by James Becker
Bronson slowed to a trot as he neared the bar. A few minutes had passed since the last shot had been fired, and the mood of the crowd seemed calmer now the immediate danger from the lone gunman appeared to have passed. Bronson didn't want to attract any unwelcome attention by running, though every fibre of his body was urging him to hurry.
Two police cars screeched to a halt, blocking the road. Blue-uniformed officers piled out, weapons in hand, to be immediately surrounded by gesticulating crowds of people. Bronson ignored them and walked calmly past, stopping a few yards from the bar.
The establishment appeared to be almost empty, just a couple of people standing near the door and peering out. But then Bronson suddenly spotted Yacoub's thug walking out of the alleyway, empty-handed. And at the same moment the Moroccan saw him, and then the armed police just a few yards away.
For a long moment, the two men just held each other's gaze. Then, as somebody in the crowd raised a shout and pointed at the Moroccan, Bronson saw the man drawing his weapon, the black muzzle of the pistol swinging towards him.
People ran, terrified by the sight of the automatic pistol. Bronson spun round, ran a few steps and dodged behind a parked car – though he knew the thin steel would offer little protection against a high-velocity round. He dropped flat, making himself as small a target as he could.
The Moroccan fired, the copper-jacketed bullet smashing through the back window and the rear door. It hit the tarmac less than a foot from Bronson's head and whined away into the night.
Even before the sound of the shot had died away, the man fired again, this time over the heads of the group of people still crowded round the police cars. Everyone ducked for cover, even the armed officers, and by the time they recovered, the gunman was fifty yards away and running hard down the road.
The police couldn't fire at him because of the number of civilians still crowding the street, and he was in any case already well out of pistol range. The Israeli police cars were facing in the wrong direction, and the three officers who gave chase were encumbered with bulletproof vests and heavy utility belts. It was going to be a very one-sided race.
But as the Moroccan reached the end of the street, another police car swung round the corner and braked to a stop. Bronson saw the gunman raise his weapon and snap off a quick shot at the vehicle as he ran, but then two Israeli police officers stepped out of the car, pistols raised, and a volley of shots rang out. The Moroccan appeared to stumble, then fell forward heavily onto the unyielding tarmac surface of the road and lay still.
The officers approached him cautiously, pistols aimed at the unmoving figure. One kicked out at an object lying beside the Moroccan – presumably the man's pistol – then pressed his own weapon into the man's back as his companion snapped handcuffs onto his wrists. Then they stepped back and holstered their weapons. From their actions Bronson knew that the gunman was either dead or very badly wounded.
From the vantage point he'd selected, a hundred yards away at the eastern end of Basel, Yacoub sat in the driving seat of the Peugeot hire car and dispassionately watched the last act of the drama unfold. The moment his man pointed his weapon at the Israeli police car, Yacoub knew he was doomed. He should have just run on past the vehicle and kept his pistol out of sight. It was a stupid mistake, and he had paid for it with his life.
And no doubt now Bronson and the woman would change hotels once more. Musab and his contacts would just have to track them down yet again. But, Yacoub reflected, he seemed to be getting quite good at doing that.
Bronson didn't care about Yacoub or his gunman. All he was worried about was Angela.
He pushed his way into the bar. The two Israelis inside looked at him, but didn't try to stop him. Something in his face must have told them that trying to do so would be a very bad idea. He walked into the toilets and opened all the doors. There was nobody inside, but on the floor of one of the female cubicles he found a smear of blood.
Bronson turned round and walked out of the bar, back into the street. Had she escaped? Was she even then waiting for him at the Hilton? Or had Yacoub's thug found her, dragged her out of the bar and then killed her, dumping her body in the yard at the rear? That appalling thought stayed with Bronson as he strode down the adjacent alleyway and stepped into the yard.
