Razak tried to imagine how it would feel if the political situation had been reversed: Muslims reduced to worshipping a retaining wall with the Jews possessing a shrine on its holiest spot; Jews in occupied territories and the Palestinians in full control.
He scaled a flight of steps to the mosque’s raised platform. Outside the entrance, he removed his Sutor Mantellassi loafers, then made his way into the shrine. Hands crossed behind his back, he worked his way around the bloodred carpet of the octagonal ambulatory glancing up at the elaborate inner dome that sat high atop glassy marble columns. Directly beneath the cupola, cordoned by railings, lay a bare stone expanse of Mount Moriah’s summit known as “the Rock.”
The Rock marked the sacred site where in Biblical times Abraham made to sacrifice his son to God, and where Jacob had dreamed of a ladder to heaven. The Jews proclaimed that a grand Jewish temple built by King Solomon and improved by King Herod once stood here. And the Christians claimed Jesus had visited that same temple many times to preach.
But the site was most significant to Razak and his people for another reason.
In 621, the angel Gabriel had appeared to the great prophet Muhammad in Mecca, presenting him with a winged horse bearing a human face, named Buraq. Embarking on his Isra, or “Night Journey,” Muhammad was carried by Buraq to the Temple Mount where he was ascended through the heavens in a glorious light to behold Allah and consult with Moses and the great prophets. There, Muhammad was also given the five daily prayers by Allah—a core event in his ministry known as the Miraj.
The Miraj rendered the Dome of the Rock the third most important religious site in Islam, preceded only by Mecca—Muhammad’s birthplace—and Medina where, through great struggle and personal sacrifice, he established the Islamic movement.
Razak gazed up at the cupola’s exquisite tile work, taking in the Arabic inscriptions flowing round its base.
Outside, the muezzin’s call echoed from loudspeakers, summoning Muslims to prayer. In front of the mosque’s mihrab—the small, arched golden alcove that indicated the direction of Mecca—Razak eased onto his knees, hands splayed over his thighs and bowed in prayer.
After a few minutes, he stood and circled back round the Rock’s enclosure, stopping in front of a stairway entrance to a chamber called the “Well of Souls,” where it was said the spirits of the dead convened in prayer. There he envisioned his mother and father shining in the divine light of Allah, awaiting the final Day of Judgment so as to be delivered to Jannah— Allah’s eternal garden paradise.
On September 23, 1996, Razak’s parents had been killed by two masked gunmen while vacationing on the Jordanian side of the Sea of Galilee. Many had suspected that Israeli intelligence agents—the Shin Bet—had wrongly targeted his father for purported ties to militant Palestinian groups, but those rumors were later disproven. Although that turned
out not to be the case, the killers were never found. Their tragic deaths
were a profound loss that had driven—and still drove—Razak deeper into
his faith for answers. Fortunately, his education at home and abroad had
helped him to avoid political and religious fanaticism—an easy trapping
for someone so intimately affected by Israel’s lethal politics.
Turning away, his thoughts shifted to the crypt hidden deep beneath
his feet, and the mysterious theft that had once again brought bloodshed to
this place. When he’d arrived here yesterday afternoon, he had never anticipated that a situation of such gravity would have allied him with a man
like Graham Barton.
At the mosque entrance Razak put on his shoes and made his way
outside.
He still had a couple more hours until his meeting with Barton. So he
strolled down into the Muslim Quarter and had coffee and breakfast at a
small café on Via Dolorosa. There, he met some old acquaintances and
caught up on all that had happened since his last visit. Naturally, the conversation gravitated to the theft, but Razak was quick to point out that he
couldn’t comment on the investigation.
By nine a.m., there wasn’t the slightest breeze as he crossed the Temple
Mount esplanade beneath a scorching sun and descended into the Marwani Mosque. Climbing through the blast hole into the crypt, Akbar—the
oversized Muslim guard instructed to watch over Barton—signaled that
everything was fine. Razak nodded and waved him out into the mosque. Graham Barton was crouched in a corner transcribing an inscription on
one of the ossuaries.
“Good morning, Mr. Barton,” Razak said in English.
The archaeologist sprung to his feet.
“Looks like you’ve been busy.” Razak eyed the small stacks of rubbings
Barton had laid out at intervals along the floor.
“Very much so,” Barton replied cheerily. “I got here early and Akbar
was kind enough to let me get a head start.”
“What have you found out so far?”
“It’s an extraordinary discovery. This crypt belonged to a Jewish man
named Yosef.” Barton pointed to a box on one end, just as plain as the others. “You’ll notice that each of these ossuaries is inscribed in Hebrew with
the names of his family members.”
Unimpressed, Razak sought meaningful information. “Yosef who?”
