The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies)

by Terry Brennan

  “Mr. Bohannon.” Fischoff’s voice was raspy and low, sounding as if it came from the bottom of a pool. But his eyes were bright as Bohannon came to his side. “Good to see you’re still in one piece.” Fischoff’s face clouded. “I was very sorry to hear about the young woman’s death. I wish we had been on time.”

  Bohannon felt the stab of guilt and regret. Annie lived. But Kallie … “I know you and your men all risked your lives to save theirs,” he said. He looked at the thick square of bandages taped to Fischoff’s neck. “How are you doing?”

  Fischoff’s left hand went up to the bandage, a snow cone of cotton gauze stuck to the side of his neck. “I’m a lot better than I have a right to be,” said Fischoff. The sergeant grimaced as he shifted his body weight to the left to get a better look at Bohannon. “If it wasn’t for you—”

  “And the corporal,” Bohannon interjected.

  “Yes, and Corporal Feldstein. The two of you saved my life that night.” A flicker of fight crossed Fischoff’s face. It was the same look Bohannon had seen on top of the crusader tower in Jerusalem’s Citadel, just before Fischoff flung himself off the tower’s platform and crashed onto the deck of the muezzin’s minaret. “And we got the bad guys. I’m happy, for you, that it’s over. Go home and have a life, Mr. Bohannon.”

  “Please, call me Tom.” He rested his sling against the railing alongside the hospital bed and leaned closer to the sergeant. “I once asked your first name, remember? And you told me Sergeant. Sergeant Fischoff.”

  Fischoff nodded. “Yeah, I was just acting tough.”

  “Well, I need to know your first name, now,” said Bohannon. “We should be on a first-name basis for me to have the courage to ask what I want to ask.”

  The sergeant leaned back against his pillows, rays of the late afternoon sun coming through a crack in the curtain and falling across his bed. Half his face was lit by the sun, half in deep shadow. Bohannon searched for clues. He waited, his heartbeat counting the seconds.

  “Perhaps …” Fischoff shifted in the bed. “My alert system is telling me I should hear your request first, before we get too friendly.” Dust floated in the sunbeams. Bohannon prepared himself for a disappointment. Fischoff pushed himself up, full into the light.

  “Jeremiah,” he said. “My parents were religious.”

  “Of course … it would be Jeremiah.”

  Again Bohannon shook Fischoff’s hand, and this time the grip was firmer, tighter, an exchange of promise, of bonds, of trust.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Fischoff.

  Bohannon pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat with his legs straddling the chair and his good arm resting on the top rail of the chair’s back.

  “I don’t know how much you’ve learned about how this all started,” said Bohannon.

  “All I know is that you have been a thorn in Shin Bet’s side for quite some time and that you were in some way involved with the events that led up to the earthquake and the first destruction of the Temple Mount.”

  Running his hand over his mouth and chin, smoothing down his reddish-gold beard, Bohannon tried to stifle a grimace. “Well, it’s a bit more than that, I’m afraid.” Bohannon described how he and his librarian and academic friends found the scroll and mezuzah, broke the codes, and found the hidden Temple and the Tent of Meeting—all while under attack from the Prophet’s Guard.

  Before Tom could finish, Fischoff raised his hand, palm out.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “You make that sound as easy as reading the newspaper. You’re telling me you and a librarian figured all that out and then survived the aftermath?”

  Bohannon shook his head. “Let’s just say there was a lot of divine intervention involved, some dumb luck, and a team of people who came together who are a lot smarter than me and who helped figure it all out.”

  Fischoff’s eyes examined Bohannon with a new level of interest. And respect. “The divine, huh? I’m a Sabra,” he said, “born here in Israel on a secular Jewish kibbutz. I’ve seen a lot done in the name of religion, and not all of it was good. I understand, to an extent. I’ve spent my life caught in a dichotomy of what I want to believe, because it justifies my life and my decisions, and what I saw in the way my father’s faith guided his life and his decisions. When I compare the two, my father’s life was more peaceful … no, more confident than mine. There was something there. Do you understand? He knew what he believed, why he believed it, and it guided him in all he did. Me … I’m not so sure. But I think I’ve seen what belief in God can do, and I believe God is with you. So tell me why you’re here. I’m not promising anything, but I am listening.”

