by Glenn Meade
Two young men entered the alleyway. The woman named Maria forced another smile as she went to approach them. “Hey, you guys want to have a good time?”
Becket suppressed the ire in his heart. He stared up at the alleyway’s nameplate for directions, committed it to his memory, and hurried on.
He came to a littered side street and stopped in front of a terraced house. The double front door was painted blue, its crumbling sandstone walls at least eighteenth century. He yanked a bellpull and a tinkling noise echoed somewhere inside. Moments later he heard bolts being slid. A double door opened and a woman stood there. She was middle-aged, with a buxom matronly figure. She smiled at her visitor. “Yes?”
Becket didn’t speak but lifted his head. When the shocked woman saw his face beneath the hood she put a hand to her mouth. “John—”
Becket’s brow glistened with sweat. “I got the letter. We need to talk, Anna.”
The woman glanced up and down the empty street to make sure no one had seen them and then she ushered him inside.
PART FOUR
26
JORDAN
5:35 P.M.
JACK SWEATED INSIDE the Ford pickup. They had entered Jordan over a hundred miles ago and Josuf was speeding along a stretch of open desert road, the dusty windshield spattered with dead flies, the late afternoon sun hot as a furnace.
“The air-conditioning kaput,” Josuf told them, cursing the weak stream of cool air that flowed from the cabin’s dashboard. They had left the windows open but still it was blistering hot. Endless sand plains stretched across either side, broken only by the occasional palm-fringed wadi or the rusting wrecks of abandoned vehicles littering the side of the road.
Yasmin sat between Jack and Josuf, the pickup cabin cramped. A pair of furry dice dangled from the rearview mirror, the dashboard jam-packed with stuck-on pictures of Josuf’s extended family.
The Bedu kept a firm grip on the steering wheel and his foot to the floor, the Ford chewing up the desert road. “From here on it gets more dangerous. Entering Jordan was easy, but where we cross the Syrian border there are often army patrols. If we meet one, please let me do the talking.”
“If you say so.” Jack felt the tension rise in the cabin. For the last half hour there had been no road signs and it amazed him to think that Josuf could navigate without maps or a GPS system. But then it stood to reason that the desert’s geography had to be in the Bedu’s blood.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Cane, you and the lady will be safe. My cousin is serving with the Syrian army and has promised to guide us over the border.”
“You’re sure he won’t let us down?”
“Not Faisal. He’s as reliable as the dawn.”
Jack tried to relax but found it impossible. If they were caught illegally crossing the Syrian border, they could spend years in prison.
Josuf said proudly, “The Syrian military likes to enlist the Bedu, as do the Jordanians, and even the Israelis. They make excellent soldiers. Faisal is an officer.”
“What happens after we meet him?”
“He’ll lead us to Maloula.”
“Tell me about the monastery.”
“All I know is that it was once part of an Arab fort, built over a thousand years ago. The monastery is still in use and is a place of Christian pilgrimage.”
Jack wiped sweat from his brow. They had crossed the Israeli–Jordanian border at the Allenby Bridge. For the last two hours they had driven across a ribbon of coarse roads through endless desert. Before they had left Qumran, Josuf had sent Yasmin back to the camp to pack. On the floor between Jack’s feet was an overnight bag that Yasmin had stashed with a clean change of clothes, underwear, and toiletries for both of them.
Josuf depressed the windshield-wash button but when a few miserable squirts hit the dusty glass, he pulled to the side of the road and kept the engine running.
“What’s up?” Jack asked.
“I must fill the windshield bottle with water. I have a plastic container in the back.” Josuf reached under his seat and plucked out a set of number plates, along with a screwdriver. “I need also to fit Syrian licence plates. Not false, but genuine. My vehicle is registered in three countries.”
“Do you pay taxes in any of them?”
Josuf laughed, flashing his silver tooth. “I try not to, Mr. Cane.”
“When do we cross the border?”
“We crossed it five minutes ago.”