Barton shrugged. “That’s the problem with ancient Jews. They weren’t terribly specific when it came to names. They rarely used family names, at least for burial purposes. And the Hebrew name ‘Yosef’ was quite common back then. Anyway, you see that each ossuary is plainly marked.”
Razak eyed the inscriptions carved into the sides of the nine boxes.
“Each one says pretty much the same thing: whose remains are contained inside each ossuary. Those are his four daughters,” he indicated the cluster sitting at the beginning of the lineup. “Three sons,” his motioned to the next three, then to the one beside Yosef’s, “plus his loving wife, Sarah.” Barton drew a deep breath. “But there’s an etching on the back wall of the crypt that provides more detail.” Grabbing a flashlight, he motioned for Razak to follow and advanced into the shadowy recess, stopping by the rear wall. The cylinder of light played along the stone. “See that.” Barton illuminated a wall-mounted tablet framed with ornate stone trim. “It lists the inventory of ossuaries contained in this chamber.”
The Muslim stepped closer. “So the missing ossuary should be listed here.” Counting nine lines of text, Razak’s eyes were drawn to a deep gouge scarring the polished rock beneath the last line. Confused, he stared at it for a long moment. “I’m only seeing nine entries.”
“Correct. And those nine are the names that match the remaining ossuaries. But this entry here,” Barton trained the light on the disfigured rock, “probably identified the tenth ossuary.” He tapped it with his finger.
Razak studied it critically once more. “Won’t do us much good now.”
“Agreed. Another dead end.”
Razak strolled around the chamber holding out his hands. “Why here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Of all places, why would the crypt be located here?”
He had a good point, Barton thought. “Normally we’d expect crypts to be outside the city walls. But it’s certainly possible this site was chosen for security reasons. In fact”—he paused to formulate the idea—“in the first century, Antonia Fortress, the Roman garrison, was situated adjacent to the northern wall of Temple Mount. The esplanade above us”—he pointed up—“would have been a very public area—all sorts of activities going on. Raised portico walkways ran all along the perimeter of the platform and looped around to the garrison. The Roman centurions would pace up and down to police the crowds, ready to quell any disturbances.”
Barton refrained from explaining that, in the first century, the primary reason for
the Temple Mount’s popularity was the grand Jewish temple that once stood in place of the Dome of the Rock Mosque—a claim that the Waqf had systematically denied for centuries in order to secure its hold over the site. Since no archaeological evidence supported the scriptural reference to the temple, their position had remained strong.
“And what do Roman centurions have to do with this crypt?”
“Everything. Remember, in ancient times there were no safes or lockboxes. That’s why plundering was the easiest way to get rich. Assets were vulnerable.”
Razak was eyeing Barton intently. “The only way to protect treasures or valuables was with an army?”
“Correct.”
“Then perhaps the tenth ossuary didn’t contain human remains. Could it have protected some kind of treasure?”
“It’s plausible.”
“Certainly more believable than human remains,” Razak continued. “I’m not seeing why anyone would go through such great trouble to steal bones.”
Barton could sense that Razak was pleased with his own reasoning and in the absence of further evidence, he wasn’t about to challenge the idea. “As far as I can see,” he added, “it’s impossible to draw conclusions as to what the stolen ossuary may actually have contained. But inside these remaining nine boxes,” he gestured toward the ossuaries, “we may find some more clues.” He handed Razak a pair of rubber gloves. “Which is why you’ll need these.”
A horrified look came over the Muslim.
16
******
Vatican City
The two scientists convened in the lab at eight a.m., both heading directly to the rear break room where Giovanni Bersei was instructing Charlotte Hennesey on how to use what he considered to be the lab’s most vital piece of equipment—the Gaggia automatic coffee machine, which pumped out customized brew at the touch of a button.
“Tell me. How was your visit to the basilica last night?”
Rolling her eyes, she gave him a quick summary that ended with her
retelling of an unpleasant encounter with Salvatore Conte. She told him that it had disturbed her so much she’d decided to skip going out all together. Having settled for a tuna sandwich from the Domus’s cafeteria, she’d turned in early. Not the most exciting night, she admitted, though she was happy to have caught up on her sleep. “And how did your wife’s osso bucco turn out?”
He made a sour face. “Not so good. Carmela is many things, but a good cook is not one of them. In fact, she may be the worst cook in all Italy.”
She hit him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re terrible, Giovanni. I hope you didn’t tell her that.”
“Are you crazy? I value my life.”
They both laughed.
Bersei checked his watch. “Ready to begin?”
“Let’s do it.”
Refilling their cups, they moved back into the main room and stood at the workstation, both donning lab coats. The ossuary, with its mysterious skeleton, was just as they had left it yesterday.