  “From what we discovered, we believed Abiathar’s plan was to restore ritual sacrifice for the Jewish people—whether in the rebuilt Temple or, if the Temple was destroyed, in the resurrected Tent of Meeting. Abiathar removed the Tent, maybe the Ark of the Covenant, from Mount Nebo, where Jeremiah hid them, and moved it to a cave along Scorpion Pass in the Negev, just prior to the Crusader’s rape of Jerusalem.”

  “There wasn’t a very good result from your participation in that series of events,” said Fischoff. “The Tent was incinerated, the concrete platform of the Temple Mount imploded from the heat, and …”

  “And a lot of people died—again,” said Bohannon, “including some of my friends, and a whole lot of Israeli soldiers … your friends.”

  “So why are you still here?” asked Fischoff. “Why don’t you just go home and get back to your normal lives?”

  Bohannon stood, stretched, and walked to the window. “That question has haunted me from the moment I saw Kallie Nolan’s lifeless body,” he said as he looked out the window. “I’m tired of making decisions that cost people their lives. I didn’t think I could handle the burden anymore … didn’t want to.”

  “It’s the curse of being in command,” he heard from behind him. “That weight can destroy a man. What changed?”

  “Two things,” said Bohannon, the sun warming his back as he turned to face Fischoff. “Two nights ago, very late, we were walking back to Kallie’s apartment. Three black-clad men chased Joe, Annie, and me through the streets of Jerusalem. We still have something other people want and that they think is worth killing for. And our lives won’t be worth living until we finish this thing and get these guys—the Prophet’s Guard—off our backs.

  “The second thing is, finally, we think we understand what’s been at the core of this escapade from the beginning. There was more to the mezuzah than just Abiathar’s messages to his counterpart in Egypt, more than the Temple or the Tent.

  “There’s a book called the Aleppo Codex,” Bohannon continued, warming to his subject as the sun warmed his bones. “It’s in the Israel Museum. The codex is a Masoretic text of the Tanakh, the first five books of your testament, which was created by a rabbinical committee that convened in Tiberius on the Sea of Galilee about a thousand years ago. We’ve seen the original book in the museum, but we’ve also been able to search through the only full and complete replica of the codex, in the Ades Synagogue in the Nahla’ot section of Jerusalem.”

  “I know it,” said Fischoff. “My father was not a rabbi, but he was a learned and devout believer in the Law and the Prophets. And he imbued all of us with the same zeal. I’ve seen that book. What does the codex have to do with this mezuzah of yours?”

  “We believe Abiathar was a key member of this rabbinical convention in Tiberius, one of the primary authors of the Masoretic notations in the codex. His hallmark is at the edge of the final notation. You know, we always wondered why Abiathar went to Tripoli in Lebanon the second time he was exiled from Jerusalem instead of heading back to Tyre. But now we believe that Abiathar’s first stop in exile was in Tiberius, where he participated in the creation of the codex, and then he continued on to Tripoli, where he may have hidden a copy of the codex in the Dar al-Ilm, the great library of ancient Tripoli.

  “But we found something else in the pages of the codex, an
almost unbelievable story but a story that is supported by almost everything else we’ve learned from and about this Abiathar. What is described in the Masoretic notations is not Abiathar’s personal story, but the story of his ancestor, Jeremiah, and a journey that strains the bounds of our faith.”

  Bohannon felt the presence again; that almost indefinable sense of reverent awe and personal experience that signaled the proximity of the divine. He shook his head in disbelief as he crossed the floor once again to the straight-backed chair and sat down.

  “When Abiathar removed the Tent of Meeting from its burial place on Mount Nebo, where it was hidden by the prophet Jeremiah, we’re pretty confident he also found the other things Jeremiah supposedly buried, including the Ark of the Covenant.”

