Farouq's gaze was steady, but Razak was well aware that, when it came to excavations, the Waqf had taken some liberties in the past.
Against the east wall, Razak detected a line of nine compact stone boxes, each etched in a language that looked like Hebrew. He moved closer. At one end, a rectangular depression in the earth suggested a tenth box had been removed and he moved closer.
Unexpectedly, a voice broke in from the other side of the blast hole. "Gentlemen. Can I have a moment?"
Razak and Farouq whirled round to find a plain looking middle-aged man peering through the aperture. His face was pale and streaked by sunburn, topped off by a nest of unruly brown hair.
"Sorry, do you speak English?" The stranger had a refined English accent.
"We do." Razak rapidly approached the hole.
"Marvelous." The stranger smiled. "That'll make things easier. My Arabic's a little ropey."
Farouq elbowed Razak aside. "Who are you?"
"My name is Barton." He moved forward through the opening. "Graham Barton, I-- "
Farouq threw oversized hands in the air. "You dare come in here? This is a sacred place!"
Barton stopped in his tracks, looking like he had just stepped on a land-mine. "I'm sorry. But if you'll just let me-- "
"Who let you in?" Razak moved past Farouq to shield the chamber.
"I was sent by the Israeli Police Commissioner, to assist you." He pulled out a letter on police department stationery.
"An Englishman!" Farouq was gesticulating wildly. "They send an Englishman to assist us. You see where that got us in the past!"
From the extensive time Barton had spent on projects in Israel, he was painfully aware that here the English were still best known for their botched colonization efforts in the early 1900s-- a debacle that only served to deepen Palestinian resentment toward the West. He grinned tightly.
"Need I remind you," Farouq warned, "that non-Muslims are banned here?"
"My religious affinities aren't so easily defined," Barton scowled. There was a time when he regularly attended Anglican services at Holy Trinity Church near his Kensington home in London. But that was a long time ago. Now he considered himself a more secular believer who shunned the establishment, but still sought a better understanding of his belief that there was indeed something bigger than himself in this miraculous universe. That search had yet to exclude elements of most faiths, including Islam, which he regarded highly.
"So what is your purpose here?" Razak demanded.
"I work with the Israeli Antiquities Authority," Barton persisted. He was already feeling that accepting this job had been a very bad idea. The guppy was now in the piranha tank. "Ancient Holy Land antiquities are my specialty." Biblical antiquities was more like it, he thought. But mentioning that to this pair didn't seem smart. "I'm well regarded in my field." Renowned, in fact, he thought. Trained at Oxford University, head curator of antiquities for the Museum of London, and a resume that read like a novella-- not to mention the countless archaeological digs he'd managed in and around Jerusalem and his regular pieces in Biblical Archaeology Review. And just prior to the theft, the IAA had commissioned Graham Barton with a generous stipend to oversee a massive digitizing campaign that would catalogue the entirety of its priceless collections throughout Israel's museums. Wisely, he chose not to elaborate on those details.
Farouq was dismissive. "Credentials do not impress me."
"Right. But I can save you a lot of time," Barton added, dodging the Keeper's outright hostility. "Besides, the IDF and Israeli police have retained my services. I've been told you're committed to full cooperation in order to determine what happened here. I have a letter of introduction." His tone was more assertive now.
Farouq's eyes met Razak's, registering displeasure for the Israelis' sneaky tactics.
"I was informed that the incident here possibly involved an ancient relic." Barton was trying to peer over Razak's shoulder.
The two Muslims were still grappling with what was happening.
"The thieves must have had very precise information," Barton forged on, "to know the exact whereabouts of a room so well hidden beneath Temple Mount. Wouldn't you agree?"
"A moment, please." Farouq raised a finger and motioned to the archaeologist to move back through the blast hole.
Sighing, Barton retreated into the mosque. The tricky politics of this place exasperated him.
Razak watched him go. "Strange. I wonder if they-- "
"An outrage!" Farouq's face was close.
