Larsen stretched for a moment. “Can I get you a cup of coffee, or tea?” He walked over to a sideboard that Johnson had set up with a small coffee urn and carafes of very hot water. Johnson was expecting a long day.
“Tea, please . . . sugar and lemon,” said Johnson, looking at the maps rather than at Larsen. “Winthrop, I really appreciate all of your insight. But there’s something that bothers me about each of the first two possibilities.”
“Go ahead, poke holes in them,” Larsen said, stirring the mugs. “I have issues, too.”
“Well,” said Johnson, “I think the Huldah Gates are interesting, but they are too close to the Mount itself to really be a ‘secret’ entrance for Abiathar to be constructing a temple. There would simply be too much activity, too close to the Mount, for it to be kept a secret.
“The second possibility, the tunnel to the Gihon Spring, is very curious, particularly now with the information of the wall existing around the spring. It’s farther away from the activity of the central city, both ends of the tunnel would be close to a gate, and at night, in darkness, I could see the tunnel being very accessible to a priest who could have handpicked the guards who were on duty. But the challenge I have is the direction the tunnel runs, primarily from north to south . . . if you start at the Gihon Spring, away from the Temple Mount area. And the spring itself is already several hundred yards south of the Mount enclosure. It’s just an assumption on my part, but I think Abiathar and his father would have planned to erect their Third Temple as close as possible to the location of Herod’s Temple, at least to the foundation of Herod’s Temple. I would think proximity to the Holy of Holies would have been critical to the Third Temple.”
Larsen startled Johnson, whose attention was thoroughly engrossed in the map, when he placed the steaming mug of tea in front of him. “Sorry,” Larsen said, placing his hand on Johnson’s shoulder. “Your reservations are the same as mine. Either one is possible, but neither one seems perfect. Which brings us to the third possibility.”
Setting his own mug down as he again approached the map, Larsen’s adrenalin surged. “There is another, recently discovered candidate. A few years ago, archaeologists uncovered several yards of a wide, underground passage that they speculated had been used for either sewage or drainage during the Second Temple period. The passage runs under Tyropoeon Street, directly along and parallel to the Western Wall of the Temple Mount. So far, all the sources I have checked report that the excavations have not yet penetrated beneath the Kotel, the Western Wall itself. It is believed by most researchers that this passage was used by many Jewish leaders for escape during the Roman conquest of the city. This passage also runs north to south, but in following the Western Wall, it also passes extremely close to where we believe Herod’s Temple was located and about as close to the Holy of Holies as one can get. From what I can determine, this drainage tunnel must be very close to Warren’s Gate.
“In addition to being in close proximity of the Second Temple’s location, this passageway empties out into the lower part of the Kidron Valley, where the Kidron meets the Himnom, in an area known as the King’s Garden, just below the Pool of Siloam. Now, that would have been a very long walk, from the southeast corner of the city, under Siloam, all the way up to the Temple Mount area. But this passage is wide, it’s high, and it could have easily been used to transport material to a building site under the Mount.” When Larsen turned away from the map, he nearly bumped into Johnson.
“That’s it,” said Johnson. “I’d bet my stamp collection on it. That’s it!” Johnson threw his arm about Larsen’s shoulders and turned him back to the map.
“Well, even if the King’s Garden Tunnel isn’t the way Abiathar made his way into the Mount,” said Larsen, relaxing now that he had his presentation out of the way, “we’ve now got at least one route that would give him access that is more than a possibility; it is an active probability. Doc, I know you think we need to give this to the government. And I understand the potential danger we face here in New York and once we get to Israel. But think of this for a moment. If you are worried about a leak from our small group, what might happen if we share this information with the government? Talk about a leaking sieve. Right now, all we have is a letter in an unknown language and a hunch. Is that enough valid information to bring in the State Department? Is this enough information to risk the Washington press corps getting a hold of it and stampeding off to speculation after speculation?
