“We’ll have good light by the window,” said Johnson. He crossed to a large table, up on its edge like a drafting table, various arms flayed out to its sides. Johnson pulled out a spring-loaded dowel and lowered the face of the table to a horizontal plane. Placing the wrapped mezuzah on the table, he reached for one of the hinged, metal arms and pulled a bright light over the table surface.
Johnson motioned McDonough to a high stool, but the scholar was oblivious to the gesture. His eyes were riveted to the bronze cylinder on the table. Pressed against the side of the table, McDonough stretched out his right hand and traced some of the etched designs in the air above the mezuzah.
“Now, let’s see what you have to say for yourself.”
McDonough pulled down one of the metal arms attached to the sides of the table, the one suspending a powerful magnifying glass surrounded by a high-lumen lamp. He carefully positioned the magnifying glass over the bronze mezuzah and switched on the lamp.
As Johnson watched McDonough caress the cold metal tube as if wooing a lover-to-be, his heart warmed. The memory of many long hours in the caverns of the British Museum flashed across Johnson’s consciousness, he and McDonough working together as they tried to pry secrets from cold stone or inhospitable metal. Those were happier times, times when—
“Where do you think the mezuzah originated?” asked McDonough. “In Jerusalem or in Egypt?”
Johnson felt his mind cloud over. It was a question he hadn’t considered, one apparently without an answer. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Do you recognize this?” McDonough asked as he swung the magnifying glass around so Johnson could observe what he had discovered.
Johnson turned his head to the right, bewildered by what he saw. “Is that a tau?”
The tau, an ancient Egyptian symbol of truth—the symbol pressed against the lips of each Pharaoh when a king was initiated into the Egyptian mysteries—looked like the letter T, or like three pieces of a Templar’s cross with the top, vertical piece missing.
“Yes . . . three, side by side. But, what is that beside the taus?” asked McDonough.
A small circle beside the three tau symbols, a circle containing two letters—aleph and resh, Abiathar’s signature. “Well . . . I’ll be . . .”
“Yes, you are,” said McDonough. “But that’s not the point. Your friend Abiathar was communicating with a compatriot in Egypt, was he not?”
Johnson’s mind began to focus. “Yes . . . Meborak, the Exilarch of Egypt, was his ally in a plan to overthrow a usurper to the leadership of the Egyptian Jewish community.”
Johnson stepped away from the table and crossed to the bay window overlooking 35th Street. “It was this mezuzah, with the scroll message inside, that Abiathar sent to Meborak for safekeeping.” Johnson turned his back to the window and faced the room. “But we also discovered there were other, earlier messages between Abiathar and Meborak . . . messages that originally created the Demotic language code that Abiathar used in the scroll’s cipher. So, it’s really not that strange that we would find an Egyptian symbol connected with Abiathar’s hallmark.”
“Perhaps,” said McDonough, resting against a stool. “But, why would Abiathar combine his signature with an ancient, pagan symbol like the tau when he could have used any number of other symbols . . . symbols from the Torah? Even if they were concerned about keeping their little conspiracy a secret, why select the tau?”
Without warning, Johnson’s innate curiosity was overrun by a rising surge of anger. He felt it, but couldn’t stop it. Slamming his hand onto the drafting table, his voice erupted. “This . . . this is what Winthrop died for?” He made a fist and slammed it again on the table. “Playing stupid children’s games of hide-and-seek . . . solve the puzzle . . . win the prize.”
Johnson grabbed onto the edge of the table like a vise clamp, steadying himself as he brought his voice under control. “There’s no prize here, Brandon,” he whispered. “Just silly men, playing stupid children’s games . . . games that cost the best of us his life. Who cares? Who really cares what the stupid thing means?”
Johnson stared blindly at the mezuzah. He felt McDonough’s hand upon his shoulder.
“Richard, with the first message, you discovered the Third Temple of God, an event that I believe has changed the course of history.”
Johnson tried to close his heart against the words. No. It wasn’t worth it.