Shards of broken glass glittered like discarded jewels in the light from the bar, but otherwise the small open space looked exactly as it had done before. Bronson heaved a sigh of relief. He'd seen Yacoub's man walking out of the alleyway, so if Angela's body wasn't in the bar or back there in the yard, she had to be still alive – somewhere.
He jogged back to the street and looked round again.
He needed to get to the Hilton, and quickly.
He'd barely taken a dozen steps before he heard her calling his name.
'Chris!' He turned and saw her. Her clothes were dishevelled, her face smeared with dust and sweat and tears and her feet were bare, but he still thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
'My God, Angela.' He stepped forward and pulled her to him. 'You're safe.'
'I am now,' she muttered, burying her face in his shoulder. For a long moment they stood locked in an embrace, oblivious to the crowds of people milling around them.
'The Hilton?' Bronson asked gently, as Angela eased back.
'I couldn't get there,' she said. 'I think I must have trodden on a piece of glass somewhere. My foot's agony.'
That explained the blood on the floor of the cubicle.
'Can you walk?' he asked.
'Not far, and not fast,' Angela said.
Bronson glanced round. The street was full of people, and there were now four police vehicles and at least a dozen armed officers standing there. Angela would probably be as safe in that place as anywhere in Tel Aviv.
'Over there,' Bronson said, pointing to a still-open bar with several vacant tables inside.
Angela wrapped her arm around his shoulders and hobbled over to the door. He pushed it open and pulled out a chair for her to sit on. A waiter walked over and Bronson ordered a brandy.
'You stay here,' he said, standing up to leave. 'I'll go and get the car.'
'Good. I can't wait to climb into bed.'
Bronson shook his head. 'Sorry, but you won't be sleeping anywhere in Tel Aviv tonight. We have to get out of here, and quickly. It was no coincidence that Yacoub and his tame gunman pitched up here this evening. Somehow they knew which hotel we'd moved to. I'm going to get back there, grab our stuff and run.' He stood up. 'Stay right here. I'll be back as soon as I can, and then we'll hit the road.'
59
'But how can Yacoub still be alive, Chris?' Angela demanded, returning to a theme she'd already visited several times during what had turned out to be a very long and uncomfortable night. 'Are you absolutely sure it was him?'
They were sitting in their hire car in the car park of an all-day restaurant outside Jerusalem, waiting for the place to open so they could have breakfast.
Bronson had seen nobody in or near the hotel when he'd run there after leaving Angela in the bar. He'd checked around the building as thoroughly as he could, then gone in, packed their few belongings, paid the bill by shoving a handful of notes at the puzzled night clerk, and driven away. They'd been on the road more or less ever since, because trying to find a hotel open to new arrivals after midnight had proved fruitless. In the end, Bronson had given up and headed for Jerusalem, and the restaurant car park had seemed as good a place as any to wait out what remained of the night.
Once they'd stopped, he had gently washed the ragged cut on the bottom of Angela's left foot. It wasn't too deep, though it was certainly painful. He'd placed a thin pad over it and secured it with strips of plaster he'd bought from an all-night pharmacy in Tel Aviv. Angela had pulled on a pair of trainers and tried a few steps. The trainers weren't elegant, but with them on her feet she could at least walk again – she wouldn't be running anywhere for a while.
Bronson sighed. 'Look,
' he said, 'Yacoub doesn't have the kind of face it's easy to forget. And I didn't tell you this before, but what Jalal Talabani did when he rescued us back in Rabat just seemed too easy to me. One man – even with the element of surprise in his favour – would find it difficult to take out three armed men, especially if he was tackling them in a house he'd never set foot inside before. I think he had help, and the only reasonable explanation is that Yacoub must have set it up for him.'
'But Talabani did kill those men, didn't he?' Angela asked.
'Definitely. I checked Ahmed's body myself.'
Angela shivered. 'So Yacoub must have been prepared to sacrifice at least three of his men – Ahmed and the two we saw upstairs – just for what?'
'To convince us that he – Yacoub, I mean – was dead so we would feel happy about following the trail he'd prepared.
