The Sacred Cipher

by Terry Brennan

  Bohannon and Rodriguez figured they had only one chance of getting across this underground lake. Seal all the zipper openings of the sleeping bags with duct tape, and duct tape the three face openings, sealing all but a very small corner of each. The plan was that each man would blow as much air into his sleeping bag as possible to inflate the bags, sealing the corner closed with a duct tape flap when they needed to catch their breath. When the bags were inflated as much as possible, they would be fastened together with more duct tape. They would put the raft in the lake, put their packs on top of the raft, and the three of them would kick-paddle the raft to the other side of the lake.

  That was the plan. None of them thought it was foolproof. In the darkness, using their Maglites and helmet lamps, they thought they could see three openings on the other side of the lake. It was impossible to tell the lake’s exact width. It was at least two or three hundred yards. So much could go wrong. The bags could deflate, either immediately, or slowly, as they crossed the lake. Without inflation, the bags would likely sink under the weight of their packs. Even if they remained inflated, the bags could still sink, they could buckle under the weight of the packs, allow water to get on top of the raft, and succumb to the growing weight. They could get to the other side and find that the openings either didn’t go anywhere or were an optical illusion.

  And no matter what the outcome, if they survived, they would all be soaked to the skin. If their sleeping bags took on water, it would be a disaster. They would have to find a way out, immediately, or risk death by hypothermia.

  Or they could quit now, leave all of their equipment, and beat a hasty retreat to Zechariah’s Tomb.

  “Yes, Jonathan, we know they are searching for the Temple. If a temple is found and these men report their findings, we are confident the Muslims will rise against us and precipitate an endgame conflict. We cannot allow that to happen.”

  Baruk and his advisors, clustered around the speakerphone, waited for the American president’s response. Baruk knew that Jonathan Whitestone was now huddled with his own advisors.

  “Eliazar, you said you don’t know where these men are, currently. So there is nothing that can be done at this moment. Perhaps a temple does not exist under the Mount. Perhaps you will find them first. I believe we need to wait, see what transpires.”

  Baruk’s back began to stiffen. Were they on their own?

  “But, Mr. Prime Minister, this much I can tell you. We will never allow Israel to face a real threat of extinction. If these men do find a temple, the United States, and I, personally, will do all in our power to ensure the discovery will not lead to an ultimate conflict with the Arab states. Whatever steps that might require. Do you understand me, Eliazar? None of us could afford such a conflict.”

  Nodding his head in relief, Eliazar Baruk smiled at his assembled advisors. “Yes, Mr. President, I understand you perfectly. And we are deeply grateful. We will telephone you as soon as we have any additional information. Thank you, Jonathan, thank you very much.”

  The lights on the phone blinked off. Baruk surveyed his advisors.

  “Levi. Lukas. Find them . . . and kill them.”

  “The American president has given Baruk the freedom to execute these men, if necessary.”

  “War frightens all of them,” said the Imam. “Has there been any clue as to their whereabouts?”

  “No,” said Leonidas. “It’s as if the earth has swallowed them.”

  The phone clicked dead as a thought came to life in the Imam’s mind.

  Grateful for the silk long johns he had decided to keep on, but wet and cold nonetheless, Rodriguez kept a steady, deliberate, but rapid cadence on the rope he was pulling. All of them wanted to get the raft across the lake as quickly as possible; none of them wanted to be reckless enough to capsize it.

  Following Bohannon’s prayer, they decided that the wisest course would be for Rodriguez to swim across the lake, the rope tied around his waist. It had taken longer than he expected, the water was colder than he expected, but he had gained the far side, where he found a wide platform standing before the three openings, much larger than they appeared from across the lake. There was no time to waste. He had to get Bohannon and Johnson across before the sleeping bags deflated.

  “Okay, c’mon,” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the cavern walls. “Go,” he heard from the distance, and he began to pull in a rhythmic, constant motion. Rodriguez was concerned about the Doc. Johnson, remarkably, had joined in Bohannon’s prayer but, afterward, appeared a bit wide-eyed and rattled. Before he got into the water for his swim, Rodriguez caught Bohannon’s eye and nodded his head toward Johnson. Bohannon got the hint.

