The Copper Scroll

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Most archeologists say it was just the imperfections of their engineering knowledge at the time,” said Natasha, having to raise her voice to be heard over all their sloshing. “But I think the more compelling theory is a more recent one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It seems that there was actually a series of small, natural, limestone caves riddled through the mountain like Swiss cheese. Hezekiah’s people were basically digging from cave to cave to connect them all into one long pipeline.”

  “You’re saying they were playing connect-the-dots down here?” asked Bennett.

  “Yes,” said Natasha. “You could say that.”

  The team kept advancing toward their objective. They were almost to the halfway point of the tunnel.

  Even as he tried not to think about the possibility of losing all his toes to frostbite, it struck Bennett that they were moving through 2,700 years of history. Every chisel mark his flashlight pointed to had been carved out by men who had lived a full seven centuries before Jesus. Somewhere along the way, perhaps during the Middle Ages—though no one seemed to know for sure—the tunnel had fallen into disuse and disrepair. According to Natasha, it had been all but forgotten until an American by the name of Edward Robinson stumbled upon it in 1838.

  Then, in 1880, a young boy living in Jerusalem literally stumbled upon a remarkable discovery. While playing around the Pool of Siloam at the mouth of the tunnel, he slipped on some rocks and bumped his head. When he opened his eyes, he looked up and realized he was looking up at a Hebrew inscription, carved into one of the tunnel’s walls. After he told his parents and teachers, a group of archeologists arrived to check out the boy’s story. It turned out he had, quite by accident, found a description of how the tunnel was made—incribed there by the workers who had made it.

  Most intriguing to Bennett, however, was Natasha’s description of the work of a British officer named Montague Parker. In 1909, Parker brought a team to Palestine and began a two-year process of cleaning out the tunnel and excavating its vicinity. The interesting thing was why.

  It turns out Parker had been hired by a Finnish philosopher and poet named Valter H. Juvelius, who had become absolutely convinced from studying the writings of the Jewish prophets—particularly the book of Ezekiel—that the Temple treasures and the Ark of the Covenant would be found in or around Hezekiah’s Tunnel. Unfortunately, Natasha explained, Parker and his team hadn’t paid off enough of the locals. Muslim leaders caught wind of what they were trying to do and ran them out of town, almost killing them in the process.

  Now Bennett wondered, Would they fare any better?

  64

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 20 – 3:10 p.m. – HEZEKIAH’S TUNNEL, JERUSALEM

  “Hold here for a moment,” said Natasha.

  “Why? What’s the problem?” asked Bennett.

  “Nothing,” she insisted. “Just look up.”

  Bennett, Erin, and Arik all pointed their flashlights toward the ceiling, now between eight and ten feet above the floor.

  “I don’t see anything,” said Erin.

  “It’s hard to see without stronger lights,” Natasha explained. “But the ceiling above us isn’t natural limestone. It’s part of an artificial wall. If you were to break through it, you’d find a vertical shaft about a meter and a half wide, running some twelve meters straight up. That’s connected to a larger vaulted cistern, which is connected to another series of tunnels and shafts. All told, the system extends some seventy meters to a secret well opening at the top, inside the Old City of Jerusalem. It’s called Warren’s Shaft. Archeologists believe that’s how Jerusalemites got water up to the city before this tunnel was built.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Erin.

  “Charles Warren, British military officer, 1867,” said Natasha. “Look him up online when you get home.”

  “If we get home,” said Bennett, his tactical pessimism rising to the fore.

  “Why was it walled off?” asked Erin.

  “It’s not clear, exactly,” said Natasha. “Some say the system dates back to the tenth century BCE, some three centuries before this tunnel was built. Eventually, of course, the tunnel moved the water more efficiently than the shaft system. So it’s believed the Israelites sealed it up to keep all the water moving from the spring to the Pool of Siloam.”

  “Guys, we really need to keep moving,” said Bennett.