“Finding Abiathar’s hallmark on the surface of the mezuzah, I’ll wager there must be a second message here, a different message that Abiathar tried to communicate through the symbols on this mezuzah?”
I can’t. I can’t. It’s my fault that Winthrop is dead. I killed him just as surely as if I placed the bomb in his van. No more. I can’t take it. I couldn’t bear it if someone else were hurt . . . someone else were killed . . . just because I wanted to follow the thrill of the chase. No . . . I can’t.
“Richard.” The voice was soft, pleading, close to his ear. “This message was meant to be found. Whatever it is, Abiathar’s purpose was that someone—this Meborak most likely—would find it and understand it. Richard . . . now that the door of the mezuzah has been opened . . . if you and your friends don’t discover its meaning, others will. Others who may not be so—”
“But, what if someone else is injured, or killed?” Johnson shook his head, slowly, back and forth. “I don’t think I could survive.”
“Richard, lad,” said McDonough, “I don’t think you have a choice.”
Johnson looked for escape. But there was none.
6
MONDAY, JULY 27
New York City
“Do you think we’re still in the mystery-solving business?”
Sammy Rizzo sat behind his custom-designed desk in the bowels of the Humanities and Social Sciences Library at Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street in New York City, frustrated that his “great adventure” may have ended, throwing Nerf darts at a large bull’s-eye hanging on the wall.
“I don’t think so, Sam. I think our treasure hunting days are over.”
Joe Rodriguez, Rizzo’s friend and curator of the library’s Periodicals Room on the main floor, was sprawled in a chair across from Rizzo, his six-four frame extending in all directions as Rizzo failed miserably at his target practice.
“What are you—the Gentle Green Giant Wuss? What about the phone call?” said Rizzo, spinning in his chair and whipping a dart over his left shoulder. “What about the inscription Doc and his leprechaun friend found on the mezuzah? Do you think Tom’s asked us all over to his house tomorrow night to watch American Idol?”
Leonard Antonio Rizzo, a short, muscular Mediterranean-looking man, standing just a tad over four feet tall, with a dense shock of jet-black hair and thick, black-rimmed glasses, had come to the New York library system with a degree in library science from NYU and a chip on his shoulder. With a long-deceased father named Leonard, an uncle named Leonard, and two cousins named Leonard, he also came with a nickname. Sammy started in the stacks, but he didn’t stay there long. He was a master of organization, had a memory to die for, and soon ruled the world of book retrieval that operated in obscurity in the depths of the miles of stacks that extended beneath Bryant Park.
Now, Sammy Rizzo was master of the digital-age Dewey Decimal System. He was the sorter, slicer, dicer of the Humanities and Social Sciences Library, keeping its ten million items in perfect order, available at the swipe of a pencil on a request slip. It was a world Sammy ruled from the flight deck of his custom-designed office desk. Even when he wasn’t watching.
“I don’t care what Doc found,” said Rodriguez. “It sure seems to me that Annie and Deirdre have made up their minds that we’re not going anywhere.”
“Well, what if the Prophet’s Guard is still determined to gets its hands on the scroll and the mezuzah?” Rizzo was not giving up without a fight. “It may not matter what Annie and Deirdre want,” he said, whistling his last dart toward the Velcro target. “Our butts may still b
e on the line.”
“You know, I can’t blame Annie and Deirdre,” said Joe. “We were crazy to risk our lives over in Jerusalem and we’d be crazy to get involved again.”
Sammy Rizzo hopped off his chair and began collecting the errant Nerf darts.
“Josey, baby,” he said, tossing one of the darts to Rodriguez, “who are you trying to kid. I know you, and I know you got a rush from all our adventures. Tell me you wouldn’t want to get back in the game.”
Rizzo watched his friend’s face contort, wrestling with conflicting emotions. “I don’t know,” said Rodriguez. “I think Deirdre would kill me for even thinking about it.” Then his face brightened. “But it sure sounds interesting what Doc came up with.”
“Well, if we’re still looking for clues,” said Rizzo, climbing back into his chair, “I’ve had a question bugging me ever since we decoded Abiathar’s scroll. Did you notice anything odd about Abiathar’s message?”
