Our true home is in Heaven, and Jesus Christ whose return we long for will come from Heaven to save us…
Grant that our brother may sleep here in peace until you awaken him to glory, for you are the resurrection and the life. Then he will you see you face to face and in your light will see light…
As we bury here the body of our brother, deliver his soul from every bond of sin.
These words jarred her back to consciousness. A few paces away, Fatima Chandos stood like a pale, shuddering leaf between the sturdy figures of the Cardinal Archpriest and the Commendatore. Both seemed kind, able men, but Maryse knew that they were not really present to Fatima. She knew about the terrible, fateful tolling that Fatima heard in her imagining, about the shadow that stifled all her thoughts in her wakeful moments and suffocated her sleep.
Nevertheless, unlike Maryse, Fatima had something to awaken to in the morning, after the farewell. There would soon be a welcome. She was carrying the Monsignor’s child.
You raised the dead to life; give to our brother eternal life.
“Lord, have mercy,” Maryse whispered.
You promised Paradise to the repentant thief; bring Peter to the joys of Heaven.
“Lord, have mercy.”
Our brother was washed in baptism and anointed with the Holy Spirit; give him fellowship with all your saints.
“Lord, have mercy.”
He was nourished with your body and blood; grant him a place at the table in your heavenly kingdom.
“Lord, have mercy.”
After the Our Father, Fatima knelt slowly and kissed the coffin. Her face was drawn and dry as she stood. Then the policemen came forward and slid the cover into place over the sarcophagus.
“In this corner he will not be noticed,” Fatima said to Maryse, who had put an arm around the smaller woman. “That is a good thing.”
“It’ll remain unmarked for a while. We think that’s best—at least until some of the excitement dies down,” Stone responded. The Commendatore nodded.
“What will you do now?” Maryse asked Fatima.
“Go home. Go home and prepare for the child.” A little smile trembled on her face, and then was gone. “He will be fatherless, like his own father.”
“But he—or she—will have you,” Maryse tried to comfort her.
“Yes. He will have only me.”
They walked slowly together toward the gates with the men following.
“My mother left me when I was very young. My father was more than enough for me,” Maryse said.
“Was he? Was he really?” Fatima looked up at her, searching. The face looked unnaturally old, tired but hopeful.
Maryse answered with finality. “Yes, he was. He fed me, he taught me, he inspired me. He did all of that.”
“Then I can do all of that, too.”
She had known Fatima Chandos only days. A simple heart, she thought. Fatima’s touch warmed her hand, and she squeezed back.
“I can do it for both of us. We are at one now, you know. Peter and I. One flesh.” Fatima stopped to look back toward the tomb, now lost in a small city of tombs. The noon had grayed over again, and the glassy wet marble of the hundreds of monuments looked dull again.
Maryse spoke softly. “I won’t let it lie. If I can help it, there will be no stain on his memory.”
Fatima gave her a doubtful smile. “I hope so. He was a good, good man. I know this if others don’t. Every thought, every action of his was goodness. The last thing he did on the last morning of his life was for the children.”
“That last thing he did?”
“Yes, the shipment. He wanted the Pope to bless the shipment before it left.”
“What shipment?”
“Books, furniture, clothing, school uniforms for the children in my town. In Besharri.”
Maryse looked questioningly at the men.
“For the Antonine school he attended as a boy. And for the orphanage,” Stone clarified.
“In Lebanon.”
“Yes. There were two vans.” Stone saw that Maryse was suddenly intrigued. “It was a project of Peter’s, to give something back to his home town. The Pope blessed the vans only a few minutes before the…the end.”
Maryse made sure she understood. “Two vans blessed by the Pope, heading overland to Lebanon—and they left the piazza that morning?”
“Just so,” Fatima responded, giving Maryse a querying look.
“I’m sorry.” Her face flushed with shame; here she was, interrogating the widow at her husband’s funeral.
But Fatima hadn’t noticed. She was gazing back again toward the tomb of Peter Chandos.
Director’s Office, Shin Bet Headquarters, Queen Helena Street, Jerusalem, 1445h
“What is the lattice?” Ari demanded to know.
He had requested a formal meeting with his superior. Tovah Kristall was mildly impressed at this; it had never happened before. Unlike some other operatives she detested who were forever submitting “formal requests” for this or that, Ari was the informal sort. She knew why he wanted this one. Everything would be recorded so that future reviewers would not be able to blame him for things he was ignorant of. So Alexa 3, the digital pyramid in the corner, now tracked their words.
Kristall looked into the dark brown eyes to gauge just how far off she could put him. In chess, patience was crucial. Her lips tensed. There was no leeway this time.
“Where did you hear of such a thing?” she snapped at him.
“From Jules Halevy,” he threw it back at her.
She reached for her GeM and barked at it. “Come in here.”
Her stick-thin assistant with the big eyes entered. “I want Jules Halevy’s clearance revoked immediately. I also want him brought here for questioning. Now.”
The assistant nodded and started out. “Not yet. Here.” She scribbled a note and handed it to the little man, who read it and left.
Then she turned fiercely back to Ari, but he was not intimidated.
