“You are a believer in Palestine,” I say.
He smiles, but it’s a bitter smile.
“Such struggles are not only lifelong, but generational. Multi-generational. Or in the case of Palestine, sadly, perhaps forever.” He grins. “But you are not here to discuss politics.”
A laugh erupts from one of the Hasidic brothers. Itzhak to be precise.
“Itzy,” Moshe says. “Show some respect for the shop owner. We are standing in the Palestinian Quarter after all. This is his home. The Israeli soldiers outside prove it.”
“We’re here searching for a book,” I say, trying my best to divert the subject before a major violent political event erupts. “A series of books actually.”
Mahdi raises his arms, and his hands emerge from under his sleeves. His hands are big and dark, fingers long, nails yellowed and sharp. He crosses his arms over his chest.
“What kind of books?” he asks, his dark, almost black, eyes slanted, his brow furrowed, as if to demonstrate his piqued interest. Then, his eyes shift to the New Testament held in my hand. “Are you interested in Biblical texts, perhaps?”
“Precisely,” I say.
Magda takes a step forward. So close to the man, I feel she might put her hands on him.
“I visited this very bookstore in the recent past,” she says. “A man showed me some very old books. Ancient books. Made of metal. They were stored in a safe in the back.” Nodding her head in the direction of a white, blue, and yellow curtain that covers a door-sized opening. “Do you know the man I speak of?”
Mahdi’s face goes stone stiff. It’s as though, in trying not to show emotion, he is most definitely giving himself away.
“I do not,” he says. Then, placing his hand on Magda’s arm, he adds, “Perhaps it’s time you left my store. I have nothing here that will interest you.”
I make out feet shuffling behind me.
“Hands off, pal,” Moshe insists. He steps up beside me, his Uzi machine-pistol suddenly gripped his right hand in the place of his precious Siddu.
Mahdi spots the gun, slowly removes his hand. The stone face now turns into a smile. But it’s a far cry from a happy smile.
“I do not look for trouble,” he says.
A laugh coming from behind me. Itzy.
“Can we hurry this up, already?” he says. “It’s almost time to pray.”
I toss him a look over my shoulder.
“What?” he says.
“The books we’re looking for are about the size of a credit card,” I say. “They are bound together not with traditional spines but with ringlets of metal. They have detailed carvings of Jesus and ancient Jerusalem on them, and they are also embossed with letters. In Hebrew. Perhaps in Greek, also.”
“There are seven of them,” Magda adds, her eyes shifting from Mahdi to me and back again. “The seventh book will have a seal around it. A seal made of a strange metal.”
The proprietor swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“It’s possible I recall seeing books that match the description once upon a time,” he says. “But they are not here. Such metal books were once considered the work of the devil and were immediately ordered cast out. The Bishop of Caesarea banned tablets made of metal as forbidden sorcery in 335 AD.”
“So are you telling me they were destroyed?” I say.
“They’re not destroyed,” Magda interjects. “I saw them with my own eyes. An old man who works here opened a safe in back and showed them to me. One of them, the seventh, is sealed with a piece of metal that cannot be cut.”
“They are not here,” Mahdi insists. But there’s something in his eyes, and it looks a lot like lies.
“Not here?” Magda says, raising her voice. “Or no longer here?”
To my direct right, Moshe is standing foursquare, the Uzi in his hand. I can tell this isn’t going to be easy.
“Itzy,” I say, “lock the damn door.”
He twists the deadbolt, locking the door.
Up in the far right corner of the shop, a security camera, its red light blinking, indicating I’m being watched. But by who? A machine? Or someone else. Time to do a little convincing. I pull out my .45, plant a bead on Mahdi’s stomach.
His eyes follow the barrel of the gun. He swallows so hard it looks like his Adam’s apple is about to pop out of his neck.
“As Allah as my judge,” he says, “I do not have the codices.”
“But you know who does?”
“Where’s the old man?” Magda says.