  “Actually, we’re already here,” said Natasha. “Arik, you can keep going. But we’re just a few yards away.”

  Arik passed by and kept hustling toward the other end of the tunnel. Natasha, meanwhile, rechecked her map until she was sure they had found the precise center of the tunnel, then turned west and marched another twenty-five yards, based on her interpretation of the Mount Ebal Scroll. Then she turned her flashlight against the right side wall, drawing Jon’s and Erin’s flashlights as well.

  “That’s not limestone,” said Bennett, pointing to a small, square patch maybe three feet by three feet.

  “No, it’s plaster,” said Natasha. “And it’s old. Very old. When the tunnel was first built, they sealed it up with plaster so none of the water could leak out of the natural cracks and holes in the limestone. Every few centuries they would replaster it, just to be sure, but obviously it’s been a long time since it was done last.”

  Bennett tapped it with the butt of his Uzi. Some pieces began to flake off. Was this really it? Was there really something behind that wall?

  “Give me your packs,” said Natasha. “I’ll hold them for you.”

  First Jon and Erin put on miner helmets and turned on their lamps. Then they gave their backpacks and Uzis to Natasha and grabbed sledgehammers.

  “On my count,” said Bennett. “One, two, three!”

  And with that, they attacked their target with all the strength they had left.

  * * *

  “I’m so sorry to bother you again,” Mariano began.

  “You’d better have good news,” said Al-Hassani.

  “We do, Your Excellency. The Bennetts and the Barak girl are in Je-rusalem. We know where, and our teams are converging on them even as we speak.”

  * * *

  Progress was maddeningly slow.

  Their work was made all the more difficult by the fact that the tunnel itself was no more than two and a half feet across, giving them precious little leverage with which to wield their hammers. But bit by bit, piece by piece, the plaster was falling away, and after another fifteen minutes, it became clear that they were really on to something, for the wall behind the plaster had long ago been chiseled away.

  * * *

  Mariano peered through the sniper scope.

  He could see Roni Migdal, an Uzi dangling at his side, pacing nervously and puffing away on yet another cigarette. Mariano took a deep breath, adjusted for the chilly breeze blowing through the valley, and pulled the trigger, watching Migdal’s head snap back and his body collapse to the ground.

  * * *

  Arik Allon never saw the ambush either.

  One minute he was shivering quietly on the steps leading down into the Pool of Siloam, trying to stay warm. The next minute he was thrashing about wildly in the water. Two men were upon him. A hand was clamped tightly over his nose and mouth. A knife came slicing across his throat. He struggled desperately to get free. His lungs screamed for oxygen. He drove his nails into the flesh of those pinning him down. But it was all in vain. For a moment he could see the frigid waters around him rapidly turning red with his own blood. And then it all went black.

  * * *

  Now they could see a large hole behind the plaster.

  Bennett’s arm muscles were burning. He could no longer feel his feet, they were so cold. But he could not stop. Adrenaline was taking over. He set his hammer down and grabbed his pick, as did Erin. All they needed was another few minutes, and the passageway they were uncovering would be wide enough to enter.

  * * *

  Mariano raced into the tunnel
.

  He and three of his men came charging from the direction of the Pool of Siloam. Four more entered the underground river from its source. Unencumbered by sledgehammers and backpacks, they moved quickly. By his calculations, the two teams should meet at the tunnel’s midsection—trapping their quarry between them—in less than ten minutes.

  * * *

  Natasha tried the radio again.

  “Roni, can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “Arik, you there?”

  All she got was static.

  “We’ve found a hole. We’re almost in.”

  Again there was nothing.

  “Hello? Hello? Are you guys okay?”

  * * *

  Mariano had Roni Migdal’s radio clipped to his belt.

  He had the earpiece stuck in his own ear. He could hear everything Natasha was saying, which meant he again had the element of surprise. Guns drawn, he and his men were ready to kill. The Bennetts had taken this hunt far enough. They had become a liability he could no longer afford. It was time to take them out, once and for all.