  Fischoff did a double take at Bohannon’s last words. He reached toward Bohannon with his left hand. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Up until now I figured you and your friends were just normal folks who got pulled into something much bigger than they ever imagined. But this … you’re going to pull a Spielberg on me? You mean this is all about a search for the Ark?”

  Tom found himself shaking his head, more in wonder and surprise at what he was to say next than in contradiction of Fischoff’s conclusion.

  “Sergeant … it’s even weirder than that. We’re not after the Ark,” said Bohannon. “From everything we’ve seen and been instructed about the Masoretic text in the margins of the Aleppo Codex, we believe what Abiathar unearthed on Mount Nebo was the true power of the Ark … and in that cave on Mount Nebo he also discovered what Jeremiah did with that power.”

  “What do you mean, the power of the Ark?”

  “Think back on the story of the plagues of Egypt. What brought down the plagues on Pharaoh and his people? Think about the parting of the Red Sea. What power was exercised to divide the water from the land? Not the Ark. The Ark didn’t exist then.”

  Bohannon watched the expression on Fischoff’s face as the wheels of his memory and imagination began to spin and search and finally light on something.

  “You’re talking about Aaron’s staff, aren’t you? You think Aaron’s staff was the true power of the Ark?”

  “No,” said Bohannon. “We know it was.

  “The Masoretic notations in the Aleppo Codex are clear about this. From the time of the Prophets—probably before—the learned councils of Torah scholars harbored a closely held secret. They were confident beyond words that power resided in Aaron’s staff. And only when the staff was in the Ark did the Ark have any power.

  “Think about it,” said Bohannon. “You’re a learned man about your Torah. You—”

  “Yes,” Fischoff interrupted, “I know Scripture. I know what it says in Exodus. ‘Then the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle. Moses could not enter the Tent of Meeting because the cloud had settled on it, and the glory of the Lord filled the tabernacle.’ The Ark had power because it was the mercy seat, the dwelling place of God’s presence. Any power in the Ark, any power in the staff all came from the same source.”

  Bohannon was nodding his head. “Yeah, we’ve had the same discussions. The staff is just a stick of wood. It is God’s power at work. But what is God’s plan? How does he intend to manifest his power? We know that God infused Aaron’s staff with power in the past. We believe there is a plan for the staff in the future. And I believe David’s priests believed the same thing.

  “Think back on the history of the Ark. When it was brought to Jerusalem from Obed-Edom’s house—the place where David left it after one of his guys was killed for touching it—Scripture tells us it contained only the stone tablets of Moses. David sent his priests, Zadok and Abiathar—ancestor of Jeremiah and ancestor of our guy—to bring the Ark back to Jerusalem. The Ark left Obed-Edom’s house in Nacon, but the most learned men of your faith believe Aaron’s staff didn’t leave with it. And why is that? Because the Aaronic priesthood knew that Aaron’s staff was the instrument of power in the Ark. And that power needed to be protected. And it needed to be hidden.

  “The Israelites nearly lost Aaron’s staff once—when the Philistines captured the Ark and paraded it all around their country. Bad idea for them, since everywhere they took the Ark a plague broke out that was so deadly the Philistines begged the Israelites to take the Ark back. That’s when Zadok, Abiathar, and their Aaronic priesthood decided they needed to do something to keep Aaron’s staff from falling into the wrong hands.”

  Fischoff was shaking his head, a weary smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “This is quite a fable you’re spinning here, Mr. Bohannon, but—”

  “Look, will you please call me Tom?”

  “Okay, whatever I call you you’re still off your rocker with this story. Sure, there are lots of circumstantial situations that fit your bizarre theory. You could spin a fantastic yarn out of almost any one of a dozen well-known scriptural stories. But that doesn’t make them real. I mean, tell me … where does a stick get that kind of power? God … yeah, I could see God wielding that kind of power. And maybe God works through people and things. But a stick?”

  “Remember, that stick was dead and then came to life, a dry stick budding into a blossoming almond tree right in front of Pharaoh,” said Bohannon. “That was after the stick became a snake, ate up all the sorcerers’ snakes and then became a stick again. Pretty cool stick if you ask me.”

