Temple: The Prophecy of the Hidden Treasure (Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries Book 7)

by Bill Thompson

  As he went to the hotel, he saw couples back outdoors at cafés and wine bars, smoking cigarettes and laughing among themselves. People were strolling along the main thoroughfares, window-shopping as though everything were perfectly normal. These people are resilient as hell, he thought to himself. You must give them credit for having guts. And he longed to be with Nicole.

  He called her and she said she was growing increasingly concerned about his safety. "Harry says you won't go to the embassy. Why, Brian? They're offering you a safe haven until they can get you out. Why do you insist on taking the dangerous path every time?"

  Same song, second verse, he reflected, and he felt like a heel for even letting such a thought into his head.

  “I’m safe at the hotel,” he answered, “and I still have freedom to move around. I don’t want to make you worry. I hope you understand that.”

  "You’re right. After all, you really are stuck there for the moment, and I'm sure you couldn't be happier that for once I can’t nag at you about leaving."

  He told her about his second visit to the cavern and about Abdel's spending the night in his suite. He described how yesterday's fear and uncertainty among the people had been replaced by peace and calmness today.

  But you know it's not going to last. Just because it's calm at this moment doesn't mean the problems in Israel are over. "I guess you heard that the USA bombed Syria last night," she continued. "I'm glad Harry did something, but I'm also glad he's not pushing too hard. I heard an interview with the Secretary of Defense. He's concerned about another strike on the Sabbath. Remember what happened last Saturday?"

  "The airport was destroyed," Brian replied, realizing for the first time that Saturday – the Sabbath – had been chosen deliberately. "Let me get this straight. He thinks another attack this weekend is likely?"

  "He used the word possible more than once, but I never heard him say likely. You know how it goes, though. They're always careful; they don't want to say things that make the friction even worse. Just be careful, especially Friday and Saturday. Unless, of course, you're going to follow your marriage vows – the part where you promised to love and obey your wife, who's telling you to get your butt out of there!"

  Brian laughed, wondering if Harry had told her he was persona non grata with the prime minister. If he had, she'd know that as soon as the airports opened, leaving wouldn't be up to him. He'd be out of here, one way or the other.

  Despite what little time was left, Brian was determined to leave this country with a television deal in his pocket.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was time to come clean with Abdel; it wasn't right to keep his intentions secret when Abdel was fulfilling his side of the bargain. He'd struggled between his own selfish desires and doing what was morally right. He couldn't stop thinking about the treasure and how incredible it would be if he were the one who revealed it to the world. It wasn't the money, although he was sure the show would be immensely profitable. He was wealthy already. It also wasn't the thing he had chased long ago – fame. Now he had plenty of that too. This was different. This trove wasn't just golden objects. Each was a masterpiece in its own right, fit for a king – the King of the Jews. Revealing this secret was personal, like none before had been. These were the treasures of the Bible.

  He'd promised to help Abdel; that help was a trade-off and Brian was about to renege. That decision had led to sleepless nights. Brian had proudly been a man of his word – always. In his business, a handshake among two dealers who trusted each other was as good as any contract a lawyer prepared. It took years to build that kind of trust, and Brian was about to go back on his word.

  They met for coffee and pastries in the Armenian Quarter not far from Abdel's shop. Atypically effusive, Abdel reported the he had packed six large crates so far and there would be only two more. "I will be ready for the cartage company to pick them up tomorrow morning if you can arrange it. I will feel much better when everything is in London. Thank you so much once again –"

  Brian interrupted, placing his hand lightly on Abdel's sleeve. "I haven't been completely honest with you. I thought I knew who you were and what you were made of, even after you admitted you had once worked for al Qaeda. I could see how a poor Syrian kid could become enamored with a group of freedom fighters. I've known you by reputation for years and I've admired what you've accomplished in our field. Knowing your background, I selfishly wanted to overlook anything negative and focus on the incredible treasure you showed me. I was willing to help move your relics to safety because I wanted to treat the world to the same experience as when I first walked into that cavern. But all that changed when one of the most dangerous terrorists in the world invited you to sit by his side. He called you a brother. That was it for me. I won't be a part of that, no matter what it means to me personally."

