Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries)

by Campbell, Chester D.

  “That sounds pretty far out,” I said.

  “True, but in the last few years, a group of prominent mathematicians and physicists have continued the research in an effort to prove or disprove it. Using computer programs, they’ve found all sorts of coded information. But so far, nobody has been able to disprove the codes. A Jewish psychiatrist who is also well versed in math and physics published a very revealing book in 1998. He had a former cryptologic mathematician at the National Security Agency run a calculation that took nineteen days on his home computer. It was a guy I knew when I worked there. His computation showed the likelihood of some Israeli code findings being false was one in sixty-two-thousand five hundred. That is miniscule.”

  I shook my head. “It’s still hard to believe, though.”

  “I know. The author–his name is Satinover–concluded that the jury is still out. He gets into a lot of complex statistics and even delves into quantum mechanics. But I like his basic reasoning. He says the Bible condemns sorcery and he doesn’t believe the codes can be used to predict the future, as some claim. He contends that valid decoded messages can only be found if we have both a name and a date, meaning it has to be something from the past. His suggestion is that their main purpose is to confirm the existence of God as an omniscient creator.”

  There was a knock at the door. David reared up, fear rushing back into him, all of his scholarly armor stripped away.

  “Easy,” I said. “It’s my friend.”

  David looked sick. “This is all–all too much.”

  “Want me to get the door?”

  “No.”

  David opened it to a tall, stocky man dressed like a commando raider–black pants, windbreaker and black wool knit cap.

  “It’s my friend Ted Kennerly,” I called, before David got even more frightened.

  David managed a smile, then held out his hand. “David Wolfson. Come on in.”

  Ted stepped inside and looked around, spotting the spread out parchment on the coffee table. “What the hell is that?”

  “A scroll from first century Israel,” I said. “It’s the key to my problems.”

  “You were going on a trip to the Holy Land, weren’t you?”

  I nodded. “We just got back. Around this time last night, in fact.” As I rubbed tired fingers over my eyes, I felt that old nemesis jet lag dragging at me. I needed another cigarette.

  “So where’s Jill?”

  I looked at David, then back to Ted. “Both of you sit down and I’ll tell you what’s going on.” I smiled sheepishly at David. “Got another smoke?”

  “I thought you quit,” Ted said. “Jill won’t like it.”

  For the next forty-five minutes I detailed everything that had happened from the encounter in Jaffa to the last phone call on Bell Road. After I had explained my belief that the caller was part of the group that was holding Jill, David spoke up.

  “You said they were Palestinians?”

  “Most likely.” I blew smoke, watching it. An old friend was back.

  “Well, these people from the Temple Alliance certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with them.”

  “What is the Temple Alliance?” I asked.

  “It’s a militant Jewish organization that’s raising money around the world to build the Third Temple.”

  “The Second Temple was the one destroyed in 70 A.D.?”

  “Right. They want to rebuild it in the same spot.”

  I looked at him incredulously. “On the Temple Mount?”

  “Yeah. Right where the Dome of the Rock now stands.”

  “Isn’t that the third most holy place to Muslims?” Ted asked.

  “Yeah. Just behind Mecca and Medina.”

  “Trying to tear it down to build another temple could set off World War III in the Middle East. Muslims around the world would–”

  “Remember the violence and bloodshed when Ariel Sharon took his walk around the Temple Mount with a cordon of policemen?”

  “So these guys from the Temple Alliance are after the golden lampstands, too?” Ted asked.

  “They want to pay me for the document, so it sounds that way,” I said. “How they found out about me is another mystery.”

  David ran his fingers through his hair. “Guess they want to find the menorahs to put in their new temple. The characters holding your wife are probably interested only in the money they would bring.”

  I glanced at my watch. It was after 11:30. I looked across at David. “How long would it take to enter this in your computer and run the codes program?”

  He studied the scroll for a moment. “I can prop it up here and input the characters in my laptop. Wouldn’t take too long. But my codes program is in the computer at the office. I couldn’t run that before tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Here’s what I’d like to do. We’ll leave the scroll with you while Ted and I head for Riverside Drive and try to locate that green van. We’ll mount a rescue operation–”

  “Hold on,” David said, raising his hands, his face turning white. “You want me to keep that thing after what happened to J. Q.?”

  “I’m sure these people don’t know where you live or anything else about you,” I said. “You should be perfectly safe.”

  “I should be perfectly safe?” David looked sick.

  “You still think we shouldn’t bring the police in on this?” Ted asked, assessing David.

  I was adamant. “Right. I’ve ruffled too many feathers down there. And if Detective Adamson talked to Colonel Erikson, I’m sure he got an earful of crap like how I was always a maverick who believed in making up my own rules.” I turned to David. “Will you keep the scroll and copy it? I’ll come back to get it as soon as we’re finished in East Nashville.”

  “If you’re sure it’s safe.”

  “There’s risk, David, but it’s small. I’m fighting for my wife. I don’t know what else to say.”

  David nodded. As I was leaving he offered the remnants of the cigarette pack. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re a life saver.”

