by Chloe Palov
‘We can’t let that happen,’ Edie whispered, her body rigid with the strength of her emotion. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but for some time now there’s been a growing alliance between Jewish and Christian fundamentalists.’
‘Birds of the same dark feather.’
‘They both believe in the Old Testament prophecies, which means that MacFarlane might have allies inside Israel who would be willing to help him destroy the Dome of the Rock.’
Cædmon shook his head, the scenario becoming more and more frightening.
‘Fanatical Christians working with fanatical Jews to attack Muslims. Incite any of the three and you have global instability. Incite all three and you have the makings of the next world war.’
Cædmon turned his head and stared at the churning water visible through the picture window on the other side of the club room.
We can’t get to Malta soon enough.
80
Cædmon glanced up from the map spread before him on the bar counter.
A vacancy having come up at the last minute, he and Edie were seated at the Dragonara Hotel bar waiting for the maid to finish cleaning their suite. To his surprise, Valletta, the capital of Malta, was quite a convention centre, their seaside hotel currently hosting a large gathering of British plastic surgeons. Since Malta had at one time been part of the British empire, it was a popular destination with his countrymen. He’d purposefully selected the Dragonara in order to fade into the crowd. If a receptionist or bellboy was asked whether an Englishmen had checked into the hotel, he would say, ‘Yes, the hotel currently has two hundred English guests.’
Before returning his attention to the map, Cædmon surreptitiously glanced at the mirrored wall behind the bar, resorting to old tricks, scanning each and every bar patron, running scenarios in his head, trying to decide who among them might be hostile. He would have preferred an inconspicuous table at the back of the room, but the horde of plastic surgeons swilling pre-dinner drinkies had forced them to take two stools at the bar.
‘You know, I’ve been meaning to ask, is there really a big rock inside the Dome of the Rock?’
Cædmon nodded. ‘The rock, known in Hebrew as the shetiyah, is believed to be the foundation stone of the world. Before it was stolen by Shishak, the Ark of the Covenant rested on top of the shetiyah.’
The barman, a swarthy fellow with an amiable disposition, placed a tonic water and a cola in front of them. Then, with a practised flourish, he presented Edie with a plate of fried squid and a small dish of quartered lemons.
‘Grazzi,’ she replied in Malti, having memorized a few key phrases from the guidebook they had picked up in the hotel lobby. The response earned her a toothy grin.
Out of the corner of his eye Cædmon watched as Edie squeezed lemon, not on her squid but into her cola. He continued to watch as she pursed her lips around the end of a fuchsia-coloured straw. He well recalled how her lips had clamped around him earlier in the day.
Calm down. Now is not the time for prurient thoughts and adolescent longings.
With renewed focus, he stared at the GPS receiver, continuing the business of transferring the coordinates that he had discovered in the database file onto a local topographical map. In the event of the GPS batteries dying a sudden death, he wanted a hard-copy backup.
‘From where I’m sitting, Malta doesn’t look like that big an island.’
‘Approximate three hundred square miles. About the size of the Isle of Wight.’ He plotted the last set of coordinates. ‘Ah! I think I’ve got a location.’ Excited to have made such fast work of it, he pointed to a small promontory on the south-west coast.
Edie peered at the map. ‘Calypso’s Point,’ she read aloud. ‘Gees, it’s no bigger than my front yard. What do these wavy lines mean?’ She pointed to the contour lines that distinguished a topographical map from the run-of-the-mill tourist map.
‘It means we’ll have to scale a cliff. Although there’s a road leading to the point, we must assume MacFarlane will have that guarded.’
He signalled to the barman. When the young man approached, Cædmon swivelled the map round. ‘Are you by any chance familiar with a place called Calypso’s Point?’
The barman barely glanced at the map. ‘Iva, I know it well. It used to be a hideout for the Barbary pirates until the knights defeated them. But –’ he shrugged ‘– why do you want to go there? There’s nothing. Only seabirds and the ruins of St Paul’s torri.’
