The Copper Scroll

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “And you don’t have any idea what this is about?” Bennett asked.

  “No.”

  “Even off the record?”

  “Sorry, my friend. But I need to get back to them with an answer right away. Apparently he’d rather have dinner with you than with Prime Minister Doron and his wife. That’s who’s on the schedule right now.”

  “I’m out of the game, Ken. Do they know that?”

  “Of course, but his people say it’s urgent. He’s up to something, Jon. He’s angling for something, and I’m not sure what. But the president would like you to say yes and report back to him.”

  “President MacPherson knows about this?”

  “Of course,” said Costello. “I called him before I called you.”

  Bennett sighed. “What time does Lucente want to meet?”

  “At 6 p.m., downstairs at La Regence. You’ll have the whole place to yourselves.”

  Bennett laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. This was a mistake. He was getting sucked back into a job he’d just quit. But he told Costello yes, hung up the phone, and immediately hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

  * * *

  Mordechai’s death was big news in Israel.

  Over breakfast, Erin called Indira Rajiv back at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, to check in while Jon scanned the morning papers. Rajiv offered her condolences.

  Erin thanked her but quickly moved on to the business at hand. “You guys hearing anything on Dr. Mordechai’s murder?” she asked Rajiv.

  “Too much, actually,” said Rajiv, to Erin’s surprise. “We’re picking up chatter about Mordechai all over the world. It’s going to take a while to sort through. He certainly engendered strong feelings on both sides.”

  “I guess so,” Erin said, stirring cream into her coffee. “What are you thinking?”

  “It’s too early to say anything conclusive,” Rajiv replied. “But speaking purely on instinct, I’d say it was a team of Israelis—former special forces, probably religious, almost certainly with inside access to Israeli police and intel files.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Erin.

  “Because the hit team clearly knew what flight Mordechai was on. They knew when he’d land, how he was getting home, and what route he’d be on, and they were waiting for him. That’s not easy to do—not without help or access. I checked the El Al flight manifest myself. Mordechai wasn’t even listed as a passenger.”

  “He goes by an alias,” said Erin.

  “A man of his position would,” said Rajiv. “But somebody knew. They were watching him. What’s more, they knew that he’d dropped his security detail.”

  A chill ran down Erin’s spine.

  So there was a mole inside Doron’s team and a team of assassins inside Israel’s borders, and God only knew whom they might go after next.

  20

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 14 – 8:17 a.m. – TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  The blue-and-gold Airbus A320 landed just after breakfast.

  With almost a hundred members of the international press corps watching, the E.U. foreign minister’s jumbo jet taxied across the runway at Ben Gurion International to its designated tarmac, where Prime Minister David Doron and Special White House Envoy Ken Costello waited to greet Mr. Lucente as he came down the ramp. The three shook hands and smiled for the cameras. Then aides guided them to an Israeli military helicopter, and soon they were airborne and headed north toward the Lebanon border.

  Fifteen minutes later, they crossed a mountain ridge and began descending into a valley where some of the worst of the devastation from the firestorm had occurred.

  The scene so revolted Costello that he had to grab two airsickness bags, both of which were quickly filled. It was the first time he had seen any of the carnage in person. In an unprecedented show of tact, television networks back home had refused to show such gruesome images to Americans in their homes during the dinner hour, and though Costello had read all the intelligence reports and press accounts emanating from the region, neither the printed word nor dozens of still photos began to capture the magnitude of the disaster he now saw firsthand.

  Even all these weeks after the fact, tens of thousands of putrefying, nearly completely decomposed corpses lay strewn throughout the hills, alongside piles of bones scattered as far as the eye could see. Yet even if one had wanted an unobstructed view of the carnage, it wasn’t easy to get given the swarms of vultures and rodents and dogs and animals of all kinds that had gathered to feast upon the bodies.

  “Why has so little been done to clean all this up?” Lucente shouted over the roar of the chopper’s rotors.

  “This is actually a dramatic improvement,” Doron responded over his headset. “You should have been here the day after the firestorm. I’ve never seen such a horrific sight in my life. We have three thousand soldiers working sixteen hours a day burying bodies and remains. At night our air force sprays disinfectants, trying to keep disease from spreading. But it hasn’t been easy, and our experts are worried the chemicals could soon contaminate our water supply.”

  They came over another ridge and found a dozen IDF bulldozers pushing bodies into mass graves.

  “I know it looks bad,” Doron said before the question could be asked, “but there is no time to dig individual graves, gentlemen. As you know, U.N. disaster teams started arriving a few weeks ago to help, but with the winter rains it’s been hard to get all their heavy equipment in. And, of course, every airport in Lebanon was destroyed, so everything has to come in through Israeli military bases near the border and be driven up here on trucks. It’s very time consuming, very labor intensive, and very expensive.”

  “And very slow,” Lucente added. “How much longer until you’re finished?”

  “It’s hard to say,” said Doron.

  “Best guess?” asked Lucente.

  “Three or four months, maybe more,” said Doron. “It all depends on how much the international community will help, and on whether the weather cooperates.”

  “What is being done for the local populations?” Lucente asked.