The word "ruthless" barely covers what he's prepared to do. He wanted us – or rather you – to be so determined to find the Silver Scroll and the Mosaic Covenant that you'd come out here to Israel and lead him straight to the relics. And it wasn't a bad plan, really, because you've got the contacts and the knowledge to pull this off. All he would have to do was follow you, and that's what he's been doing.'
'But that gunman tried to kill you, Chris.'
Bronson nodded. 'I know. I can only assume Yacoub's losing patience. He probably wanted me dead so that he could kidnap you. Then he'd try to persuade you to tell him where to look for the relics.'
Angela's face looked pale in the early-morning light. 'Dear God. I'm really glad you're out here with me, Chris. Yacoub simply terrifies me. He wouldn't even need to torture me – one look at his face and I'd just tell him everything.'
Bronson shifted his gaze from the road beyond the car park – ever since they'd stopped, he'd been checking the passing vehicles, just in case they needed to make a quick getaway. Now he looked across at Angela. 'Look,' he said, 'if you want to give this up right now, it's no problem. We can be sitting on a flight out of Ben Gurion back to Britain in a few hours, never come back to Israel, and forget all about these lost relics. It's your decision. I'm really just along for the ride.'
Angela didn't reply for a few moments, just sat there with her head slightly bowed, her hands clasped in her lap, almost a Madonna figure. Then she shook her head and swung round to face Bronson. 'No,' she said firmly. 'If I walk away now I know I'll always regret it. This is the biggest opportunity of my career – of any archaeologist's career, in fact – and I'm not prepared to give it up. We'll just have to make sure we stay one step ahead of Yacoub and his band of pistol-toting thugs. And that's your job, Chris,' she added, with a small smile.
'So no pressure, then,' Bronson said, an answering smile on his face. 'Right, if you're determined, let's decide where we go from here. Once this place finally opens and we've got some food inside us, I mean.'
As he spoke, the illuminated signs of the restaurant suddenly flickered into life, and Bronson saw figures moving around inside the building.
'At last,' he muttered. 'Let's eat.'
An hour later they walked back to their car.
'Any ideas?' Bronson asked, sitting down in the driver's seat. Angela had taken several pages of notes with her into the restaurant, and had read through them carefully while they had breakfast. She had said little during the meal.
'Possibly, just give me a few minutes.'
Bronson nodded as if he'd just made a decision, and leant across to Angela. 'Can I ask you something? Something personal?'
'Yes,' she replied cautiously, drawing out the word.
'What?'
'Yosef Ben Halevi? You worked with him, right?'
'Yes, about five years ago, I think it was. Why?'
'So you don't really know him that well?'
Angela shrugged. 'No, not really, I suppose. He was just a colleague.'
'Right. It's just – I don't know – there's something about him that I don't like. It's almost as if he's hiding something. And I didn't like the way he kept probing, trying to find out what we were really looking for.'
Angela shook her head. 'He's an expert on ancient languages and Jewish history. The kinds of questions we were asking were bound to intrigue him. He can probably sense that we're on the track of something, and he'd like to be a part of it. I'm sure that's all it is.' She smiled slightly. 'You're not jealous of him, are you?' she asked.
Bronson shook his head firmly. 'No, definitely not. I'd just rather we didn't get involved with him any further. I really don't think I trust him.'
Angela smiled again, wondering how much of Bronson's instant distrust of the man was due to Ben Halevi's undeniable physical attractiveness, and how much was just his policeman's instinct working overtime. Not that she suspected the Israeli of anything underhand, but she recognized that it would perhaps be better to keep him out of the loop from now on, now she hoped they were getting close to their goal.
'Right,' she said, looking back at her notes. 'I've been trying to put myself in the position the group of Sicarii would have found themselves in back in AD 73. They've got three important Jewish relics to hide. They put one in a cave at Qumran – which was not perhaps the most secure of locations, though as it turned out it kept the Copper Scroll hidden for two millennia – and went on somewhere else with the remaining two, the Silver Scroll and the Mosaic Covenant. Now, even then, Jerusalem was the most important city in the whole of Judea, and I don't think it's too wild a suggestion that they might have hidden the relics somewhere there.'