An abandoned tower… how interesting. No doubt a signal tower once used by the Knights of St John.
‘Actually, it’s the birds I want to see,’ he lied glibly, turning the map back round. ‘I am something of a birdwatcher. Would you happen to know anyone who would be willing to take us to the point by boat?’
‘My brother-in-law has a fishing vessel. I am sure he could be persuaded to take you there. Assuming the price is right.’
‘He has but to name it, but I would like to depart later this evening.’
If the young man thought it odd that someone would go birdwatching in the dead of night, he gave no indication, scribbling his brother-in-law’s phone number onto a paper napkin.
Their business concluded, the barman turned to a portly surgeon, who was raving about the ‘jolly good pasties’.
Relieved that the logistics were taken care of, Cædmon folded the map. That done he slid it into his anorak pocket. There being one more task to attend to, he glanced through the glass doors of the bar, across the lobby into the so-called ‘business centre’. One of the hotel amenities was free use of a desktop computer, fax machine and colour copier. For the last twenty minutes the computer had been occupied.
‘Is he still there?’
‘If you’re asking if I can still see his bald head, the answer is yes.’
‘Why do you need a PC anyway? We got everything we needed from the ferry computer. Or at least I thought we did.’
‘I need a computer because I want to put together a dossier for the British consulate. If by tomorrow morning we haven’t returned to the hotel, the dossier will be sent to the consulate here in Valletta. From there it will be forwarded to British intelligence. Hopefully, the lads at Thames House will be able to succeed if we fail.’
‘You’re talking about your old buddies at MI5, right?’
He nodded. ‘One doesn’t need an oracle to know that Stanford MacFarlane won’t relinquish the Ark without a fight.’
‘A deadly fight,’ Edie murmured. Cædmon could see that she was still distressed by the message they had deciphered. For several seconds she stared into her cola glass, the only sound being a dull clink-clink as she continued to swirl her straw.
Abruptly she stopped.
‘I keep thinking about that proverb “Everything has an end.” And I can’t help wondering, is this the beginning of the end?’
His thoughts running on a similar course, Cædmon glanced through the second set of French doors. These opened onto a terrace, the hotel set on a scenic point overlooking the water. The sun had already begun its descent into the sea, creating a glorious explosion of tangerine and magenta so beautiful it was almost painful to watch. To his right, the baroque city of Sliema, a burnished maze of stone façades, rose as if spawned from the sea.
How did I get myself into this? More importantly, how had he got Edie so deeply involved?
At first it had been simple academic curiosity. The Ark of the Covenant. If he could find it, if he could lay his hands on it, he could prove himself to the man who had ended his academic career. And prove to his long-dead father that –
‘I’m afraid,’ Edie said, her tremulous voice breaking into his thoughts. ‘What if we can’t stop him? We couldn’t stop him taking the Ark.’
Turning his head, he peered into Edie’s sad brown eyes. ‘While MacFarlane may beat us, knowledge has a power all its own.’
‘It’s the guns and bullets that have me worried.’
‘They can only kill you. But knowle
dge lives on.’
Placing a hand on his knee, she leaned towards him. ‘So does this,’ she whispered, brushing her lips against his.
81
Like a miser counting pennies, the crescent moon stingily cast a jaundiced light upon the choppy sea. Its lantern extinguished, the small fishing vessel steadily made its way towards the barren chunk of limestone in the distance. Calypso’s Point. The captain, a wizened salt who spoke no English, stood at the helm. Amply compensated for his services, he cared nothing about the peculiarities of the voyage.
Cædmon glanced at Edie, only the pale oval of her face visible in the inky darkness, both of them garbed in diving suits with matching black hoods.
‘You know, maybe we should let British intelligence handle this,’ Edie said in a hushed voice. ‘It’s not too late.’
