The Sacred Cipher

by Terry Brennan

  Bohannon grabbed Rodriguez’s belt. Holding a length of rope, a large rock tightly tied into one end, Rodriguez leaned over the water as far as he could reach, and slowly lowered the rock into the water. The rope was about twenty feet long. Rodriguez got to the end of the rope and the rock had yet to touch bottom.

  “Well, we’re not going to walk across,” he said.

  When the cell phone rang, it wasn’t Da’ud.

  “All three of the men are Americans. The one who looked like an Israeli is from someplace called the Bronx. His people are from an island in the Caribbean, thus the dark complexion. He got the clothing while they were at the kibbutz.”

  The Imam waited, expecting more. Nothing stirred from the other end of the connection. I believe he enjoys these games, the Imam thought.

  “Where are these men, Leonidas?”

  “No one knows. Probably under the Mount. But no one knows.”

  Again, silence.

  “What do you know, Mr. Leonidas?”

  “I know the Israeli soldiers found two bodies, stabbed to death, along the roadside,” said the bodiless voice.

  Leonidas had lit the fuse. The Imam’s blood began a slow raging boil.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” he seethed. “Earn your living, Mr. Leonidas.”

  The Imam sensed a pause, pregnant with restrained malice. A momentary shudder. “The Israelis found the garden guide, the one who led the Americans to the King’s Garden Tunnel two days ago. She was found in the Tel Aviv bus depot and underwent a lengthy interrogation from Orhlon and Sharp, themselves. After that, she was taken, under heavy guard, to a military prison.”

  “That is quite unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Well, you are very insightful,” said Leonidas, a note of sarcasm biting the radio waves. “Yes, it is unusual for a civilian, who is not a terrorist, to be placed under military arrest. And there is something else. After the interrogation, Orhlon immediately summoned the prime minister, Painter, and Shomsky to Central Command.

  “Something important is unfolding, my friend,” the informer said, his voice reflecting a more sincere intimacy. “Perhaps these men are terrorists, after all. I am certain you have already ensured the security of your shrines, especially underground. Perhaps an even higher state of readiness would be appropriate. The Israelis are concerned, very concerned.”

  The Imam’s rage had been sedated by the more respectful tone. “Yes, I will see to it.”

  “There is one more thing,” said Leonidas. “Something is being withheld. Normally, my sources share openly with me. Today, there is clearly something they can’t, or won’t, divulge. There is a secret they are hiding. To be honest, I would be more fearful of the secret than the Americans. Be well, my friend.”

  39

  Orhlon felt for his heart. Unfortunately, it was still beating.

  Three times I should be dead, why couldn’t one work?”

  Nauseous, his head swimming, Orhlon’s consciousness vainly scrambled for solid ground. I should remain alive while my country and children are incinerated?

  I should die first.

  But he didn’t.

  With Orhlon still sprawled on the floor, the room was invaded by a frantic swarm of aides and medics, all determined to minister to the semiconscious general. Crowding the other three men against the back wall, they surrounded Orhlon and began the prodding, poking process that was apparently necessary to determine his viability. Others, obviously security, dispassionately established a stronghold around their three masters. In the current situation, no one was taking any chances.

  “He just blacked out mid-sentence.”

  Levi Sharp, director of Shin Bet, stepped between his bodyguards and moved to the nervous knot hovering over General Orhlon. “He hasn’t been out of this room in three days,” said Sharp, “living on an endless supply of coffee and cigarettes. This same thing happened to Rabin in ’67.” Turning to the medical chief of staff, Sharp assumed his normal voice of authority. “Major Reitz, get some oxygen in here right away and a lot of cold water, with ice. He’s probably poisoned himself with nicotine.”

  “Mr. Director, if the general has nicotine poisoning, we need to get him to the hospital immediately,” said Dr. Reitz.

  For the briefest moment, the now-crowded room was silent. Then a voice, soft in volume but powerfully commanding, reached out to the doctor.

  “Do you value your career, Major Reitz?”

  There was no answer, outside of the muffled groaning as Orhlon searched for the surface.

