by James Becker
Bronson eased the thick tablet of stone out of the hole he'd made and with Angela's help rested it against the side of the altar. They both stood back and for a few seconds just looked at it.
'What the hell is it?' Bronson asked. 'And there's another one in there, I think.'
In less than a minute, they'd lifted out the second tablet and placed it gently beside the first one.
'That's it,' he said, then looked back into the hole he'd made, using the beam of the torch to inspect it. 'There's nothing else in the cavity,' he reported, 'except rubble and a lot of dust.'
They both looked intently at the two stone tablets. They were roughly oblong with square bases and rounded tops, maybe an inch thick and perhaps fifteen inches high and nine or ten inches wide. Both surfaces of each slab had been carefully inscribed, and it looked to Bronson as if the two inscriptions were probably written in Aramaic – he'd seen enough of the language lately to be fairly certain he recognized it – and appeared to be identical.
'Dust?' Angela asked after a moment, glancing at him.
'Yes. The dust of two millennia, I suppose.'
Angela pointed at the tablets. 'But there's not a speck of dust on either of these.'
Bronson looked more carefully. 'Maybe I knocked it all off when I dragged them out,' he suggested. 'What are they? The Aramaic could almost be some kind of a list. It looks like a series of individual lines of writing rather than a solid block of text.'
For a few seconds Angela didn't reply, just knelt down and stared at the two tablets, the tips of her fingers gently tracing the Aramaic characters. Then she looked up at him, her face pale.
'I never thought we'd find anything like this,' she said softly. 'I think these could be described as "the tablets of the Temple of Jerusalem and of Moses". It looks to me as if these could be early – really early – copies of the Decalogue.'
'The what?' Bronson noticed that Angela seemed almost to be having difficulty breathing.
'I mean the Ten Commandments, the Mosaic Covenant. The tablets God gave to Moses on Mount Sinai. The covenant between God and man, the actual tablets that laid out the rules of the faith.' She paused for a few seconds, then looked at Bronson, her eyes wide, almost scared. 'Forget about the Ark of the Covenant. We could be looking at two copies of the Covenant itself.'
'Who says they're copies?' asked Baverstock, stepping out from behind them, a pistol in his hand.
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Angela and Bronson span round to stare at Baverstock, disbelief clouding their eyes. The light from their torches glinted off the barrel of the automatic he was pointing straight at them.
'I thought you were dead,' Bronson muttered.
'That was the idea. I'm sorry about this,' Baverstock said, the tone of his voice giving the lie to the words. 'It might have been better if you'd both died down there in the tunnel. Don't try to dazzle me. Shine the torches at the tablets, or I'll shoot one of you right now.'
Bronson and Angela obediently lowered their hands and aimed the torch beams downwards to illuminate the slabs they'd just recovered from the cavity in the altar. The two ancient stones seemed almost to glow in the light from the torches.
'You can't be serious,' Angela said. 'Are you really suggesting these could be the original Covenant with God that Moses brought down from Mount Sinai? You actually believe these tablets were inscribed by the hand of God?'
'Of course not. Whatever hands carved these, they were made of flesh and blood, but otherwise I'm perfectly serious. There's no doubt that something known as the Mosaic Covenant existed, because the Israelites built the Ark to carry it around. The Ark vanished in about 600 BC when the First Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Babylonians, but there are no traditions relating to the stones themselves. Most archaeologists assume that when the Babylonians looted the Temple they stole the Covenant as well as the Ark, but there's nothing in the historical record to confirm this.'
Baverstock stopped talking and stared hungrily at the two slabs of stone that rested against the side of the ancient circular altar.
'So what happens now?' Angela asked. 'We should take these to a museum and get them examined and authenticated.'
Baverstock's chuckle was anything but humorous in the darkness. 'I don't think so, Angela. I've no intention of sharing the glory. The Silver Scroll slipped through my fingers. That's not going to happen with these. I'm going to take them, and you're going to die.'
'So you're prepared to kill the two of us just for your pathetic little fifteen minutes of fame? That's so sad, Tony.'