  He stopped suddenly and held up his right hand, bringing those behind him to a complete stop as well. He whispered into his headset for the second team to stop and let the tunnel quiet down. A moment later, all was quiet, save the steady trickle of running water at their feet. Mariano closed his eyes and strained to pick up every sound. Finally he heard what he wanted. The picks were still chipping away.

  “Go!” he barked into his headset. He and his men began to move again, faster now.

  Their speed increased along with the headroom in the tunnel as they approached the center. Mariano was almost sprinting as he came around the last turn, his pistol ready to fire. But when the gunmen finally converged upon each other, they were stunned.

  No one was there.

  * * *

  It was as if Jon and Erin had entered a parallel universe.

  On the other side of the wall was another tunnel, narrow but dry, running alongside Hezekiah’s and back toward the Gihon Spring. It was level for about fifty meters but then began to decline sharply, down steps hewn from the limestone.

  All three of them moved fast and sure.

  At the last moment, they’d heard their killers coming. They’d had to assume Arik and Roni were dead. They’d slipped away from the main passageway just in time. But they still had no idea how many were behind them or what lay ahead. Their only goal now was to open up as much distance as possible between them and their pursuers until they could figure out what to do next.

  They descended fifty or sixty steps, then once again hit level ground. The tunnel broke sharply to the left, moving perpendicular to Hezekiah’s. It also began to narrow further, and zigzag wildly. Bennett quickly lost his sense of direction. He still had no idea where they were headed, except that it seemed they were now in some sort of subterranean complex of ancient cisterns and pipelines, winding their way underneath the City of David, under Mount Zion, and perhaps even under the Old City itself.

  65

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 20 – 4:15 p.m. – THE JERUSALEM TUNNELS

  Bennett stopped just in time.

  As he rounded another corner, the tunnel came to a dead end inside a small cavern. At its center lay several dozen large rocks, arranged in a circle, with a hole in the center. With Natasha peering over his shoulder, Bennett shined his flashlight into the hole, revealing a shaft too deep for the light to penetrate beyond the first twenty or thirty meters. He picked up a stone and threw it down. No splash, no thud, no sound at all.

  “What’s down there?” asked Erin, watching their backs.

  “I can’t really tell,” he said. “It’s too dark.”

  “But we can’t stay here,” said Natasha. “If we do, we’ll be trapped.”

  “We may be trapped either way,” said Erin.

  Bennett didn’t hesitate. “Then we keep moving. Let’s see where this thing takes us.”

  He ordered Erin and Natasha to go down first while he stood to hold off their pursuers. They quickly set down their backpacks; pulled out ropes, carabiners, and the rest of their gear; and prepared for the descent. Bennett donned a harness and gloves, then positioned himself on his stomach at the opening of the cavern, turned off his flashlight, and aimed his Uzi at the tunnel behind them.

  He remembered the satellite phone. The last thing he needed was for it to start ringing in the darkness. Then again, this could be his last chance to get word to Costello. With one hand on the trigger, he used his other to reach down and pull the phone from his pocket. It glowed an eerie green in the shadows. But it was useless. No coverage.

  He’d waited too long.

  * * *

  Whoever was hunting them was coming on fast.

  Natasha could hear footsteps and whispers echoing through the labyrinth. She quickly tied their ropes around several of the heavier boulders and cut her lights. Then she rappelled down first, lugging not only her backpack but Bennett’s as well so he’d be able to move quickly if a gun battle erupted. When her feet hit the ground, it wasn’t limestone beneath her. It was sand.

  She pushed the packs aside, unclipped herself and tugged the rope several times to let Erin know she was free. Then she got down on her hands and knees in the darkness and felt around. Sand? Everywhere she touched, there was soft dry sand—loads of it. It certainly explained why they hadn’t heard the stone Bennett had tossed into the shaft. But beyond that, it made no sense. Who put it here and why?

