The Sacred Blood

by Michael Byrnes

  “His DNA is inside me,” she said, her voice low, reverent. “It cured me. Probably minutes after it got into my bloodstream.”

  Now Donovan was practically hyperventilating. On impulse, he crossed himself.

  “So it seems we both have secrets.” He looked like he was going to have heart failure. So she reached over with a soothing hand and laid it on his forearm.

  The fingers of his right hand went back to his quivering lips once more. The implications of what they’d uncovered in Jerusalem kept coming. “What have we done?”

  “Isn’t everything God’s plan?” she said defensively, mostly to ease her guilt.

  There may have been a time when he believed that. It would be comforting to think that God played puppeteer when Donovan killed Conte and Santelli. And it would offer great solace to know that the desecration of Christ’s ossuary was divinely sanctioned. But could God possibly have intended these consequences? “I don’t know, Charlotte. I just don’t know.” He looked out to the horizon. “What I do know is that we’re in this together,” Donovan grimly replied.

  “Well, here’s what I’m thinking: what if these men somehow found out about my genetic studies?” It seemed impossible, given the unbelievable secrecy and security protocols she and Evan had built around the study. She pulled her hand back. “Maybe that’s why they’re coming for us?”

  Sitting up, Donovan thought about this. At first, it actually seemed possible. Then he shook his head. “You saw how they got into your building. It was easy for them. Why would they have wasted time trying to come for me first?”

  It was a good point. “Because I don’t have the bones?” she guessed.

  “But you just told me you don’t need the bones. Your small sample can be replicated easily, right?”

  “I see what you mean,” she said—a major hole in the hypothesis. “So you don’t think they actually know about the DNA?”

  Based on the interaction he’d had with them in Belfast, he said, “I don’t think that’s what they’re after—at least not directly. But it’s evident that they want one of us to show them where the bones are hidden.”

  Her eyes flashed with curiosity. She’d forgotten all about this. “Where did you hide them?”

  “Best I not tell you that. For your own safety,” he insisted. He could see she was disappointed. “But I promise that if we get through this, I’ll show you.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “So where do we go from here?”

  Donovan sighed. “We can’t stay here, that’s for sure. Apparently they can track us everywhere we go.”

  “Why not just call the police? I mean, they murdered—” She felt her throat close off. The tears came again.

  He shook his head. “These men are professionals. We don’t have names, a plausible motive. Nothing. They won’t be found. The real investigation that needs to be done . . . well, I think we’d agree that they just wouldn’t believe our story. Police won’t matter. We’d be sitting ducks,” he soberly replied. Looking up at her watery eyes, he could see she agreed. “Until we figure this all out, we need to be in a place where even if they know where we are, they can’t get to us. Someplace with very, very tight security.”

  “We’d need to hire bodyguards. Lots of bodyguards.”

  “No need,” he said, grinning. “Someone’s already done that for us.”

  Obviously he had an idea. “Share, please.”

  He simply replied, “I’ve been on sabbatical long enough.”

  18

  ******

  The Temple Mount, Israel

  Sheikh Ghalib Hamzah ibn Mu’adh al-Namair claimed the leather armchair at the head of the teak conference table. The arched window behind him had been cranked open to allow a gentle breeze to freshen the cramped meeting room, but more important, to give the Waqf ’s assembled council members the necessary vantage to set eyes on the brilliantly sunlit Dome of the Rock, situated across the esplanade—visual reinforcement of their duty to protect the sanctity of the Haram esh-Sharif.

  To further emphasize that duty, he’d slotted the early evening meeting immediately following Asr—the fourth of the five daily prayers that preceded the setting of the sun. And Ghalib had insisted that those now present recite the silent prayer inside the Dome of the Rock. He felt it would better set the mood.

  Ghalib sat back tall and rigid, with forearms aligned perfectly on the chair’s armrests. Loose, wiry hands hung from the sleeves of his bright white tunic. Beneath a white prayer cap, or kufi, wisps of jet-black hair framed his wide, bony face and blended seamlessly with a patiently grown and meticulously groomed beard and mustache. An ever-present sneer favoring his right cheek gave a permanent crook to his lips. He was only thirty-eight, remarkably youthful for such a post—a testament to the fact that youth tended to preserve the fight in a man.

  “As-salaam alaikum,” he said, greeting the dozen prominent elders and Muslim clerics gathered around him. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and said, “Praise to Allah, the merciful and the beneficent. May He guide us and watch over us.” Then he tipped his head back and opened his eyes. It wasn’t only the stuffy room that needing airing. “I’m well aware that some of you have voiced concerns about my appointment here.” His caramel irises swam in pure white orbs resting behind taut eyelids, passing over the innocent with no regard, tightening accusatorily on the known dissenters.

  And some dissension was expected. As a star pupil of the right-wing Wahhabi brand of Islam, Ghalib was a highly vocal fundamentalist with strong ties to Islamic militant groups, a regular teacher at universities throughout the Arab region, and hailed as the next great voice in Palestinian liberation.