Razak's voice sunk to a whisper. "Did the Israelis mention this to you?"
"Not at all. And I will not permit this."
Razak drew a deep breath. He didn't like the idea of allowing this Barton-- apparently a delegate from the Jewish authorities-- to intervene in such a sensitive investigation. After all, the Israeli police and the IDF had already spent two days inspecting the crime scene without apparent results. Now they were sending in an outsider? Perhaps Barton would not simply replicate the investigation. There was no telling what their motives could be. However, time wasn't on Razak's side and his knowledge of archaeology and antiquities was limited at best.
Farouq drew even closer. "What are you thinking?"
"We don't have much time. Since Barton claims to be an expert..."
"Yes..."
"Well, it's obvious the Israelis already know what happened here. Perhaps he can give us information. Something to start with. It's in everyone's interests to resolve this quickly."
Farouq stared at the floor. "Razak. Trust requires merit. Every man needs to prove his character. You are a virtuous man. But not everyone's like you. You and I-- we trust each other. But with this Barton we have to be very careful." He marked the point with a raised finger.
Razak raised an eyebrow. "Of course, but do we really have a choice?"
Farouq returned Razak's gaze. Finally, the creases in his brow softened. "You could be right," he relented, sighing dramatically. "I just wish he wasn't an Englishman." The Keeper forced a smile. "Take his letter and check his credentials with the police. Proceed how you see fit. I'm leaving."
Back out in the mosque, Razak took the letter and instructed the Englishman to wait for him to return, then walked Farouq to the stairs.
"Keep a close eye on him," Farouq reminded Razak, leering back at Barton.
Taking off his suit jacket, Razak asked Farouq if he wouldn't mind taking it back to his office. He watched as the Keeper disappeared into the sunlight above.
After rolling up his sleeves, Razak pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number for the Israeli police commissioner who had signed the letter. Two transfers later he was put on hold and subjected to a banal Israeli pop song. Watching Barton pace in small circles in the Marwani Mosque, he shifted back and forth on his feet, holding the phone at arm's length, trying his best to tune out the song's headache-inducing techno beat. A minute later, there were two distinct clicks followed by a ring.
A strong, nasal voice came on. "Major Topol speaking."
Razak did his best to filter the Arabic undertones out from his near-perfect English. "My name is Razak bin Ahmed bin al-Tahini. I've been commissioned by the Waqf to oversee the investigation at the Temple Mount."
"Been expecting your call," Topol said between sips of burned coffee from a paper cup, clearly unimpressed. "I take it you've met Mr. Barton?"
Razak was thrown by the man's directness. "Yes, I have."
"He's good...used him before. Very objective."
Razak refrained from comment. "I must inform you that his presence wasn't well received. We understand the need for your department's intervention, but Mr. Barton entered the mosque without authorization."
"Apologies for not notifying you sooner," Topol replied, stifling a yawn. "But Graham Barton has been authorized to act on our behalf. It's all in the letter he's carrying. I'm sure you'll understand that the nature of this crime requires us to play an equal role in the investigation."
> "But he's an archaeologist, not an investigator," Razak challenged. "Israeli police have already analyzed the crime scene."
"Sure, our people have been there," Topol admitted, "but this crime seems to center on a missing artifact. We're the police. Stolen cars, burglaries, murders, we understand. We don't know from artifacts. So we felt the investigation could benefit from Barton's knowledge of archaeology."
Razak said nothing. It was routine for him to choose silence over confrontation. When negotiating, the opposition often blurted out significant information just to fill the silence. The pause allowed him to consider Topol's argument. For the most part it seemed sensible.
The policeman lowered his voice and spoke conspiratorially. "I think we'll both need to put aside our differences, so that justice can be served."
"My colleagues and I share your concern. Can we trust all information will remain confidential until our investigation is complete?"
"You have my word on that. We're looking for a quick, peaceful resolution here. Rumors are spreading like wildfire. We could soon have a much bigger problem on our hands."
"I understand."
"Good luck to you."
The line went dead.
