A pale blue sedan pulled into the parking area, drove past the police building, and parked at the very end of the lot.
Inside the police station, the duty sergeant recorded Bohannon’s version of the break-in but refused to disturb any of the detectives. “This is a Shin Bet matter,” the sergeant said one more time. “Any cooperation between Shin Bet and the police will take place at a much higher level than mine or the detectives. You have done what you can do, Mr. Bohannon. Go home . . . back to this apartment, if that’s where you’re staying. Don’t worry. We’ll find your wife and her friend. Don’t worry about that. I’m sure you will be hearing something from Major Levin before we do.”
As Bohannon left the police headquarters, he looked to his right. The pale blue sedan was still parked in the far corner. He could walk to Jeremiah’s Grotto from here, but it was too early. He got in the taxi, only once looking over his shoulder.
“Back to the Regency Hotel.”
As instructed, the taxi pulled up to the Regency via the wide, circular drive and stopped in front of the main entrance. Bohannon paid the driver and got out on the hotel side. Reflected in the hotel’s plate-glass façade Tom could see the pale blue sedan coming to a halt on the far side of the circle. With manufactured calm, he walked straight into the lobby.
Inside, he continued purposefully through the lobby and down the wide hallway in front of the Grand Ballroom. He turned right into a corridor of overpriced retail shops and restaurants, never breaking stride until he pushed through a set of glass doors, back out into the heat and sunshine. The cab was there, waiting.
“Thanks.”
“Man,” said the driver—young, dark-haired, olive-skinned, whether Jew or Arab who could tell—“for fifty dollars I’ll meet you anywhere. What next?”
“Crowne Plaza Hotel. And if you can get me there quickly, there’s an extra fifty in it for you.”
“You got it,” said the driver. “Quick is my middle name.”
The taxi pulled away from the rear of the hotel.
“This must be one hot date you have lined up, going through all this trouble,” said the driver. “I hope the lady is worth it.”
“Yeah,” said Bohannon, sobering, turning from the chase to the task, “she’s very worth it.”
No car followed them as they retraced their steps through Jerusalem.
Following a halfhearted meal in one of the Crowne Plaza’s restaurants—where only Annie’s picture and his fear kept him company—and a time-wasting stroll through the Israel Museum, another taxi delivered Bohannon to the front of the Garden Tomb, just north of the Old City’s Damascus Gate. He waited for the taxi to pull away and then walked south, away from the Garden’s entrance. A narrow walkway appeared on the left, ensconced by white walls, green vines running across their tops, eight feet off the ground. Bohannon ducked into the walkway and was soon out of sight of the street.
Bohannon stood just inside the end of the walkway and looked across an alley running north from the Suleiman Road. Checking his watch, he waited the five minutes. At 5:30, a tall man wearing a blue and white striped robe, came out of the darkened doorway on the opposite side of the alley, withdrew a sliding, plastic panel from a sign to the right of the door and changed “Open” to “Closed” as he slid the panel back in place.
The man was visibly startled when Bohannon moved quietly to his side.
“Forgive me,” Bohannon said. “But I must speak with you.”
“But, we’re closed,” said the man, sweeping his hand in the direction of the sign.
“I know. I’ve been waiting for you to close.”
The man took a small step backward.
“I’m looking for my friend,” said Bohannon. “I know he came here. That was probably Thursday morning. I haven’t seen him since and I’m getting worried. This is the last place I know . . . the last place he went.”
The man smiled broadly. “Are you Washington Heights, too?”
It took a moment for the question to register.
“No . . . the Bronx.”
“Well, come, come Mr. Bronx,” said the man, gesturing Bohannon through the door to Jeremiah’s Grotto, “we have much to discuss.”
Bohannon put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. But I don’t have time for a discussion. I need to find my friend. It’s very important . . . serious.”
The man ran his eyes over Bohannon’s face like a mapmaker memorizing a coastline, then placed his hand on top of Bohannon’s. “You are their leader.”