Seated across from her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the top of his thighs. ‘Until MacFarlane actually steps foot inside Jerusalem, there’s little that anyone can do to stop him. While the intelligence agencies will do all in their power to prevent a terrorist act from occurring on the Temple Mount, they won’t be able to act until they have material proof that MacFarlane intends to commit the unthinkable. I am no longer bound by such dictates.’
‘Yeah, but short of killing Mac –’ She slapped a hand over her mouth. A second later, she lowered it. ‘That’s what you’re intending to do, isn’t it?’
‘In order to destroy a snake, one must decapitate it.’
‘But what if the snake turns around and bites you?’
Rather than answer the question, he said, ‘I think you should return to Valletta with the captain.’
‘I told you already, you’ll have to knock me unconscious to stop me from going with you to Calypso’s – What’s happening?’ she hissed, clearly startled.
‘No need for alarm. The captain has just cut the engine.’
‘So this is our stop, huh?’ She stared at the forbidding promontory that loomed above the small vessel.
Cædmon peered up. The limestone cliff rose approximately six hundred feet from the sea. ‘Yes, I know. It has a Gothic aspect.’ He stepped over to the side of the boat, his neoprene booties smacking softly against the deck. Edie followed in his wake, dashing any hope he had that she’d had a change of heart.
‘Right. Let’s get on with it,’ he said, swinging his leg over the side. A second later, he plunged into the cold sea, grateful they had only a short distance to swim.
Treading water, he watched as Edie joined him, proving herself an able swimmer.
A few minutes later, shivering from the cold and breathing heavily from their exertions, they emerged onto a spindly strip of beach strewn with chunks of rock fallen from the cliff face. Cædmon could see that the fishing vessel had already begun its homeward voyage, the captain not bothering to confirm whether or not they had landed safely.
Removing her hood, Edie jutted her chin at the imposing cliff. ‘Without climbing gear, I don’t know how we’re going to get up that sucker.’
‘I have it on good authority that there’s a narrow trail not far from here.’ That authority being none other than the hotel barman, who claimed to have ascended the cliff on many a youthful outing. Something of a local rite of passage.
Cædmon swung a rubberized rucksack off his shoulder. Opening it, he removed yet another water-tight bag, from which he removed a coil of wire, a sheathed diving knife, a green laser light, two torches, the GPS receiver, the map and two pairs of trainers. Inventory verified and double-checked, he unzipped and removed his diving suit. Like Edie, he wore black hiking gear beneath his suit.
‘Guess it’s time for the final reckoning, huh?’ Although Edie attempted a brave smile, she fell woefully shy of the mark.
‘Yes, I’m afraid the time has come.’
Pulling back his arm, his right hand balled in a fist, he delivered a quick, precise blow to the side of Edie’s head.
Instantly, her eyes rolled back in her head, Cædmon catching her as she pitched forward in an unconscious heap. KO’d by the ghost fist that she never saw coming.
Very gently he laid her on some saltwort, using the empty rucksack as a pillow for her head. He then placed a torch in her limp hand. If he didn’t return before she came to, or if he didn’t return at all, she would be able signal for help.
Still on his knees, he leaned forward and softly kissed her on the lips.
‘I’m sorry, love. You gave me no choice.’
82
Unable to stop what had become almost compulsive behaviour, Stan MacFarlane again glanced at the innocuous-looking shipping container on the other side of the tower room.
Before permitting the Ark to be packed for transport, he’d spent hours gazing upon it. Awestruck. For someone accustomed to the severe austerity of a Baptist church, the Ark had about it an almost pagan beauty. From the fierce pair of winged cherubim mounted on the gold lid to the strange and incomprehensible symbols incised on all four sides, it spoke of an ancient and holy heritage. A time when Moses led the Hebrew children to the land promised to them by God.