'But if they had done that,' Bronson objected, 'surely they'd have been found by now. Jerusalem's been continuously occupied and fought over for at least two thousand years. How could anything like the Silver Scroll have stayed hidden?'
'Actually,' Angela said, 'the first settlement on the site dates from about 3500 BC; but I didn't really mean in Jerusalem. I meant it was more likely that they chose a hiding place under it. The whole of the city and the Temple Mount is like a honeycomb. There are tunnels everywhere.
Back in 2007, a group of workmen in Jerusalem employed by archaeologists to search for the old main road out of the city discovered a small drainage channel, and that led directly to a huge unknown tunnel that might have run as far as the Qidron river, or possibly even to the Shiloah Pool at the southern end of Jerusalem, from the Temple Mount. There's a possibility that it might have been used by the inhabitants of the city to get out of Jerusalem during the Roman siege of AD 70, and it was a probable escape route for some of the treasures of the Temple. The Qidron river – Wadi Qidron – heads eastwards from the city, but about halfway to the Dead Sea it splits, one arm continuing to the Dead Sea while the other heads directly to Khirbet Qumran.'
'Qumran again,' Bronson observed.
'Yes,' Angela said. 'One interpretation is that when the Roman siege began, trusted Jewish priests and fighters gathered together all the scrolls of the Second Temple and escaped with them down that tunnel to Qumran, where they hid the scrolls in the caves near the settlement – those documents that became known as the Dead Sea Scrolls. It's as convincing a suggestion as any I've heard.'
'But what about the relics we're looking for? Where do you think they could be?'
'I've got an idea. Obviously the people who buried the Silver Scroll would have had no idea of the tortuous history that would eventually unfold around the Temple Mount, but I think there's a good chance that they might have selected one of the existing tunnel systems under or near the rock as being a secure location for the relics.
Now, in the present political climate in Jerusalem, there's no possible way we can get access to the tunnels under the Mount – not even bona fide Israeli archaeologists can manage that.
'But,' she continued, 'the inscription on the clay tablets refers explicitly to one very particular kind of underground space – a cistern. I think at the last count something like forty-five different cisterns have been identified in the various caves and chambers that run under the Temple Mount, so t
hat does make sense. I think that the Sicarii who hid these relics deliberately chose a hiding place underneath what all three major religions – Christianity, Judaism and Islam – now believe to be the holiest site in Jerusalem, perhaps in the world.'
'But which cistern?' Bronson asked. 'If there are more than forty of them, and we can't get into the tunnels, that's it, isn't it? Even if we could work out exactly which cistern the relic is hidden in, there's no way we can recover the relic.'
'Not necessarily,' Angela replied, a smile playing over her lips. 'I've been studying our translation of the inscription, and I've just spotted something. The inscription doesn't say "a cistern", it says "the cistern", and that suggests it's referring to a very specific cistern, one whose location would have been generally well known. And around the beginning of the first millennium, there was one obvious place close to the Temple Mount that everybody would have known was a cistern. The writer of the tablets would certainly have been familiar with it.'
'Which was?'
'Hezekiah's Tunnel,' Angela said. 'I hope you like water.'
60
'They're on the move.' The young woman sitting in the lobby of the Tel Aviv hotel lowered her newspaper and bent her head forward slightly so that her lips were close to the tiny microphone clipped under the lapel of her jacket. 'All three of them are just leaving the hotel. I'm right behind them.'
The hotel had been under intense scrutiny by the Mossad team ever since Hoxton, Dexter and Baverstock had flown in from Heathrow.
'Copied. All mobile units, heads up and stand by. Acknowledge.'
A chorus of radio calls confirmed that all the Mossad surveillance team members were on the net and ready.