Tom shook his head. “No . . .”
“I have set Joe on the trail to Abiathar’s secret,” said the man, wrapping his fingers around Bohannon’s hand. “Now, I am not so sure I did the right thing. But, for you, I have something else. Please, come in. Your timing is excellent. I . . . my friend and I . . . won’t take much of your time. Please.”
Bohannon’s feet were itching to move, to find Joe, to do something to help find Annie. But the man’s words unexpectedly touched his heart. “I’ll give you ten minutes. But I want to know where you sent Joe.”
“I will only take five.” He took Bohannon’s hand off his shoulder, and shook it gently. “I am Ronald Fineman, formerly of Queens, New York City, and retired owner of Leather World on Orchard Street. You have heard of it?”
When Bohannon said no, Fineman shrugged and walked through the door. Bohannon quickly followed. Though his mind was telling him he should be more cautious, after the events of the past two days, he felt a strange peace about Ronald Fineman of Queens.
“I want to tell you something God has been pressing on my heart ever since your friend walked out this door,” Fineman said.
“Listen . . . Mr. Fineman, I—”
“Rabbi Fineman. I’ve had a change of occupation. That’s what brought me to Jerusalem.”
“I see. . . . So a Jewish rabbi leading tours of Jeremiah’s Grotto on the Sabbath. How does that work?”
“Well, I’m not a typical rabbi,” said Fineman, leading Bohannon through the interior of the grotto. “I lead what is called a Messianic Jewish synagogue—Jews who believe that Jesus was, in fact, the Messiah. That Jesus fulfilled all of the prophecy of the Talmud and came to save mankind from its sins. So that gives me a unique perspective on what is called the Old Testament. It also allows me to work here on a Saturday. I am no longer under the requirements of Jewish law. And my friend who is here is a Muslim . . . a good Muslim. He hasn’t converted to Judaism or Christianity, and I doubt if he ever will.”
Fineman turned into a small office and brought Bohannon closer to a small man in a white kaffiyeh and kaftan. “My Bronx friend, Tom Bohannon, this is my Muslim friend, Abu Gherazim, foreign minister of the Palestinian Authority. He and I met at a fund-raiser for the Palestinian Authority . . . I know, an odd place for a Jewish rabbi. But he and I both believe in reaching across the barriers to peace. Which brings us here, tonight, with you.” Fineman gestured to three wooden chairs around the small table just to the left of the grotto’s entrance.
“Mr. Bohannon, if you permit, I will get right to the point,” said Fineman, sitting in the chair opposite Tom’s. “I’m sure you wondered why the Temple you discovered was destroyed. It appeared as if your efforts were ordained, as if God himself were guiding your steps. Why then would God allow the Temple, now discovered, to be crushed, pulverized?”
Bohannon winced at the question he had asked himself so many times, without any answer.
“Forgive me, you have lost much,” said Fineman, rubbing the top of the rough wooden table. “But there is a reason I ask the question. My friend and I have a theory. Today, many Jews are praying for a place to make sacrifice. And the Arabs are trying to hold onto a place they consider sacred. And they both want the same place . . . the root of all Middle East violence.”
Gherazim opened his hands, palm up, on the tabletop. “What if,” he said, “Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah?” His voice was as unimposing as his app
earance. “There is one thing at the core of Christianity that is a trip stone for both Judaism and Islam: Did Christ die and rise from the dead? More than two thousand years have passed and no one has ever been able to disprove what Christianity claims, and history records, of those fateful few days. What if it were true?”
Bohannon was confused. And he was already feeling restless. Here was a leader of the Muslim community positing the divinity of Jesus? It didn’t make sense.
“In light of the recent destruction of both the Temple and the Dome of the Rock by a very localized earthquake, there is a question that should be asked—a question that makes perfect sense,” offered Gherazim, apparently reading the question on Bohannon’s face. “Perhaps God does not want a Temple today.”
