The Copper Scroll

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Bennett said nothing for a moment. Nor did Natasha or Erin.

  “Look, Jonathan,” Barak explained. “There is no one in Israel who has studied the history of the Ark more carefully than I have. Yet there is so much we don’t know. No one has seen the Ark in almost three thousand years. It is surrounded by mysteries and legends. Who among us can separate fact from fiction at this point? But there is one point upon which the Holy Scriptures could not be more clear: the Ark is an object of tremendous power, mystical power. It is to be feared, not dismissed. Men who were careless about its fearsome power died instantly. Those who touched it improperly died instantly.”

  “Come on, Dr. Barak, really,” said Bennett. “I’m a Christian. I believe what the Bible says about the Ark. But as you said yourself, that was thousands of years ago.”

  “Jonathan, you are new to all this, I realize. Thus you have a luxury I dare not share—cynicism. But you should know that Eli Mordechai understood the significance of the Ark. What’s more, he understood the stakes should the Ark fall into the hands of a man like Abdullah Farouk. Eli gave up his life to prevent that from happening. So perhaps you should not be so cavalier. Perhaps you should—”

  A shot rang out.

  Barak snapped back in his chair and fell to the ground. Natasha screamed as blood oozed from the old man’s mouth. Another shot went wild, shattering the café’s plate-glass window. Jon and Erin dove for cover as more shots ripped through windows and walls. Natasha was on the ground, her arms wrapped around her grandfather. She was still screaming, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

  For a split second, the shooting stopped. Bennett guessed the shooter was reloading. Erin grabbed Natasha and pulled her to safety while Bennett rushed to Barak’s side and checked his pulse. There was none.

  Suddenly, he heard Erin shouting. “Jon, get down!”

  He could see a shadow moving on a fourth-floor balcony across the courtyard.

  Then Erin was there, Beretta in hand. She opened fire. “Jon, now, go,” she yelled.

  Bennett made his move. He grabbed Natasha by her arms and literally dragged her into the stone colonnade, behind the café and out of the line of fire. She was kicking and swinging at him and stronger than Bennett had expected.

  “Let me go,” she screamed. “Let me die with him!”

  But there was no way Bennett was going to let that happen. Natasha Barak was now the only link they had to the secrets of the scrolls and the men willing to kill for them.

  29

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 15 – 12:01 a.m. – JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  Bennett shielded Natasha with his own body.

  Erin shot back at their assailants until she had fired her last round. A moment later, she dove into the colonnade as more automatic gunfire tore up the café. The shooters didn’t have a clear shot at them now, but they didn’t seem to care. They were firing at anything and everything that moved.

  Erin glanced into the café through a side door as she reloaded her Beretta. Then she disappeared inside.

  Bennett had no idea what she was doing, but he didn’t dare call out to ask. Instead, he grabbed Natasha’s chin and squeezed until her frightened eyes focused on his. “You can’t stay here,” he said through gritted teeth. “They’ll kill you, and we need you.”

  Natasha was shaking, but she had not slipped into shock. Not yet.

  Erin reemerged from the café with an Uzi in her hand. It was covered with blood. “Everyone in there is dead,” she said as she handed over the machine gun and some ammo. “I found this inside.”

  Suddenly, they could hear men running and shouting in Arabic. Whoever was hunting them, they were coming fast.

  “We need to move—now,” Bennett ordered. “Follow me.”

  He held the gun in one hand, grabbed Natasha with the other, and sprinted down the colonnade toward the Moslem Quarter. They scrambled down some stairs, took a sharp left, and entered the Arab market. During the day, these narrow stone streets were bustling with shoppers buying spices or electronics or shoes or bread and old men haggling over prices, playing backgammon, and smoking their water pipes. But the streets were deserted now. The shoppers were gone. The shops were closed, their metal shutters pulled down and locked for the night.