  She continued feeling around with her hands, her Uzi strapped to her side. She crawled to her left but hit a stone wall. She crawled forward, but there, too, was a stone wall. There was one behind her as well. To her right, though, she finally found an opening.

  That’s when the shooting began.

  * * *

  Bennett couldn’t see a thing.

  He could hear someone creeping forward in the darkness and decided not to wait. He pulled the trigger and the tunnel exploded. Fire and smoke poured out of the barrel as he emptied an entire magazine, following the tracer rounds onto his targets and watching at least two men drop to the ground.

  Then the return fire started. Bennett rolled left, back into the relative safety of the cavern. He fully expected to be hit by ricocheting rounds, but when the shooting paused, at least for a few seconds, he was still alive. Someone was reloading. He did, too.

  “Erin, go—you’ve got to go now!” he shouted as he fumbled in the dark to eject one magazine and pop in another.

  But Erin had her own plans. Seizing the momentary lull, she jumped up and aimed down the tunnel. She, too, unleashed an entire magazine—firing directly over Bennett’s head—before rappelling out of sight.

  Bennett could barely breathe. A rush of adrenaline coursed through his body. He pivoted and pulled the trigger again, and again bloodcurdling shrieks erupted from the other end of the tunnel.

  Four down, unknown to go.

  * * *

  Four of Mariano’s men were down.

  Two were dead. Two more were seriously wounded and losing blood fast. He had only three men left, besides himself.

  “Cover me,” he said.

  The tunnel again erupted in gunfire. Mariano fished a grenade out of his own backpack. He pulled the pin, rolled it forward, and scrambled for cover as his men—those who could move at least—followed close behind.

  The cavern ahead of them erupted in a ball of fire. The ground shook. The roar was deafening, intensified by the sound waves echoing off rock walls in such tight quarters.

  Mariano got up quickly and dusted himself off. Then, stepping over the charred bodies of men about whom he’d never given a second thought, he cautiously worked his way toward the opening of the cavern, sweeping his pistol from side to side. The air was thick with acrid fumes. He coughed. He waited a few moments for the smoke to clear, and then he and his men turned on their flashlights. But again, no one was there.

  * * *

  Erin scrambled to Bennett
’s side.

  She threw her arms around him and checked for a pulse. He was alive. He was breathing. But he was in pain from his fall. As quickly and quietly as she could, she checked her husband’s body for broken bones. She couldn’t believe he’d made it. He’d barely grabbed the ropes and begun descending into the shaft when she heard the grenade rolling across the granite floor above them. When it had gone off, he must have lost his grip and plummeted a good fifteen feet before slamming face-first onto the pile of sand. The force had clearly knocked the wind out of him, but he was going to be okay—as long as they started moving—now.

  Bennett was covered with chunks of rock that had blown apart in the explosion. Erin brushed them off, took him by the arm, and whispered in his ear, “Jon, it’s me. Are you okay?”

  “I think so—are you?” he replied.

  “Come on,” said Erin. “Follow me.”

  They continued racing down one tunnel and into the next. When they stopped to get their bearings, they realized they were in another cistern of some kind, perhaps thirty or forty feet in diameter. It was clearly man-made, carved out of the limestone. Out from it fanned three tunnels like the spokes of a wheel.

  “We’ve found the waterworks,” Natasha whispered as they huddled together and charted their next move.

  “What do you mean?” Bennett whispered, still trying to catch his breath.

  “For years, scholars have believed there was an elaborate and complex system of tunnels and aqueducts running underneath Jerusalem, dating back to hundreds of years before Christ,” Natasha explained, still keeping her voice low. “The tunnels supposedly channeled water from the Gihon Spring—and the winter rains—to large storage ‘tanks,’ if you will, and then on to various wells throughout the Old City. But until now, only a few remnants of the system had ever been found. The rest was just speculation.”