  “Then I would suggest you fetch the oxygen immediately,” said the prime minister, “before the general wakes up and decides to use your carcass for fish bait.”

  Not so fast as to make himself look ludicrous, but with significant zest, Dr. Reitz left the conference room in search of oxygen and water.

  “Andrew, please get a cool, damp cloth and place it on the general’s brow,” said the prime minister, placing his hand on the shoulder of his most trusted protector, stepping away from the security detail and around the table in Orhlon’s direction. “David,” he said to the medic by Orhlon’s side, “allow him to come around gently. When he fully regains consciousness, he’ll likely try to get to his feet. Don’t allow that to happen. Flush his system with the oxygen and the water, take very good care of him, but get him back to that table in ten minutes.”

  Eliazar Baruk was a unique version of the Israeli prime minister. Neither grizzled kibbutzim nor battle-scarred military veteran, Baruk was tall, thin as a rail, and fastidious in his grooming. Only the finest silk suits expertly covered his bony frame, only his private hairdresser ever touched his silver-streaked locks. Baruk was the first lawyer to serve as the Israeli prime minister, but he hadn’t been in private practice for more than a decade, when he entered a more “respectable” career. For ten years, Baruk served as Dean of the School of Law at Tel Aviv University, a fact that apparently endeared him to the normally skeptical Israeli electorate.

  Now, after two years in office, he was beginning to wonder why he had ever sought this position in the first place.

  Two hours ago, Orhlon, Israel’s Defense Minister, and Sharp, director of Shin Bet, had urgently requested the prime minister, the director of Mossad, and the prime minister’s chief of staff to gather in the conference room of Central Command’s Operations Complex for an emergency briefing. Only Sharp, who had been working closely with Orhlon, was prepared for the emergency that Orhlon had patiently explained in detail. But all of them immediately grasped the potential catastrophe they faced as a result of Orhlon’s report. It was no overstatement to realize that Israel’s future as a nation and the safety of its seven million men, women, and children would be forever determined by their decisions and actions in the next few hours.

  Stretched to its limit, poisoned by the incessant intake of nicotine and caffeine, it was not surprising to Baruk that Orhlon’s mind and body had just shut down. But Baruk, all of them, needed Orhlon fully functioning in order to deal with this impending disaster.

  Baruk could see the color returning to Orhlon’s face as he sucked in long gulps of the cleansing oxygen. With Dr. Reitz opting for the background, Dr. David Maier, one of the medics assigned to Baruk’s constant entourage, had given Orhlon an injection to steady his heart and calm his racing pulse, while not clouding his discernment. He was also nearly force-feeding Orhlon ice water. Outside of some initial retching, the water irrigating Orhlon’s body, blood, and organs was also having a salubrious effect.

  “David,” said the prime minister, “I would like you to remain with the general for a few more moments until he can get to his feet without feeling faint. The rest of you may leave. Major Reitz, please go to the commissary and bring back some soup, something light, and some bread for the general. Please return quickly; we have much we need to discuss.”

  Baruk stood impassively on the far side of the table that dominated the center of the conference room, watching as Reitz scrambled off fo
r soup while the rest of the staff silently emptied the room. The only ones remaining were Dr. Maier; a slowly strengthening Orhlon; Lukas Painter, director of Mossad, Israel’s legendary security and counterintelligence agency; Sharp of Shin Bet; and Chaim Shomsky, Baruk’s chief of staff. Just as Dr. Maier guided Orhlon to his feet, then to a chair, Major Reitz returned with a hot, covered bowl of soup, something chicken by the aroma, and the bread. Thanking them, Baruk asked the doctors to leave, allowing the five most powerful men in Israel the privacy they needed to deal with the emerging crisis.

  Orhlon’s khaki uniform was soiled and disheveled, a condition none of them had ever witnessed before. While the general still looked a bit worn, Baruk was satisfied by the fierce alertness of Orhlon’s eyes that the man had sufficiently recovered.

  “Levi . . . Moishe,” Baruk said, turning his gaze from Sharp to Orhlon, “are you certain? Not only of the claim, but are you certain of the findings?”