27
JOSUF WENT TO raise the hood and Jack said to Yasmin, “You look distracted. Are you okay?”
“I’m trying not to think what might happen if we get caught. I’ve heard scary stories about the Syrian secret police. People getting locked up for years without trial, and even being tortured.”
Jack felt the furnace heat of the desert fill the cabin and took a slug of bottled water. “Don’t dwell on it. Have you ever heard of this St. Paul’s Monastery before?”
“Never.”
“If we had a signal around here, maybe we could try the Internet?”
“I’ll try.” Yasmin plucked out her cell phone, flicked it open, and after a few moments said, “No, I can’t get a signal.”
Outside, Josuf finished under the hood. The Bedu slammed it shut and began using the screwdriver to attach the number plates.
Jack looked at Yasmin, struck by her near-perfect features, her almond eyes and bronzed skin. “By the way, I appreciate you coming along.”
Yasmin smiled and touched his arm. “I think you’re starting to bring out the maternal instinct in me. Besides, you needed someone to keep you company aside from Josuf.”
Jack felt that same familiar stab of electricity as she touched him. She wasn’t wearing shorts now but a black Arab hijab that covered her entire body, except the face veil was left open. The hijab had been Josuf’s idea so that she wouldn’t attract attention. “You could be right.”
Josuf came back and climbed into his seat. As he stashed away the old number plates he suddenly said hoarsely, “I think we have company.”
Jack peered beyond the windshield and felt his heart skip. A huge dust trail plumed behind two canvas-topped trucks painted in desert camouflage as they streaked across the sand. They were clearly police or military vehicles and Jack saw that each had a machine-gunner standing in the back. “Tell me we’re about to meet this military cousin of yours.”
Josuf’s face drained of color as he shook his head. “This looks like a Syrian border patrol.”
The vehicles turned toward them, the canvas tops rippling as they picked up speed. Jack said desperately, “Can’t you reverse and drive back over the border?”
“It’s too late for that.” Josuf sounded desperate.
“Try, for goodness’ sake,” Jack urged.
Josuf reversed the pickup, revved the engine, and turned in a half circle, just as a heavy-caliber machine gun erupted and the desert to the right of them kicked up sand. A second later another loud volley smacked into the road ahead of them, gouging out chunks of asphalt.
“Hey, they mean business!” Jack exclaimed.
The Syrian trucks roared closer. Two of the vehicles cut out in front of the pickup. Josuf slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road as half a dozen soldiers armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles jumped down, cocking their weapons. One of the soldiers screamed an order.
Josuf’s face was drenched in sweat. “They want us to step out and keep our hands in the air.”
“Is your cousin among them?”
“No, Mr. Cane.”
“Terrific.”
28
A FRESH-FACED LIEUTENANT stepped down from one of the trucks. He brandished an automatic pistol and shouted in Arabic, “Step out of the vehicle and keep your hands high.”
Josuf climbed out and obeyed, followed by Jack and Yasmin.
The lieutenant stepped closer and studied them suspiciously. “Who are you? What are you doing on Syrian soil?” he demanded.
“A mistake, sir,”
Josuf pleaded. “I realized the moment I saw your patrol. I’m lost, sir.”
The lieutenant was wary. “The road is well signposted. How are you lost?”
“I can’t read, sir,” Josuf replied.
The lieutenant pointed his pistol at Josuf’s face, then swiveled the weapon toward Jack and Yasmin. “Let me see your papers. Search all of them and their vehicle,” he ordered his men, then pointed his weapon at Yasmin. “You, hand over your papers.”
Sweat beaded Jack’s forehead. He saw Yasmin stricken with fear as two soldiers came forward and searched him and Josuf. Another kept his Kalashnikov trained on Yasmin as she fumbled to hand over her passport.
The lieutenant scrutinized their documents. His eyes sparked when he saw Jack’s American passport. “So, you are an American?” he said in English.
“That’s what the passport says.”
“You speak Arabic?”
“A little.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Your passports have Israeli stamps. What are you doing in this area?”