I thumb back the hammer on the .45.
Mahdi runs his hand along the length of his beard as if the gesture helps him think.
“The old man is dead,” he says. “Not long after he died, the metal books you speak of also disappeared.”
“Mind if we take a look for ourselves?” I say.
He swallows something again. “If you must. But I cannot assure you I can remember the combination to the safe.” Feigning a smile. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow, and I will have the combination required to open it.”
“Why don’t we try it right now,” I insist, waving the gun in the direction of the curtained opening.
“Very well,” he says.
He goes for the opening, while Magda and I come around the counter, following his every footstep.
CHAPTER 18
The back room is full of artifacts from all eras of Jerusalem’s history. Or so it seems. Pottery from the first century, gold crosses from the Byzantine, a sword and a helmet with a triangular crossbow bolt hole in it from the Crusader period, a half-moon shaped dagger, its handle ornamented with colorful gems from the Islamic era, and, of course, books. Thousands of them, mostly leather-bound, stacked one on top of the other.
To our left-hand side is a solid brick wall. A black iron safe with gold lettering printed on its door is pressed up against that wall. The safe has to be one hundred years old. The only object occupying the wall is a framed illustration or painting of a man who looks like Jesus but is different in several noticeable ways. Although the man depicted has long black hair, a matching black beard, stunning dark eyes, and is pictured kneeling, his hands crossed one over the other as though praying to his heavenly father, he is also carrying a broad sword which is holstered onto his back by means of a leather thong. He also wears a headdress that bears two purple feathers.
“Ansar al-Mahdi,” Mahdi whispers to me. “My namesake.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The man, or God-man, whom your eyes view is Mahdi, the expected one.”
“And who is this expected one?”
Magda leans into me. “He’s the one who will come at the end of days. Think of him as the Shia Jesus.”
Mahdi smiles.
“Yes,” he says. “You might find many comparisons to your traditional western notion of Jesus in Mahdi in that, like Jesus, we believe him to be the son of God. Unlike your Jesus, however, he is not the kind of man to turn the other cheek when he comes to usher in the day of judgment. He will bear a strong sword that will eradicate all infidels and enemies of God be they Christian, Jew, or Sunni. It will be the end of the world as it exists and the beginning of a brand new one.”
“Great,” I whisper, “another doomsday cult.”
“Say what you wish about the Ansar al-Mahdi, good sir,” Mahdi says. “But soon the day of reckoning will be upon us, and no one who does not believe in Mahdi will be spared.”
“That’s a double negative, Mahdi,” I say.
“I do not understand,” he says, his face masked in confusion.
“Think of it as two wrongs don’t make a right.” Then, waving the barrel at the safe. “Sunday school’s over. Now, open the damn safe.”
Mahdi bites down on his bottom lip.
“I have already told you that I do not know the combination. How will it be possible for me to open it without knowing the combination?”
I shoot Magda a glance. She gives me a look with her deep brown eyes like Son of
a bitch is stalling. And that’s when I feel something go tight in my stomach, and my throat close up on itself. I turn around quick on the balls of my feet, just as the solid rock of a man barrels his head into my chest.
CHAPTER 19
I go down hard onto my back, my .45 sliding across the stone floor.
“Chase!” Magda screams as Mahdi grabs hold of her, pulling a knife out from under his robe, pressing it against her throat. The knife is old, if not ancient, the blade curved like a half moon.
I lunge for the gun, but the man who bear-rushed me draws a semi-automatic from a hip holster, presses the barrel against my head. He’s a house of a man dressed in black fatigues, combat boots, and military style shirt. He’s young, his black hair shaved on both sides of his head to form a sort of Mohawk. An Arabic Mohawk or a version thereof.
“Don’t . . . fucking . . . move,” he says, voice deep, gravelly. Judging by the wet glare in his eyes, he’d love the opportunity to blow my American brains out.
“Tell me something,” Mahdi says. “Why is it you seek the codices?”