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” said Sharp, “since we cannot access the area without causing a riot, we cannot be absolutely certain. But we have been watching these men for days. The object of their intent has clearly been the Temple Mount. Now that we have the testimony of the garden guide, some of which we have already corroborated with our sources in New York, we are confident we know why they came here and what they are looking for.

  “What we don’t know, Mr. Prime Minister, is whether they have discovered what they were seeking.”

  All eyes were on Orhlon, but Baruk also cast a swift glance at his advisors. He wondered if they were having as much difficulty absorbing this possibility as he was.

  “A temple, Moishe? Do you really believe this message they found could be leading them to a temple that was built one thousand years ago under the Mount?”

  “It is certainly hard to believe such a thing is possible,” said Orhlon, scratching his already tussled hair. “But, sir, consider this. Someone planted a bomb that killed one of the American team members in New York City. We have been in contact with their police department. Confidentially, we have been told there were attempts made on the lives of two others. Two nights ago, as we tried to detain them, they were nearly caught in a firefight between two rival Muslim factions. We now believe both of those factions were trying to stop the Americans.

  “Whatever the truth from the other night, there have been several deadly attacks against these men to deter them from this pursuit. Why?

  “Lastly, these men are neither treasure hunters nor political activists. One is a librarian, one an official with an organization that helps homeless people. The garden guide said it was these two who found the scroll. The third man is Dr. Richard Johnson, a respected archaeologist and scientist. For more than a decade he was a fellow of the British Museum. I doubt this man would allow himself to become seduced into an escapade such as this unless he believed the message of the scroll was genuine.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, at this point, I believe we must proceed under the expectation that the scroll, and its message, are genuine, that there is a temple under the Temple Mount. And, sir, if the Temple is there, someone will find it. If not these men, then someone else. Perhaps the Muslims, perhaps the Northern Islamic Front, God forbid.”

  Baruk’s unflinching gaze locked on Sharp. Then he shifted. “Moishe, what will this mean?”

  For a moment, Orhlon was at a loss. Baruk wasn’t sure if it was because of what he knew or how he felt. Baruk imagined Orhlon’s brain was racing to review every possible strategy and unimaginable scenario.

  “Mr. Prime Minister,” said the raspy-voiced defense minister, his tone somber, “I agree with Levi. I am confident the reports he received were accurate. But grasping the consequences of these reports is something from which my mind has rebelled.”

  Suddenly, Orhlon looked older, more worn down, than at any time Baruk had known him.

  “I am confident, sir, that if we should allow these men to proceed, if they discover the Temple . . . should they make public their discovery, we would rapidly find ourselves in an endgame scenario with the Arab nations.”

  “Moishe,” Baruk said solemnly, “I need you to tell me precisely where this will lead us.”

  They all knew the answer that was coming, but someone had to speak it, to make it real.

  “Mr. Prime Minister, if we don’t stop these men from revealing their discovery,” said the defense minister, “both Director Sharp and I are confident that Israel will find itself in the ultimate conflict with the Arab states that surround us.” Orhlon hesitated slightly and took a deep breath. “The radical Muslim states are determined to eradicate Israel. The reality of a temple whose existence they have long denied would give historical legitimacy to the Israeli state, and they would be forced to act. They would try to wipe us off the face of the earth. Egypt and Syria will have their tanks rolling within the hour. Their missiles and bombers will be in the air, their divisions forming to swarm over our borders. Before the end of the day, we will face the ultimate decision, whether to use our nuclear weapons or to allow the Arabs to destroy us.”

  “Moishe, you have always been an alarmist,” Chaim Shomsky, the overweight, overbearing chief of staff volunteered. “Nuclear war destroys everyone, kills everything. There is no Israel, there is no Middle East, there is no future for either Arab or Jew. No one is going to take that chance.”

  Baruk walked over to the chair at the head of the table and rested his hands on the top of the chair back. “And we’re not going to take any chances, either,” Baruk said decisively. “Lukas, I want the full resources of your organization dedicated to finding these men. You have complete authority to do anything that is necessary to prevent this information from becoming public.”