Bersei handed Charlotte a new mask and latex gloves and she put them on. He did the same.
Staring at the bones, Charlotte half expected a hand to pop out holding an hourglass.
After putting on his own mask and gloves, Bersei retrieved a Canon EOS digital camera, turned it on, snapped some pictures, then set it down.
Positioned on opposing sides of the workstation, the scientists began removing the bones one piece at a time, carefully placing them onto the rubber matting. Slowly the reassembled skeletal frame came together: the longer bones of the legs and arms, the pelvis and loose bundles of ribs, the segments of spinal vertebrae, and finally the delicate, complex bones of the hands and feet.
With infinite care, Charlotte lifted the skull from the ossuary. Supporting the mandible with one hand and the orb of cranium with the other, she placed it at the end of the completed skeleton.
Bersei performed a quick visual inspection. “Looks like all two hundred and six bones are here.” He grabbed the Canon and snapped a few more shots of the completed skeleton.
Charlotte peered down. “Okay. Let’s figure out how this man died.”
“Strictly speaking, we don’t know we’re dealing with a male yet, Dr. Hennesey,” he politely challenged. “Could be female.”
Charlotte tilted her head. “Sure. But I doubt a woman would’ve been given such a fancy box.”
Raising his eyebrows, he couldn’t tell if she was joking.
“Don’t panic. I’m not about to get feminist on you,” she said. “I’m saving that for later.”
“Just be gentle.”
Both scientists agreed that their initial analysis would be a forensic pathology study determining the cause of death if possible, followed by a reconstruction of the skeleton’s physical profile. Charlotte activated the workstation’s recording system to document the analysis. Later, their oral notes would be transcribed. From the workstation drawer, she pulled out two pairs of Orascoptic goggles. Giving one to Bersei and putting the other on, she flipped the telescoping lenses over her eyes.
They began with the skull, both bending closer to study it in minute detail.
“Looks perfect,” Bersei said peering through his goggles.
Charlotte sized up the dimensions and contours. “Square chin, pronounced supraorbital ridges and muscle attachment points. It does look like we’re dealing with a male.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Bersei admitted. He tilted the skull back and rotated it, examining the inner cavity. “The sutures are still visible, but have all fused. See here,” he pointed to the seam where the contoured bone plates met along the skull, looking like a jagged zipper that had been smoothed over.
Verifying his observation, Charlie knew the concept. The younger the specimen, the more pronounced the joining lines would appear, looking like the tight joining of two saw blades. The older the specimen, the fusion would advance to the point where the lines would become indiscernible. “That means we’re looking at age twenty to thirty, minimum?”
“I’d agree with that.” Bersei turned the skull over a few times, scanning its surfaces. “I’m not seeing any indications of head trauma, are you?”
“None.”
Both scientists turned their attention to the mandible.
“These teeth are in magnificent shape,” Charlotte said. “Hope mine hold up this well. This guy still had a full set. Don’t even see an indication of periodontal disease.” For a second, she fussed with a rotating dial on the goggles to increase the magnification of the lenses. “The enamel’s intact. No cavities or uneven wearing.”
“Strange.”
“Maybe he didn’t like sweets.”
They moved to the cervical region, analyzing intently, searching for abnormalities in the neck.
“I’m not seeing any spurs,” Charlotte remarked. “No ridging or ossification here.”
“And no fusion either,” Bersei added. “Actually, the discs don’t appear to have degenerated at all.” He delicately rotated the last small section of cervical vertebrae. “Nothing shocking.” He motioned toward the skeleton’s rib cage. “Let’s keep moving.”
Almost immediately Charlotte’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait. That’s interesting.”
Following her finger to the center of the chest area, Bersei focused on the flat bones of the sternum and spotted it immediately. “That’s a huge tear.”
“Sure is.” She studied the separations in the dried cartilage attaching the ribs to the chest plate. “Do you think that might have happened when the rib cage was detached to fit into the ossuary?”
“Perhaps.” His tone was cautious. Bersei shifted his focus to the adjacent shoulder. “Look here.”
She followed his lead. “You’ve got a good eye. The humerus and clavicle were separated from the scapula?”
“Agreed. But it doesn’t look like it happened postmortem. The tears are fibrous. Where the tissue separated suggests the breakage happened before the tissue dried.” He sh
ifted back to the sternum. “See here. Looks like the same story. Can you detect where the cartilage stretched, pulled widthwise and tore? When the bones were prepared for burial, some kind of blade was used to cut the tissue.”
Hennesey saw it too. A clean cut bisected the lateral stress tears of torn cartilage. “Ouch, that looks painful. What do you think...a dislocation?”
“A very violent dislocation.” Bersei’s tone was troubled.
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