Miriam steered expertly through the maze of roads surrounding Jerusalem’s Old City and brought them to a Palestinian family-run hotel near the Damascus Gate. Their Passover dinner ended up consisting of kebabs and flatbread, in an enclosed garden restaurant fragrant with the apple-sweet scent of shisha pipes. The requisite bottle of wine—real this time—was also on hand, and Fox drank liberally from it to calm his nerves.
He supposed it qualified as a miracle that, even with the influx of pilgrims during this combined Holy Week and Passover, Miriam had been able to find two rooms anywhere in Jerusalem, let alone in the same hotel. She and Leila took one, leaving him and Emily in the other.
Fox’s first glimpse through the doorway was of rough-hewn stone walls, which gave the room a subterranean feel, but the starkness was relieved by the colorful patterns on the curtains and duvets. It looked like a desert monastery redecorated by an Ottoman pasha. There was a little fish-and-shell fountain set into one wall. Fox had no idea what it was meant for, but the Catholic in him had to resist the urge to dip his fingers and make the sign of the cross.
As Emily entered the room, Fox hesitated at the threshold. She turned and looked at him, reading his mind. “Come on, Robin. It’s not as though we’ve never slept in the same room before.”
“A hostel dormitory shared with a dozen other backpackers? Not exactly the same thing.”
“No, not exactly. This time, I’ll only need to worry about one man snoring.”
Fox sat down on his bed, and succumbed to a sudden fit of the shakes. An inner voice, which sounded eerily like his old drill instructor, chided him: Pull yourself together, Fox! You’ve been in Afghanistan and Iraq. This is not the first time you’ve been a target. But that time, they had all been targets together, thousands of them, just by virtue of the uniform they wore. This was the first time it had been personal.
Emily sat down next to him and draped an arm around his shoulder. “You all right, Robin?”
He took a deep breath, and let it out in a shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry, Emily.”
“For what?”
“I came here to protect you. And I put you in danger instead.”
Her other hand joined the first one, and began to knead the muscles in his shoulders.
“So that was your reason for coming here, then? To save me?”
Her voice gave no clue as to whether she found this an enchanting feat of gallantry, or whether her feminist sensibilities were about to rear up and bite him for daring to doubt that she could take care of herself.
“Well, that and some other little things, like foiling a terrorist attack, getting intel about the next one, seeing Leila finally free…and of course, the chance for some in-depth field research on the Israeli health care system.”
She chuckled. Her strong fingers sought out the pressure points on his shoulders.
“You haven’t lost your touch,” he said.
“Shall we do this properly? I get equal time, you understand.”
“Deal.”
He lay face down, and her fingers worked his shoulders and down his spine. As healing warmth began to penetrate deep into his muscles, his mind started to drift, tossed on waves of fatigue, dissipating adrenaline, and a quantity of wine that might have exceeded the traditional four cups of the Passover seder. Images rose up and fell away in his consciousness, with present sensations, memory and imagination all blending together.
Of the same fingers easing the knots out of his shoulders in hostel rooms, after many a long day of backpacking.
Of chocolate-fueled dorm-room conversations that ended with the birds singing to welcome the dawn.
Of how it might be to come home to this every evening. To have her smile be the first sight that greeted his eyes in the morning.
Of a lock of her hair brushing his face, and her voice whispering in his ear, “Feeling better now?”
Of turning over to face her, and reaching up to touch her cheek.
Of her face, almost imperceptibly slowly, drawing closer to his.
Of their lips touching. Tentatively at first, as if by accident. Then gently and tenderly. Then with passionate urgency, as he took hold of her and pulled her tight against him.
Of her hair cascading down to make a fragrant curtain around their faces, shutting out the outside world, and leaving it to melt away for all he cared.