“I don’t think so,” said Larsen, as they both returned to the table. “Doc, I believe we must go to Jerusalem and see if we can discover whether this Third Temple really exists. If it does, then we take it to the State Department. If it doesn’t exist, no one is hurt, and we are the only ones who are disappointed.”
Larsen saw the strained look on Johnson’s face, watched while he ran his hand through the silver mane and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Let me throw two other items into consideration,” said Larsen. “If we all decide this is the right step for us to take, I’ll finance the entire operation, and we won’t lack for anything, or any possibility. And before we go, I’ll speak to my uncle.”
“The general?” Johnson asked, raising his eyebrows.
Four-Star General Ethan Allen Larsen—thirty-year veteran of the military service; twice winner of the Silver Star—was the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, under the authority of the commander in chief, the president, leader of the entire military might of the United States of America. While Winthrop’s father had been disappointed in his son’s choice of a profession, Uncle Ethan had been one of Winthrop’s most steadfast allies, a man he could trust and on whom he frequently relied for good advice and wise counsel. The general also played a wicked game of squash, but not with the same reckless abandon or skill as Winthrop.
“Uncle Ethan’s over at the Pentagon now. I’ll ask him to get us a thermal imaging scan of Jerusalem, particularly the Temple Mount area, from one of his spy satellites, along with some high-res, close-up photos of the entire Temple Mount area. I can also ask him for an up-to-date and complete ‘threat assessment’ for Jerusalem and the Temple Mount and a capabilities assessment for the security forces of the Waqf and the Islamic Authority. I’ll tell him it’s for my doctoral thesis. I think he’ll buy it.
“If we go, Doc, one thing is certain. We will be prepared.”
Johnson’s eyes remained locked on Larsen’s. “I hope you are right, Winthrop. For all of us, I hope you are right.”
“What’s wrong with you, boy? You expect me to believe that sack of spit? Was I born under a rock in some cave?”
Winthrop Larsen’s ears were burning. “Listen, Uncle Ethan, I was just asking a question about—”
“Your doctoral thesis my Aunt Nellie’s patoot. Don’t try to play me, Winthrop. Thermal imaging sat photos, I can buy that if you’re looking for an underground tomb. But why are you asking me questions about an encrypted satellite phone? What are you up to, Winthrop? And don’t give me that thesis bull.”
Winthrop was so comfortable talking to his uncle that his question about the encrypted satellite phone slipped out before his brain could catch it. But Uncle Ethan caught it . . . Ethan Allen Larson, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, missed very little. Winthrop scrambled for a satisfactory answer.
“Uncle Ethan, I’m sorry. Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“Then what in Sam Hill is going on?”
“I will be looking for hidden tombs in the Kidron Valley. But there’s something else I’m looking for and . . . well . . . I thought it best you not know the details, sir. I wanted you to have deniability. Let’s just say I’m going to be out of the Israeli zone for a while. And a satellite phone that can’t be picked up might come in handy.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Winthrop held his breath, trying to grasp control of his racing heart and rising anxiety. He was telling his uncle the truth . . . sort of . . . at least so far,
and he wanted—
“Boy, you worry me sometimes.”
Winthrop didn’t know how to answer. He couldn’t implicate the general in what they were planning.
“Who’s going to have your back?”
“Sir?”
“Who’s going to have your back? Wherever you’re going, the best plans can turn into a snake pit in seconds. Who’s going to save your sorry rear end if this escapade of yours blows up?”
“Well, I . . .”
“Button it, Winthrop, and listen sharp. I’m going to give you a phone number. In ten minutes, you call this guy. Tell him what you need, then do what he tells you. But two things, Winthrop.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t ever jerk me around again, boy.”
Guilt and regret cackled in Winthrop’s spirit. “Yes, sir.”
“And Winthrop, don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”
“I—”
“Slap a lid on it, boy. You get your butt in the wringer over there, you call this guy. I’ll know how to contact you, too, if necessary.”
Winthrop’s love for his uncle caught in his throat.
“Thank you, Uncle Ethan. I’m sorry . . .” Larsen ran out of words.
