The Flaming Sword

by Breck England

  Yitgaddal v’yitkaddish sh’meh rabba

  “May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified…”

  V’yamlikh malkutah

  “May He establish his kingdom; may His salvation blossom; may His anointed come near in your lifetime and in the lifetimes of all the house of Israel speedily and soon. Amen.”

  Ari’s leg was an agony, even though the boys were strong and held him carefully. From dust and pain, the image of his own father condensed in his mind. He knew the old man was praying the selichot, even now, between nightfall and dawn, mourning for the sins of others unrecognized and unconfessed, phylacteries around arm and forehead, crying for the loss of the Temple and the unrelenting brokenness of the world.

  And for his own aimless son.

  Ari could barely remember the solemn Hebrew. He would lose a word, and then the whole phrase disappeared like ashes in the wind. After a few moments he stopped trying and listened to the confident, smooth tenor of the voices around him. And these voices focused the masculine song from thousands of worshipers, a chanting tide that rolled across the square and swelled like the sea against the stone walls of the Temple Mount. Such a crowd could take the lost Mount, swarming over the army and at last pitching the flag of the kingdom of God themselves. As Emmanuel Shor and Nathan Levinsky had aimed to do.

  Shor. Levinsky. The prayer. Hebrew.

  That was the answer.

  Ari could hardly wait for the prayer to end. When they finished, the nine young men looked awkwardly at the tenth, who was clearly anxious to go. “Please. Could you take me to my friends? They should be near the Cotton Merchants’ Gate.” They shrugged and lifted him through the crowd, back to the exit from the Temple Mount he had left only hours before.

  The chief of the guards recognized him. “Back again, Davan? You look pretty roughed up,” the officer said, eyeing the young men who carried Ari.

  “It’s all right. I fell. I just need to sit down for a moment.”

  The officer waved some soldiers off a bench to make room for Ari. Ari thanked the boys, who set him on the bench and left.

  He sat quiet for a moment, eyes closed, until the officer’s attention was elsewhere; a shrouded woman had approached to speak to him. Then, nearly fainting from the pain, Ari stood and hobbled slowly through the gate, toward the stairway to the Mount. He leaned against the wall and dragged himself halfway up the stairs, where he collapsed in the shadows, and, fighting back the sour taste of pain in his mouth, nestled the GeM in both scratched hands and whispered into it.

  “Zahav.” The Hebrew for “gold.”

  Nothing.

  “Zahav, Zahav,” he repeated. “Zahav!”

  The blue strip of light was steady. No change at all. Gold. The one element that made sense. The element powerful men would pay anything to possess, to control. Enough of it could buy the Temple Mount itself. His chemistry came back to him: gold, the heavy, the malleable, the eternal. Can’t be oxidized. Element 79. Every element has a number for the protons and neutrons in the nucleus, even the elements without names. Gold. Element 79…

  “Zahav. Shiv’im tishah!” he whispered. Gold. Seventy-nine!

  Something happened. The blue light wavered. The lattice shimmered; a luminous rectangle formed before his eyes.

  He rubbed it with his thumb. It was cool, heavy, yellow even in the dim shadows. A thin slab of gold.

  The Grotto beneath the Dome of the Rock, 0250h

  “Everything is quiet here,” Kane spoke into his secure GeM. “We still have Grammont in custody, along with the old man and his son.”

  Kristall was relieved. “Are you sure you don’t need help? Perhaps we should move them out. Maybe the whole thing is over, and he’s been scared off. No one has gone in or out except the guards.”

  “I don’t know what to anticipate now; I certainly expected more than this. It might be best to wait till daylight.”

  She grunted. “A French antiquarian and an elderly Palestinian lawyer. It’s like going out for shark and coming back with herring.”

  “None of them have anything to say, and I don’t speak Arabic in any case.”

  “I could send Sefardi up. He speaks Arabic.”

  Kane hesitated. “No. The less we disturb things the better, as we still have a subject to flush out of the trees. We might have the minions, but we don’t yet have the Moriarty.”

  “Fine. We’ll wait for daylight. Kristall out.”