  A burst of automatic gunfire let loose over Bennett’s shoulder as they whipped around another corner and headed deeper into the souk. He could hear the rounds pelting into the stone walls behind him but didn’t dare look back.

  He hugged the Uzi tight to his chest and wrapped the strap around his neck and shoulder. He would use it only as a last resort, he decided. Then he realized he’d never checked the magazine. Was it even loaded? How many rounds did he have left, if any?

  Another burst of gunfire. The shooters were gaining ground.

  Bennett rounded another corner, quickly handed Natasha off to Erin, and told them to keep running. Then he backed into the shadows and dropped to the ground. He could see two masked men coming at him, full steam. But for the moment, they couldn’t see him.

  He steadied the Uzi, took aim, and when they got close, he pulled the trigger and didn’t let go. Fire poured from the end of the weapon. The two men dropped to the ground, careening down the narrow passageway and coming to a stop not far from where he was hiding.

  And suddenly, all was quiet.

  Bennett could hear his heart pounding. He knew how close to death he had just come. He climbed to his feet and carefully peered around the corner. No one else was coming, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Until he heard Erin scream, “Jon, look out.”

  Startled, Bennett swung around to see one of his injured assailants groping for his AK-47. But before Jon could fire, Erin kicked away the man’s gun and smashed his head against the stones. Then she ripped off his mask, jammed her Beretta in his left temple, and growled at him in Arabic. He smiled but said nothing. She slammed his head against the rock a second time and again jammed her Beretta into his temple.

  It wasn’t working. Blood was running from the man’s ears and mouth. His eyes were glassy. What little life was still within was quickly draining away. She wasn’t going to get whatever information she had hoped to extract from him. Sure enough, a moment later he was dead.

  Bennett peeked back around the corner. They were still alone, but they wouldn’t be for long.

  Erin, meanwhile, moved to the second man and checked his pulse. He, too, was dead. She checked their pockets for any bit of identification but came up empty.

  “Two John Does,” she said. “But they knew right where to find us.”

  “How?” asked Natasha, her body trembling and covered with sweat.

  That wasn’t a topic Bennett wanted to cover just yet.

  “We need to keep moving,” he insisted. “Whoever these guys are, they’ve got better intel than we do. We’re sitting ducks if we stay here.”

  “Where should we go?” Erin asked. “We can’t take her back to her flat. They’ll kill her. And we can’t go back to the King David either. They obviously know we’re with her.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Natasha demanded. “Just call the police. Tell them what happened. Call the prime minister. He’ll give us anything we need.”

  “We can’t,” said Erin. She stuffed her Beretta into her back pocket and put her arm around Natasha, trying to calm her down. “We think there’s a mole in Doron’s office. No one else knew we’d be meeting you tonight but Doron and his top staff.”

  “Why? Why are they doing this to us?” Natasha cried.

  Erin’s hand shot to Natasha’s mouth, trying to keep her quiet without terrifying her all the more. “Your grandfather just told us why. But now you’ve got to believe us. You’re not safe in Israel—not anymore. And neither are we. We’ve got to find a way to get you out of the country. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Erin, really, we need to get moving,” said Bennett.

  Erin turned to Natasha and stared into her eyes. “Think, Natasha. Do you know a
nyone in the Old City? anyone we could stay with overnight until we sort things out?”

  Natasha tried, but it was clear her emotions were getting the best of her. “My sister-in-law . . . she and my brother . . . they . . . ”

  “No,” said Erin. “No family. No close friends. Somewhere no one would know to look. It has to be someone you know but not well. Someone who will take us in without turning us in.”

  Natasha said suddenly, “I’ve got it. Come on. This way.”

  Bennett and Erin looked at each other but did not say a word. They could hear sirens rapidly approaching. They had no choice and no time. They had to trust Natasha and hope for the best. So they each grabbed an AK-47 and extra ammo and followed Natasha deeper inside the Moslem Quarter.