The white-robed Arab gestured to the thin rabbi.
“Christian theology holds that each man who accepts Jesus as his Lord and Savior becomes a temple of God’s Spirit,” said Fineman. “When Christ died, it was reported that the veil in the Temple . . . the curtain that hid the Most Holy Place, God’s earthly dwelling place . . . was torn from the bottom to the top, opening a way into God’s presence.
“The Jews are intent on building God a dwelling place when he doesn’t need one anymore. God doesn’t need a temple of stone to make his home. He already has a temple of life—skin, blood, and bone; mind, heart, and spirit. A living and breathing temple, millions of them. Each of those people is a place of worship and a place of sacrifice. They are God’s sacred place.”
Bohannon shook his head. “But what has all that to do with us?”
“Because you search for that which Jeremiah hid . . . the Tent of Meeting,” said Fineman. “I can only surmise that the Israeli government wants the Tent, perhaps our government also. Perhaps others. But the real question is, what does God want?
“I believe that God will never be limited to just one place ever again. Through those who accept the name and sacrifice of Christ, God is now doing the work of salvation and sacrifice through them, through his human temples. But men keep trying to build something God no longer wants or needs. Some men want God to be in his place. And to keep him there, safely locked up, back in the past. I believe . . . and my Muslim friend has come to accept the possibility . . . that God will keep destroying the inanimate temples of men because now they are false. He no longer lives there nor will he ever allow his Spirit to be confined there.
“God has set a new course—a deeper, more personal intimacy with those who themselves are temples that will never be destroyed. That is where God’s peace now reigns.”
“There is only one problem.” Gherazim’s muted words drifted into the shadows. “The ruler of this world doesn’t want peace. The evil one wants to destroy all peace. So he sets us against ourselves, fighting about a place for temples that are no longer needed. God doesn’t want to be worshiped in a place, or as a prophet, but by a people.
“Many Muslims are mistaken because, by worshiping a prophet, they think that they are exempt from personal responsibility for their actions. Religious Jews believe they remain the Chosen People—they have a special, exclusive right to God—and thus they are exempt from personal responsibility. And some Christians hide behind ‘election’ to consider themselves exempt from personal responsibility.
“That is not faith. All of us, all men, have a personal responsibility to God. Not to a place; not to a prophet; not to a theology. Not to any false temple.”
Fineman leaned in, closer to Bohannon.
“We believe the time has come when God is willing to accept only one temple, the temple he has created of man, not the temple man creates for him. And he will destroy every temple man erects to wall him in. The destruction has begun. Time grows shorter each day.”
Bohannon now knew what was coming.
“Don’t help them, Mr. Bohannon,” said Fineman, his words heavy with regret. “I never should have helped Joe. I didn’t think . . . I didn’t ask. And I was disobedient.” Fineman slowly shook his head back and forth.
“You’ve seen what happened, Tom. This race to find the Tent of Meeting will only end in more destruction, more deaths. This search is doomed, my friend. Please,” Fineman reached out and touched his arm. “Don’t put your hand to it.”
Tom felt like Solomon, faced with the two women who claimed the same baby. Where was the right choice? What was the right thing to do?
“You don’t understand.” Bohannon slapped the top of the table and pushed off his chair. “I don’t want to find it. I don’t want anyone to find it, not anymore. Me . . . I want to destroy it.”
Fineman looked as if someone had stolen his most cherished beliefs. “What?”
“Look, my wife has been abducted by some Muslim murderers who have been determined to stop us from the beginning. No tent, I don’t care how old it is or how important it might be, has any value to me if my wife is harmed. And—” he pointed a warning finger in Fineman’s direction—“if the Israelis find the Tent they will erect it on top of the Temple Mount. And that will light the fuse for a Middle East conflagration. You just don’t understand . . . Someone’s got to try to stop this madness. And who else is there?”
27
SUNDAY, AUGUST 23
The Negev, Israel
Every muscle called out in protest. And his knees signaled a miserable, aching day ahead.
