by Robert Ryan
Almost hyperventilating, he stopped to gain control of his breathing. When he spoke again, his exaggerated calm didn’t dull the knife edge of emotion. It sharpened it.
“What happened in that restaurant was nothing new. Just another in a long line. Remember good ol’ Charlie Whitman, up on the roof at the University of Texas? That was forty-some years ago. Then there was McDonald’s. Columbine. Virginia Tech. The movie theater. They’re almost routine now. Almost every day somebody kills their whole family. Or a bunch of co-workers. Or complete strangers. And there’s no end in sight. No answers. No reason.”
He stopped suddenly and glared at them.
“Except that maybe there is a reason. Maybe we have been caught in the crosshairs of a battle between good and evil all this time. Maybe religion has been right in seeing them as two warring forces. And maybe—just maybe—I’ve got a chance to end it. For good.”
“I hear you,” Reese said. “And I want it to be true. I’d love to believe there’s a demon destroying my people so I could kick his ass. But—maybe I’ve seen too many horror movies, but the idea that we can blame all the messed-up crap we do to each other on the Devil…It sounds to me like a copout.”
Zeke wearily folded himself back into his chair, his anger spent. “I know. I’m not crazy, all right? Even after everything that’s happened, I’m not going to sit here and tell you I absolutely believe in Satan. I’m just saying these scrolls make it possible. Maybe not probable, but possible. If we find him—great. But let’s say we just find Sodom and Gomorrah. Dr. Connolly said that would rank with finding Atlantis. Atlantis.”
“What exactly are we talking about?” Leah said. “I mean, how do you go about it?”
“I’d have to find an expert to tell me what needs doing. I did a lot of research on the Internet the other night. Nobody knows exactly where Sodom and Gomorrah are, but the general opinion is somewhere around, or under, the Dead Sea.”
“Which is in Israel, right?” Leah said.
“Half of it’s in Israel, the other half is in Jordan.”
“Great,” Reese said. “That ought to make your life real simple. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.”
Zeke shrugged. “I’ll start by contacting someone in Israel, since we’re a lot friendlier with them, and go from there. It’s too late tonight. With the time differential it’s early Saturday morning over there. The Sabbath. I’ll start making phone calls first thing Monday morning.”
“First thing would be around midnight our time,” Leah said. “It’s seven hours later over there. The congressman I work for deals with Israel a lot.”
“I’ll set my alarm. The sooner I get that ball rolling the better, so we can get on with our lives. It’ll probably mean flying over there at some point. Something this big can’t be handled over the phone.”
Reese looked at Leah. “If he pulls this off, what are you going to do?”
“Go with him.”
“Oh lordy. And I’m just supposed to sit around, worrying about you two?”
“We’ll be fine,” Zeke said.
“Is you crazy? Sitting there talking about having a smackdown with the Devil—in his house—like it’s just another day at the beach. It’s like when we were in the Army: you need to prepare for the worst-case scenario. Which, in this case, means you actually find his scaly ass. You think he’s going to turn into Marvin Gaye? ‘Makes me wanna holler, throw up both my hands?’ He’s going to make the Terminator look like a punk.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
“You’re going to need some serious firepower and a whole lot of backup.”
“Backup?” Zeke shook his head. “Reese, now that’s crazy.”
“No crazier than you two going. And if your boy is out there, he tore a big hole in my life, too.”
Zeke knew instantly what Reese was talking about. Crack addiction had put his sister’s husband in prison and killed his sister. She had died giving birth to his niece. Paige had been born a crack baby. Reese and his mother were raising her. “I understand, buddy, but you cannot be a part of this.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit around waiting while you march into Hell?”
“First of all, ain’t gonna be no marching. Tiptoeing would be a lot more like it. And you’re not going to be sitting around. You’ll be handling the gym. But the most important thing is, you’ll be looking after your family. I’ve lost mine, Reese. If this thing goes south, and something happened…I couldn’t live with that. Your niece lost her mother and father. You’re all she’s got. There are plenty of demons right here, circling around her every time she leaves the house. She doesn’t even have to leave the house. Every time she clicks on the television—aka the Satan Box—a nest of digital vipers is ready to take root in her soul. You need to be guarding her, not me.”
“But—”
“Don’t make me pull rank on you.”
Reese tried to give him the hard stare even as the fight drained from his body. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“Then you must be filled with a lot of hate.”
Reese started to give him the finger but looked at Leah and caught himself. “Aren’t you a lucky woman.”
“Yeah, he’s a real catch.”
“If you two comedians can get serious for a second. Look: we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. First I’ve got to find that expert, and see if this is even possible. If I do find someone I can trust, and he—or she—says go for it, it still would take time to put together. So right now we’re talking about a whole lotta nuthin.”
“That’s fine,” Reese said. “I can roll with that. But look here.” He made a V with his forefinger and middle finger and tapped a fingertip under each eye, then pointed the V at Zeke’s eyes to make sure he had his full attention. He did the same to Leah.