  “All right,” said Fischoff. “Let’s make an assumption that Aaron’s staff has power and Jeremiah buried the Ark and the Tent on Mount Nebo. What happened then? You found the Tent in a cave in Scorpion Pass in the midst of the Negev Desert, hundreds of kilometers from Mount Nebo. So where’s the Ark? Where’s the staff?”

  “Those are good questions,” said Bohannon. “When my brother-in-law broke through the wall in that cave and discovered the hiding place of the Tent of Meeting, the Tent wasn’t the only thing hidden behind the wall. But he didn’t get the chance to discover the rest. Some of your soldiers were right on his heels and took control of the cave before Joe could get through the wall. And right now, the Israeli army and the Israeli government aren’t telling us much about what else was in that cave. But one thing we do know pretty confidently … Aaron’s staff wasn’t there. Even if the Ark of the Covenant was in that cave, Aaron’s staff wasn’t anywhere close.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Sergeant, there’s one other thing that maybe your father didn’t know: the key element, the most essential part of this great conspiracy,” said Bohannon. “In the Hebrew Midrash it was written, thousands of years ago, that Aaron’s staff had been handed down through the ages. Noah had the staff on the first ark, Abraham had the staff in his migration from Ur of the Chaldeans, Joseph had the staff in Egypt, and we know Moses had it.”

  Fischoff scratched his head, his fingers running through the iron-gray stubble. “So where did it come from? And I think you’re just dying to tell me.”

  “The rabbi at the Ades Synagogue brought out some other books while we were there that confirmed what Rabbi Fineman told us—that Aaron’s staff was severed from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil in the garden of Eden when Adam and Eve were thrown out of Paradise.”

  The steel-blue eyes were fixed on Bohannon like radar beacons tracking an invader. “And this legend has what to do with you?”

  Bohannon got up from the chair again and began pacing back and forth across the floor at the base of Fischoff’s hospital bed. His left arm started punctuating his sentences.

  “The Prophet’s Guard, the guys with the lightning-bolt amulet, have been opposed for over a thousand years by another group, the Temple Guard, who were the first group to gain control of the mezuzah after Abiathar sent it to Egypt. The Temple Guard hid the mezuzah and its message at St. Antony’s Monastery in the Red Sea desert. Over six hundred years ago, one of the monks deciphered the message on the scroll about the Temple being buried under Temple Mount. So a group of warrior monks formed to protect the hidden
mezuzah. The Prophet’s Guard and the Temple Guard have been fighting ever since for control of the mezuzah and scroll, but not because of the buried Temple.

  “Both of these groups had access in St. Antony’s vast library to a partial copy of the Aleppo Codex. The notations told them part of the story about the power of the staff. For the Prophet’s Guard, their entire focus is not on the Temple, but on Aaron’s staff. They want to find Aaron’s staff. They want the greatest weapon in the history of the world to help them wage jihad.”

  “And to help them wipe Israel off the face of the earth,” said Fischoff.

  Bohannon turned from the curtained window. “Honestly, I don’t know. God used his power against the people of Israel when they disobeyed him—a plague of snakes in the desert that wiped out thousands. And God has allowed others to inflict their power against God’s people—like the conquest of Nebuchadnezzar or the destruction of Jerusalem by the armies of Rome. But if the Prophet’s Guard and the people behind them, probably the Muslim Brotherhood, can get their hands on Aaron’s staff and wield its power, you can stop worrying about Iran’s nukes. We’re all in trouble.”

  “So your government is asking you to track down Aaron’s staff?”

  “Not at all,” said Bohannon. “As far as I know, neither the president nor the CIA have grasped the real meaning of what’s going on here. If they did, they’d probably be crawling all over us right now.

  “No … nobody’s pushing us to do this. We need to do this for ourselves, to finally get the Prophet’s Guard killers off our backs and out of our lives,” he said. “We need to get the staff before the Prophet’s Guard does.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Because we know where to look.”