  Now Rodriguez could see them both kicking with a fury. The raft had clearly lost much of its buoyancy. Desperately he pulled faster, and faster still. Water was on top of the raft as they pulled close. Rodriguez had already dropped the rope and, as soon as he could reach, began snagging the packs off the top of the raft. Bohannon and Johnson were still in the water, but first Rodriguez gave the rope a strong tug, settling the sleeping bags on the relatively drier platform. Next, he reached in with both arms, grabbed Johnson under the armpits, and hoisted him to the platform. Then it was Tom’s turn, and all three lay on the platform, sucking in deep breaths, stunned that their stupid plan had worked.

  They weren’t dead, yet.

  Each man had stripped. Using Joe’s wool sweater as a towel, they rubbed away the water. Then all three got into their still dry sleeping bags, zippered them tight, and fought off the bone-numbing cold that had invaded their bodies. A bottle of water, trail mix, and an energy bar joined each man in the comfort of his sleeping bag.

  But Doc Johnson was far from comfortable. He knew that both water and food were running dangerously low. And he knew he was lost.

  “Da’ud, remain with your men, under the Mount,” the Imam said into his cell phone. “But dispatch Famy back to the surface. He is to go into the Kidron Valley. I will be sending him more men, by ones and twos. I want them to search the tombs on the far side of the Kidron, the burial places on the Mount of Olives. Somehow, the Americans got underground, unnoticed. Perhaps they found an opening in one of the tombs. Tell Famy to scour the tombs, look for anything that may be out of the ordinary. There is a way in, and we must find it.”

  Johnson looked like the old man he was, and Bohannon was alarmed. What if his body gave out, or his spirit? Then what?

  All three were back in their sleeping bags, but they had moved away from the lake and were resting their backs against the wall. They had slept for hours as their bodies tried to recover from the strength-sapping cold. Joe looked okay, seemed to be snapping back. And Bohannon felt his strength coming back. But Doc . . . Doc looked like death. His silver hair was a wild mop, his face ashen, his eyes sunken and wild. He sat in his sleeping bag, body stooped over at the waist, his head lowered against his chest.

  “I’m lost, we’re lost.” The voice came out of a fog. “I have no idea where we are, none of the gadgets are working, and I can find no symbols or clues on any of these tunnel entrances to guide us in the right direction. I am afraid I failed you. And,” a long sigh flowed out of his soul, “I’m afraid that I am simply afraid.”

  No false bravado would mask the seriousness of their situation.

  They had enough water for perhaps another day. Doc was close to cracking. The quiet, the darkness, the cold emasculated their determination. It was 4:11 AM, Thursday. Time was running out. They had to move.

  “Okay, let’s get going.”

  Bohannon peeled away his sleeping bag and dug into his backpack for dry clothes. “C’mon, let’s go,” he said, pulling on his pants.

  “Where?” Johnson’s voice was weak. “We don’t know where to go.”

  Rodriguez was up and getting dressed.

  “We’re taking the middle tunnel,” Bohannon said with authority. “That’s it. We’re moving. We can’t stay here.”

  Bohannon looked at Johns
on. He hadn’t moved. He was still bent over at the waist, his gaze reaching out, over the lake. Bohannon took two steps, crouched in front of Johnson, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Doc, you are going to get up, and you are going to get up now. I can’t carry you; Joe can’t carry you. But we’re moving out. If you want to stay with us, you better get yourself out of that bag and into some clothes. Otherwise, you’re going to be here by yourself.”

  Johnson’s vacant eyes searched Bohannon’s face. Tom tried to put every ounce of resolve into his eyes and hide every one of his fears. Something worked. Johnson slowly unzipped and lifted himself to his feet. Rodriguez walked over with Doc’s pack in his hand. “Here, you’re going to need this.”

  Twenty minutes later, they entered the middle tunnel. They had no clue where they were going.