'It won't just be fifteen minutes, Angela. It'll be a lifetime of glory. And your deaths will just add a little more blood to the thousands of gallons that have already been spilt in this place over the millennia.'
The sudden beam of light from Baverstock's torch dazzled them both, and Bronson saw the pistol in the man's hand as he took aim.
Bronson reacted instantly. He threw his torch straight at Baverstock, the beam playing wildly across the rocky ground, a momentary distraction. Then he started to move. He stepped sideways, pushed Angela down onto the ground, and charged towards Baverstock.
Baverstock dodged to one side, avoiding the flying missile, and swung his weapon back to aim at his target – Angela.
Then Bronson hit him, knocking his right arm sideways just as Baverstock pulled the trigger. The bullet whined harmlessly across the ancient hilltop fort, far into the night. Bronson spun round, slightly off-balance. He reached out to grab the other man's arm, but Baverstock dodged, took a couple of steps backwards and swung his pistol and torch towards him.
For less than a tenth of a second Bronson stared into oblivion, looking straight down the barrel of the other man's automatic, then he threw himself to one side, landing painfully among the sharp-edged rocks.
Baverstock started to turn, to alter his aim and fire again, but suddenly he stopped dead. His head slumped forward and he dropped his arms, the pistol and torch clattering to the ground. Then he clutched at his stomach, lifted his head and screamed, a high, wailing call of utter agony and despair that echoed from the surrounding rocks and stones.
Bronson grabbed his own torch, which had fallen nearby and was still working, and shone it at him. The pointed end of a slim steel blade was protruding grotesquely from Baverstock's midriff. As Bronson watched, horrified, the blade moved upwards, blood pouring from the gaping wound. Baverstock's clutching fingers plucked ineffectively at the steel, more blood pouring from his hands as flesh was sliced off, and his howls of agony redoubled.
What he was seeing was so inexplicable that for perhaps two seconds Bronson simply stood there gaping. Then he ran towards the stricken man. But he never reached him.
Before Bronson had taken more than a couple of steps, the knife angled sharply upwards. Baverstock's howls were suddenly cut short and he tumbled limply to the ground. He twitched once, then lay still. Directly behind him, the unpleasantly familiar figure of Yacoub was revealed, a long-bladed knife, still dripping blood, clutched in his right hand. And looming out of the darkness behind him were his two men, each pointing a pistol straight at Bronson.
'Unfinished business,' Yacoub said shortly, kneeling to clean the blood off the blade on Baverstock's trousers. The knife vanished inside his jacket, and he shifted the pistol to his right hand. 'I thought we'd killed him in the water tunnel. Get back over there,' he said, gesturing to Bronson.
'Stay behind me, Angela,' Bronson said, as he stopped next to her and turned to face Yacoub.
'Very noble,' Yacoub chuckled. 'You'll take a bullet for her? That won't be a problem. I've got plenty.'
'You said you'd let us go,' Bronson said. 'Isn't it enough that you've got the Silver Scroll?'
'That was before you found those stones. I heard what that man Baverstock said about them. If those two slabs of rock really are the original Mosaic Covenant, they could change the whole course of the conflict here in Israel. My comrades in Gaza will know how to make the best use of them.'
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'They should be in a museum,' Angela said, her voice angry. 'You shouldn't be playing politics with relics as old and as important as these.'
Yacoub gestured irritably with his automatic pistol.
'Everything in this country is to do with politics, whether you like it or not. Old or new, it doesn't matter. Any weapon we can use, we will use. And now you can see why you're both expendable. Nobody must ever know that those stone tablets were found here in Israel. But I will be merciful. You'll both die quickly.'
He lifted his pistol and pointed it at Bronson.
But before he could pull the trigger, there was a muffled bang from somewhere close by, and a faintly luminous object shot up into the sky. In seconds it ignited, burning with the brilliant white-hot light of magnesium, and the darkness was instantly turned into light.
For a moment, Yacoub and his two gunmen stood rigid, as if turned to stone, staring upwards.