Joe Rodriguez peeled himself from the cracked leather back seat of the Land Rover. The thermal blanket he had gathered up from the garage in Jerusalem kept him warm. But it did nothing to relieve the consequences of the contortions he’d gotten into during the interminable night of fitful sleep. Stretching, his neck creaked.
Outside the Land Rover, light was beginning to play along the tops of the earth-brown, sandstone buttes, carved into undulating curves, sanded smooth by the incessant sirocco winds off the desert. But down in the narrow defile, tucked under an outcropping of stone, darkness still surrounded Rodriguez and his battered ride. Fortunate to have found this hiding place in the fast fading light of a desert evening, Joe was relieved to be off the road and out of sight. It gave him a semblance of security. But not enough to bless him with real sleep. Which may have eluded him anyway.
What to do now?
He was here, in the upper reaches of the Ascent of Akkrabim, the snakelike slither of Scorpion Pass falling away into the Dead Sea valley far below. He had come this far. What was next? Rodriguez pulled out one of the two things he prayed would give him hope.
Joe pushed open the rear door of the Land Rover, activating the dome light. On his lap he spread out the document that Fineman created before Joe left Jeremiah’s Grotto. Fineman kept up a running explanation as he scribbled, calculated, and measured over the face of a long, unrolled length of poster paper.
“You could spend the rest of your life searching the hundreds of caves that perforate Scorpion Pass,” Fineman instructed Joe. “And you could lose your life in any one of them. The sandstone of the Akkrabim escarpment has been pounded by violent torrents of exploding thunderstorms and eroded by centuries of desert wind. The erosion has occurred outside, on the cliff faces, but also inside, in the labyrinthine corridors that weave through the depths of the canyon walls. Not only is it easy to get lost—fatally lost—” Fineman shot a look over his shoulder, “but it’s also easy to get drowned.”
“Fatally drowned?”
“Yes, mister wise guy Washington Heights, fatally drowned.”
Fineman went back to his work. Joe could see it was another rough map of the land south of Jerusalem—Dead Sea to the east, the Mediterranean to the west.
“Imagine being deep in the sloping switchbacks of these caves when a sudden storm erupts above the pass, unleashing a torrential flood that those cliffs can’t possibly absorb. What happens then? Where does all that water go?”
“The Bronx?”
Fineman reached for a long, straight, flat piece of wood he had pulled out of his office. He placed it on the poster paper and drew a long, straight
line on the left side of the paper, a ragged curve of coastline farther to the left. Then he measured three marks, and drew another long line to the east. Fineman stood up and looked down at his handiwork. “Wise guy,” he muttered. “I should just let you go out there in the desert and wander around until your fingernails grow as long as your arm.”
“Okay . . . okay, I need your help,” said Joe, noting the twinkle in the old man’s eyes. “Are you going to tell me what your finger painting is all about?”
With a sweep of his hand, Fineman stepped back from the table. “It’s about where you should look. What else would it be? Here, look . . . I can get you this close.”
Joe looked down at the paper on his lap and tried not to forget any of the rabbi’s instructions. He pulled a compass from his jacket pocket, opened it, and placed it on the paper, resting on his knee. Then he traced the lines Fineman had drawn across the face of the paper.
“You must remember the time in which Abiathar lived,” Fineman told him back in the grotto. Then he moved his hand along the left side of his page. “The Crusaders controlled the coastline, the major cities along the coast, and all the coastal flatlands that ran up into the hills of Palestine. To get to Scorpion Pass, Abiathar would not normally have traveled in that direction. But it’s good that we can now rule it out entirely. If, in fact, he was moving the Ark of the Covenant, and the Tent of Meeting, he would have avoided the Crusaders like the plague. So, he didn’t go by the coast—or anywhere near the coast.”
Fineman then pointed at three dots on the right side of the design, through which another of the straight lines was drawn.
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 30