  41

  “Captain Levin, this is Gefen. Some of my men spotted some Muslims gathered around Absalom’s Pillar on the far side of the Kidron. They couldn’t see well enough because it’s just getting light, and because of this lousy rain, but they thought the Arabs were going inside, so we went over to check it out. When they passed Zechariah’s Tomb, there were more Muslims, or the same ones, going into the Tomb. So they followed them inside.”

  Levin was surprised by the sudden silence.

  “Sergeant Gefen?”

  “One of the Arabs pulled a knife, sir. Slashed one of my corporals across the forearm, cut his artery. My squad is carrying him to the ambulance right now. The Arab is dead, shot several times. My guys were a little upset. They took the other three into custody. But two things, sir.

  “The Arabs said the Imam has hundreds of them out, searching for the Americans under the Temple Mount, to prevent the Americans from blowing up the Dome of the Rock.”

  Gefen was quiet again.

  “How does the Imam know the Americans are under the Mount?” Levin asked both Gefen and himself.

  “Yes, sir, I know. The second thing, Captain . . . I think we found how the Americans got inside. We’ve spotted some boot tracks on the floor. But more importantly, we found three old burlap sacks stuffed behind a crypt down inside one of the tunnels. They smell like tobacco.”

  Levin could feel his spine stiffen. “Stay there,” he said, waving his arm at Stern to pick up the other phone. “I’ve got two squads in reserve at David’s Tower. They are on their way now. Leave the rest of your men in place. When the squads get there, all of you move into the tunnels. Make sure you have clean communication. Track those men down, Gefen. Get them.”

  In the front, Rodriguez saw it first. But the others were close behind. They saw the light.

  “Where does the light come from?” Rodriguez asked the open space. No one answered. They were too busy looking around.

  For three hours, they had been walking, nothing but tunnel, straight and true. No turns. No forks or junctions. And now this. They had entered a room. Not a cavern but a room, with a high, but flat, ceiling and straight, stone walls. And light—dim, dusty shards, diffused through minute chinks in the stone wall to the west.

  After three days of wandering through an underworld, it was as if they had been resurrected.

  “What is this, Doc?” asked Bohannon. “Where are we?”

  The three men wandered about aimlessly. The room was about the size of a small house, perhaps sixty feet by thirty feet, with a ceiling that had to be twenty feet high. The walls were unadorned, but the stone of the walls had clearly been worked. They weren’t hallucinating: this room was built by men. Scattered debris dotted the floor, a huge mound of debris nearly filled one corner, and everything was covered by a heavy, gray dust that stirred up into little clouds around their feet. The room did not smell of death or decay—a welcome respite. The insidious dampness of the caverns was left behind. In the dim light and swirling dust, Bohannon felt like he was walking through a dry fog.

  Halfway down the long side of the room, on each side, was a low, stone bench. Bohannon wandered over to the bench and took off his pack. He kept on his helmet because, even though there was light, it wasn’t strong enough to eliminate the need for the TAG lights affixed to their gear. Rodriguez crossed to the other side of the room and put down his pack, but Johnson still seemed to be wandering aimlessly, resting his hand on the stones, crouching down to sift the dust on the floor, peering intently at some of the debris.

  “Doc,” said Bohannon, “why don’t you get rid of that weight? Here, let me help you.”

  Bohannon went over to Johnson, who had rested one knee on the dusty floor, his face just inches from a chunk of stone.

  “Let me take your pack.” As Bohannon started to lift the pack from his back, Johnson turned his head, a flicker of sudden recognition registering in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Tom,” he said absently. And he turned back to the stone.

  “Hey,” Rodriguez shouted, “the GPS is working again.”

  Without a word, Johnson was on his feet and beating a path to Rodriguez. It’s the same stride, thought Bohannon. Glad to see Doc back.