And then, in the pitiless white light cast by the descending flare, and like spectral creatures arising from the very earth, half a dozen black-clad shapes, their faces blackened with camouflage paint, appeared less than twenty yards away, emerging from behind the low stone walls that lay to one side of the altar. Each was carrying a Galil SAR compact assault rifle.
Yacoub yelled something in Arabic, and his two men dived for what cover they could find, then opened fire on their attackers. The momentary silence was shattered by a volley of shots as his two gunmen traded fire with the armed men, the booming of their nine-millimetre semiautomatic pistols a discordant counterpoint to the flat cracks of the 5.56-millimetre rounds fired from the Galils.
The moment the flare ignited, Bronson acted. He grabbed Angela by the arm and pulled her around to the side of the ancient stone altar. They ducked down, the solid stones acting as an effective shield against any bullets that came their way.
'Keep down,' Bronson hissed, as a round cracked into one of the blocks of stone directly above their heads, sending a cascade of splinters and dust over them.
He risked a quick glance around the side of the altar.
Yacoub's two men were pinned down behind another of the low stone walls that were the dominant feature of that part of the old fort. They were snapping off shots at their attackers, but they were outnumbered and outgunned, and Bronson knew there was only ever going to be one outcome to this encounter.
Even as he watched, one of the black-clad figures moved to outflank them, darting around the outside of the old ruined temple, taking advantage of every scrap of cover he could find. Within twenty seconds, he had reached a position where he could see both of Yacoub's gunmen clearly, and took careful aim with his Galil.
But he didn't fire. Instead, he called out something in Arabic.
Yacoub's men started at the sound of his voice, and both swung their pistols to point at him. It was their last mistake.
His Galil cracked, the volley of half a dozen shots taking less than a second to fire, and the two Moroccans tumbled backwards. They crashed to the rocky ground and lay still.
The figure ran forward, crouched down to check both the bodies, then stood up and looked around.
'Yacoub!' Angela said suddenly. 'Where the hell's Yacoub?'
'I don't know. I didn't see where he went.' Bronson looked cautiously over the circular stone altar to the area where the dark-clad men had appeared, then looked to his sides. But he saw no sign of the tall Moroccan.
Then a pistol shot rang out a few feet directly behind Bronson.
The man holding the Galil twenty feet away clutched at his chest and fell backwards, the assault rifle falling from his hands. Almost immediately, a tall dark shape materialized beside him and seized his weapon, just as the flare guttered briefly and then went out, plunging the hilltop into sudden darkness.
Bronson stood up, and pulled Angela to her feet. 'That was Yacoub,' he muttered, 'and now he's got an assault rifle. We've got to get out of here.'
But as he stood, there came a noise like thunder, then a thudding sound and a tremendous wind, and the blackness of the night was suddenly banished by a brilliant bluewhite beam of light from directly above.
Bronson and Angela turned to run, but instead they found themselves staring into Yacoub's face, his milkywhite eye and twisted mouth startlingly clear in the brilliant light from the Nightsun lamp on the helicopter hovering above.
'Stand still,' Yacoub snarled, jamming the barrel of his pistol into Bronson's stomach. 'You two are my ticket out of here.' He gestured with the barrel of the Galil towards the area next to the circular altar. 'Put your hands in the air and get over there. Both of you.'
'Stay on my left, Angela,' Bronson whispered as he turned to obey, 'and walk a little in front.'
Obediently, Angela moved forward, naked terror etched into her features.
'Quickly,' Yacoub snapped, jabbing Bronson hard in the back, the barrel of his pistol pressed against his spine.
And that was just what Bronson had wanted, and why he'd told Angela to move in front of him.
He moved forward a couple of steps, took a deep breath, then swung his left arm, his fingers straightened into a blade, down and back as hard as he could. The side of his hand smashed into Yacoub's left forearm, the force of the blow driving the Moroccan's hand – and the pistol he was holding – to one side, away from Angela.
Then it was just a matter of speed. Bronson span round, his left arm continuing to force Yacoub's pistol off aim, and drove his clenched right fist straight into the Moroccan's face. Yacoub staggered backwards, desperately trying to bring his pistol to bear.