  Outside the apartment, I told Ted to climb into my Cherokee so we could set our strategy. But first I had to clear up one point that had been disturbing me.

  “David will be okay, but if something should go wrong in this little operation, it could backfire on you,” I said. “I don’t want your career to get fouled up like mine did.”

  “Yeah? Well, let me tell you about that. First, don’t worry about it. Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Remember when my mother was sinking fast?”

  “Ah. You mean Jill,” I said.

  “Sure I mean Jill. Remember, the airline strike was on. I couldn’t get to my mother–you know what that feels like?”

  “I understand.”

  “Next thing I know, Jill’s piling me into her Cessna, we’re dodging storms, and then I’m with my mom. Tell me, Boss, how do you say thanks for something like that?”

  “Jill’s special.”

  “Damn right. All she said was, she needed to log some instrument time.”

  I managed a laugh at that, even as I ached for her safety. “That’s Jill.”

  Ted reached over and gripped my arm with surprising strength. “I’d fight tigers for Jill McKenzie.”

  I nodded. “Maybe we’re gonna get that chance.”

  “And by the way, Boss.”

  “What?”

  “You’re pretty good yourself.”

  It was good listening to him but it was quickly tempered by the knowledge that I had as yet done nothing to get Jill back. “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’ll be happy to know I brought my tool kit along.”

  I recalled how he had always packed what looked like a large tool box in his car when on a special assignment. It was filled with all sorts of gadgets and widgets for most any eventuality. “What do you have that will help us?” I asked.

  “For one thing, a couple of mini-radios with ear pieces and clip-on mikes. We can stay in touc
h while patrolling the streets. I also have my night-vision head set.”

  “Good. I had considered using our cell phones, but the radios will be better. What’s their range?”

  “Several miles.”

  “That’ll do. I hope we don’t encounter any cops roaming the area.”

  “Yeah. We look like a pair of cat burglars. I might show my ID and claim to be on a case, but you could be in trouble.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know that I’d be any worse off than I am already.”

  “Maybe I could talk to somebody down there.”

  “Not a good idea. I appreciate more than I can say your willingness to help me look for Jill, but I know you have to do business with Metro on an official basis now and then. I don’t want you getting at odds with them because of me.” I pulled the map from my glove compartment and folded it to show the Riverside Drive area. “Here’s Rosebank,” I said, pointing, “and there’s Porter Road.”

  Between the two pay phones was an area about half a mile wide and three-quarters of a mile long. It appeared to contain a little more than two dozen streets.

  “I’ll take Rosebank and you can start at Porter Road,” I suggested. “You can take the map.”

  “I’ve got one in my car,” he said. “If one of us spots the van, we can rendezvous in a hurry. You realize, of course, it could be in a garage.”

  “I know. But best I can recall, there were lots of cars in driveways over there. We’ll just have to check it out and see.” At least it would be doing something. I couldn’t sit idly by any longer. I glanced at my watch. It was getting close to midnight. “I’ll come with you to get a radio, then we’ll head out.”

  Before I could open the door, my cell phone rang. It showed the name of a motel along the interstate near Adelphi Coliseum, where the Tennessee Titans play. No doubt it was the Temple Alliance guy. Somehow I thought they would stay in the airport area, which would put them closer to my house.

  “This is Zalman,” he said. “We’re finally checked in and settled down. Would it be possible to come by tonight?”

  “Sorry. I’ve got a few urgent matters I have to take care of,” I said. “Give me your number and I’ll get in touch first thing in the morning.”

  He didn’t sound pleased but gave me the number and hung up.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this operation?” Ted asked warily. “I imagine you’re really going through some serious jet lag.”

  My eyelids were beginning to feel like somebody had hung lead weights on them, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “No problem. Let’s move out.”

  I got my radio hooked up and hurried back to the Jeep to check it out. “Unit One to Unit Two,” I called.

  “This is Two. You’re loud and clear.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  You might think the odds would be little better than searching for that needle in the haystack. But since the invention of the metal detector, I figured maybe the odds weren’t so bad. I said a prayer that we would find Jill–unharmed–and get her back. But the ugly thought wormed through my brain that these people sounded too much like the Middle Eastern terrorists who surfaced on September 11, 2001.

  Chapter 17

  At this time of night, navigating I-24 resembled a giant game of chicken played with a convoy of eighteen-wheelers. But if my mission was a game, it was a deadly one. Welch was dead. They had my wife. It reminded me of something I had conveniently chosen to forget. A circumstance that brought the Peterson case agonizingly close to home. It went all the way back to the 1960s when Jill and I first met.

  My initial duty station was Sewart Air Force Base at Smyrna, Tennessee, just south of Nashville. The location of a C-130 outfit, it went out of existence early in the process of Air Force base closings. I was as green as one of the area’s tobacco patches when my boss sent me over to nearby Murfreesboro to talk about security, a public speaking chore that was new to me. My audience was a Civil Air Patrol unit at Middle Tennessee State College (it’s now a university, Jill will have you know). Anyway, this cute junior with intense blue eyes and nice curves kept asking questions, forcing me to improvise a lot on my answers. When the ordeal was finally over, she came up to thank me, which I found quite flattering, and asked if I could arrange a tour of the air base for her.