  Kane sat back in his camp chair and glanced at Grammont, who stood in the corner of the cave as if made of marble. The old man lay curled like a cat on the floor; incredibly, he was asleep, although the boy, crouched next to him, stared wide awake back at Kane and, occasionally, at the nine-millimeter pistol Kane kept poised at his elbow.

  Kane sat quietly next to the stairs that led up to the sanctuary in order to be unseen from above. He had set up a kind of command post by the qibla in the wall. The only sound was the pebbly rhythm of the old man’s breathing. Kane stood and stretched.

  He felt oddly dissatisfied. He had hoped for more from this night. It was dark and hot and as empty as other nights. The one he had expected had, of course, not made an appearance—not yet. At dawn, undoubtedly; then Maryse would see at last what heroism he was capable of.

  “So, Mr. Grammont,” he said at length, “you know the legend of this cavern?”

  The Frenchman was motionless.

  “We’re under the famous Rock here. There it is.” He pointed up at the stony, irregular ceiling. “It is said that when Mohammed ascended into Heaven, the Rock yearned to follow him, and this hollow space we are standing in is the result.”

  Grammont might have been part of the wall. Except for a tiny pear-shaped drop of sweat on his temple, the man paid no notice.

  “We all have this hollow space inside of us, Grammont. Even you.”

  The small grotto was empty except for two prayer stools and a bulbous lantern suspended from the ceiling. The light made a star-shaped shadow on the floor. Kane briefly examined his GeM’s dim projection on the marble-white casing of the stairs. In the center of the screen, the octagonal shape of the Dome dominated a cloud of swirling red smoke—it was the heat signature of the Temple Mount as seen by the Eros satellite far above them.

  Kane turned back to Grammont.

  “I understand you were an officer in the Foreign Legion with Mortimer. Hard life. Militant. Strengthens you, toughens you. But you’re not strong now. You were once; not now. The stoicism of the army. It was a way of filling the hollow, but you found that it’s inexhaustible. So you tried the conventional approach of your countrymen—books, wine, art. Civilization. But civilization is like you—just an aging man with bad teeth.”

  He motioned to the boy who sat taut on the floor. “Muslims. They pour their anger into that space. Like an eagle dropping from the sky on its prey. Implacable.” The boy clearly had some English; his fists tightened and his sharp chin rose abruptly.

  “You see, Grammont? And then there are the Jews. Upstairs you can hear them. Two thousand impotent years of wailing and hoping, studying forever and never getting the answer. Bawling like an old cow in a field waiting for the slaughter.”

  Kane’s GeM signaled him, and he peered at the projection on the staircase. From the corner of the screen an isolated figure moved slowly into view, making small eddies in the heat cloud. Whoever it was circled around a line of cypress trees and slowly approached the Dome’s eastern portal. Kristall’s voice crackled over the GeM. “Someone coming.”

  “Yes,” Kane answered. “It appears that our friend has decided to show up. Sooner than I had expected.” It was time to move.

  The Dome of the Rock, 0320h

  Ari Davan limped from the cover of a tree toward the Dome. He had successfully made his way past the Flaming Sword because he was carrying no conventional weapon; the little GeM mea
nt nothing to the electronic barrier. Now the pain was returning to his knee, but he had just enough strength to make it to the door. He turned the tiny lattice to nitrogen—the freezing seventh element was so cold that, just by waving it near his knee, he numbed it and stopped the swelling.

  A half dozen quick experiments had turned up nothing he could use as a weapon, and he dared not speak any numbers past 114 into the GeM’s little receiver. He did not know what those elements might be or how dangerous they were. He did know that number 94, plutonium, would kill—but not fast enough. It would take days, perhaps hours, after exposure to the radiation, if it worked at all. His only hope was to get close enough to the Unsub—whoever it was—to threaten him with the plutonium.

  But if he was dealing with a terrorist who was ready to die anyway, there was no hope.

  Slowly he pushed the great door open and rolled inside, the GeM at the ready. All was quiet. He inched forward on the red carpet, and pulled himself up so he could peer over the wooden screen into the lamplit sanctuary of the Rock itself.

