Interpol operative Arnold Hirsh was on the Mehuda road when he heard the chatter on his radio about a reported shooting in the Qattaneen market area. A passerby had called 104.
Hirsh did a quick check of that area and saw data suggesting arms trafficking in that area. He threw his rented car in gear and started towards the market. But halfway there, police prattle changed. Some passerby called from way off the market area in a place not far from Bethlehem that three men were fighting: one against two.
He turned his car around and drove back three blocks. He took a shortcut that cut the market off. Nothing was happening at that spot anymore. It has moved, he thought, it was now a street fight.
Roy Maxton once flung his gun in over a bridge into the Thames, then he beat five men into pulp, and threw them all over the bridge. They were assassins sent to eliminate him.
This was his style.
Hirsh pushed the engine of the small car faster.
—
Olivia couldn't believe what she saw at first.
Andrew did things with his body that she had never imagined that a former priest could know, much less do. She watched from the street where she stood with her gun in her hand. People gathered around; Olivia heard the sirens. But she could not move. She was mesmerized.
The Hacker was beating her two strongest allies before her eyes.
The Hacker had punched Diggs so hard on the face that Diggs spun in the air and fell flat on his back. He didn't get up immediately. Olivia didn't think anyone could get up from that without medical help.
Now he had Andrew in his grip. His big hands around his throat, choking him. Andrew, bloodied all over his face, tried to let go, but his hands fell helplessly.
"Let him go!"
Olivia stepped forward with her gun. The Hacker glanced at her with eyes that looked like that of a snake. His face was battered too. He bled from his ear where Andrew and Diggs had repeatedly pummeled him. He shouldn't be standing, but he was, and he looked like he could still take on five more men.
"No, you can't shoot me. You won't," he hissed.
"I won't tell you again!"
Olivia had never shot anyone point blank before, had never thought of killing anyone either. Her hands shook. "I won't ask you again. LET HIM GO!"
Even as she said those words, she knew what her eyes said was the opposite. And the man saw it.
Andrew's eyes were rolling up into his skull. There were yells of fear as people screamed. A few phones were up and recording the show.
The Hacker uttered a leering laugh. So, Olivia aimed at his shoulder, the one that he was holding Andrew with.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The recoil almost lifted her off her feet. She lost her hearing for a few seconds. In those slowed-down moments, she saw Andrew fall, Diggs getting up slowly, the Hacker falling back, blood spilling from his shoulder, the spray of it in the air. And a little farther away, blurred but still there, the crowd separated, scattered, genuflecting like a river of chaos and fear, troubled yet bewitched by the trouble they so hate and love.
When her eyes cleared and came back to focus, he searched for the man she shot, but he was not there. Olivia looked at the crowd and saw them looking down the street. The Hacker was escaping. He was staggering away, blood dripping from his left hand, dangling beside him like a useless limb. He looked back once, but it wasn't Olivia that he saw. Olivia knew this the same way you knew when someone across the room wasn't staring at you, but either through you or at someone beside you.
The tingling and rushing sound in her ear had blocked other sounds. Another party had joined in the street, and she didn't hear it. A grey sedan, beaten, no plates, and worn tires had pulled up beside their truck. A very tall and slender man was approaching her, his gun drawn on her. His mouth was moving, but Olivia couldn't make a sound.
He was dressed in a black sweater and blue denim, black boots. His sweater was rolled up to the elbows; his hair was low, brown, and wavy. He looked hard around the edges of his face.
He went past her, and when he saw the Hacker escaping, he ran after the man.
Olivia's hearing slipped back into her head in bits. Tittering sounds and booms. She went to Andrew, dragged him up on his feet. He'd never know he was so heavy. Diggs was up too; he was looking around like a drunk who'd just realized he'd missed his turn or his street.
"You've gotta help me here, Diggs. He's too heavy!"
Diggs staggered over and pitched his weight under Andrew's other shoulder, and together they dragged him to the truck. Olivia pushed them both into the back. She sauntered around to the driver's seat and put the key into the ignition. She was putting the vehicle in reverse when she saw the strange man who drove the sedan coming back.
He was calling.
"Olivia! Wait! Please, wait!"
Horrified, she twisted the gear stick, missed her draw, and started again. The man was fast on his feet.
"Wait!"
"Olivia, drive!" Diggs yelled.
She found the right shift, pushed it in, and it held. She twisted the wheel with all the strength left in her arms. She turned the truck. The fender scraped the sedan on its way out, and the smaller car was knocked out of the way.
She zoomed off.
In the rear-view mirror, the man was there, just standing and staring.
—
10
Rome, The Vatican
The Enclave of the Apostles.
It was called an enclave, not to qualify the place itself. Still, it was an appellation that stuck long ago in the years following the industrial revolution. The church had thought its members had fallen into the trap of mammon itself and needed redemption from the Lord. They met in this chamber of the lights—large candles on receptacles embedded in the block walls, lit at night. But in the day, it was just another place in the vast architecture of the Vatican built like a vault, a study, or whatever the men who ran the place wanted it to be.