“I’m not cleared to tell you anything about it,” she answered his gaze and lit a cigarette. She knew he hated smoke.
“Why don’t you take a chance and tell me what I’m supposed to be investigating.”
“You’re the one who hangs from cliffs, not me.”
“All right. For the record, this is the situation you and your superiors have put me into.” He stood and paced the room, thinking for a moment, then speaking loudly for the computer’s benefit.
“Here are the main results of our investigation. Emanuel Shor, Monsignor Peter Chandos, and the Pope himself all died the same day. Shor and Chandos both wore finger rings of the same type with identical inscriptions, acronyms for a Biblical verse: ‘Until He comes whose right it is to reign.’ Emanuel Shor also carried a photo of the ancient Temple of Jerusalem with the same verse scrawled on the back, only in Hebrew.
“Shor entered his own laboratory minutes before his death and removed all trace of a DNA sample belonging to someone named Chandos, a Cohanic sample that shows lineal descent from the high priests of ancient Israel who officiated in the Temple. The DNA of Peter Chandos is of a nearly pure Cohanic strain, and a hair matching that DNA profile was found at the Shor death scene. Finally, we know Shor, his brother and niece, and the Halevys were mixed up with an extremist group that wants to rebuild the Temple.”
Ari looked straight at Kristall, who was staring back at him through a thick screen of smoke; he took a breath.
“So, I believe with reason that a religious fanatic—or a group of fanatics—are engaged in some kind of plot regarding the Temple Mount.”
“With what object?”
“I don’t know, but I believe it’s connected with this ‘lattice,’ whatever it is. Unless you tell me what it is, I’m at a dead stop—and that’s what I want on the record.”
“Jerusalem is a peculiar place.”
“So you would connect a fairly straightforward technology theft with the assassination of the Pope?” She inhaled deeply from her cigarette. “That’s just bizarre.”
“Bizarre it may be, but straightforward it is not. There’s more.”
Kristall nodded for him to continue.
“Chandos and the Pope died in a remarkable room. It’s called the Sancta Sanctorum, or Holy of Holies, said by Roman Catholics to be the holiest place on earth.”
“Holy of Holies. The Debir? I thought that was a feature of Solomon’s Temple. Where the Ark of the Covenant was kept?”
Ari was surprised she knew this; he had always thought of Kristall as totally nonreligious. Unconsciously, he had gone back to his natural tone of voice. “Apparently, Christians envy the Temple of Jerusalem. They’ve always wanted something like it, where God’s presence dwells…thus, this Roman chapel. It’s perfectly cubical, like the Debir in Solomon’s Temple.
“Anyway, a good deal happened in there that morning. Someone wrapped Chandos’ official red sash around his head—like Jewish priests did anciently with the scapegoat. Someone also collected Chandos’ blood and used it to spatter the chapel altar—the same thing the high priest did in the Jewish Temple on Yom Kippur. And someone stole a valuable art object—a silver icon of Jesus of Nazareth that they believe represents God on earth.”
Kristall shivered at this. She was enough of a Jew to abhor the idea of picturing any man as God. “Someone’s been very busy. I hadn’t heard any of it…but then the Vatican are professionals.”
She inhaled smoke again. “It’s intriguing. Still, the connection between Chandos and our Technion problem is tenuous. A stray eyelash that Shor himself might have dropped; after all, Chandos might have been a client of his lab, and he could recently have been in contact with him. A finger ring any number of people might wear—maybe just a souvenir from some religious shop.”
Ari was looking at her skeptically—it wasn’t like her to dismiss important evidence so readily. She went on:
“No, I can’t tell you about that thing…that object. It’s classified at the highest levels. But I can tell you that its value is beyond estimating, and worth whatever trouble the thieves go to screen themselves. It’s just possible that all this hocus-pocus is meant to distract us long enough so they can get what they want.”
“And what do they want?” Ari gave it back.
“Money. And loads of it. I admit it’s a new angle, but ritual murder might be just the kind of angle they want us to pursue. In the meantime, here’s another angle I want you to pursue.” She beamed a message to him.
Eagle went off the grid at 1107. Last seen westbound Ramla checkpoint.
“Who’s Eagle?”
“That’s our designation for Nasir al-Ayoub. Somewhere outside Ramla, our key suspect disappeared a few hours ago. He could have gone to ground there. I want you to find him.”
“The lattice?”
“You talk about that at your own peril. Our discussion is recorded per your request and regulation. And ended.” The pyramid said goodbye politely and went to sleep.
Angry, Ari turned and left the building. Choking on smoke, he cursed her all the way to his car, then pulled out his GeM and rang Toad.
“You’ve been tracking an Eagle?”
“Eagle. Yes,” Toad replied. “He’s disappeared. Our people lost him at the Ramla checkpoint…found his car in a car park nearby.”
“He must have known we were tailing him.”
“Best to assume that. They’re still looking, but it’s been since before noon.”
“What about satellite?” Ari asked.
“They never got a visual fix on him.”
“Why ‘Eagle’?”
“His name is Nasir—Arabic for eagle.”
“Oh. Kristall wants me to take this one over. Got any ideas?”