  "But I explained that to you. I am not Tariq's follower any more. All that was for show –"

  "No, it wasn't! I saw it with my own eyes. You're afraid of him; I don't blame you – I am too. And you'll do anything he commands. You know that and so do I. You might not agree with what al Qaeda has become these days, but you can never walk away from it. I think if he asked you to kill me, you'd do it – not because you wanted to, but because of what he would do if you didn't."

  "Brian, you are wrong. You must believe me. I will not obey Tariq."

  "I don't believe you. I'm not sure I ever can. I'm not going to help move your goods and I'm not going to ask for anything else from you. As much as I regret it, this association is over."

  "Brian! Please ..."

  But Brian was already walking away.

  _____

  When Tariq became the leader of al Qaeda in Syria, Abdel had decided to distance himself from the group he once served loyally. Abu Mohammad al-Joulani had been head of AQS when Abdel was recruited as a young Syrian boy. Joulani was a man of integrity, strength and honor. He was a jihadist, but his wrath was reserved for the infidels. He was guided by his interpretation of the Quran and he was committed to mayhem worldwide against those who refused to serve Allah.

  Tariq was on everyone's radar. Mossad was offering millions of euros for his capture, dead or alive. Tariq's murderous acts were the wrong way to prove that Islam was the true faith, Abdel believed. Tariq had no compassion, no conscience and no concern for anyone but himself. Thanks to him, many considered al Qaeda a band of murdering thugs who should be eliminated like roaches in a kitchen. And as far as Abdel was concerned, that assessment was correct, but he couldn't convince Brian to believe him.

  While Tariq was alive, there would be no peace effort, no negotiating, no understanding of others' beliefs and hopes. There would be more horrific sprees of killing like the ones in Nice, Brussels and Manchester. It didn't matter whether ISIS or AQS claimed responsibility. At this point, nothing of that magnitude happened without the involvement of Tariq the Hawk.

  Since Brian's revelation yesterday that he wouldn't help move the goods, Abdel had made call after call, trying to find another way to get eight heavy shipping crates out of Israel and to the West. The freight forwarders all had the same answer – the country was in turmoil, the main airport was in ruins, and everyone's focus was on protecting Israel from its enemies. Except for essentials coming into the country – armaments, food, communications equipment, medicine and the like – there were no ships arriving or leaving. Call us back when things settle down, they told Abdel, but for him that would be too late.

  He sat in the back of his gallery, racking his brain for a solution. His phone rang and he sat quietly as the caller berated him endlessly.

  "You're a spineless traitor," Tariq ranted. "You are no friend to al Qaeda – you promise you are still loyal to the cause, but you chose the American over your obligation to me. You are playing me against Brian Sadler, but you are a fool. You cannot imagine what my capabilities are. My eyes and ears are everywhere and I know every move you make. You are planning to escape, to take your precious artifacts to the
West, and your new friend Brian Sadler is going to protect them for you. You think you are going to run away, but you took an oath long ago. No one leaves. You know that.

  "I should kill you, but I gave you a task. I asked you to find out who the Zulqarnayn is and where the treasure is hidden. Instead of finding answers, you have worked on your own needs and goals. You have twenty-four hours to give me the answers I want. Do you understand?"

  Abdel swallowed a lump in his throat and answered, "Yes, sir. I will not fail you ..."

  "Since you have failed me so far, you will do one more thing. I want Brian Sadler. I could have him seized at any time, of course, but this is a test of your loyalty. Twenty-four hours from now you will hand your American friend over to me. Do not fail me again, Abdel, or you will face the sword."

  Abdel lit a cigarette and shook his head as if that would clear away the fears and danger. He had to think of something, but he was so jittery he couldn't get his thoughts together. He locked the store, walked to a restaurant down the block and ordered wine. The waiter filled Abdel's glass and left the bottle on the table. Abdel took advantage of the man's gesture, resulting in the sale of a bottle instead of a glass. Despondent and desperate, he had drained a second glass, then another and then one more until the bottle was empty.