I’m looking up at him from down on my back. He looks big and mean in his robe, while Magda is wide-eyed and afraid.
“Because I like to read a good book now and then,” I say.
Mohawk slaps me with the barrel.
My head rings.
Then comes the pain.
I give him a look that’s intended to kill. Sadly, it doesn’t work out that way.
“Answer the man,” Mohawk says, smiling insistently. I get the feeling he believes he’s playing a part in a Hollywood B movie.
“Or what?” I say. “Or the girl gets it? I’ve seen that flick a thousand times before on Netflix, asshole.”
He slaps me again. This time, the pain is followed by little stars that revolve around my skull.
Mahdi presses the knife tighter against Magda’s throat. She shrieks.
“Now, tell me who you are working for,” he demands. “Who seeks the codices?”
“I seek the codices,” I say. “I told you that already.”
“Surly you must be working for somebody,” Mahdi Insists. “No one in their right mind would simply walk into this shop and demand them. You must have an employer.” Jabbing Magda with the blade again. “Now, who is he? Or is the employer a she?”
“None of your business,” Magda says.
Mahdi grabs a fist full of her hair, pulls her head back, presses the blade against the underside of her lower jaw. If he swipes the blade, he’ll instantly sever her carotid artery.
“Stop!” I shout. “Just stop.” I’m trying to hold my hands up from down on my back, like a man who is already beaten yet still surrendering. “Okay, I’ll tell you who sent me here. But only if you let the girl go.”
Mahdi laughs.
“You reveal the name or names of your employer first,” he says, “and then I let her go.”
A Mexican stand-off, only in Jerusalem in the Palestinian Quarter.
The room goes silent — a silence filled with the sounds of the busy marketplace outside the ancient stone walls. For a split second, I consider telling Mahdi exactly what he wants to know. But then, out the corner of my eye, I see two armed figures entering the back room through the long curtain.
Moshe and Itzy.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I whisper silently to myself. “The cavalry has arrived.”
CHAPTER 20
They’re both carrying their Uzi machine-pistols, which they hold in their dominant right hands. They raise the guns, plant their separate beads on Mr. Mohawk, and let her rip. A few of the rounds fly dangerously close to Mahdi’s head. But he ducks at just the right moment and the spray of rounds pokes holes in the brick wall behind his desk. Magda manages to pull herself away from his grip while he jumps over the desk, moving with the speed and agility of a man far younger. A drawer opens. He pulls out a revolver, fires.
I grab Magda’s arm, yank her to the far side of the room, the two of us taking shelter beside the safe. Mr. Mohawk is hit, but he manages to return fire, hitting Moshe in the left thigh. Moshe goes down hard. Itzy, on the other hand, stands his ground as if impervious to the bullets whizzing all around him. He sprays Mr. Mohawk once more. This time, with a head shot that obliterates not only the head but the Mohawk like the feathers on field-shot pheasant.
Magda screams.
“Don’t look at it!” I shout.
Mahdi is still returning fire from behind his desk. I plant a bead and shoot, but he’s too well protected. Both Moshe and Itzy drop their empty magazines, slap in new ones, and fire into the desk itself
Then, from behind Mahdi, one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves does something remarkable. It opens, just like a door.
Enter a half dozen more Mr. Mohawks.
CHAPTER 21
A good soldier always knows when to retreat.
I might not be a soldier, but I’m no fool. Neither are the Hasidic brothers. All it takes is my giving them the eye, and Itzy grabs hold of Moshe while firing at the bandits and drags him back behind the curtain to safety.
I pull Magda by the arm while unloading my magazine in the direction of the bandits who are now huddled behind Mahdi’s desk. Still, they return our fire, the bullets zipping past our ears like bees and ricocheting off the brick walls as we lunge through the opening and out of the room.
Moshe is back up on his feet, one arm wrapped around Itzy’s shoulder as we go for the door. Itzy goes to unlock the deadbolt, but it won’t release. It’s stuck.