  The prime minister pulled out his chair and sat down. There was no other sound in the room. All eyes remained on Baruk.

  “Have I made myself perfectly clear, Lukas?”

  Lukas Painter was a lifelong professional of the intelligence community. There was neither an ounce of fat on his body nor an ounce of doubt in his allegiance. He had served four different prime ministers, and never before had he been given a blank check. He knew exactly what Baruk was instructing him to do.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Prime Minister,” Painter said in a verbal salute. “Absolutely clear.”

  Uninvited, Shomsky jumped in once more. “Really, Mr. Prime Minister, I believe General Orhlon is overstating the seriousness of—”

  The prime minister’s right hand came up quickly, his arm and palm extended toward his chief of staff. With his left hand, he reached for the red phone and put the receiver to his ear.

  “Get me the president of the United States.”

  There was plenty of time for thinking during the ride from Tel Aviv. Rizzo hitched a ride with a big-rig truck driver, who bought his story of being separated from his tour group and getting left behind. Wanting to be alone with his thoughts, Rizzo had feigned sleep during most of the trip while he sorted out his options.

  Kallie is no female James Bond, he thought. She’ll give up the plan in no time. So the Israelis will be looking under the Temple Mount. They’ll probably keep Kallie in custody until they figure out what is going on, so, no way of getting to her. But it’s unlikely they would be watching her apartment. There would be no reason to keep that under surveillance Makes it the best place of refuge, and I can take better care of my arm.

  It was well after dark when Rizzo exited the truck in Jerusalem, back in front of the Crowne Plaza Hotel and the central train station. Standing on a concrete planter, he waved down a taxi for the ride to Ammunition Hill and Kallie’s apartment.

  In the blue light of a cyalume stick, Bohannon looked across the lake and felt the onslaught of despair. “What can we do?” he wondered aloud. “What can we do?”

  Faced with the impossible, he did the only thing that, for him, was possible. He knelt down on the ledge, folded his hands over his chest, and closed his eyes.

  “Father, I believe it is your will for
me to be here. I know, when Annie and I prayed together, we felt a unity in our spirits that you had spoken to each of us, that I was to come to Jerusalem and search for this Temple. So, here I am, Father. I’m confident in you, but I’m not confident in me. Sometimes, I think all of this is nuts. It’s crazy for me to be here, crazy for us to be risking our lives like this. Then I recall your words in my heart. So here we are. Are we nuts, or what? I don’t know. All I know is that you’ve got to help us. If we’re going to get across this lake, if we’re ever going to find this Temple, you need to help us. And you need to help us now. Otherwise, we’re probably going to die down here.” Bohannon felt a hand on his right shoulder . . . a moment later, another hand on his left. “Father, lead us and guide us now. Give us your wisdom, your discernment, your strength. Put your hedge of protection around us and keep us safe. Help us get safely to the other side and, Lord, help us to get out of here, and home, in one piece. Amen.”

  His amen was echoed, once from his right and once from his left, and three times from across the lake. And the answer came to his heart.

  “C’mon,” he said. “We’re going to try and float a raft across this lake.”

  40

  In all of their planning, none of them foresaw the need for a boat.

  So now they improvised, and their choice was not pleasant.

  With light from one of the cyalume sticks, Bohannon and Rodriguez quickly reviewed all the gear in their Lost Creek packs while Johnson updated the written log of their exploration on the waterproof pages of a survey book. The decision was inescapable. Their packs were water-resistant, not waterproof, and there was little confidence the packs could support their weight. They had a watertight, airtight Pelican case to protect the satellite phone, but it was too small and there was just one. The only possible source of floatation would be their sleeping bags. And even those would be a risk. Larsen had wisely insisted they purchase the best possible bags they could find, so they were outfitted with North Face Nova “mummy” bags that not only had a zero-degree rating, but were also filled with goose down and constructed of a multilayered waterproof shell. The bag, when totally zipped shut, had only a very small opening over the face for breathing.