  He made a phone call. "We have to meet. Everything has changed and you are in danger. You must arrange protection for yourself every moment." He listened to Brian's response and said, "All right. I will see you at my shop tomorrow at twelve."

  The man at the next table heard every word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A phone was ringing and ringing. Was it a dream? He moved his hand to the nightstand and found the phone's receiver as his room was illuminated by a bright light. He saw more bright flashes and realized he'd forgotten to close the drapes. Was it a thunderstorm? His mind was still muffled from being jolted awake. He answered the phone and glanced at the clock. It was 2:25 a.m.

  "AIR RAID! AIR RAID!" the recorded announcement screamed in English and Hebrew, repeating in a continuous loop. "Move to shelter on the lower level immediately! Take the torch in your nightstand and use the stairs. Do not take the lifts!"

  He heard activity in the hallway and became aware of wailing sirens rising and falling outside. He jumped up, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and walked to the window where his sandals were. There was a plume in the sky that reminded him of a giant pop bottle rocket on the Fourth of July. But he knew it was no firecracker. It was a surface-to-air missile and this was war.

  "Right this way, right this way, everyone," a man in a dark suit said in a calm, reassuring voice as anxious guests entered a hallway at the bottom of the stairs. "There's coffee and Danish in that room. Please make yourselves comfortable." Down here the walls, ceiling and floor were constructed of solid concrete. The entire basement had been built as a bunker. Brian and the others walked into a massive room where a couple of the girls he'd seen waiting tables in the restaurant yesterday were manning a coffee bar. There were round folding tables and chairs set up around the room. Many of the guests took chairs in front of a large-screen television in one corner of the room, where CNN was broadcasting a news alert.

  "What's going on?" Brian asked the concierge who had helped him many times in the past ten days.

  Instead of answering, he waved at a man across the room who began making his way over. "Brian Sadler," he said, "this is our general manager, Mr. Wegman."

  "Ah yes, Chaim, thank you for letting me know Mr. Sadler had arrived," Wegman replied. To Brian he said, "I was asked to patch you through to your ambassador as soon as you arrived. Please come with me." He guided Brian back into the corridor and to a smaller room down a narrow hallway that appeared to be the hotel's underground command post. There were two soldiers using laptops, typing furiously while their rifles sat nearby. The manager ushered Brian to a desk, placed a call and handed him the phone. Then he left the room.

  "Mr. Sadler, this is Ambassador Sheller. President Harrison called as soon as the attacks began and asked that I find out if you were safe. You know I would have preferred you were here at the embassy, but since you declined the president's offer earlier, there was nothing I could do but contact the hotel manager. Our personnel are in our shelter and a squadron of Marines has set up a perimeter around the property. Your hotel also has excellent facilities to protect its guests and I hope you're already in the basement."

  "Thanks for asking, sir. I'm in a kind of underground safe room. Things seem to be fine and I'm sorry for all the trouble I've caused the past couple of days. Are you still in Jerusalem?"

  "I must be brief; the president's waiting for my call. I sent three-fourths of my staff – mostly nonessentials – back to Tel Aviv yesterday. The facilities are more secure there, and as soon as the sun's up, the rest of us are going too. Right now we're holed up in a storage room two floors below our temporary headquarters."

  "What's happening?"

  "I'm not privy to information firsthand; the only word I get is from Washington, so consider this between us unless you see it on TV or hear it from the president. This intel's not classified now, but things are in turmoil and it may end up being so later. Israel was attacked around 2 a.m. by missiles launched from a base in Lebanon. They targeted four sites: Haifa, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv and the Dimona radar center in the Negev Desert. That last one's ours, in case you didn't know. From what I hear, Israel successfully took out those missiles. I have to go; I'll tell the president that you're safe. Good luck."