  Dogs were barking. People were awakening to the commotion. Lights were coming on in every home, and Bennett knew if they did not get off the streets quickly, they could easily get cornered by an angry mob or by an Israeli patrol, and for the moment, he wasn’t sure which was worse. Were they really being hunted by forces bought and paid for by Abdullah Farouk or by a fifth column inside the Israeli government, possibly run by a mole deep inside Prime Minister Doron’s own office? Who were their allies? Whom could they trust?

  Cautiously they worked their way down Aqabat El-Saryia Street, expecting an ambush at every door and alleyway, but so far it had been clear. When they got to El-Wad Road, Natasha poked her head around the corner. She turned back and motioned that they were taking a left; no sooner had they done this than they came upon a set of stairs leading to a small apartment. It was surrounded by fencing and barbed wire, and an Israeli flag was draped over one window. Natasha headed up, two steps at a time.

  “Where are we?” Bennett whispered, scanning the rooftops around them for any signs of danger.

  “My friends Ori and Lila Shochat live here,” Natasha whispered back. “Their daughter, Sara, was a student of mine at the university.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Three, four years maybe.”

  “You trust them?”

  “They’re political Zionists, not religious ones,” Natasha replied. “Believe me, if they hate you, it’ll be over your peace deal with the Arabs, not over Jesus.”

  “And you’re sure they still live here?”

  “Absolutely,” said Natasha. “When Jews move into the Moslem Quarter, they don’t leave unless they’re in a body bag.”

  Natasha turned and buzzed the intercom. She spoke for a moment with a man in Hebrew, then held her breath. Seconds passed. Then a minute. No reply.

  Bennett’s heart was racing. Whoever was in there was (a) consulting with his family, (b) finding his gun, or (c) calling the police. Whichever, time was running out. He could hear people spilling out onto the streets, shouting in Arabic. He wiped his hands on his pants, then tightened his grip on the machine gun and checked on Erin, now guarding Natasha’s back. She was okay for the moment, but he didn’t want her out in the open a minute more than necessary.

  And then the electronic locks on the door clicked open.

  They were in.

  30

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 15 – 12:56 a.m. – JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  The Shochats didn’t know what to say at first.

  They were obviously surprised to see Natasha at their door at this late hour, but they were clearly worried about her too. Natasha suddenly seemed dazed and incoherent, and Bennett realized she was going into shock.

  Erin quickly explained that they were friends of Natasha’s from the U.S., that there had been a series of shootings in the Arab market, and that they weren’t convinced there was a safe way out of the Quarter just now. She also explained that Natasha thought the Shochats were the only people they could all turn to, and that’s why they were here. For now, Bennett noticed, she chose not to tell them Natasha’s grandfather had just been shot or that they were on the run. It was just as well.

  Erin apologized for inconveniencing them, but the Shochats wouldn’t hear of it. They had seen Jon’s and Erin’s faces on the news for years, they said. It would be an honor to protect them for the night.

  “You’ll be safe with us,” said Mr. Shochat, his Uzi in hand. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Shochat,” Bennett replied, shaking his hand. “We really appreciate it.”

  “Please, please, call me Ori.”

  Natasha began to worsen. She slumped down on the living-room couch and started to shake. Mrs. Shochat ran to get blankets to wrap around her, and then she led them all into the basement, opened two fold-out couches, and gave them clean sheets, towels, blankets, and pillows. Erin tucked Natasha in and took her vital signs. After a few minutes, Natasha began to relax a bit, and soon she was fast asleep.

  “Perhaps I should let you all get some rest,” said Mrs. Shochat. “We can talk more in the morning. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Actually there is,” said Bennett apologetically. “You wouldn’t happen to have a computer we could use for a few minutes, would you?”

  “Of course, in the corner,” the woman replied, “with wireless access, if you need it.”

  She showed them how to get it started, then gave Natasha a kiss on the forehead, said good night, and went back upstairs to bed.

  * * *

  Bennett stepped into the bathroom.