Jack said, “It’s like the driver said. We got lost.”
“But you speak Arabic. You could have read the signs.”
Jack shook his head. “I guess I don’t read the language all that well.”
In an instant the lieutenant slapped him across the jaw.
Jack felt the raw, stinging blow and clapped a hand to his cheek. “Hey, I told you the truth. I didn’t notice any signs that said we had entered Syria.”
The lieutenant aimed his pistol at Jack’s head. “Liar. We’ll soon see if you’re telling the truth or not, American.”
“Lieutenant Farsa.”
A major stepped out of the second truck. Jack had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed him in the passenger seat. The man wore a crisply pressed uniform. His dark eyes and pencil-thin mustache gave him a dangerous look. A cigarette was balanced delicately between his thumb and forefinger and he studied his three captives. “I am Major Harsulla, of the Mukhabarat, the Syrian secret police. Who are our guests, lieutenant?”
The major’s voice was surprisingly gentle. The lieutenant handed him the three passports. “The old one’s a Bedu, his passport’s Jordanian. It seems the vehicle belongs to him. The woman’s Lebanese, the man’s an American.”
The major’s eyebrows rose with interest and he flicked away his unfinished cigarette. “American, you say?”
“Yes, sir.”
The major grinned. “Well now, isn’t that interesting?” He studied the passports zealously before looking at Jack and Yasmin. Finally, his gaze shifted to Josuf. “You say you got lost, old man?”
“Yes, sir, we got lost, certainly. This is all a terrible mistake.”
The major closed the passports and tapped them in his palm. “Lost? I doubt it somehow. You Bedu know these deserts better than a blind camel.”
Josuf pleaded, “Please, sir. What I say is true, as Allah is my judge. I wouldn’t lie.”
“We’ll soon find out. You’re all under arrest.”
One of the soldiers finished searching the pickup and came back brandishing several pairs of licence plates, along with a curved Arab dagger in a sheath. “We found these under the driver’s seat, sir.”
The major examined the plates, then angrily tossed them on the sand. He held up the curved Arab knife. “What’s this for, Bedu? Picking your teeth?”
“It’s a tradition for my people to carry knives. The major must know that.”
“And false number plates too?” The major struck Josuf across the face. He staggered back, blood on his lip.
The major removed his pistol and sneered. “Your lies will cost you your life, you old fool.” He cocked his pistol and aimed at Josuf’s head. For a second or two it looked as if he really meant to shoot, then he grinned and released the hammer, decocking the weapon. “Perhaps I’ll keep the pleasure of beating the truth out of you and your friends back at headquarters.” He replaced his pistol in its holster and snapped his fingers at one of the soldiers. “Put them on board the truck. Have one of the men follow in their pickup.”
“Yes, sir.”
The major barked at the lieutenant. “Continue with the patrol. Search the area in case there are other intruders.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant snapped off a salute and went to join his men in the first truck.
The major turned to Jack. “For your sake, I hope your presence here can be explained, American. Do you have anything more to say?”
“I’d like to talk with a U.S. consul, if there is one.”
The major grinned. “I doubt it. But even a consul couldn’t help. All of you could be spies. And the penalty for spying against the Syrian state is death.” He snapped his fingers at his men. “Put them all in the back of the truck. If any of these vermin try to escape, shoot them.”
29
TEL AVIV
ISRAEL
3:50 P.M.
THE HELICOPTER CARRYING Lela Raul touched down at Ben-Gurion Airport with a clatter of engine noise. When she stepped out of the cabin she saw a small, cheerful-looking man wearing a flowered beach shirt, waving from the tarmac. He came over to join her. “Good to see you again, Lela. How’ve you been?”
“Ari, what are you doing here?” Lela was surprised to see Ari Tauber. They had known each other since serving together with the Jerusalem police force, until several years back, when Tauber had somehow ended up in Mossad. And as colleagues, it had transpired that both their grandfathers had even served together in the same Jewish partisan group that fought Nazis in Ukraine.