Bronson hadn't finished. He took a half-step closer to Yacoub and punched upwards with his left hand as hard as he could. The heel of his hand smashed into the base of Yacoub's nose, splintering the fragile nasal bones and driving them deep into the Moroccan's brain. It was a killing blow. Yacoub fell backwards, his limbs twitching and his body going into spasms as his brain began to die.
Bronson grabbed the pistol that the Moroccan had dropped as he fell, took aim and fired two shots directly into his chest. The twitching ceased. Yacoub gave a final convulsive shudder, then lay absolutely still.
For a few seconds, Angela and Bronson stared down at the body of the man who'd caused them so much grief.
Then they turned round. Three of the black-clad figures were standing about ten feet away, their Galils aimed straight at them. One of them gestured at Bronson. He looked down at the pistol he was still holding, and tossed the weapon away. Both he and Angela raised their hands in the air in surrender. Bronson didn't know who these men were, though he could make an educated guess, but they were clearly no friends of Yacoub, so it was at least possible they were on the same side. And with three assault rifles pointing at them, there was no choice anyway.
One of the figures issued an order in a language Bronson thought sounded like Hebrew, and another man stepped forward and briskly handcuffed their arms behind them, then checked they weren't carrying any concealed weapons. As soon as he'd done that, the air of tension eased noticeably.
With a roaring, clattering sound that was completely unmistakable, the helicopter landed on a patch of level ground about fifty yards away, the rotors kicking up a huge cloud of dust and debris that billowed out across the site. Bronson and Angela turned away and closed their eyes.
As soon as the chopper touched down, the roar of the jet engines diminished and the dust cloud dispersed.
Bronson turned back to look across at the helicopter, a bulky black shape just visible against the deeper black of the night sky, its navigation and anti-collision lights now switched on. In the light from the torches held by the men around them, he could see two figures walking slowly towards them.
The men stopped directly in front of them and, immediately they could see their faces, Angela gave a gasp of surprise. 'Yosef!' she said. 'Why are you here?'
Yosef Ben Halevi smiled slightly. 'I could ask you the same question,' he replied. 'Why are you and your exhusband digging a
round on one of Israel's most important ancient sites in the middle of the night?' He smiled again. 'But I think I already know the answer to that one.'
He turned to his companion and murmured something. The other man nodded, and at a gesture one of the men removed their handcuffs.
'Who are you?' Bronson asked the other man. 'Shin Bet? Mossad?'
There was no reply, and after a couple of seconds Yosef Ben Halevi turned to his companion. 'We've just watched Bronson kill a man in front of half a dozen witnesses. Whether or not he knows your name and who you work for really doesn't matter.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right. OK, Bronson. My name's Levi Barak, and I'm a senior officer in the Mossad.'
Bronson pointed to the black-clad figures standing a short distance away. 'Are they IDF?'
Barak shook his head. 'Not exactly. They're members of the Sayeret Matkal, a special operations unit that works for the Israeli Defence Forces' Intelligence Command. It's a deep reconnaissance unit with counter-terrorist responsibilities, something like your British SAS.'
'I've heard of it,' Bronson said. 'Weren't they the people responsible for the Entebbe rescue? When PLO terrorists hijacked an Air France plane and flew it to Uganda?'
Barak nodded. 'That was an outstanding piece of work. But we're not here to discuss past military operations. We need to decide what to do with you and Angela Lewis.'
'And what to do with what you found,' Ben Halevi interjected. 'Where are the relics?'
'The stone tablets are resting against the side of the altar over there,' Angela said, pointing, 'but I have no idea where the Silver Scroll is. The man that Chris killed took it away from us in the water tunnel.'
Barak issued an order, and two of the men walked around the circular altar, picked up the stone tablets and brought them over to where Ben Halevi was standing. They rested them carefully against a low wall.
The academic crouched down in front of them and, as Barak illuminated the tablets with the beam of his torch, he gently, almost lovingly, ran the tips of his fingers over them, caressing the ancient script. 'Old Aramaic,' he muttered, then stood up.