On days like these, they'd want it to remind them of the era when men got on the bandwagon that was on its way to Babylon, the days of enlightenment by science and machines, especially machines.
Guns were machines.
So, when the news came to the pipe's red ears that there'd been deaths in the Holy Church of the Sepulcher in Jerusalem, he asked if it was by natural means. The emissary of the Vatican said it was by guns.
"And by whose guns?" He asked, "The Arabs?"
"No, your Holiness."
The emissary was a man who's served the papacy all his life since the day he was picked off his mother’s tits in the Borgo. He opened his leather bag and placed pictures on the table of the Pope. The Pope looked up at his face and saw grief.
He picked up the photos and took a peek. He did this just once.
He wrote a note on his official paper with the papal letterhead and handed it to the man. "Have this delivered to the office of the cardinals."
So here he was three hours after.
In the Enclave of the Apostles. He was at the head of the table, and the discussion had gone far enough. It had gone around the subject of the woman, Olivia Newton, and her friends.
"They are a pest," said a cardinal from Argentina.
"And what has our own cardinal been since?" the Pope asked.
The table fell silent. No one wanted to talk about former cardinal Emilio Batolini; he was a bitter subject they'd not taste.
"But from what we have considered, and the information reaching us," continued the Pope, "he sits on this so-called Table, with these men that are supposed to be one of us."
The photos of the members of The Table were presented as well.
"We have to denounce Emilio, publicly," someone suggested.
"Yes, and hand him over to the government," another added.
The Pope agreed, gave his consent, and then this new order was signed and sealed. It was sent out to the pipes' guard and then to a somewhat dark Order of Cleaners. The Cleaners cleaned the dirt off the papacy.
The Pope was tapping on the solid mahogany table, specially made to not make echoing sounds. His finger made thudding sounds.
Now the emissary who brought the message had omitted to include that Solomon's tomb was missing. So, when the Pope said his next words, it came as a surprise to the cardinals.
"It is a great disrespect on the Church, this vandalism of the Sepulcher. We must have it sealed off. And the tombs must be secured, or better still moved to a more secure location…" He stopped when he saw the uneasy movements.
"Your Holiness," said the cardinal from Argentina, "we might have a problem."
"What is it?"
"We think they already stole the tomb."
The Pope's face fell. His color faded so fast it couldn't have been there in the first place. He looked around the table at the faces.
"It can't be stolen. It is impossible."
Someone pushed the photo of the Solomon chamber over to him; the photo showed the chamber, the walls and their sculptures, the altar of Mary, and the paintings on the glass.
There was even the arc of sunlight on the glistening marble. But there was no tomb. The Pope had missed that the first time; he was, after all, almost 90.
He squinted at the photo, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and put the glasses back.
Then he sat back.
"We have been lax, deceived ourselves for years. Now it's happened. Someone explain how it's possible to move Solomon's tomb from the Church, and no one saw it?"
"We are looking into it," they answered.
"Find it. Find it, use all the forces and resources at our disposal. Find that tomb and restore it. And make sure it is not opened."
They nodded. Someone said they might have an ally in the camp of the woman. He was a former priest; he took his vows; he would answer to the Church if called upon to do the right thing.
"And who's this person?" he asked.
They shoved a photo to him, and they pointed out the face of Andrew Gilmore.
"Andrew Gilmore."
"Will he work with us?"
"We saved him once. He will not forget his vows."
The Pope nodded. "So be it."
—
The Vatican had even more resources than anyone thought. That evening while the team was making plans to go back to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, there was a knock on the door.
"Talbot?" Liam called.
Olivia shook her head. They weren't expecting him. Besides, he was not likely to show up. He had sold them out. The knock came again, gentle, restrained.
Olivia's intuition told her it wasn't trouble. Her gut almost always never missed its way. Andrew, now looking fresh and cleaned up, went to the door. He opened it and there in the corridor stood a young monk.
The monk had a narrow, foreign face. The instant Andrew saw that face, the black cloak with its heavy hood, the man's pinched nose, sunken skull, high forehead, and tight skin, he knew where he had come from and his mission.
The monk opened his leather bag and gave Andrew an envelope.
"Padre, this is from the Order. They contain your orders. It is hoped you have not forgotten your vows, Padre."
Andrew took the envelope with water that felt like a feather. His face felt hot with shame.
"Thank you. I will do what I have to do," Andrew said.
The monk walked away into the shadow and was gone.
Andrew shut the door.
The team stared at him. Olivia asked, "Who was that?"
He waved the envelope and smiled. "Nothing essential; it’s just mail for me."
Olivia stared at him closely. She said, "What does it say?"
Andrew folded the envelope and pushed it down his pocket. The party went back to planning how to get into the church again without being spotted.
Andrew settled down with it but kept mostly to himself for the rest of the night.
"We can't go in as monks anymore. We burned out that ruse. What other options do we have?" asked Olivia.
Anabia said, "We could be the police. There to investigate what happened. We could even be Interpol."
"How about repairmen?"
They looked at Tami Capaldi. She stuck her tongue out at the men. Frank Miller said he thought it might work. The others agreed, except Andrew Gilmore, who hasn't said anything since the time he went to see to the door. He was at first morose, then he listened and seemed interested in the planning.