Ari took her arm warmly and led her toward the terminal. “I could ask you the same question, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know the answer. Come on, I’ve got my car outside.”
Minutes later Ari drove them in his blue Ford toward the whitewashed sprawl of Tel Aviv. Lela asked, “How are the wife and kids?”
“Sharon is still working as a medical secretary. And Nathan’s nine now, if you can believe it. Geli is hitting fourteen and as beautiful as her mother. And if I needed proof I’ve got a procession of pimple-faced teenage boys knocking on our front door every ten minutes, smelling of cheap aftershave.”
Lela said more seriously, “What’s the story, Ari? Why does the head of Mossad want to see me?”
Ari shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until my boss talks with you. I’m under strict orders to keep my mouth shut. I was on my day off, enjoying a family barbecue and a few cold Heinekens when I got the call from headquarters.”
“But you know what it’s about?”
Ari’s cheerful expression changed to a serious look. “I’ll have to refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate me. Relax, you’ll know soon enough, Lela. Now, tell me how life’s been treating you.”
Fifteen minutes later Ari pulled into the private grounds of a concrete building in Herzliya. The blue and white flag of Israel, the Star of David in the center, fluttered on a flagpole above Mossad’s headquarters. Two uniformed armed guards stood at a barrier gate and when they checked Ari’s papers and Lela’s ID, the car was waved through.
The Ford drew up in front of the building and a guard came forward to open the car doors, a machine pistol draped across his chest.
Lela stepped out and Ari said, “Ever met the head of Mossad before?”
“Never.”
Ari grinned and clapped a hand on Lela’s shoulder. “Then you’re about to join the ranks of the chosen few. Come on, I’ll take you up to the top floor to meet God himself.”
30
JULIUS WEISS LOOKED like a harmless enough eccentric. A stocky man with cold eyes and an intense stare, his abiding obsession was the security of Israel. With the title of HaMemuneh, or responsible one, he held the military rank of general, but as Mossad chief he never wore a uniform, preferring instead the anonymous garb of open-neck shirt and worn leather sandals.
Weiss was seated behind his desk that afternoon,
reading a file, when Ari Tauber led Lela into the office. Weiss greeted her with a stare, then shut the file and came round from his desk to shake her hand. “Inspector Raul. How was your trip?”
“It would have been better if I’d known why I’d been summoned.”
A smile flickered on Weiss’s face. “Go grab a coffee, Ari.”
“Yes, sir.” Tauber withdrew, closing the door after him.
Weiss indicated a chair. “Take a seat, Inspector. My name is Julius Weiss, and I’m the head of Mossad. I have an interest in a case of yours. The murder at Qumran of an American archaeologist named Professor Green. Would you care to fill me in on what’s been happening in the case?”
“With respect, sir, the case is a police matter.”
Weiss arched a bushy eyebrow, as if unused to being questioned. “And now I’m making it Mossad’s business. An ancient scroll that was found at Qumran has also been stolen, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Any artifacts discovered on Israeli soil are the property of the state. In these circumstances, such a theft from the state is my responsibility. I have already spoken with your superior and he assured me of your full cooperation. I believe he told you as much?”
Lela said defiantly, “Yes, he did. But that doesn’t mean I have to like Mossad sticking its nose into police business.”
Weiss picked up his telephone handset and bluntly offered it to Lela. “Maybe I should call your boss again and ask him to repeat his recommendation to you.”
Lela met Julius Weiss’s laser stare. “What exactly do you want to know?”
Weiss slapped down the phone, his authority established. “Everything, Inspector, and leave nothing out.”
Ten minutes later, Lela finished telling Weiss everything she knew. He considered thoughtfully, studying her notebook open on his desk, reading the translated portion of the text that Jack Cane had given her. Finally, Weiss looked up and said, “Just to be clear, apart from these seemingly bizarre lines of text and the reference to Jesus Christ, nobody knows the full contents of the scroll, correct?”