  A laser beam blinded him.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Davan,” a familiar voice echoed across the chamber.

  As his sight slowly returned, he made out a vague figure, all in white, standing on the Rock opposite him. The laser sight of a nine-millimeter pistol played over his face; he froze where he stood.

  “Kane?” he whispered, looking away.

  “Ari!” another voice called out. It was Maryse’s voice.

  “Where are you, Maryse? Are you all right?”

  “I’m here. Yes, I’m all right.” And now he could see her, sitting bound on the Rock, her back leaning against the screen next to the giant figure of Kane.

  The President of Interpol stood astride the Rock, dressed in the white robes of the high priest of Israel. Behind him was propped the missing image from Rome, the Acheropita, its silver frame glinting in the lamplight. A great metal chalice had been placed on the Rock before the image.

  They were the swirling images of a nightmare.

  “You were the only one who came close to an understanding of the true situation, Davan, so in a way I’m glad you’re here for the winding up.”

  “Kane? What is all this?” Ari hissed.

  “You were right—well, partly right. Our little talk Friday at the airport, remember? There was a plot to destroy the Dome. But it was not the Mishmar’s plot. It was mine.”

  “You? Destroy the Dome?”

  “Absolutely. It must go. Secretly, everyone wants it to happen. It’s the great friction point, the keystone of this miserable world. And once it gives, the whole world order comes crashing down at last.”

  “That’s insane. No one wants that.”

  Kane smiled. “Of course they do. The Jews must build the Temple here, so it must go. The Muslims must rise in fury against Israel, which they’ve wanted to do for decades. Then, and only then, when Israel is about to be destroyed, is the Messiah free to intervene. Only then can the prophecies be fulfilled.”

  Maryse shouted, “He’s mad, Ari! Somehow we’ve got to alert the guards.”

  “He knows he mustn’t,” Kane broke in. “The moment he does any such thing…well, the Dome becomes history. Known only in photograph, song, and story.” He held up the other GeM in his right hand.

  Ari’s mind flashed back to the cliff, to his helplessness there. As then, his only weapon was talk.

  “You could let Maryse go,” he said. “She doesn’t have to die here. Surely you don’t want her to die.”

  “She won’t die here. She’ll be taken up in the Rapture of the saints, which I will at last bring about. She won’t have to face what will happen to this old world as soon as I’ve finished my work here, believe me. Besides, she must stay. She’s the witness.”

  “The witness?”

  All at once, another voice rose out of the dim circular aisle to the right.

  “The Magdalene. She was at the Cross. She was at the Tomb. She was the only one who understood.” It was the voice of Jean-Baptiste Mortimer.

  “Mortimer? So you’re a part of this too? I thought you were a guardian of this place, one of the Cherubim.”

  “My dear young man, unfortunately, I’m not in a position to carry out my guardianship just now. I’m afraid my friend Grammont and I are bound, too.”

  Ari made his way along the wooden screen, hand over hand, slowly around the aisle toward the north portal, keeping Kane in sight. There they were, both men. Mortimer, short and rotund; Grammont, tall and correct. Both were handcuffed to a marble pillar just inside the door.

  Jean-Baptiste smiled resignedly. “I came here tonight ready to expose him. So hard to believe one of our own…a traitor.”

  “One of your own?”

  “Yes. Mr. David Leonard Kane here.” He nodded toward him. “Leo. The Lion of England, the Cherub of the West.”

  “And Grammont?”

  “He is Secretary of our Order. Keeps our records. Carries out our determinations. Maintains our anonymity.”

  Grammont cleared his throat and bowed slightly.

  “And Maryse?” Ari asked. “You said something about a witness? The Cross? The Tomb?”

  “Yes. You should know your Christian history, Davan. Mary Magdalene was the only one who stayed near Jesus through his Passion. She witnessed it all—the tortures, the crucifixion. And she was rewarded by being the first to encounter the risen Christ.”

