Greg McKenzie Mysteries Boxed Set—Books 1-4

by Chester Campbell

“Mostly. But some have developed around manufacturing. In recent years, those around cities and in resort areas have been catering to tourists. There’s a group of about thirty that have their own hotel chain, with a booking office in Tel Aviv.”

  “Really? But most are agricultural, right?”

  “Yes. And traditionally they’ve been anti-religious.”

  We sat there with our coffee, waiting for the Air Attaché’s call. Jake explained that the kibbutz movement was started in the early nineteen-hundreds by socialist Russian Jews who fled to Palestine to escape persecution under the czar. Another wave after World War II came out to get away from the communists. Most were still secular and socialistic, but a more recent development was the creation of communal farms with a strongly religious character.

  “I’d say that would be the more likely place for the Temple Alliance to hold your wife,” Jake said.

  He put some biscuits in the oven and scrambled a few eggs with grated cheese.

  As we ate, we talked about America.

  “My Israeli friends frequently ask my take on what’s happening to America,” he said. “Frankly, I’m at a bit of a loss myself. The drug culture, the poverty amidst plenty, the corruption of public officials...what’s happening to the Great American Dream?”

  “The dream is still there,” I said. “It’s just that some of the dreamers are trying to make it a nightmare. It all gets back to abuse of power, the politicians.”

  “What have they done now?”

  “Actually, they got better after September 11. Then they slipped back into their old ways.”

  When the phone rang. Jake answered it, then handed it to me.

  I prayed that it was Colonel Jarvis, not Moriah. “Hello,” I said.

  “What was your first duty station, Colonel?”

  I breathed more easily and answered quickly. I liked simple questions. “Sewart AFB.”

  “And what was your last civilian job?”

  “Investigator for the Davidson County District Attorney.”

  “Very well,” said Colonel Jarvis. “I am not at home presently, but this is not a secure line. Be careful what you say. Can your friend bring you down to the old walled city?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. I have an appointment at the consulate in Jerusalem at nine-thirty. I could be in town by eight. I’ll give you the location of a public phone in the Muristan Bazaar. It’s a rats’ nest of narrow streets and hole-in-the-wall retailers not far from the Jaffa Gate. Be there at eight and answer the phone when it rings.”

  I recalled visiting the area on our tour. It was a hodgepodge of little shops, most without names, that sold everything from cast bronze to stained glass to painted shirts. I was introduced to chickpea fritters stuffed into pita bread at a restaurant there. Jill smiled, watching me eat, then she was gone.

  “Let me put my friend on, Colonel,” I said. “You can give him directions to the phone booth. I don’t want us wandering around lost.”

  After hanging up, Jake gave me a questioning look. “Do you plan to take that parchment can along?”

  “I don’t know. I’d rather leave it for now,” I said. “And if the police should happen to dig it up, I’ll swear you knew nothing about it.”

  Jake scratched his beard and I wondered if it itched. Maybe it was a good thing Jill had talked me out of growing one.

  “Let’s hope Colonel Jarvis can help you out.”

  “I hope so too.” But I had a bad feeling about Warren Jarvis. Would he turn out to be one of those by-the-book officers more concerned about legal entanglements than the people involved? My experience with intelligence types was that they had their own agendas. If yours didn’t fit in with theirs, you would end up with the short end of the stick. My agenda was to get out of this mess with Jill back in my arms, and without creating some sort of nightmare that would haunt us for years to come. Quite something to drop in Colonel Jarvis’ lap.

  Chapter 32

  The phone stood on a corner beside a row of businesses shuttered by corrugated doors. It rang promptly at eight o’clock.

  “Go to the Saladin shop, one street over on your left,” Colonel Jarvis said. “It’s run by an old Bedouin named Jabbar who’s a world class haggler.”

  When I repeated the message to Jake, Cohen shrugged. “That’s a given. Haggling is the national sport around the bazaars.”

  The Saladin shop was a small cave loaded with stuff like I used to pick over in my grandfather’s attic. Old copper and brass pots, ancient trays. The proprietor dealt in antiquities. He even had some old menorahs, but they weren’t made of gold. We had to go into the back room, which I guess was the Arab version of an office, before there was enough light to make introductions. The old Bedouin wore a long, flowing white robe and appeared as ancient as his wares. He wandered off into the catacombs and left us to talk in private.