“Zeke, you’re not the only philosopher in this group. I know Leah’s a deep thinker, and I am too, when I want to be. And here’s what I’ve thought about, real long and hard, especially after…what’s happened. There’s only a few things that are really important in life. Family, friends, loved ones. I don’t have much family, and I don’t have any better friends than you two.”
He coughed to clear a quiver from his throat.
“I don’t have that many friends, period. So here’s what’s going to happen. Y’all go on over there, do what you gotta do. That’s fine. I don’t need to be there for the preliminary stuff, I guess that makes sense. But if any trouble starts—I’m talking serious trouble—somebody better call me. Zeke, if you’re too macho, or proud, or whatever, then Leah, it’s on you. All I know is, somebody better call my a…butt. I’ve lost too many people in my life. I’m not losing you two. Not on my watch.”
“But Reese,” Leah said. “What could you do from over here, with an ocean between us?”
“I don’t know. Something. Pray, if nothing else.”
“Praying would be good,” Zeke said.
“If you did come face to face with the Devil himself,” Reese said, “how would you defeat him? Have you thought about that?”
“I have,” Zeke said. “A lot. My first thought was trying to procure the heaviest artillery I could get, but if he’s the superhuman entity we’ve been led to believe, conventional weapons might not work. Probably wouldn’t work. I’m thinking holy relics might be better. Something having a connection to God. Or Jesus.”
“Sort of like holding up a crucifix against a vampire,” Reese said.
“Sort of,” Zeke said.
“Where would you get these relics?” Leah asked.
“Father Connolly gave me a lead I can pursue in Jerusalem if it comes to that. If that falls through, we’ll go to plan B.”
“Which is what?” Reese said.
“Don’t know. Have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“I think you’re giving up on the heavy artillery too fast. If your boy is like a ghost or something, that bullets go right through, then okay. But if he’s
got an actual body, like every other animal, seems to me it can be killed. There’s a shotgun out there now, the AA-12. People are calling it the deadliest firearm in the world. Have you heard of it?”
“No,” Zeke said.
“This bad boy has a 32-round drum magazine with almost no recoil. It takes different kinds of cartridges, but the one I like is the FRAG-12. Fragmentation. They’re more like miniature missiles than bullets. There are different kinds: grenades, antipersonnel, armor-piercing. If they’ll go through a tank, they should be able to get through Big Boy’s scaly hide. This thing could shred Godzilla.”
“We have no idea what Satan would actually be like,” Zeke said, “but I’m thinking Godzilla to the hundredth power.” He considered Reese’s proposal. “You can get one of these?”
“Maybe. You need a special license to buy one, but considering how we left the Army, I wouldn’t want to take a chance on filling out paperwork that would get that mess stirred up again. But there might be a way around it. I’m buddies with some of the Marines who come in the gym. They might know somebody who knows somebody. I could ask around.”
“Do that. Might not hurt to take one with me. That would be my plan B.”
“Or I could get two and come with you. That way we could maintain constant fire; time it so that one of us is still firing whenever the other one has to reload.”
“Reese. Read my lips: N-O. No.” He took Leah’s hand. “Listen. Enough of this for tonight. Let’s wait until I find out exactly what’s possible. For now it’s time for a much-needed happy hour.”
Zeke built the fire back up while Leah opened a bottle of wine. They sat and talked of good times, shared sad laughter at funny stories of Zeke’s family, until the fire died out and the chill crept back in.
CHAPTER 29
East Jerusalem. October 30
The cab swung off Sultan Suleiman onto the access road for the Rockefeller Museum. Sitting in the back seat, Zeke glanced out the window.
On the other side of Sultan Suleiman, within rock-throwing distance, the war-torn wall of the Old City faced the museum. Somewhere behind that wall, over sixty years ago, the Bedouin had knocked on Father Connolly’s door and begun the chain of events that had led to this moment. Sixty years, and an incalculable toll, for Lot’s warning to travel a few miles. Zeke wondered how many miles were left to go. Or if the journey could even be measured in miles.
An octagonal tower jutted up from a white stone building that was all angles and squares. The Rockefeller was considered one of the best archaeological museums in the world, but Zeke had much more pressing business than sightseeing. When he’d called first thing yesterday morning to set up this meeting, his contact had been so intrigued that Zeke had gotten a flight to Tel Aviv that afternoon. With the seven-hour time difference it was now a little past eleven Tuesday morning. He’d slept on the business-class recliner and come straight from the airport.
The cab drove slowly past a tour bus unloading passengers and continued to the service entrance in back. Zeke paid the driver and got out, carrying his overnight bag and the metal briefcase with the scrolls that had caused him an hour delay through customs. It was warmer here than when he’d left D.C., so he stuffed his jacket into the overnight bag.
A uniformed guard checked his list of approved visitors, inspected the bag and the metal case, then directed him down several hallways to the Antiquities Authority. In Antiquities, Zeke told the small bespectacled man who greeted him of his appointment. The man led him down a few more narrow corridors to the nethermost recesses of the building. He gestured to a door, bid Zeke shalom, and left. In Hebrew and English the lettering said:
MORDECAI ROSEN
Director
Maritime Archaeology Unit
Zeke knocked. A man’s voice yelled something in Hebrew. Zeke assumed it was “Come in” and stuck his head inside the door.