  He closed the door and pulled out his cell phone. The first thing he did was call his mom. He got voice mail and breathed a guilty sigh of relief. They had much to talk about, but now was not the time.

  “You’re going to hear some terrible things on the news,” he explained. “We’re okay. We’re safe. I can’t tell you everything now. I just need you to pray for us, Mom. That would mean a lot to me. I’ll call you when I can. I love you. Bye.”

  Next, he speed-dialed Ken Costello.

  “Ken, it’s Jon. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Costello. “I’ve been on the phone the last half hour with the ambassador, Langley, Foggy Bottom, the Situation Room. I’m watching the coverage right now on Channel 2.”

  “Are you still at the King David?”

  “For a few more minutes,” Costello replied. “They’re sending a car from the consulate in East Jerusalem. Kirkpatrick wants me to monitor the situation from there. But what about you? Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” said Bennett, “but I need a favor.”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Ever heard of a guy named Abdullah Farouk?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “Get whatever State and the FBI have on this guy and e-mail it to my BlackBerry.”

  “Why? Is he involved in this thing?”

  “I’ll explain later. But it’s urgent—fast as you can.”

  “No problem,” said Costello. “What about Rajiv at CIA?”

  “Erin’s about to call her,” Bennett said.

  “And Avi Zadok at Mossad?” asked Costello.

  “No, we haven’t tried him yet.”

  “Why not?”

  Bennett hesitated for a moment, but then realized he didn’t have much choice. He explained their growing fears of a high-level penetration inside the Doron inner circle.

  “A double agent inside the prime minister’s office?” said Costello. “Come on, Jon. That’s crazy.”

  Bennett conceded that he’d thought so at first. But then he gave Costello a rundown of all the recent deaths and how all of them were linked back to Doron and his team in one way or another. Costello still couldn’t believe it. He, like Jon and Erin, knew each member of the prime minister’s team on a first-name basis. They’d worked together for years. It seemed impossible that any of them could be involved in anything like this. But Costello agreed that the whole chain of events was suspicious, and he promised to proceed with caution and get back to him in a few hours.

  “How’s Tracy doing?” Bennett asked before saying good-bye.

  “You won’t believe it
,” said Costello.

  “What’s that?”

  “She just called me an hour ago with news.”

  “What?”

  “We’re expecting.”

  * * *

  Erin speed-dialed Indira Rajiv at Langley.

  Fortunately, Washington was seven hours behind them, and it was now only six-thirty in the evening there. Rajiv picked up on the second ring.

  “Tell me you’re not in the middle of this thing,” Rajiv said immediately.

  “It’s made the news there already?” Erin asked, surprised, even by the standards of American cable news.

  “No, not yet,” said Rajiv. “I got a priority flash traffic from our consulate and dialed up Israeli TV off our satellite. The whole section is watching it. It’s the first violence in the Moslem Quarter since the firestorm. And you’re in it, aren’t you?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Erin conceded, glad to find a sympathetic voice.

  “What happened?” asked Rajiv. “You guys okay?”

  “We’re fine,” said Erin. “I’ll explain later. Right now I need some help.”

  “Of course,” said Rajiv. “What do you need?”

  “Two things,” Erin explained. “First, I need you to track down everything the agency has on a guy named Abdullah Farouk and get it to me overnight.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

  “Who is Abdullah Farouk?” Rajiv finally asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Erin conceded. “It might be a rabbit trail, but I need to follow it for a bit and see where it leads.”

  “Okay,” Rajiv said, an edge of reluctance in her voice. “Let me see what I can do. Was there something else?”

  Now Erin paused. She had just asked one of her closest friends to break about six different federal laws by giving her classified information on Farouk when she was no longer working for the CIA. Was she really about to ask for more? She had no choice. Someone was hunting for them, and she needed to regain the initiative. She swallowed hard and said to Rajiv, “Yeah, actually there is.”