“You mean, besides the claim that he built a Jewish temple under the Temple Mount?”
“Yeah, Sherlock, besides the most obvious.” Rizzo whizzed a Nerf dart past Rodriguez’s ear. “Just one day, I’d like to get some respect.”
Rodriguez raised his hands, palms outward. “Hey . . . Sammy . . . no offense, okay? What are you thinking?”
Rizzo began to rock back and forth in his specially designed chair, adrenaline coursing through his body like a drug, elevating his heart rate and kicking his fingers into a steady percussion on the desk. He admitted this secret only to himself, but he had never felt more alive than on the quest for the meaning of the scroll and their search for the hidden Temple. He was a member of the team . . . an equal member . . . and it brought him back into Kallie’s world. Perhaps, if their destiny was still tied to the scroll and mezuzah, there might be another opportunity to prove his worth to Kallie. As a man, not as a clown.
Rizzo took a deep breath to slow his heart. “In Abiathar’s letter to Meborak, near the end, he wrote something that was out of character with the rest of the letter. He said, ‘Look to the prophets for your direction.’ Everything else in the letter was very concrete—about his history, why and how they decided to build the Temple. But then, near the end, he includes this cryptic comment. What does it mean, ‘Look to the prophets for your direction’? What prophet is he talking about? What direction?
“And, that was it.” Rizzo waved his knobbly hands in front of his face. “No other mention of prophets in anything else we’ve found. But it must have had some significance to Meborak in Egypt. Otherwise, why include the reference?”
Sammy braced for a sharp retort, readied his own zinger for return. But Rodriguez, as was his habit, surprised him.
Rodriguez pushed himself forward in the chair to face Rizzo head-on. A question framed his eyes and tickled the corners of his mouth. “But . . . you’re right. Geez, Sammy, you’re right. We need to go back to the beginning here.” Rodriguez jumped to his feet and began to pace the length of the office. “We’ve all been so caught up in everything that’s happened to us, we haven’t taken any time to go back and think about how all of this got started.”
His long frame shuddered as it came to a halt at the far end of the office, as if he had just walked into a doorpost. Rodriguez swiveled on his heel.
“We didn’t get any directions from the prophets,” said Rodriguez.
Good . . . it’s finally starting to dawn on him.
“We cracked the code, went over to Jerusalem, found the hidden Temple, but—but we never got any direction from any prophets that I know of. What—”
“What does it mean?” Rizzo asked, spreading only a thin layer of rebuke on his words. “It means we haven’t scratched the surface yet. Maybe Abiathar’s got a lot more to tell us. And I’m wondering what it is.”
Sammy watched as Rodriguez raised his hands to both sides of his forehead, then ran his fingers through his nappy, salt-and-pepper hair. “Oh . . . I am going to be in so much trouble.”
7
TUESDAY, JULY 28
New York City
“I don’t care who he is, or what he had to say,” said Annie Bohannon, pacing back and forth in front of the windows. “You guys are not going to get mixed up with this again. Over my dead body, Tom Bohannon.”
“C’mon, Annie . . .”
“Don’t Annie me, Tom. Are you crazy? Where is Winthrop Larsen? What happened to Caitlin on the Fordham campus? You, all of you”—she swept her hand in the direction of Doc, Joe, and Sammy—“are lucky to be here alive. And now, because some bonehead Irishman that Doc knows has a theory about the mezuzah . . . This is crazy, even to be talking about it. We already decided to get that thing out of our lives. And you’re not going back. Do you hear me, Tom? You’re not going to get involved with this madness again.”
Bohannon survived attacks from the assassins of the Prophet’s Guard, escaped the murderous designs of fundamentalist Muslim jihadists, and was spared from a lethal, clandestine Israeli commando strike force. Still, he must admit, Annie did intimidate him—particularly when the Italian side of her ancestry popped to the surface of her emotions.