  “Everything possible,” Doron responded. “As I stated in the report I sent to you, we’ve been airlifting in food, water, tents, clothing, electric generators, medical supplies, and as many doctors and nurses as we can spare. But the fact is, we’re only scratching the surface. We simply don’t have the money or the manpower to do more. That’s why I wanted you both to see for yourselves what the situation is. These dead were enemies of ours, but they deserve the dignity of a proper burial. Yet that’s impossible right now. And time is of the essence. Diseases like the avian flu are beginning to spread to the local communities. It’s a miracle that a full-blown plague hasn’t broken out yet. But it’s a very real possibility, gentlemen. It could happen at any moment.”

  * * *

  Words failed Costello.

  He had never witnessed anything so horrible, and all he could think of were the words of the Hebrew prophet Ezekiel, cited by Dr. Mordechai in his now-infamous memo, describing not just a supernatural judgment of Israel’s enemies but its grisly aftermath.

  As for you, son of man,

  thus says the Lord God,

  “Speak to every kind of bird

  and to every beast

  of the field, ‘Assemble and come,

  gather from every side

  to My sacrifice which I am

  going to sacrifice for you,

  as a great sacrifice

  on the mountains of Israel,

  that you may eat flesh

  and drink blood.

  You will eat the flesh

  of mighty men and drink

  the blood of the princes

  of the earth, as though

  they were rams, lambs,

  goats and bulls,

  all of them fatlings of Bashan.

  So you will eat fat until

  you are glutted, and drink blood

  until you are drunk,

&nb
sp; from My sacrifice which I have

  sacrificed for you.’”

  Was this not happening right in front of him? Weren’t the birds of the air and the beasts of the fields gorging themselves on the flesh of the slain enemies of Israel, as they had been for months?

  Costello had never tried to memorize the words of Ezekiel. Yet the words were now welling up from somewhere, and with them came a thought: how was it possible for someone writing 2,500 years ago to have predicted modern events with such eerie precision unless there really was a God, unless it was, in fact, actually possible for man to know Him and hear His voice and be guided by His words? Even for someone as irreligious as he, thought Costello, no other explanation seemed to fit.

  * * *

  The prime minister’s helicopter banked left.

  Soon they came up over another ridge, where more IDF bulldozers were digging more mass graves.

  Off in the distance Salvador Lucente saw a huge convoy of several hundred flatbed trucks heading south toward Israel. “Mr. Prime Minister,” he asked, “what are all those trucks over there?”

  “They’re hauling abandoned Russian and Iranian and Turkish military equipment back to Israel so none of it falls into enemy hands,” Doron replied.

  “Given all the pressing humanitarian needs, is that really a wise use of manpower right now?” Lucente asked.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Foreign Minister, we have no choice.”

  “What are you talking about, David?” Lucente countered. “Israel hardly needs more weaponry. Your situation has changed quite dramatically. You have no more enemies. I would think now would be the time to dismantle some of your military, not add to it.”

  “Salvador, our forces have just captured six thousand Russian missiles, each of which is armed with tactical nuclear warheads. Do you really think it wise for us to just leave those lying around on the battlefield unsecured?”

  21

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 14 – 10:00 a.m. – JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  Natasha Barak met the Bennetts as scheduled.

  But she was not who Erin had imagined. She was taller than most Israeli women, almost Erin’s own height of five feet ten inches, with a slim, athletic build that suggested she spent quite a bit of time out of doors. She was also significantly more attractive than Erin pictured most professors of archeology to be. Natasha was in her early thirties and had shoulder-length jet-black hair, warm brown eyes, a slender nose, and a healthy tan that didn’t seem consistent with long hours cooped up in a museum. When they shook hands, Erin noticed Natasha was not wearing a wedding ring.

  Natasha directed their driver to a VIP parking lot, then guided the Bennetts down a stone path and asked, “Have you ever seen the Shrine of the Book?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Erin said as she held Jon’s hand.

  “Ever been to the rest of the museum?”

  “No, this is the first time for both of us.”

  “My goodness, and you’ve been to Israel so many times,” Natasha exclaimed. “I’ve followed your work with the peace process for years, not to mention your romance and your wedding—mazel tov.”

  “Thank you,” said Erin softly, allowing the hint of a smile for the first time in twenty-four hours. “Yes, Jon and I have been to Israel many times, but always on business, I’m afraid, never for pleasure.”

  “Well then,” Natasha said as they approached the large white-dome structure of the Shrine and a set of stairs descending into a courtyard. “You’re in for a treat. It’s Wednesday. The museum is not yet open to visitors. You’ll have it all to yourselves.”

  Erin traded glances with her husband.

  “The prime minister asked us to come, so we have, but I’m afraid we’re not here for a tour,” Jon said as graciously as he could. “It’s our understanding your grandfather may be able to shed some light on why Dr. Mordechai was killed. That’s our only interest today.”

  “Yes, of course, forgive me,” Natasha said quickly. “I meant no disrespect. I know you have suffered a great loss.”

  “No apology is needed,” Erin replied. “We understand you were both close to Dr. Mordechai as well.”