12
JERUSALEM
SATURDAY, APRIL 4
HOLY SATURDAY
The alarm on Fox’s cell phone vibrated at 3:30. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and then a jolt of adrenaline brought him wide awake as he struggled to bring his vague memories of the previous night into focus. Headlines swirled into his mind, like the spinning newspapers in old movies, proclaiming the worst-case scenario: Sex scandal at USPRI. Program officer in affair with research fellow. Chief supporter in Congress cuckolded.
He looked over to the other bed, where Emily was asleep in a sleeveless satin nightgown. She stirred slightly, but her eyes stayed shut.
By the end of the day, she would be on a plane back to Washington. Fox hated to leave without a word, but he was equally reluctant to wake her—and what would he say if he did? “Goodbye, Emily, I’m off to try to catch a terrorist—and oh, before I go, I have to ask: did we or didn’t we?”
He zipped up the bag containing the few belongings he had brought with him, took one last regretful look at her sleeping face, and headed into the lobby.
Adler was waiting there, along with a woman with dark, curly hair, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that made her indistinguishable from any tourist in Jerusalem.
Adler stood and extended his hand. “Morning, Robin.”
“Morning.” Robin shook his hand, and did the same to the woman who must be Agent Birnbaum, exchanging no introductions that might be overheard.
Adler cast a glance around the lobby, taking in the framed Palestine pound note from the British Mandate, the brochures for alternative tours to Bethlehem and Jericho, and the display case full of books with titles like Occupation Diaries.
“What’s a nice American like you doing in a place like this?” he asked.
Fox ignored his quip. “Are we ready?”
They traveled on foot, the only real option in the Old City. They passed through the Damascus Gate and walked past the shuttered shops of the Souk Khan es-Zeit toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Even at this early hour, there were several Palestinians coming and going. Fox noted that the most popular article of clothing among boys and young men was a knock-off Gap sweatshirt emblazoned with the letters FOX.
Jerusalem is giving me a royal welcome, he thought wryly. Just as it did for Jesus. And everyone knows how quickly His wore out.
For such a major pilgrimage site, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was remarkably well hidden. As they navigated the labyrinth of souks, their only clue that they were getting close was a row of shops selling icons, rosaries, and olive-wood nativity scenes. They passed under an unassuming archway into the parvis, the courtyard at the entrance to the church. Metal detectors had already been set up at the church entrance, along with cameras to photograph everyone coming in, and a portable cabin from which they could watch the monitors and try to identify any suspects.
Fox had visited the church before during his global wanderings, and come away empty. The gloomy, labyrinthine interior, and the profusion of overwrought icons and ornaments that smothered the presumed holy sites, had made him feel more trapped than transported. When he ducked under the low arch into the aedicule supposedly housing Jesus’ tomb, and saw the Latin inscription in brass reading He Is Not Here, his irreverent thought had been, No kidding.
Birnbaum scanned the parvis with her eyes, taking in the doorways, windows, and rooftops. Fox watched as she approached one of the police officers standing guard, pointed at the wooden ladder leading from a balcony over the church entrance to a window above, and spoke to him in imperious Hebrew. The police officer, and all his colleagues w
ithin earshot, laughed as though she had made the best joke of the week.
When she made her tight-lipped return, Fox gave her a sidelong glance and asked, “Are you by any chance new to Jerusalem?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I’m guessing you told them that ladder was a security risk and should be moved.” Taking her silence as confirmation, he went on, “No wonder they laughed. That’s the Immovable Ladder. It’s been there for more than two hundred years. If any of the denominations that share custody of this church wanted to move it, they would have to get the approval of all five others. It’s practically impossible to move or change anything at all in this church. When the roof started to fall into disrepair, they argued and argued until it was at the point of caving in before they could finally agree on whose responsibility it was to fix it.”
Birnbaum pointed at the scaffolding and tarpaulins on the roof. “It seems they finally got enough of a consensus to start doing something.”
Fox nodded. “Miracles do sometimes happen. Even in Jerusalem.”