  Colonel Jarvis sat on the edge of a small desk. Jake and I took the two wooden chairs. A brass cigar stand stood beside me. I hadn’t encountered one of those in at least fifty years. The colonel was dressed in gray slacks and a dark blue blazer, with an open-collared white shirt. He was about my height but obviously more slim and muscular. His brown hair was short and he had intense blue eyes that went with his square jaw. There was not so much as a hint of a smile. I judged him to be in his late forties, and he was clearly a man not to be taken lightly.

  Jarvis’ first move was to check my ID.

  “How did you come up with this as a meeting place?” I asked as he handed back my card.

  “Mr. Jabbar’s son works at the embassy. He wants to go to school at Harvard, and the old man would sell his soul to get the boy there. I’ve been working on it.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Some. I think we can get him in by spring.” He turned to Jake. “What is your business, Mr. Cohen?”

  I like to control an interrogation, so I answered for him. “Jake is a Bible scholar and a very knowledgeable tour guide. He escorted us around the country a couple of weeks ago. He’s originally from New York.”

  “All right, McKenzie, what’s the story on this document you have?”

  “It was sold to me as a souvenir, but after I got it out of the country, I learned it was a genuinely ancient artifact.”

  “Ancient artifact? I thought we were talking about a classified document.”

  “For all the trouble it’s caused, Colonel, including several murders, it might as well have been a wartime secret.” As I thought about the scroll’s origin, I nodded. “As a matter of fact, in a way it is exactly that.”

  “You’re not making much sense. What, exactly, have you come across?”

  “It’s a parchment scroll that dates from the time of Jerusalem’s fall to the Romans, around 70 A.D.”

  Jarvis’ voice suddenly changed. “Would it have something to do with articles from Solomon’s Temple?”

  That took my breath. “Candlesticks, lampstands, menorahs,” I said. “Whatever you want to call them.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  I watched him. “What do you know about it?”

  “What I know,” he said, “is from sources, as you might imagine, that cannot be revealed. In fact, I hesitate to discuss it in front of Mr. Cohen, considering his status.”

  “I might point out,” I said, “that Jake is a Messianic Jew, not some orthodox zealot.”

  “I meant his status as a civilian. As a retired Air Force officer, you realize the burden of protecting classified sources.”

  “I’ll be happy to leave,” Jake said, getting up. “No problem. Just let me know when you’re ready to go, Greg.”

  He turned toward the door but I grabbed his arm. “Jake and his friend in Nashville have pulled my feet out of the fire on this. He is a loyal American and I trust him implicitly.” Then I thought of something. “By the way, Colonel, did you ever hear of a Fancher Frederick Jarvis?”

  Those blue eyes widened. “You knew my uncle Fred?”

  I nodded. �
�We once worked together in California.”

  “Did you know my cousin, Fred Junior?”

  “I knew he was in the Academy, but I never met him.”

  “He’s a brigadier now, stationed at the Pentagon.”

  “Good for Junior. Where is Fancy Fred now?”

  A small grin cracked his jaw then disappeared. “He died about five years ago. Alzheimer’s. He was my favorite uncle, one funny man.”

  “That he was.”

  Jarvis turned serious again. “I can’t say for certain we’re talking about the same scroll, but I think so. The word I get is that the Jordanian government has launched a complaint with Israel. They allege that an ancient scroll found in a cave in Jordan was unlawfully transported to Israel, where it disappeared. They claim the Israeli government knows about it, and they demand that the government inform them whether it’s been recovered.”

  Interesting. Particularly the part about where the scroll had been found. “Have the Israelis replied to Jordan?”

  “Officially, they’re still looking into it. I suspect they know what’s going on.”

  “Have you heard of a group called the Guardians of Palestine?”

  He nodded. “They’re a nasty bunch.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  I told him about the Jaffa souvenir seller and his cohorts in Nashville.

  He stared at me. “They kidnapped your wife?”

  “The day we got back from our trip over here. Four days ago. Have you had any dealings with the Temple Alliance?”

  “Don’t tell me they’re involved, too.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “We’re getting into classified territory.”

  “Well, let me give you some unclassified information about the two operatives I encountered.” Then I related my experience with Messrs. Zalman and Lipkowitz, including what Ted Kennerly had been told by his FBI contact. I included Zalman’s account of how I was chosen to receive the scroll. And his ultimatum about getting Jill back.

  “So your wife is here in Israel.”

  I finished my story with the phone call last night from Moriah.