“Ah.” The large man behind the desk waved him in and switched to English. Standing, he said, “I’m sorry, I thought you were one of my colleagues. You must be Mr. Zeke Sloan.”
“Yes.”
“The way customs is these days, I didn’t expect you for a while.” His Israeli accent was strong, with th sounds coming out somewhere between a z and an s, but his command of English seemed very good. “I am Mordecai Rosen.”
They shook and Zeke sat in an institutional gray office chair that didn’t go with the large old scuffed wooden desk. A few photos haphazardly arranged atop it were the only personal touches mixed in with the scattered paperwork. One picture showed a much younger Rosen on a beach in diving gear, holding up some kind of artifact. In another he was somewhat older, apparently explaining proper digging technique to a beautiful young girl of about twelve. Behind his desk a small glass case held what were undoubtedly archaeological finds of some personal significance.
“Coffee?”
Zeke was past the coffee stage but said, “That’d be great, thank you.” To further break the ice he added, “Your English is very good.”
“Growing up in Israel, it was part of the curriculum. Then I did some graduate work at Texas A&M, which has a world-class marine archaeology department. That’s when you really learn, using it in conversation every day. You learn the slang, the colloquialisms, which it helps to know. Plus I spent a lot of my spare time in the student lounge playing Scrabble in English.”
“My fiancée and I love Scrabble. Maybe we can play sometime.”
“I’d like that. But I must warn you: an archaeologist is a very patient man. I would try to wait you out and drive you crazy with three-letter words.”
“My fiancée does that all the time. She usually wins while I’m getting greedy and impatient, trying to get my Q onto a triple letter square.”
“Greed and impatience. A deadly combination.”
“Don’t I know it.”
While Rosen turned his attention to the coffee, Zeke looked around. The office was smaller than his at the gym. Not quite cramped, but close. Apparently the Maritime Archaeology Unit didn’t have money to spend on a fancy office for its director. He quickly appraised Mordecai Rosen.
Mid-to-late sixties but sturdy, maybe six two, two-ten. Unkempt black hair speckled with gray, as was his sparse beard. Black slacks and shoes, plain dark gray shirt, untucked, no tie. He looked rumpled and weary. More than weary—sad.
Zeke was anxious to plunge right in, but before leaving D.C. he’d called the congressman Leah worked for. Since he made frequent junkets to Israel, Zeke wanted his advice on the best way to conduct business there. The Israeli bureaucracy could “make you tear your hair out,” the congressman had said, so it was crucial to take a little time to get to know the person who could cut through the red tape, not treat them like a faceless bureaucrat. Noting Rosen’s frazzled appearance, Zeke gave him an opening to unburden himself. “So how are things going for the Director of Maritime Archaeology?”
“For the Director, things are fine. For Mordecai Rosen, not so good.”
“How so?”
Rosen left the coffeemaker to finish brewing and sat behind his desk. He seemed to be struggling with some inner turmoil. “Not to burden you with my problems, but since you asked. My daughter was killed earlier this month.” He pointed to the little girl in the picture. “That’s her. Daddy’s little digger.” He stared at the photo for a long moment as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “October fifth. A suicide bomber.”
The same day as his parents. “Oh. I’m very sorry.”
Rosen nodded, and Zeke debated mentioning his own tragedy. Shared sorrow might help open this door, but more than that, he felt a genuine connection of the heart.
“We have something in common then,” he said. “My whole family was killed that same day.”
A deeper shade of sadness darkened Rosen’s face. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
For half an hour over coffee they related their personal tragedies. When they finished, Rosen sat staring out the window, shaking his head. The s
mall movement conveyed an enormous hopelessness. His eyes slowly found Zeke’s.
“Different kinds of madness with the same result,” he said. “After we buried Norah, her boyfriend and I were talking. He was going to ask her to marry him that weekend. We walked away from her grave outraged, of course, vowing to do something to make the killings stop. That is all I have thought about since. But what can anyone do? Prime ministers and presidents and armies and police cannot make it stop. What can we do to stop the evil, Mr. Sloan?”
On the phone yesterday, Zeke had presented his proposition as a dig for Sodom and Gomorrah. He wanted to keep the search for Hell a secret, for fear he’d be dismissed as a religious fanatic, or that word would leak to the media. But now, after this unexpected connection to Mordecai Rosen’s soul, Zeke felt he could confide in him, and that what he had to say might be exactly what the man needed to hear.
“Please—call me Zeke. And I’m very glad you asked that question. It’s the reason I’m here.”
“But on the phone you said you wanted to check on the feasibility of a dig for Sodom and Gomorrah.”
“I do, but it’s more than that. Mr. Rosen, can I tell you something off the record, in the strictest confidence?”
“Of course. And call me Mordecai.”
“The dig I’m proposing is for Sodom and Gomorrah, yes. But that is only the beginning. What I hope to find near there is an opening into Hell.” Uncertainty flickered across Mordecai’s face. “Yes,” Zeke said. “The actual, literal Hell.”