They entered the portable cabin. Shira was already there, her eyes on the screen that showed the faces of pilgrims coming through the security checkpoint. When the church opened at 4:30, images began flashing across the screen, one after the other, along with a light that lit up whenever anyone presented a passport from Britain or Ireland.
The first Mass of the morning began and ended. No matches.
“Keep in mind,” said Adler, “that they could have cut their hair, permed it, straightened it, dyed it. They could be using wigs, colored contacts, all kinds of disguises.”
“I’m aware of all that,” Shira assured him.
Early morning became midmorning. They settled into a routine: keep the station open for fifty minutes, then close it for ten to give Shira a break. Fox ran to one of the open-air restaurants in the souk for cups of Turkish coffee.
Morning gave way to noon. No matches.
“Remember, if you don’t find her,” Adler reminded Shira, “then as far as the United States is concerned, you’re worth nothing.”
“John, please!” Fox said. “She’s under enough stress already.”
Birnbaum said nothing, but her mere presence increased the air pressure in the room to a crushing level.
By one o’clock, Fox was beginning to feel distinctly uneasy. He had never been to the Holy Fire ceremony, but from pictures and videos, he had an image of how the parvis would look in the run-up to the event: full of expectant crowds with unlit candles ready to receive the Fire, waving flags, beating drums and chanting, “We are Christians, have been for centuries and will be forever!” At the moment, though, even though there were plenty of pilgrims coming and going, there was nothing to suggest this was anything but an ordinary day.
“Where is everyone?” Fox wondered aloud. “The fire is supposed to be lit at exactly two o’clock on Holy…”
He had been about to say “Saturday,” but he suddenly clamped a hand over his mouth to prevent the escape of another word beginning with the same letter.
“What?” Adler asked.
“We’re in the wrong place.”
Birnbaum gave him a shocked look, and whirled on Shira. “I knew it! I knew it was a mistake to trust you!”
“Agent—” Fox tried to intervene, but she was too enraged to hear him.
“Once a traitor to Israel, always a traitor to—”
“Agent! Can I talk to you for a minute?”
With a smoldering glance over her shoulder at Shira, Birnbaum followed Fox outside into the sunlit courtyard.
“You didn’t make a mistake,” he told her, “and neither did she. The mistake was mine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m an idiot. I should go back to the Religious Studies department right now and turn in my resignation. The Holy Fire ceremony happens the day before Orthodox Easter. Which is a week later than the Catholic and Protestant one.”
Birnbaum was silent for a moment. “Next week?”
“Next week.”
“So…there’s nothing special happening today?”
“The Catholics had their Mass this morning. There’ll be other services going on as usual, but no more fire than on any other day.”
As soon as the words were out of Fox’s mouth, the windowpanes above their heads shattered. The two of them ducked and covered as glass shards rained down around them. Flames surged out of the windows and door, along with thick clouds of black smoke and the screams of thousands of pilgrims as they frantically converged on the single narrow exit. The Immovable Ladder, dislodged from the balcony, clattered to the courtyard.
“What the hell?” Birnbaum cried, pressing herself against the wall as the fleeing crowd began to surge through the parvis. “What happened?”
Fox was frantically searching his mind for possible answers to the same question. He was sure they had checked every pilgrim coming into the church. How could the saboteur have escaped their detection?
His gaze swept the parvis, and fell on a narrow doorway in the corner.
Without a word of explanation to Birnbaum, he shouldered his way across the fleeing crowd to the door. He ran through it, up two narrow staircases, and through two chapels before emerging into the sunlight of another courtyard, this one on the top of the roof.
Fox knew this place by reputation only: the Deir es-Sultan Monastery, a community of Ethiopian monks built on the roof of the church. All around him were free-form dwellings of rocks and plaster, where the only straight lines and right angles were in the doorways. He could have been in some ancient town in Ethiopia rather than among the rooftops of Jerusalem, except for the dome in the middle of the courtyard looking down into one of the chapels, and the black smoke that now billowed out of it.
