live either on his family’s name or on their wealth alone. I don’t know if it’s rich man’s remorse, but Winthrop refuses to accept privilege. He wants to earn his own way, and he is determined to spend his life personally helping those who do not enjoy privilege. To live off his family’s wealth and only pursue archaeology . . . well, it would betray his own soul.”
“So,” said Bohannon, “let’s go. Where does he live?”
There was a knock on the door, followed by Annie’s head peeking into the room. “Come on, you guys, the family is out here. You’re not going to spend another day holed up in a cramped room. Dr. Johnson, there are some children out here who want to hear more stories of knights and dragons. Sammy? And you two, get out here and pay some attention to us.”
Johnson saw the knowing glance pass between Rodriguez and his brother-in-law. “C’mon, Tom,” said Rodriguez. “It’s a wise man who knows when to say, ‘Yes, dear.’”
“Doc?” Bohannon asked.
“I’ll call Winthrop tomorrow,” said Johnson, joining the exit, “and see if we can get together as soon as possible.”
They came in from Freeman Alley without a sound. Now that only two remained, they were much more careful. Two dead, and no closer to the scroll.
On Friday at the end of his shift with the renovation crew, Ishmael had slipped a wooden wedge between the latch and the frame of the Bowery Mission’s back door, the one with the deadbolt lock.
They pushed past the trash bins, silent in their soft-soled shoes, and raced up the backstairs to the first landing. It was well after midnight Sunday night, and the mission was quiet. Monday was a holiday, so no workers were expected. Mukhtar needed only moments to unlock first the door to the volunteers’ dorm area, then the lock to the men’s bedroom, and finally the last locked door, leading to the storage area that flanked the space behind the organ pipes . . . and Klopsch’s hidden office.
Two weeks ago, Ishmael had watched as the men climbed through the renovations and entered the previously hidden space. Twice before, they had tried to gain access, twice before they were nearly detected.
Their leader demanded the scroll, regardless of the risk. So they tried again.
Ishmael grasped the thin penlight in his teeth and climbed the old, wooden ladder. Mukhtar followed with the tools.
The bellows room was the size of a large closet, but only half as high. It smelled like damp dog and mouse droppings. Every surface was plastered with the dusty grime of decades. Ishmael crawled to a corner of the room, his nostrils immediately clogged with a foul powder. He reached back his hand, and Mukhtar filled it with the pry bar. With the caution of a safecracker trying to pick a lock next door to a police precinct, Ishmael eased the bar under the edge of a board and slowly applied pressure. With a pop that stopped their hearts, the board snapped free of its nails. There was no other noise.
“More care,” Mukhtar whispered. “Their security will do rounds.”
Ishmael stifled a string of Arabic insults, keeping the penlight in his mouth and his attention on the next board. This one moved more easily, as did the next. The opening was narrow, blackness on the other side. Ishmael listened to the blackness, then tucked his head into the opening.
He swept the room with the intense beam, leaning his head in farther, tilting it left and right. Ishmael swore and nearly dropped the penlight.
The surface of the table in the middle of the room was unoccupied. The doors of the safe were slightly ajar. The shelves were empty.
Ishmael’s fist pounded the floor of the bellows room, catapulting dust. He pulled his head back through the hole in the floor, pulled the penlight from his mouth, and rested his back against the wall.
“It’s gone,” he said to Mukhtar. “Everything is gone. The safe is empty. The books and documents are gone. The scroll has been moved.”
Ishmael felt Mukhtar’s eyes on him, and the unspoken question hung in the darkness.
“There is another way . . . a way to convince these infidels to return the scroll,” said Ishmael. “A way that will bring the leader to his knees.” Mukhtar picked up the pry bar and returned it to the tool bag. “Tomorrow, we begin to watch.”
17
The Wednesday after Memorial Day was the kind of spring day that revived hope in the weary and warmed the bones of the aged. The sky, a cloudless cobalt prism, so magnified the sun’s heat and light that Joe and Sammy flinched and shaded their eyes as they exited the side door of the Humanities and Social Sciences Library. It took a long breath to adjust.
Then Sammy Rizzo smiled, his eyes closed, his face lifted to the sky. “Oh, God . . . this is wonderful.” Standing on the top step of the stone stairs leading down to 42nd Street, he turned to look up at Rodriguez. “Let’s eat in the park, eh?”
The mismatched pair crossed 42nd Street in the middle of the block while the lights were red, dodging the odd car, and entered their local Chipotle restaurant, McDonald’s Corporation’s successful diversification into Mexican fast food. Sammy loved Chipotle, not only because its fajita burrito was out of this world, but also because it was so huge he would have half remaining for dinner. He also got a kick out of the questioning glances he intercepted as he trotted alongside the tall, long-striding Joe Rodriguez. Let ’em scratch their heads. I’ve made my way in a big man’s world.
Bryant Park, the square-block green oasis between Fifth and Sixth avenues behind the library building, had been resurrected during Manhattan’s rebirth. Once a dark den for drug deals and muggers, it was now a brilliant, thriving oasis—an outdoor Midtown magnet both day and night. The gravel pathways surrounding the big, open green were a midday riot of alfresco lunchers resting on the park’s dark green chairs while they munched on their sandwiches and downed their health food.
Rizzo’s favorite spot was on the south side, near the carousel. He loved the sound of children’s laughter.
This day, they were fortunate enough to score a table in the mottled shade of a just-blooming plane tree.
Rizzo’s hands wrestled with the oversized half burrito, escaping salsa sliding down his fingers. He didn’t come up for air until he was nearly half done.
Rodriguez was chuckling at him. “Have you eaten in the last two days?”
“Funny man,” Rizzo smirked, swabbing his hands in a pile of napkins. “I happen to have a big appetite.”
“To go along with your ego?”
“To satisfy my hyperthyroid, dunce. It goes with the whole package.”
“I’ve got to watch my figure . . . Deidre likes me lean and mean.”
“You wuss.”
Rizzo went back to attacking his burrito but stopped in mid-chomp.
“What does Deidre think about this treasure hunt we’ve embarked on?”
“I haven’t told her much about it.” Rodriguez looked up as the carousel began another circular voyage. “I’m not sure where this is going . . . and I don’t want to worry her needlessly. I don’t know . . . I don’t know if that’s the right thing or not.”
Rizzo had known Joe Rodriguez a long time, more than ten years. He knew Joe and Deirdre enjoyed a powerful, committed marriage, that Joe was devoted to his wife and family. And he was confused.
“Joe . . . why are you doing this?”
“Huh? Doing what?” Rodriguez turned back to Rizzo.
“Chasing down this scroll, that’s what. Doing what! You moron. Who knows what we’re getting ourselves into? It seems like we’ve got a bunch of whacko terrorists trying to track us down, we’ve come up with this scroll’s message that could have worldwide impact, and our next stop could be in that secure little resort of Jerusalem. So, yeah . . . why are you doing this?”
Rodriguez’s smile was weighted, its burden pulling down the corners of his lips. He looked off in the direction of the carousel once more, the long, black curls on his head silently nodding affirmation to some unspoken summons.
“My father died several years ago. We really didn’t have a relationship. He was the macho Hispanic male, ruler of his world. He didn’t have time for me or much interest in me.” Rodriguez pulled his eyes from the painted horses. “So when he died, to be honest, there really wasn’t much to miss. Then last year, I was visiting my sister. She told me there was something she wanted me to have, and she brought out this small, wooden jewelry box. Dad’s jewelry. She opened it and took out a ring. ‘Here, I think you should have this.’
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