"We could go in as emissaries from the church."
Everyone turned to the voice. He was sitting by himself, on the floor, his back against the wall. Andrew stared back at them without much enthusiasm. Lawrence Diggs was beside him. He had almost the same temperament as Andrew. Both men have had the roughest time since they came to Jerusalem.
"Which church?" asked Olivia.
"The Catholic Church. When things like this happen, they are expected to step in. And soon, they will when word gets out about what happened at the Holy Sepulcher. And I imagine it has by now."
"That means going in as monks again," said Liam Murphy.
Borodin said, "But we don't have to, right? We could go in as we are and—"
"We've been seen," Olivia cut in. "We can't go in as we are anymore."
She looked at Anabia, then her eyes went to Reno and Borodin. "I and Andrew and Diggs have been on TV. Miller is well known. But you, Reno, Anabia, and Tami can go in as you are. The rest of us would have to find our way. Maybe as drivers of delivery guys."
"Or you could just stay back this time," Andrew said to her.
Olivia glanced at her brother and frowned. There was an edge to his tone just then. There was a forcefulness to it, a hardness that she was unfamiliar with. She was finding out that she hardly knew Andrew. The things she saw him do today, the things she's seen him do in the past, showed that there was more to him than meets the eye.
"And why would I wanna do that?"
"Because it would be dangerous not to. You could be arrested. Or worse still, if the Hacker shows up again."
"He will show up," said Diggs.
Olivia remembered the tall man who had been there too. Although now her recollection of the man's face was blurry, she was sure she hadn't imagined him.
"There was a man there," she said. She looked at Diggs and Andrew for confirmation. She couldn't have dreamed of him. "Did you see a man? A sedan?"
Diggs answered, "Yes, I saw him. I have seen him before."
He rose and went to his bag that was against the wall by the door. He took out his computer and booted it up. There was a backdoor for former CIA guys who wanted information from the database. It couldn't be described as something illegal; it was outside the books.
The images that came up on the screen showed the man Olivia had seen that afternoon.
He was Interpol alright.
Diggs wanted more information about him, and when he clicked for more, there was a pop-up that said he wasn't allowed.
"I guess that's all I'm allowed to see."
"So, we don't know much about him other than he is Interpol. He seems to not be so interested in us, I mean, he went after the Hacker and not us," Olivia reasoned.
"We bailed out, Olivia. We didn't wait," Andrew countered.
"He brushed past me."
Olivia remembered how the man had smelled now, masculine and strong. If strength had a smell, she got a whiff of it when the man walked past her.
Anabia said, "Next problem, Emilio's key."
They stared at each other. Olivia had no idea where the former cardinal was. One thing she was sure of, Emilio was still around. And Andrew knew something he was not sharing. His eyes had narrowed when Anabia mentioned the name. What are you hiding, Andrew?
—
The black man is threatened everywhere, or so he thinks. Whatever the case, the black dude in front of Arnold Hirsh was getting pulled over by the policemen at the checkpoint.
; The yellow mustang GT's windows were halfway down, and white ganja smoke plumed out of the windows. The car quaked with the boom of reggae music.
Hirsh was behind in his new rented car, a small Volkswagen Jetta, a fast and efficient burner of gas. The sedan was ruined; it would attract the wrong attention. Wrong attention slowed your progress in places like Israel. Just like the black dude in the mustang was about to find out.
There were checkpoints all over Israel now, Jerusalem and Bethlehem, especially. The hunt for the woman and her people had begun here too.
He was indifferent about the misplaced priority. The authorities can go after the woman if they want; he was going after the real criminal.
There was a roadblock at the intersection between Omar Ben el-Hattab Street and Jaffa Gate. Hirsh had been pulled over and questioned thoroughly. He had almost given away his identity. He carried three—one for women he liked, another for the police, and the other for situations like this.
The mustang was pulled over. Of course.
The black dude stuck his head out. He was clean-shaven, not so dark, almost light-skinned; Hirsh read his lips and the officer's own. They wanted some ID. He gave it. The policeman walked away, conferred with his colleagues, and then came back.
He was asking the black dude to step out of the car, please.
"What the hell…" Hirsh murmured.
The policeman searched the car. Dude was alone in it; it must be the smoke. Jerusalem would impose a fine for smoking marijuana in public. He smiled to think how the cops would interpret the law now. Was a car a private place or public?
The black dude shrugged, said something, the cop laughed, returned the ID, and the black man got in his car again. Wow, thought Hirsh.
The traffic moved on. The policeman glanced at him, waved him on. Hirsh used to smoke pot. He even carried a stash on him in the past. After losing the Hacker the previous day, he had craved a blunt badly.
The Church of the Holy Sepulcher appeared in the distance. The black dome looked like half a hard-boiled egg left too long in the heat. He drove past, found parking, installed his car between a bike and a dust-caked jeep. Then he strolled down Ha-Notsrim Street. It was a very narrow street, covered at the top, hemmed in houses with shops and clothes sellers.
King Solomon's Tomb Page 15