  “Just as Maryse Mandelyn will be the first to encounter the returning Christ,” Kane announced from the Rock. “It will be her privilege.”

  Jean-Baptiste chuckled involuntarily. “Maryse Mandelyn. Mary Magdalene. The similarity is striking, isn’t it? What do you think, Grammont?” He lowered his voice, still in a theatrical tone. “But there’s more to it. Maryse has, shall we say, a certain appeal for Mr. Kane.”

  “He’s in love with her,” Ari said.

  “Ah, yes,” Jean-Baptiste sighed. “ ‘Madeline, sweet dreamer! Lovely bride!’ Keats.”

  “It’s a pretentious habit,” Kane called to Mortimer. “Quoting poetry.”

  There was a hopeless silence while Ari searched for more questions. He had to keep Kane talking without antagonizing him.

  “So…there are four Cherubim. Jean-Baptiste Mortimer…”

  “Yes,” Mortimer interjected. “I am the Angel, the Cherub of the North.”

  “And Emmanuel Shor was your third.”

  “The Ox. The Cherub of the East,” Mortimer explained. “The first Cherub of the East was Moses Maimonides, Saladin’s trusted physician. To begin with, the charge was passed down in his family from father to son. Eventually, after many generations, it devolved on Chaim Weizmann, the first president of the State of Israel. He and his successors carefully watched over the Dome after the Turks lost Palestine.”

  “And that’s why the Israeli army withdrew from the Temple Mount after the Six-Day War?”

  “Precisely. The Cherubim have maintained contacts at the highest levels in your government since the independence of Israel in 1948.”

  “But who watched over the Mount before that?” Ari asked.

  Kane interrupted them. “Don’t imagine I don’t know what you’re doing, Davan. You want to keep me mentally busy, sparring for time. But you needn’t worry. Nothing will happen till dawn. We have about two hours, so we might as well enjoy some conversation.”

  “What happens at dawn?” Ari asked.

  Kane looked around and sighed. “This Dome will disappear. Your death will be…spectacular. Then the Islamic states will attack the state of Israel in full force—and the result, a nightmare. But for the saints, God will step in. He must. He will rapture them, catching them up to his presence, and his appearance will be glorious.”

  “You’re deluded,” Ari answered him. “When Kristall hears nothing from us, she’ll sus
pect. She won’t sit quietly for two hours with no contact.”

  “Oh, Kristall and I are in constant contact. I merely call in periodically to reassure her. But you had a question, Davan. Let’s hear a little more history—it’s fascinating.” He gestured toward Mortimer with his gun.

  “Ah, yes,” Mortimer was startled. “You wanted to know who guarded the Mount before 1948? Over the centuries, all of the Cherubim have more or less been true to their callings”—he stopped to give Kane a long, cold look—“until now. But the primary task for many generations lay in the hands of a powerful Muslim family with ancient connections to the Mamelukes and then to the Ottomans. From the time of Saladin, actually. Let me introduce you to the current holder of that honor…”

  Across the sanctuary, Ari heard the faint clink of handcuffs. He advanced closer to the screen and saw an elderly man in the shadows by the south portal, his beard ragged, a white head cloth covering most of his face. Next to him stood a handsome youth, shackled by the leg to a pillar, holding the old man by the shoulders.

  Kane took over the introduction. “This is Hafiz al-Ayoub, the Eagle, the Sword of the Prophet, the Cherub of the South. Linguist, lawyer, Sufi scholar, diplomat. He and I have staved off a good many problems in the Middle East.”

  The old man gazed at Kane thoughtfully, as if he were examining a witness in court.

  Next to Hafiz, Amal strained at his chain; he was staring not at Kane but at Ari. “There he is, Father. That is the man who killed my brother. I recognize him!”

  “Peace, Amal. That man did not kill your brother—he did!” Hafiz pointed at Kane.

  “It had to be done,” Kane said calmly. “Your brother Nasir was a very brave and skillful policeman. He was dangerously clever…dangerously close to uncovering my purpose. My heart hurts for him.”

  “Your heart? Your heart hurts for him? My heart is shattered for him!” Amal cried.