“Shoot the son of a bitch!” I bark.
Itzy aims the Uzi at the lock.
“I don’t want to risk making a whole lot of shrapnel that can kill us as easily as bullets.”
“Do something,” I press. “Shoot around the lock.”
He shoots, the bullets making a circular pattern around the lock. The lock does not fall to the floor, but instead, the upper half of the old wood door explodes into splinters of wood. Raising his right leg, he kicks the bottom portion of door open, just as the Mohawked bandits enter the store. They shoot, but we’re already out the front door, doing our best to blend in with the hordes of people who occupy the street on their way to pray at the Temple Mount.
Making an immediate ninety-degree turn to the right, we head back in the direction of the Damascus Gates.
CHAPTER 22
Sirens blare.
Green and blue uniformed soldiers of the Israeli Army push and shove their way through the crowd. I’ve returned my weapon to its shoulder holster inside my bush jacket while the Hasidic brothers have concealed their Uzis under their long coats.
Moshe is leaving a trail of blood that is, thankfully, obscured by the many people coming and going in the marketplace. I’m hoping his femoral artery hasn’t been hit. But then, I’m not sure how badly hurt Moshe is. We need to get him to a hospital, or, the very least, to someone who can help him. Or for certain, he’ll bleed out.
We push ourselves through the gate and reconvene directly outside it. Moshe’s face is pale compared to the black locks that hang down along both sides of his face.
“We’ve got to keep moving,” he says, the pain evident in his voice. “The soldiers are everywhere.”
Just one quick glance proves how right he is. Israeli soldiers and police are everywhere. Packs of them are barging into the market through the gate, their black Tavor assault rifles gripped in both bands, pushing people aside, young and old alike.
Magda points to the cobbled pavement. “He’s leaking like a sieve,” she points out.
“Any idea where we can get him patched up without someone making an inquiry? An inquiry sure to be followed by an arrest.”
She nods. “I think I know someone. But we’ll need to grab a taxi. It’s a good bit away on the West Bank.”
“There’s a taxi stand at the top of the stairs,” Itzy says. His voice is filled with tension. Impatience. I’ve only just met them, but one thing is certain, he and Moshe are close. Closer t
han close. “We’ve got to go.”
The three start their climb up the marble steps to the taxis parked on the side of the street. I follow, but not before once more feeling that strange, cold sensation shooting up and down my backbone like a cold electric current along a naked wire. I turn, and for the flash of an instant, spot a woman with a black shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders. She turns to me, eyes me with bright, steely cold eyes. Blue eyes. The look stabs me in the heart.
Vanessa.
For the flash of an instant, I’m tempted to go after her. But my feet feel as if they are planted not on solid stone but, instead, in curing concrete.
“Chase,” Magda shouts. “Please, we must go.”
I turn to her. “Coming!”
I turn back towards the gate and Vanessa. But she’s gone.
Disappeared. Like a ghost.
CHAPTER 23
Jogging up the stone steps, I see that Magda has already secured us a taxi. I pile into the front passenger seat. The only seat available with Moshe sprawled out in the back seat, and the other two doing their best to find a place to sit without doing further damage to his injured leg.
Magda barks out an address to the taxi driver. He speaks something to her not in Israeli but in Arabic. She responds to him.
“You know Arabic,” I say.
“My father is Arabic, remember? It’s my second language.”
“Makes sense.”
The driver pulls out, makes a U-turn despite oncoming traffic. He guns the taxi up the hill towards the Russian settlers’ portion of the city, the eastern wall of the Old City speeding past us on our left.
“Where is he taking us?” I say, glancing into the back seat.
“West Bank,” Magda says. “There’s a clinic up near the church of St. Stephen. It’s for the few Palestinians left living in the area. I know someone there who might help.”
Moshe’s face is paler than the limestone that makes up Golgotha, the skull-like hill on my right-hand side where Jesus is said to have been crucified two thousand years ago . . .
Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) Page 7