“Winthrop, you’re like my own son.” The general’s voice had lost all its edge. “I forgive you. But I won’t forgive you if you get yourself hurt over there. Just don’t do anything foolish. You listenin’ to me, boy? Keep your powder dry and your head down. Now, tell me everything about this cockamamy plan of yours and then give me ten minutes, got that?”
“Yes, sir.” Winthrop felt like saluting. I don’t deserve that man.
23
Sunday night was quiet in the house. Bohannon sat in the old, ugly recliner in his study. In his lap he held a heavy pile of paper—printouts from Web sites, articles, and information about Jerusalem and the Temple Mount. Now that they were actually going to Jerusalem, he felt compelled to learn as much as he could about the city. Preparation and a sharp memory had been his greatest allies as a reporter, and the habit was tough to break.
Thus far, Bohannon had discovered that the Temple Mount was the central, historical focus of Jerusalem, both in ancient and modern times. The site was home to Solomon’s Temple, to Zerubbabel’s Temple that was built by the returnees from the Babylonian Exile, and to the enlarged and spectacularly refurbished Temple that Herod the Great constructed around and over the existing structure before dismantling it. What remained on the thirty-six-acre Temple Mount platform today was the result of two major building efforts: the first begun about 20 B.C. by Herod the Great and the second occurring under the Umayyad caliphs in the late seventh century.
Sunday night was quiet on the Fordham University campus. Many students were still home for the weekend, others sleeping off the weekend or cramming for finals. Caitlin Bohannon left the library carrying three books and a knapsack and headed cross-campus to O’Hare Hall, the five-story dormitory that was her August-to-May home. Her thoughts were on her psych final, not on the man who emerged from the shadows of the construction site on Martyr’s Lawn. Slipping past Larkin Hall, on the west side of the old Duane Library, Caitlin was aware of the fact that few people were about. She was a junior, and a girl didn’t survive for long in New York City—let alone on a college campus in the midst of the Bronx—without developing urban radar, an early warning system for potential danger. But Fordham was relatively safe, emergency call boxes were stationed throughout the campus . . . and psych was dominating her thoughts. She walked on the west side of Thebaud Hall, skirted the grass meadow of Edwards Parade, and entered the tree-lined path that flanked Keating Hall—Fordham’s most recognizable landmark.
That’s when she noticed the person behind her—short, huddled into a burgundy, Fordham hooded sweatshirt, probably another student sweating the finals. She could not be aware of the second man, hidden under the trees of the pathway ahead.
Prior to his study, Bohannon only knew of Herod from the biblical Christmas stories: the mad, jealous king of Judea who ordered the massacre of all male children in Bethlehem. He didn’t know that King Herod was a master builder on an unprecedented scale.
In addition to his soaring palace at Masada and the deepwater port he carved out of the coast at Caesarea—including a 3,500-seat amphitheater—Herod initiated a project to expand the temple area of Mount Zion by creating a vast level platform bordered by a massive retaining wall.
Herod more than doubled the size of the previous Temple Mount. His enlarged enclosure constituted the largest sacred space in the whole of classical antiquity. By comparison, the area dedicated to the goddess Athena on the Acropolis of Athens, including the Parthenon, occupied barely a fifth of the area of its Jerusalem counterpart. Herod’s glorious sanctuary was destroyed in 70 A.D. when the Romans conquered and burned Jerusalem, effectively ending the first Jewish revolt against Rome.
A dark shape moved out of the shadows ahead, into the path. Caitlin stopped. She turned her head. The student behind her was closing the distance quickly. An ally, perhaps? Someone to walk with?
She glanced quickly to her left—the shape was moving toward her—and swung back to the right. The “student” looked much too old.
“Excuse me, miss, but could you—”
The psych book was her heaviest. Dropping the other two, she hit the “student” square in the face, spine first, with her right hand, pulled the pepper spray from her pocket with her left hand and let fly toward the closing shadow on her left. Without waiting to check out the results, Caitlin spun on her heel and raced across the broad, open expanse of Edwards Parade.