  “So let us talk,” he said. “Voice our concerns. Discuss our ongoing mission to preserve Islam and its sacred shrines.” His head tipped right as his accusatory stare went directly for the man who most opposed him. “Why don’t we start with you, Muhammad?” The turbaned sixty-two-year-old shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat. “The Israelis continue to dig beneath the Haram while the Waqf sits idly by . . . watching, waiting,” Ghalib said in a sharp tone. “What do you suppose we are waiting for? Do you believe that your prayers will stop the bulldozers?”

  “Of course not,” Muhammad said defensively. “You know that is not the case.”

  Ghalib spread his hands. “Then defend your case.”

  Another dry cough. “Ever since the theft in June . . . since your predecessor was indicted as an accomplice,” he reminded Ghalib, “our power has been greatly diminished.”

  Ghalib’s crooked lip tilted higher. His predecessor, Farouq bin Alim Abd al-Rahmaan al-Jamir, was still in custody with the Israeli authorities and facing severe charges for conspiring to commit a theft that left thirteen Israeli police and soldiers dead. Though Israel’s only state-sanctioned execution had been the May 1962 hanging of Nazi SS leader Adolf Eichmann (who’d been captured hiding in Argentina by Mossad agents), many high-ranking Israelis in parliament insisted that Farouq should be put to death for treason.

  Ghalib shook his head, his lips turned down. “Your power has not changed. But your will has surely weakened.” He knew what made the man soft and sympathetic. Though Palestinian by blood, Muhammad was Israeli by passport. It was evident that it wasn’t just the cover of his immigration documents that had changed from green to blue. And unlike his suffering brethren, Ghalib knew, righteous Muhammad lived on the prosperous side of Israel’s separation fences that cut away the West Bank and Gaza with hundreds of kilometers of poured concrete, steel, and wire.

  Anxiety building quickly, Muhammad was hoping someone at the table would support him. None spoke up. “There was an earthquake,” he stressed. “Mild, yes. And when it first happened we were granted permission to see what had happened. I personally viewed the tunnel . . . you too, Safwan,” he said, pointing to the gaunt Arab wearing a kaffiyeh who sat across from him. “You saw it with your own eyes. Tell them.”

  Safwan was silent; his
charcoal eyes went to his hands.

  Muhammad persisted, “Considerable damage was done—”

  Ghalib overrode him. “Need I remind you that the damage was done long ago when you sat idly by over the past decade and allowed Jews to excavate the tunnels beneath the Muslim Quarter?”

  “It was a trade-off,” he insisted. “They got the tunnel; we were permitted to restore the Marwani Mosque.” He held his hands and balanced them like scales.

  “And see where that got you? You cleared the way for thieves to blow a hole through it.”

  The Marwani Mosque had been the thieves’ entry point to the arched vaults beneath the mount—and a hidden chamber sealed behind its rear wall, which they’d accessed with C-4 plastic explosive.

  Muhammad’s face reddened. He was playing right into Ghalib’s hands. And the man was certainly looking to make an example out of him. One thing was now clear: Ghalib’s appointment here was indicative of a subversive political agenda playing out on a much higher level. Given the current state of affairs, he still couldn’t imagine how the Israelis had even granted Ghalib entry into the country. Most likely, Ghalib had been snuck in by his Lebanese Hezbollah contacts. Ghalib had yet to step foot off the Haram, refused all media appearances, and corresponded under the assumed name Talal bin Omar. However, the Israelis weren’t stupid, so Muhammad could only guess that they preferred having Ghalib within easy reach. “The proper resolution we’ve always sought has been peace. Cooperation. Coexistence. Just as the Prophet teaches us.”

  Ghalib sneered. “Peace? Coexistence?” He mockingly held his hands out at the man and let his gaze circle the table. “There is no peace in Jerusalem. Peace is a hopeless ideal that appeals only to the weak. There will never be peace in a place where Jews burrow like vermin beneath the great Prophet’s sacred mosque. And coexistence is an excuse for your fear of their guns and nuclear weapons. Only victory will bring peace. And in the name of Allah, we will prevail.” The teacher in him shone through, ever ready to provide Qur’anic tafsir favoring jihad. “Do you not agree?”

  Scowling faces swung toward Muhammad. The Keeper’s question was a loaded gun. He paused to consider an appropriate rebuttal. “I do not condone what is now happening, but—”

  “My ears have heard this digging!” another elder burst out. “While praying in the mosque . . . below my feet . . . I hear chipping sounds!” He cupped a hand around his ear and tried to imitate it: “Chh-chh-chh. Chh-chh-chh. This is what I hear. It is true. The Jews seek to destroy the Haram!”

  The room erupted.

  Smiling, Ghalib savored the moment. A half minute later, he finally raised his hands up to silence them. “Infestation. Like termites. That is what we are dealing with. There is a plague here that must be eliminated. We must free our house from defilement. It is not a choice. It is our sworn duty.”

  The council members barked their support.

  “We must avoid drastic action,” Muhammad delicately pleaded as he rose to his feet and placed a hand flat on the table. “Hostility will only cost innocent lives,” he said, patting the hand twice. “Has this not been proven time and time again?”

  Rebuking shouts drowned him out. Ghalib once again intervened to settle them down. Then he jabbed a spindly finger toward Muhammad and commanded, “Sit down!”