  I not only arranged it but served as her personal tour guide. I found her a sharp young lady, knowledgeable about airplanes, a lot more than I was. She, in turn, appeared impressed with the deferential treatment I received on showing my OSI credentials. We were soon dating and, after a few months, she wanted to take me to meet her father.

  I got a real shock when we drove up to the large fieldstone structure she called home–I referred to it as a mansion. She said it was just a big house. I learned quickly that her father hadn’t been too pleased to find she was dating a “soldier,” as he called me. After infantry service during the last year of World War I, he still thought of the military in Army terms.

  “What are you, a buck private or a general?” he asked pointedly.

  “Neither,” I replied. “But I outrank one of them.”

  I explained that OSI ranks were confidential, which didn’t win me any points.

  Parsons’ wife had died five years earlier, and Jill was his only child. Having married late, he was nearly forty when she was born. He was also forced to cope with the fact that his daughter had been exhibiting a rebellious streak for some time now, though it was not much more than growing pains. He had wanted her to go to Vanderbilt, as he had, while she chose Middle Tennessee State because of its aviation program.

  All in all, Parsons and I did not get along. But I guess the main problem was we were too much alike, both with definite–and unshakable–opinions on the way things should be. By the time Jill was ready to graduate, I knew I would soon be reassigned, no telling how far away. I didn’t want to chance losing her, so I proposed. She accepted.

  That was more than Parsons could take. He wasn’t gaining a son-in-law; he was losing a daughter. He did his best to change her mind, but when it became obvious she wouldn’t budge, he offered to provide a wedding fit for a princess. It was a bit too much for a brewer’s son. I talked her into making it a simpler ceremony, adding to Parsons’ disaffection.

  When we were transferred away a few months later, Jill’s dad bought her a Piper Cherokee so she could fly home often, whenever she liked, whether or not I could come–preferably not. The constant friction between the two men she loved was the most disappointing aspect of her life. She worked hard to bring about a solution, but she was still far from her goal when Daniel Parsons died in the 1970s.

  I wondered now what he would think about the way I had let his daughter be taken captive and held for twelve or more hours? After all, this was the first positive step I had taken to set her free. Would he feel the same way about me that banker Harlan Walker Blackford had felt about his son-in-law, John Peterson?

  I found the Piggly Wiggly store adjacent to a traffic light that was flashing yellow. The moon languished in a dark sky, casting the streets in light and shadow. I stopped beside the store for a moment and rubbed my forehead, hoping to dislodge some of the fatigue that had built up. Using the lighter in the Jeep I lit another cigarette and savored the tobacco taste. If I ever needed to think right, now was the time.

  An occasional security light spread a yellow pool over somebody’s yard. I drove slowly through the neighborhood, checking vehicles on both sides of the street. I saw cars of all types, plus pickup trucks, minivans, SUVs, even a tractor for an eighteen-wheel rig, but no dark green van with a white swirl. The houses appeared mostly ranch style, with an occasional two-story. As I worked my way onto another street, I passed some larger homes. If Jill were being held in one of these, I realized, the van would surely be parked in a locked garage.

  “See anything of interest?”

  Ted’s voice abruptly broke into my lagging concentration.

  “Afraid not,” I said. “A
lot of vehicles, but not the one we’re looking for.”

  “Same here. I notice they’re building some new houses. That’s a little surprising.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Most of them are probably from the sixties or seventies. We’ll just have to keep looking.”

  “Roger that.”

  It was well after one o’clock and I had lost count of how many streets I had covered when Ted’s excited voice burst from the radio. “I think I’ve found it. Let me swing around and get a better look.”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “I believe it’s called Sheridan. Hold a sec.” A few moments later, he was back. “Bingo! Complete with swoosh and all. You see Sheridan on your map?”

  I had stopped and was checking it with my flashlight. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

  “Come ahead. I’ll be parked across the street. All the houses around here are dark.”

  Fatigue vanished, replaced by anger. Finally we were moving forward. I felt the comforting butt of the Beretta. I would use it. Before God, I would use it. I was soon cruising up Sheridan to the spot where Ted’s black Mercury with the AAFB sticker sat at the side of the street. I also spotted the van in a driveway beside a brick ranch. I couldn’t tell if it was dark green or black, but the swirl was the telltale marker. I pulled over and parked in front of the house next door. Ted walked up as I got out of my Jeep.

  “I couldn’t see any lights around the place,” he said in a low voice. “By the way, the van’s got a flat front tire. See it lean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you want to handle this?”

  “First we get rid of the porch light at the front door. It would be nice if we could pick the lock.”

  “Can do,” Ted said. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pouch containing an assortment of odd-looking probes used for opening locks. “Had this in my tool kit.”

  “Great,” I said, drawing my pistol. Fifteen rounds and one up the spout. “You get the door open and I’ll go in first. If the living room is clear, we’ll start checking the rest of the place. The room Jill is in may have a lock on it.”