  The young woman stopped abruptly, turned, and looked them both in the eye. “My parents were killed by terrorists when I was seven. My grandmother died of cancer when I was nine. I was raised by my grandfather and Uncle Eli. That’s what I called him. He was my grandfather’s best friend, and mine. I can’t believe he’s really gone.”

  There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Natasha turned and continued.

  * * *

  Bennett looked around as they entered the Shrine.

  “The building in which you are standing was opened on April 20, 1965,” Natasha said. “I wasn’t born yet, but my grandfather was here for the big inaugural gala. He actually helped design it, along with two American Jewish architects, and they based it on an ancient interpretation of the War of Gog and Magog.”

  “Really,” said Bennett, suddenly intrigued. “How so?”

  “Well, you see, the Shrine of the Book is similar, in a sense, to your National Archives Building in Washington,” Natasha explained. “It protects and displays some of Israel’s most important founding documents, namely the Dead Sea Scrolls. Most of the scrolls were written by a Jewish sect called the Essenes, who lived near the Dead Sea around 200 BCE. Now, what’s interesting about the Essenes is that they were convinced that the War of Gog and Magog was imminent. They saw themselves as the Sons of Light squaring off against the Sons of Darkness, and they believed that as soon as the war was over, a new Temple would be erected, and the Messiah would come. So when the architects were looking for a theme for this building, my grandfather suggested this war between good and evil, this War of Gog and Magog. The dome we saw outside symbolizes the lids of the jars in which some of the scrolls were found, and it is painted white to represent the Sons of Light. That large wall you saw upstairs, the one directly opposite the dome, is black to represent the Sons of Darkness, to convey the spiritual tension between the two warring camps.”

  Natasha led them down the dark, cavernous hallway to the main exhibits. The air was cool and dry. An ever-so-slight breeze was coming from a state-of-the-art air-conditioning and dehumidification system, and the farther they went, the more intrigued Bennett became. In one display were the actual clay jars in which several of the scrolls had been found, and sure enough, the lids looked exactly like the curvaceous dome they had just seen. In another display were small, ink-stained quills, the very ones used by the Essenes to write the scrolls so many centuries ago.

  And then they entered the main exhibit hall, a circular room—directly underneath the great dome—in the center of which was a large, drumlike glass display case lit from within and designed in part, it seemed, to look like the end of a scroll handle.

  Bennett let go of his wife’s hand for a moment and bounded up the six steps leading to the curious display. He was stunned by what he found. Inside the case, unfurled and carefully mounted on a large internal drum, was a nine-foot portion of the Isaiah Scroll. Like a kid outside of Macy’s at Christmas, Bennett pressed his face against the glass to see it for himself.

  “You are looking at the oldest Bible manuscript ever found,” Natasha said reverently, almost in a whisper. “Written at least two centuries before the birth of Christ, it’s at least one thousand years older than any previously known copy of the book of Isaiah.”

  “And this is the real thing?” asked Erin.

  “We usually put a replica on display, for security,” Natasha replied, “but we knew you were coming, so we bent the rules a bit. Yes, that’s the real thing.”

  “That’s incredible,” said Bennett, peering through the glass at parchment so incredibly well preserved. Here was a scroll penned two hundred years before the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus. Yet it contained the words of the very Hebrew prophet who had said the Messiah would be born of a virgin, live in Galilee, be a light to the nations, suffe
r and die for the sins of mankind, and yet rise again and “prolong His days, and the good pleasure of the Lord will prosper.” And Bennett was less than two inches away from it. He could scarcely take it in.

  Natasha then led them over to a smaller display case to one side of the rotunda. “This one is called the War Scroll, laying out the Essenes’ vision of the War of Gog and Magog.” She translated a passage from the ancient Hebrew:

  “Thou hast revealed to us the times

  of the battles of Thy hands that Thou

  mayest glorify Thyself in our enemies

  by leveling the hordes. . . . Make for Thyself

  an everlasting Name among the people . . .

  when Thou chastisest Gog and all his assembly

  gathered about him . . . for Thou wilt

  fight them from heaven.”

  “And that’s not all,” said Natasha. “Follow me.”

  Now she led them to another case in which a white card mounted in the corner said “4Q285, fragment 4—from The Rule of War.”

  Again Natasha translated from the Hebrew:

  “. . . wickedness will be smitten . . .

  the Prince of the Congregation

  and all Israel . . . which was written

  in the Book of Ezekiel the Prophet,

  I will strike your bow from your

  left hand and make your

  arrows drop from your right hand.

  On the mountains of Israel

  you will fall.”

  “Sound familiar?” Natasha asked.

  It certainly did, Bennett realized. The words had been seared into his memory in the weeks leading up to their fulfillment. “Ezekiel 39:3 and part of verse 4,” he said in amazement. “Did Dr. Mordechai know these were here?”

  “Absolutely,” said Natasha. “These aren’t usually the scrolls and fragments we have on display. But when Uncle Eli published his ‘Ezekiel Option’ memo on the Web, my grandfather called him and invited him over to see these. They’ve been here ever since.”