“We followed him this morning, on foot through Damascus Gate to his house. After a few minutes he motored out and we traced him electronically this far. None of our taps give any indication of his agenda for today.”
“He wouldn’t be broadcasting it, would he? Any known contacts in Ramla? Women?”
“He is hooked up with a woman, a Dr. Adawi, who lives in Nablus.”
“Wrong direction.” Ari turned and saw something on the driver’s seat of his car. It was a note. He picked it up and scanned it quickly.
“Um…Toad, something’s come up. Keep me in the picture, will you? I’ll ring you later.”
Jaffa Gate, Old City, Jerusalem, 1545h
The last thing Ari expected to see in his life was Tovah Kristall playing the tourist. She stood just inside the Jaffa Gate wearing white capri pants and a blue-and-white striped shirt, sunglasses, and a sailor’s hat. That skin the sun had rarely touched gleamed a fishy yellow. She was arguing with a street vendor over the price of a cheap alabaster chess set that she held with one hand while waving her cigarette with the other.
“Look, I collect chess sets. I could buy one of these from anybody in this town. There are a hundred places. But I chose you. I’ll give you seventy-five euros.”
“You’re killing me. A hundred.”
She looked up at Ari, who now stood smiling next to her. “Can you imagine? This cheap little man. I offered him seventy-five euros…five times what he paid for it.” She turned back. “Keep it. I won’t deal with a pirate.”
Kristall grabbed Ari by the arm and led him away. The vendor followed, moaning “eighty…eighty…”
“Why don’t we go up to the Wall now? I’ve wanted to do that for such a long time,” she said a little too loudly. She headed for the entrance to a staircase nearby, where for a few shekels a tourist could mount the steps and walk about half the circumference of the Old City Wall.
“So now you’re Mata Hari, the famous tourist?” he whispered.
“Come on.”
At the ticket window he waited for her to pay, but she just looked at him; then he pulled his GeM from his pocket and paid both their admissions. Halfway up the steps, she stopped to cough. It was a noise like pebbles and sand in a cement mixer. He put his hand on her arm to steady her.
“It’s all right, Davan.” She shook it off and continued up the stairs.
From the Wall, they could see the roofs of the Old City dominated by the Dome of the Rock, rising into the air like the sun. They walked slowly in the heat along the parapet.
“I didn’t know you were such a chess enthusiast.”
“Everything is chess, Davan.”
He paused. “I’m here, as you asked. You were quick getting here yourself. What other tricks do you do?”
“I like to play spy now and then, don’t you? It reminds me how fun this job is.”
“You like to get out into the field, get in touch with reality.” It was quiet sarcasm.
“My friend, reality is back in that blue hellhole of mine.” It was true; he had rarely seen her outside of the hazy blue-paneled situation room. But she was not convincing; he knew that she liked it there at the center of things.
They stopped in shade beneath a stone tower in a corner of the wall. The blinding gold Dome seemed near enough to touch. She turned and spoke quietly:
“You think there’s some kind of plot concerning the Temple Mount.”
Ari was surprised—he thought she had dismissed the idea. “Yes?”
She gazed again at the Dome. “I knew Shor was connected with a group that wants to build the Temple.” Gnawing silently at her cigarette, she breathed smoke in and out while Ari waited for her to surface again from her thoughts. Then she started speaking, as if to h
erself.
“This mess is deep. Religious crazies. An itinerant Palestinian contractor. And a new kind of weapon…” She caught herself and looked at Ari. “I couldn’t, or rather didn’t want to, get into this after you forced me to record our conversation. In certain circles, it’s best to dismiss this sort of thing.”
She crushed her cigarette on the ground.
“Any threat to all that Vatican over there I take seriously,” she said, pointing to the Temple Mount. “I take it very, very seriously. These people who want to rebuild Solomon’s Temple—they are the worst enemies we have.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, Davan, no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time. Look at it.” She gazed again at the Dome. “The Mosque of Omar. Built thirteen centuries ago on the rock where Mohammed went up to Heaven. Go back thirteen centuries before that, and the Temple of Solomon stood on the same spot. Built on the rock where Jacob ben-Isaac laid his head and announced, Surely this is the House of God.”
Again, Ari was startled at the things the irreligious Kristall knew about religion.
“Obviously, to build the Temple, you have to remove the Dome. And that brings catastrophe. The whole Muslim world would rise up like one person—one very angry person—and they’re no longer the pitiful army our grandfathers routed sixty years ago. For decades they’ve looked for any excuse they can find to ‘eradicate the Zionist Entity.’ They mean it, Davan. I’ve looked in their faces.
“So the very last thing we want is a religious paranoid-delusional blowing up the Dome of the Rock to make way for some fantasy of a Temple. It’s been tried before. One of my first cases. A man named Solomon Barda. A lunatic, an Israeli who lived in the States for a while, joined some mad cult, and came back here to start his own religion. A bizarre concoction of Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. He had splendid success—three followers as crazy as he was—who believed they could coax the Messiah down from Heaven by destroying the Dome. They had got hold of enough dynamite and C-4 and Semtex to turn it into rubble.”
“What happened?” Ari asked.
The Flaming Sword Page 6