“Annie . . . all we’re doing is talking about what this guy—”
“Dr. McDonough,” interjected Richard Johnson. “Brandon McDonough, my superior at the British Museum.”
“—what this Dr. McDonough has to say about the mezuzah. And Sammy’s come up with a very valid question about the message on the scroll. Look, we’re just kicking this around. It’s a fascinating theory, after all.”
“Theory, my petunias,” Annie snapped. “I know you guys well enough. I could hear it in your voices when I came into the room. I can see it, feel it, smell it in this room already—the thrill of the hunt; the sense of adventure. Well, stick a pin in it, because, Tom, you’re not going anywhere. Our entire family was terrorized for more than a month because of that stupid metal pipe. You were gone for two weeks. Thank God they kept your job for you last time. Can you imagine what people at the Mission will think, what the library will think of Joe, if you go back in and ask for more time to chase down another secret message? Probably fire you and lock you up in the looney bin.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bohannon noticed Rizzo holding an imaginary noose around his neck, pulling it tight, his tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth. Geez, Sammy . . . not now.
“But that’s not it,” said Annie. Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a testimony to hours in the kitchen. A short-sleeve, loose-fitting blue-checked blouse was tucked into tightly fitted jeans that still caught Tom’s attention and caused his heart to skip. Her face was a bit fuller than when they met thirty years ago, but her blue eyes still flashed with life and her skin was soft and flawless, the color of peaches in high summer gleaming from her rounded cheekbones. When she smiled, life warmed. But there was no smile today.
She looked at Tom like a jury foreman with a verdict. “Tom, I’m not ready to be a widow.”
Bohannon opened his mouth to respond . . . to defend . . . but her look stopped him cold.
“I want you to be here when our daughter gets married, when our son needs your advice for starting his own life. I want to grow old with you and spoil our grandchildren together.
“It’s a miracle you—all of you—came back alive.” She crossed the room to Tom and stood over where he sat in the stuffed armchair. “I won’t live like this anymore,” said Annie. “I can’t.”
Washington, DC
“Tell me what else you know.”
“We’ve been digging around on both sides of the pond, pulling in favors,” said Cartwright, throwing a file stamped TOP SECRET on the table between the two presidential sofas. “It looks like there’s been some kind of power play among the Arabs. Nothing definitive, but there are rumblings that somebody new has entered the picture and is consolidating power and influence.”
“The Iranians?” asked President Whitestone. “The last thing we need is Essaghir grabbing ano
ther handful of power.”
“No, sir,” said the CIA director, “not the Iranians. As far as we’re being told, there is a new voice being followed in the Muslim Brotherhood.”
“Abbudin’s out? Well, I’m not surprised,” said Whitestone, sitting on the sofa opposite Cartwright. “Somehow he held on to his influence after the Iraq war, but now, after the earthquake . . .”
“He’s too close to us,” Cartwright finished the sentence.
Whitestone, like his predecessors, believed the Saudi king was Washington’s greatest ally in the Islamic world. A man of principle and understanding, and a man who loved his petrodollars, Abbudin was committed to moderate cooperation with the West. His hand upon the helm of the Muslim Brotherhood had thus far averted a Mideast conflagration.
“Bad for us . . . bad for the world, maybe,” said Whitestone.
New York City
Tom wanted to avoid the traffic on 254th Street. Even on a Tuesday evening in sleepy Riverdale, in the very northwest corner of the Bronx, cars were up and down the street to the Metro North train station. So he turned left on Independence Avenue and walked in the direction of Bingham Road and the entrance to Wave Hill, the former home of Mark Twain, now a public garden.
It was Johnson who suggested the walk after dinner. After Annie’s impassioned plea.
“So, what did you need to talk about, Doc?”
Old trees covered the road like a green canopy, creating a tunnel of shade and shadow spackled with bright splashes of slanting sunlight. There was no sidewalk, but now, with Wave Hill closed for the day, Independence Avenue was a solitary street. Doc Johnson walked to his right, to the inside of the street, and seemed to be consumed with avoiding the numerous potholes at the edges of the macadam.
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 6