Razak returned to where the Englishman stood near the blast hole, hands folded behind his back, whistling and admiring the Marwani Mosque's impressive interior. Barton turned to him. "Everything okay?"
He nodded and offered his hand. "Welcome, Mr. Barton. My name is Razak."
6.
VATICAN CITY
At the end of the dimly lit corridor Charlotte Hennesey and Father Donovan descended two flights of switchback steps and emerged into the Domus's modern lobby. They strode across the expanse of white marble tile, passed a bronze bust of Pope John Paul II, and exited the building into bright afternoon sunshine.
Charlotte was accustomed to the dry desert heat of Phoenix. Rome's heat came with oppressive humidity. And then there was the Vatican's strict dress code-- arms, legs, and shoulders had to be covered at all times. No shorts or sleeveless tops. It was like high school-- no tube tops or halters. For the next few days it would be khaki pants and long-sleeved blouses with uncomfortably high thread counts. Back home, she typically ended her day lying poolside in the backyard of her Spanish-style ranch, sporting a bikini. At least, when she was feeling up to it. It was quite evident that wouldn't be happening here.
"I'm sure you're curious as to why you've been asked to come here," Father Donovan said.
"The thought had crossed my mind," she politely replied.
"The Vatican is proficient in theology and faith," he explained. "However, you won't be shocked to hear that in the field of natural sciences, there are some obvious deficiencies in our capabilities." He offered a self-deprecating smile.
"That's perfectly understandable." The priest had a gentle spirit, she thought. His Irish accent was calming and she noticed that he gesticulated often, the by-product of years behind a pulpit.
They strolled past Piazza Santa Marta, circling the rear walkways along the apse of the basilica. Charlotte marveled at its marble and stained glass exterior.
"Take me for instance," he offered. "Prefetto di Bibloteca Apostolica Vaticana...a fancy way of saying head curator of the Vatican Library. My expertise is books and Church history. I must confess that I know little about your field. But when I saw you on television, I was convinced that you could really help me with a project I've been asked to undertake."
"If you don't mind me saying so, I'm surprised my field intrigues anyone in Vatican City."
"Indeed, many within these walls would have reservations about the intentions of genetic research. I, however, like to keep a more open mind."
"That's good to know," she said, smiling. "So what exactly is it that I'll be studying?"
The priest didn't respond right away, allowing a pair of strolling clerics to pass a comfortable distance before quietly saying, "A relic." He considered enlarging on the idea, but decided against it. "It's best to see it with your own eyes."
Heading north on Viale del Giardino Quadrato, they crossed through the lush greenery of the Vatican Gardens, passing the Casina of Pius IV, the lavish sixteenth-century neoclassic papal summerhouse.
The straight pathway ran behind the massive Vatican Museum. Charlotte remembered reading that the Vatican's extensive art collection was housed there, within the former palace of Renaissance-era popes. It was also the place where countless visitors from around the world came to marvel at the city's most famous exhibit-- the Sistine Chapel-- its walls covered in narrative frescoes; its ceiling painted by Michelangelo.
She could tell Father Donovan wasn't yet ready to divulge any more. Though she wanted to inquire why the librarian was handling the study of relics, she decided to change the subject. "This place is enchanting," she said, gazing at the flowers, ornate fountains, and fantastic Renaissance architecture. "It's like a fairytale. Do you actually live here?"
"Oh yes," he said.
"What's it like?"
The priest looked up at her, grinning. "The Vatican is its own world. Everything I need is right within these walls. It's kind of like a college campus, I guess."
"Really?"
He held up both hands. "Without the night life, of course," he said with a laugh. "Though I must admit, we do have our own equivalents to fraternities."
They were just approaching the museum's service entrance. Even at a leisurely pace, in less than ten minutes they had walked about six hundred meters-- almost the entire width of the country.
7.
TEMPLE MOUNT
Razak led the Englishman over to the blast hole, motioning him through the aperture.
Stepping inside, Barton's analytical gaze immediately swept the chamber.