A monk in a white robe and turban saw Fox, and pointed toward an arched doorway on the far side of the courtyard. Fox waved his thanks and charged through. He looked down the cobbled street beyond and saw a man running down it. The coveralls he was wearing would have looked entirely unremarkable on any construction site in the world, except for one thing: they had a fresh-out-of-the-package look, as if they had never been worn before.
Fox charged after him. If the suspect got to the end of the street and down the stairs, he would merge into the crowd in the souk, and Fox would lose him again.
As he rounded a corner, though, he ran straight into a phalanx of firefighters and rescue workers running the other way. They reminded Fox of the Charge of the Light Brigade, surging into battle against impossible odds. With the narrow, winding streets and innumerable doors and stairs on all approaches to the church, there was no way for fire engines or ambulances to reach it. The only real way to fight the blaze and rescue the injured would be by helicopter.
The suspect doubled back, facing Fox for the first time. It came as no surprise that the face was one he had seen before: Kenneth Oldman, the poisoner.
Fox tried to cut Oldman off, but Oldman drew a knife from his belt and brandished it. Fox had no doubt that the point would be envenomed.
Oldman ran back the way he had come, Fox hard on his heels. As the firefighters turned and squeezed through the narrow gate into the monastery courtyard, Oldman ran straight ahead, through an arch that a sign identified as the entrance to the Church of St. Helen.
Fox followed behind. He looked around the chapel, with its vaulted wooden ceiling and Coptic icons, and checked the pews, but found no one hiding among them. He crossed the nave and cautiously stepped through another doorway opposite the one through which he had entered.
Beyond the doorway was a rough-hewn stone staircase descending into subterranean darkness. The ceiling was so low he had to duck, and the air was so humid that the moisture condensed on the walls and trickled down to form pools on the steps. He heard the sound of dripping water echoing in a cavernous space somewhere below.
The narrow passage opened up into an underground cistern, a cave filled from wall to wall wit
h a deep pool of water. The stairs continued down to a landing, and then to the water’s edge. Oldman was out of sight, but Fox knew he had to be waiting around the bend. There was nowhere else he could go without diving underwater.
Fox took off his jacket, and took one quick, cautious peek over the stone banister before flinging it down where he judged Oldman’s head to be. He ran down a few more steps and vaulted over the banister, just as Oldman was shaking the jacket off his head.
Oldman lunged with knife in his hand. Fox dodged the thrust and caught Oldman’s wrist.
There is a pressure point, Fox’s unarmed combat instructor had taught him, on the back of the hand where the thumb and forefinger meet. If you hit it accurately, from the proper angle and with sufficient force, your opponent is guaranteed to drop his weapon.
It was a technique that a karate black belt might have a reasonable chance of executing correctly. Fox, despite his years in Japan, was not one of those. Oldman kept his grip on the knife.
Fox blocked a punch from Oldman’s other hand, and then slammed the hand holding the knife into the wall of the cave. He thought he felt Oldman’s grip loosen. He tried it again, and the knife clattered to the steps.
Fox snaked his other arm around Oldman’s, took a grip on his collar, and forced him to his knees. Oldman’s free arm swung at him, but Fox remained out of its range.
“Kenneth Oldman.” Fox’s voice resounded in the cave like that of a judge about to deliver the final verdict. “The Portsmouth Poisoner.”
Oldman scoffed. “It’s your lot who are the poisoners. Religion poisons everything.”
“Where is the next target?”
“In your arse.”
Forgive me, Fox prayed silently, for using this sacred space for such a profane purpose.
He pushed Oldman forward into the cistern and held his head under the water, tightening his hold as his captive struggled and splashed.
Civilians who voluntarily subjected themselves to waterboarding, usually to prove that it scarcely qualified as torture, lasted an average of fifteen seconds before they changed their minds. Hardened combatants captured in the field could sometimes hold out for as long as thirty-five. Forty was considered the upper limit. Fox counted ten before pulling his captive up again.
Mind Virus Page 15