  Muhammad’s firm expression withered into despair. He threw his hands up in surrender. “I cannot support this . . .” He made to leave the room.

  Ghalib’s right hand sliced the air like an ax blade. “I am not finished!” he roared, nostrils flaring.

  Muhammad froze and turned back to him.

  “Jews have no place here!” Ghalib held up a balled fist and swung it like a hammer. “This is a truth that cannot be questioned! Be assured that our response to recent events will be swift and concise. And our voice must be one. It is evident that your disgraceful words are solely your own and will not poison our ears. Therefore, your services are no longer required by this council. Now go, and don’t come back.” His hand chopped an arc to the door. “And let me remind you that anything you say outside these walls will have very serious consequences.” His face twisted. “Very serious indeed.”

  Glaring eyes bored into Muhammad like needles in a pincushion as he slunk out of the room.

  The room erupted again, the men boisterously voicing their approval of Ghalib’s fervent patriotism.

  19

  ******

  Qumran

  By the time Amit steered the Land Rover off Kaliah-Sedom (Highway 90) and up the drive leading to an empty parking lot, the sun was setting over the hills of Jordan, making the Dead Sea glow amber and sapphire. He claimed the spot closest to the planted palm grove bordering the tiny makeshift oasis that was Qumran’s visitors’ center.

  “Isn’t this romantic,” Jules said. “We have the place all to ourselves.” “Too bad I didn’t bring some wine.”

  “Always a step behind,” she teased, shaking her head.

  He grinned tightly, knowing she wouldn’t be saying this after he’d

  shown her what he’d found up in the hills.

  They both hopped out.

  Amit circled to the Land Rover’s rear and lifted the hatch to retrieve

  some provisions.

  Meanwhile, Jules took a few seconds to admire the picturesque sea with its white mineral-crusted shore, the stark umber hills jutting up into the amethyst glow spreading into the sky above.

  The Land Rover locked with a quick flash of lights and a tiny chirp as Amit pocketed his keys. He came to her side holding flashlights and a black rucksack.

  “God, it’s so beautiful,” Jules said.

  “Sure is. And smell that?” He breathed through his nostrils, long and steady—the distinctive aroma of clay, potash, and bromine.

  She sampled it too, her thin nose flaring at the sides.

  “That’s history . . . the Bible; what keeps me coming back,” he said.

  “Smells a bit like a swimming pool,” she said in a snooty French accent, “but whatever floats your ark.”

  “You’re ruthless.” Shaking his head, he handed her a light.

  He led her up some paved steps past the squat gift shop and ticket center, out back to the gravel trails leading to the sheer cliffs that formed a continuous wall to the north and south. To their left were the excavated ruins—mainly foundations—of the village the Essenes had inhabited up until the first century. Not far beyond them was a deep gorge extending from the sea to a huge mineral-coated crevasse cut into the cliffs by the winters’ flash flood runoff. They were headed to a zigzag path running up it.

  “How far up?” she asked, eyeing the towering cliffs.

  “Pretty far,” he flatly replied.

  “Fabulous,” she huffed.

  Peppered around a sliver of a crescent moon, winking stars were starting to break through the darkening sky as Amit led Jules to the ladder set beneath the cave opening.

  Drenched in sweat and complaining incessantly about the buzzing flies, Jules was razzing him about how they were going to make it back down the cliff in the dark. She was still upset that some spots had required them to climb over boulders.

  “The hike down is much less challenging,” he said, stretching the truth. Despite her complaints, he knew the payoff was certain. He flicked on the flashlight and pointed it up at the opening.

  As Jules craned her neck back, her flashlight lit up the tight curves where her sweat-soaked white T-shirt clung to her chest. The opening was another climb, but nothing like the clamber up the gorge. When her gaze snapped back to Amit, she caught him quickly diverting his bashful eyes from her raised nipples. “I’d hate to think you dragged me up here to look at my tits.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and squeezed her breasts together, to make matters worse for the Israeli.

  His face went red. “I was just . . . just . . .” Then he decided that his attraction didn’t require an apology. “It’s hard not to stare, that’s all. Take it as a complimen
t.”

  “Compliment taken.” She actually blushed. “Now can we get moving?” She waved for him to get up the ladder.

  The episode had taken away his fear of climbing, because he stepped off the ladder and into the cave without care. He snuck another forbidden peek when he clasped her hand and helped her up.

  “We’re heading all the way in,” he informed her, his voice taking on a professional air. “Watch your footing. It gets a bit dodgy in spots.”

  “Lead the way so I can check out your ass,” she quipped.

  “Enjoy the show,” he said, and began the steady climb up the tight passage.

  “Double feature,” she said, shining the light on his rump.

  The tricky tunnel forced Jules to concentrate for the remainder of the climb. When Amit spilled out into a wide hewn chamber, she wasn’t quite sensing the magic.

  “You okay?” he asked, making his way to a light pole.

  “Oui.” She ran her flashlight over a bunch of bricks arranged neatly on the floor. It was when the work light went on that she saw the wide opening in the rear wall. She moved closer.