Coming in behind him, Razak remained standing near the opening, uneasy with the gloomy, subterranean atmosphere.
Energized, Barton didn't hesitate to start airing his thoughts. "In the late first century BCE, King Herod the Great employed master architects from Rome and Egypt to design the Temple Mount. It was a huge undertaking that required the construction of an enormous platform that incorporated solid bedrock at the northern end"-- he gestured behind him-- "and expanded south, using vast retaining walls where Mount Moriah's bedrock slopes down." He swiveled round, pointing in the opposite direction. "That's why the southern end of the platform can easily accommodate vaulted rooms, like the space that is now the Marwani Mosque. And archaeologists have long theorized that other similar spaces existed beneath the Mount."
"Are you telling me the Israelis were aware of this room's existence?"
Barton knew Razak was looking for suspects so he knew he had to tread lightly. Though he was aware that Jewish archaeologists had performed thermal scans on the Mount that had shown questionable subsurface anomalies, he was fairly certain that this particular chamber had remained completely undetected. "Absolutely not. I'm sure that if they had, the Waqf would have been informed." He could tell that Razak didn't believe a word of it.
Barton focused his attention on the stone boxes, crouching down to get a better look, moving from one to the next, his excitement building with each new discovery.
Meanwhile, Razak's haunted gaze wandered over the stone walls. "So what is this place?"
Barton stood and let out a prolonged breath. "You're standing in what appears to be an ancient Jewish crypt."
Razak crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The idea of being amidst death and unreconciled souls was unnerving, only underlining his sense of foreboding. And Jewish, to boot! The place felt instantly smaller. Suffocating.
"And it looks like your thieves removed one of the permanent occupants." Barton was shifting from foot to foot, pointing to the rectangular depression in the dirt at the end of the row.
"But aren't those boxes far too small to be coffins?"
"Let me explain." The archaeologist paused to gather his thoughts. "During the ancient Jewish burial ritual-- the tahara-- bod
ies of the deceased were cleaned, then covered with flowers, herbs, spices and oils. Next, the ankles, wrists, and jaw were bound and two coins placed over the eyes." He cupped his hands over his eyes. "Finally the entire body would be wrapped in linens and covered with a shroud." At this stage Barton knew that the prepared body would be placed inside a long niche, or loculus. There were none here, but variations in tomb design weren't uncommon and he didn't want to complicate matters.
Trying to visualize the inner dimensions of the box, Razak couldn't compute how a body could fit in such a cramped vessel. "But I still don't see-- "
Barton held up a hand. "Please," he gently cut in. "They believed that the body needed to expiate sin, shed it through the process of decaying flesh. So the family would allow the corpse to putrefy for a year, after which, they would come back to place the bones in a sacred stone box-- a miniature coffin called an ossuary."
Razak stared at him. Islamic burial practice-- interment within twenty-four hours in a modest tomb facing Mecca, preferably without a casket-- was in stark contrast to elaborate ancient Jewish rituals. "I see." Razak fingered his chin.
"This type of burial was common in this region," Barton continued, "but only practiced during a very brief period-- roughly 200 BCE to 70 CE. That helps us to date ossuaries pretty accurately, even without fancy tests. As you can see," Barton pointed to the row, "the boxes are just large enough to accommodate a dismembered skeleton."
"Why did they save the bones?" Razak thought he knew the answer, but wanted to be sure.
"The ancient Jews believed strongly in their eventual resurrection, ushered in by the coming of the true Messiah."
Razak nodded. The bodies of Muslims also waited in the grave for a Day of Judgment, reminding him how Judaism and Islam shared many common roots.
"The same Messiah," Barton added, "whom the Jews believe will rebuild the third and final temple up there," he pointed above his head toward the Temple Mount esplanade.
"That will never happen," Razak defiantly stated.
That's precisely what Barton would have expected the Muslim to say. "Yes, well, anyway, this was considered preparation for that day. Without the bones, there would have been no chance for resurrection."
The Sacred Bones Page 4