  “May I see that, please,” said Johnson, reaching out his hand, forgetting that he had the same device in the padded, side pocket of his pack. Johnson sat down on the stone bench, pulled the folded map from his shirt pocket, and gazed at the GPS screen. Bohannon and Rodriguez simply watched in silence, not sure which was the more interesting sight, this totally unexpected room, or Doc, back to life, animatedly measuring and scribbling on his map, his eyes darting back and forth from the GPS screen. Abruptly, he was up, walking back across the room to the chunk of stone he had been inspecting before. This time, he sat himself on the floor, causing a minor dust storm, and began minutely inspecting the stone’s face. Bohannon looked at Rodriguez. Both shrugged.

  “Av beit din,” Johnson said to no one in particular. “This stone says, ‘Av beit din.’ Isn’t that marvelous?”

  Perhaps his mind had been dulled by three days underground. Bohannon didn’t know how to respond.

  “Come, come here,” said Johnson.

  Bohannon and Rodriguez crossed to where Doc was in the dust and joined him on the floor. Johnson pointed to the stone, now more illuminated by his TAG light. “Do you see the inscription? It’s ancient Hebrew. Only a portion of the entire, original inscription is visible, but this section is very clear. It’s a list of priests who should perform the temple service at the direction of ‘the Great Beit Din.’ It also outlines the acceptable patterns of ‘ritual acts for the Day of Atonement . . . the burning of the Red Heifer . . . the preparation of the water of purification.’ Then, see here, it says all these things are, ‘under the authority of the Nasi and the Av Beit Din.’ Johnson turned at his waist to look at his two companions, a glow of triumph on his face. He bounced up to his feet, outstretched his arms, and twirled in the dust, nearly obscuring Bohannon and Rodriguez. “This, gentlemen, this is the Hall of Hewn Stone, in which the Great Sanhedrin met.”

  Johnson stopped his sweep of the room, turned to his friends, and looked them squarely in the eye.

  “The Temple.” Simple words spoken without a great deal of drama. “The Hall of Hewn Stone was part of the Temple,” said Johnson. “I believe this may be the Hall of Hewn Stone.”

  42

  Rodriguez was chewing on a granola bar, listening to Doc’s history lesson, the three of them settled on the stone bench, trying to rebuild their energy and strength.

  “The Great Sanhedrin sat in the Temple, in a room on the southern side of the inner court of the Temple. The room was called the ‘Hall of Hewn Stone.’ The larger part of the hall was on the site of the court of the laymen, and there were two entrances: one from the Outer Court, used by the priests, and one from the Water Gate, used by the laity. The Great Sanhedrin, the Beit Din, met every day except the Sabbath and feast days, between the morning and the evening services in the Temple. It was the highest religious authority in Israel and dated back to the days of Moses and the seventy elders who Moses invited to join him in the governing of Israel
.”

  “So why couldn’t this room be Abiathar’s Temple?” asked Bohannon. “It looks like a temple, and it’s hidden under the Temple Mount. Seems to meet the criteria.”

  Johnson reached out a hand and placed it on Bohannon’s arm. “For a moment, I had the same thought,” he said. “But it’s not possible. By the time Abiathar’s father started building the temple, the Sanhedrin was long gone. Nine hundred years before Elijah, the Romans destroyed every vestige of Jewish sovereignty. Every Jew who remained alive was banished from the city and the areas near the city. For nearly one thousand years, Jewish elders desperately tried to hold together a community that had lost the center of its universe. Without the temple, they created new forms of governance—the Academy in place of the Sanhedrin and new, hereditary leaders in place of the high priests. No, Tom, this room was part of the Temple complex before the Romans invaded.”

  Johnson’s eyes kept scanning the room.

  “The GPS has us positioned under the Temple Mount, near that space between the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque that we targeted.”

  “That is a miracle in itself, if you ask me,” said Rodriguez.

  “On that stone over there is a clear inscription of the duties of the Great Beit Din, the head of the Sanhedrin. This must be the Hall of Hewn Stone.”

  To Rodriguez, Johnson’s words sounded like a desperate plea. Signs of stress were regularly manifesting in Johnson. And now, Rodriguez was going to burst what little hope the Doc had resurrected.