It was late. Bohannon wasn’t surprised that he had nodded off over the stack of papers in his lap. He drank some of the water by his side, poured the rest in his hand, and rubbed it on his face.
He had been surprised to discover that, after the destruction of 70 A.D., the Temple Mount remained largely unoccupied for seven hundred years, until the late seventh century when the Umayyad Caliph Abd al-Malik and his successors reclaimed the site and established what exists today: the splendid Dome of the Rock on a raised platform in the middle of the esplanade, and the Al-Aqsa Mosque at the esplanade’s southern end. The Muslims renamed the sacred enclosure al-Haram al-Sharif, “the Noble Sanctuary.”
As Caitlin sprinted south across the flank of Edwards Parade, she pulled out her key ring, put the oversize whistle in her mouth, and blew with all the breath remaining in her lungs. Before she reached the campus security office to the west of Thebaud Hall, two security officers were running in her direction and a security vehicle—lights flashing—was circling behind her.
Ten minutes later, an officer brought her bloody psych book into campus security. Finally, Caitlin wept.
The only surviving part of the temple complex from Herod’s period, Bohannon discovered, was the incomplete circuit of the enclosure wall, the south, west, and east sides, its distinctive masonry leaving no dispute to its Herodian lineage. On the south, the ancient masonry had now been laid bare along the entire length of the wall, which was also the southern wall of the Haram al-Sharif. The western Herodian wall was also uncovered along its entire length, the southern part of it the Jewish devotional section known as the Western Wall, formerly the Wailing Wall. Like the southern wall, the western wall of the Temple Mount was also the western wall of the Haram al-Sharif.
If they were going to succeed, Bohannon and his team would have to get under, over, or around those walls without being detected.
The phone rang. Who can it be at this hour?
Joe Rodriguez sat on the sofa. Annie and Deirdre were upstairs with Caitlin, safely entrenched in the warm confines of the master bedroom. Caitlin was safe, unharmed. Joe looked ready to tear the guts out of a rhino. Tom had all he could do to keep his hands from shaking.
Bohannon didn’t know how long they had been sitting in silence.
“This changes everything.”
Tom could barely hear the words.
&nbs
p; “I bet it was them,” Joe muttered. “I bet it was them. I’ll kill them if I ever get my hands on them.”
“Get in line.” Tom looked up at Caitlin’s high school graduation picture on the mantle. He twisted his hands together and set his jaw. His insides felt like a hundred pounds of wet concrete.
“You know,” Bohannon’s voice was a whisper, “for most of my life, I’ve told people I believe in God. Until Annie and I got married, that was basically what it was, words. Then I began to see the depth of her faith and experience its impact on our life together. It’s been a long journey”—Tom swiped his right hand through his hair—“but there have been moments when God’s presence, his love, have seemed so real, so close.”
Bohannon got out of his chair and crossed the room to take Caitlin’s picture in his hands.
“Annie and I have spent a lot of time talking about this so-called adventure of ours and praying about it as it became clear that someone would need to find out if Abiathar’s letter is true.”
Tom lowered the picture and looked at his brother-in-law. “Joe, I’m afraid I may never see my wife or my kids again. I’m scared that I may never come home, and so is Annie, even though she’s trying carefully to hide it. I’ve been feeling like I have to go to Jerusalem. I can’t explain it any better than to say I’ve felt ‘called’ to do this.
“But now . . .” Bohannon walked over to the sofa and handed Caitlin’s picture to Rodriguez. “Now, we’re going to find this thing, shove it down their throats, and let them choke on their lightning bolts.”
24
Late Friday night the fifth of June, the team met at Richard Johnson’s office in the Collector’s Club for their final review of preparations. They were booked on a 6:00 AM El Al flight the following morning. Bohannon felt they all needed some rest, but none of them were likely to sleep that night. So it was a blessing that they had something to keep their minds occupied: gathering, examining, practicing with, and packing their survival gear, spelunking gear, and a miniature, mobile video camera with catheters for probing under the Temple Mount.
The Sacred Cipher Page 18