  Brian returned to the room and joined others watching a wall-mounted TV. He found it bizarre to be sitting in a basement while CNN replayed a missile attack on a city where he was. He wished he'd asked the ambassador to contact Nicole, but he knew that was asking too much. Too many people had gone far over the limits of propriety and reasonableness to deal with his issues. He'd call her when he could.

  Twenty minutes later the "breaking news" banner scrolled as the anchor announced, "There's been a new attack!" He pressed his fingers on his earpiece, listened for a moment and said, "Six missiles were launched from a location in Syria a few minutes ago. Four were intercepted and destroyed by Israeli surface-to-air Iron Dome rockets, but there's an unconfirmed report that two have struck buildings in Jerusalem."

  The news reports continued for several minutes and then the announcer returned. His facial expression gave away the somber news he was about to report. As he spoke, video from a helicopter filled the screen. "I must warn you," he said, "the footage we are about to show you contains graphic images." There was a walled compound with several buildings. The largest, a four-story structure, was engulfed in flames, its top two stories a ruined mass of concrete and steel jutting through clouds of black smoke. Floodlights around the perimeter highlighted the carnage and destruction. The bodies of several soldiers lay on the ground near the gated entrance.

  "This is a live shot from the new American embassy compound in West Jerusalem," he reported. "Moments ago, two Syrian SCUD missiles struck the building, causing major damage. Several United States Marine guards appear to be down, but there is no word about the whereabouts of Ambassador John Sheller, his deputy and more than one hundred and fifty employees, many of whom have been living inside the compound while they arranged housing elsewhere. It is early morning in Jerusalem and we can only pray that most of the staff was not there when the missiles struck.

  "There has been criticism over President Harrison's decision to move the embassy to Jerusalem three months ago. The president of Syria was one of those who denounced the move and promised retaliation for it." He paused again to listen to his earbud; then the screen switched to a reporter on the scene in West Jerusalem. She advised that the main building – the one that was now on fire – had an underground bunker, although there was still no information on whether people were inside.

  Brian knew the ambassador and others were in that room. For a moment he considered calling Harry, but he decided against it. Amba
ssador Sheller would have called him right after they spoke, at least thirty minutes before the missiles hit the embassy. Harry would already be aware that there were people hunkered below the building.

  The ambassador had said that their shelter wasn't really a bunker at all. It was simply a basement room and Brian hoped it had protected them. If I'd done what everyone insisted, I'd have been there myself, he thought. He recalled Tariq's first demand, giving Harry three days to announce he was moving the embassy out of Jerusalem. But it hadn't been that long. Had Tariq jumped the gun and ignored his own timetable, or was this something else entirely? Whoever planned it, Brian knew that reprisal would be swift. This was an act of war. What would Harry's response be?

  It was hours before CNN reported the grim results of the strike. Unlike the embassy compound in Tel Aviv, the one in Jerusalem had far less provision for security and protection because it was a temporary home for the ambassador and his staff. A new complex was planned, but for now the only semi-secure hideout was a storage room in a subbasement. It would have provided safety from a windstorm, but it was no match for a missile strike. After daylight, a search-and-rescue team had dug through the rubble and reached the underground room. The scene was more horrifying than anyone could have imagined.

  John Sheller, the US ambassador to Israel, was dead. So were his deputy and fifty-one other American employees. Fourteen Israeli citizens who were contract workers also perished. Eleven Marine guards were dead and twenty-four others were injured, many critically. The survivors had managed to escape the direct hit because they were in other locations, not the shelter. Only one structure – a maintenance building – was undamaged. Five civilians and eight Marines who had been inside were not injured.

  Surrounded by loyal followers in a secure room of his base in Edlib, Syria, Tariq watched the scene unfold on CNN Headline News. Regardless of how or why, or that the timing was off, the consequence of his first demand had been carried out. He had nothing to do with the missile strike, but in Tariq's warped mind, the attack had proven he was a man of action and would make America cower in fear. He was overjoyed at the news.