Anxious, he pushed his folding chair away from the camp table and reached for the pair of night vision goggles. He walked over to the opening on the other side of the circular room. The tower had once been used by the Knights of St John to monitor sea traffic. Tonight it served the same purpose, Stan watching for the luxury yacht that had set sail from Israel earlier in the week. Owned by Moshe Reznick, Knesset member and co-founder of the Jerusalem-based Third Temple Movement, the yacht would briefly anchor in the bay, pick up its precious cargo then return to Haifa. From there, the Ark would be transported to Jerusalem. Stan and Gunnery Sergeant Boyd Braxton would accompany the Ark on its sea voyage. The rest of his men would fly into David Ben-Gurion Airport, Christian tourists making the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
The yacht was due to arrive within the hour.
There were many who would argue that the rediscovered Ark should be placed in a museum, but there was only one place for it, the place ordained by God, the yet-to-be-built third temple in Jerusalem. Once constructed, this would stand for a thousand years. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel. Stan’s allies, the Third Temple Movement, were Jews who fervently believed in the prophecies of Ezekiel, certain that from the ashes of the great Battle of Gog and Magog, a new Messiah would emerge.
While some Christians despised the Jews for having killed Christ, Stan knew that Jesus had himself been a Jew. As had been his parents. And all his forebears. Each and every member of the original Church had been a Jew. The Jews were the Chosen People, the custodians of the first and second temples, the original guardians of the Ark of the Covenant. And in the great battle to come, the Jews would prevail, fulfilling the destiny envisioned for them by Ezekiel.
Hearing a high-pitched chime emanate from his laptop, Stan lowered the night vision goggles and walked back to the table.
Praise be. The much-anticipated email from his comrades at the Third Temple Movement.
Seating himself in front of the laptop, he quickly pulled up the message and opened the attachment.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he whispered, examining the architectural blueprint for the third temple forwarded to him. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’
Based on the precise description given by the prophet Ezekiel – cubits converted to feet and inches – the temple would be constructed on the same parcel of sacred land where the first and second temples once stood. When completed, it would rival the beauty of even Solomon’s fabled marvel.
Only two more days.
Two days until Eid al-Adha. The Muslim day of sacrifice. There would be two million Muslims gathered at Mecca. And when those two million infidels learned that the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem had been destroyed, they would take up arms against Christians and Jews. To become the fierce and blood-thirsty army of Gog. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel.
A battle between good and evil would ensue.
But this time the c
rusaders will be victorious.
With the destruction of the gaudy and heathenish Dome of the Rock, the children of God would finally be delivered from Islamic tyranny, the gold-plated shrine built on the exact site where Solomon’s Temple once stood. For the first time in eight hundred years the Temple Mount would again be a place of holy worship.
Obliterating the Dome of the Rock from the Jerusalem skyline had been planned to the last detail, the Muslims having actually simplified the task. For years now the Islamic caretakers of the Temple Mount had turned a blind eye to a two-hundred-yard-long bulge in its southern wall. With the help of a few carefully placed IEDs, the ancient wall would come tumblin’ down, bringing with it the newly built al-Marawani Mosque constructed on the southern end of the Temple Mount. In the ensuing chaos his demolition experts would be able to set a ring of high-explosive charges around the exterior perimeter of the usually closely guarded Dome of the Rock.
The infidels will never know what hit them.
With the second explosion, the path would literally be cleared for the construction of the third temple.
Only then could the Ark of the Covenant be returned to its appointed place within the Holy of Holies. Only then could the Ark become the vehicle through which heaven and earth become one. And only then could a new covenant be made between man and God, paving the way for a holy kingdom that would prosper for a thousand years. A true theocracy where non-believers would be judged swiftly and harshly. One Christian nation under God.
‘Sir, the sentries just made their rounds and have given the all-clear.’
Stan glanced at Gunnery Sergeant Boyd Braxton, who stood in the doorway. The sitrep did little to allay his fears. So far the lanky Englishman had proved a worthy adversary, somehow managing to kill two of his best men. While certain that Aisquith had no way of knowing the Ark had been brought to Malta, he couldn’t forget that the man had done what many before him had tried and failed to do – he had found the Ark of the Covenant.