  “I shouldn’t say this,” Colonel Jarvis said, “but I’ve seen a report on the man called Moriah. He’s ex-Mossad, too, and slippery as an eel.” He started to swing his right leg like he was testing the hinge in his knee. “We’ve been warned to keep the TA boys at arm’s length. On an official level, the Israeli government maintains a strictly hands-off policy. They have no connection with the Alliance and claim they do not support its efforts to rebuild the Temple on its original site. The government over here isn’t religious except where it’s pressured by the Orthodox right. Also, the prime minister is involved in some touchy negotiations with his neighbors to the north, and he’s sensitive to anything that might stir up the Muslims. But, unofficially, there’s a lot of sympathy for the Alliance throughout the government. It’s particularly strong among some of the smaller religious parties and their members in the police and security services.”

  “But we’re talking about hostage holding here,” I said. “Surely they wouldn’t condone something like that?”

  “You haven’t been paying attention to recent Israeli history, McKenzie. The courts have finally ruled against it, but the government has long held hostages to use in exchange for military prisoners taken by the other side. It’s the rules of war here.”

  He had just confirmed my worst fears. “I suspected things might be bad. That was why I didn’t go to the Israeli cops with this. I was afraid my little secret might not remain my little secret.”

  He gave me a troubled look. “I presume what you’re telling me is that you have that scroll with you in Jerusalem?”

  I backpedaled. “All I can say is that I had the hidden message in the scroll decoded, and my source says it is imperative that it not get into the hands of the Temple Alliance.”

  He considered that for a moment. “Without it, how do you propose to get your wife released?”

  “That’s where you come in, Colonel,” I said. “One thing I’ve always believed in is that we folks in blue take care of our own.”

  There was a long pause. Outside a merchant shouted his wares. Jake looked on. I tapped my fingers. Finally, Jarvis took a deep breath. “I’m a former jet jockey with some intelligence experience, but law enforcement is an alien field. You should know a lot more than I do about kidnapping. Wouldn’t that be the FBI’s jurisdiction?”

  “If there was any evidence of a kidnapping,” I said. “I have no proof that Jill was aboard any corporate jet flying out of Nashville. And I feel one hundred percent positive that there’s no record of her leaving there or arriving here. She’s off the books.”

  “They wouldn’t keep her in a hotel,” Jarvis mused. “Probably not even in the city.”

  “That’s what Jake and I thought. He suggested one of the religious kibbutzes.”

  “Kibbutzim,” Jake corrected me.

  “That’s a possibility. Do you plan to contact this Moriah today?”

  “As soon as possible. I don’t like the idea of what might be happening to Jill. No doubt he’ll propose a meeting to exchange the scroll for her, but I have serious questions about how that would go down. When I tried an exchange with the Palestinians in Nashville, they used it as an attempt to capture me as well.”

  “I’ve made some good intelligence contacts over here,” the colonel said. “And I’ve collected a few IOU’s. There’s one guy in particular who strikes me as a straight shooter, doesn’t play games. He’s Jewish, of course, but not rigidly so. I’ve known him to eat a ham sandwich on occasion and do some pretty strenuous labor on the Shabbat. Let me see what I can get out of him.” He glanced at his watch. “Damn! I’ve got to get out of here before I’m late at the consulate. Do you have a cell phone, Cohen?”

  Jake nodded. No self-respecting occupant of the Holy Land would be without his cell phone. He gave Colonel Jarvis the number.

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can get through to my contact,” Jarvis said as he bounced up to leave.

  “One thing you might mention to him,” I said, “is what I learned about the jet that took off from Nashville bound for Israel. It was an Astra SPX cleared to Ben-Gurion. Had ‘Imperial’ and a large replica of a cut diamond painted on the tail.”

  “Imperial Diamonds,” he said, nodding. “That figures. This is a big center for diamond cutting and polishing. Look, if I were you, McKenzie, I’d call Moriah from a pay phone. Feel him out and stall. I wish I could give you some better options, but this is a real hair-grayer.”

  “I know.”

  Chapter 33

  We found a street kiosk where I shelled out a few shekels for a telephone card. Then Jake steered me to another public phone booth. I dialed the number for the Temple Alliance, got a woman who sounded pleasant enough and asked for Moriah.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “We don’t have anyone by that name. Who is calling, please?”

  No Moriah? Then why ask my name? More likely they had no intention of admitting there was a Moriah. “This is Greg McKenzie,” I said.

  “Just a moment, Mr. McKenzie, and I will see if someone can help you.”

  A man quickly came on the line. “Good morning, Mr. McKenzie. The party you need to speak with is not known here. If you will give me your phone number, he will call you as soon as possible.”

  In other words, tell us where you are. “Sorry. I’m calling from a pay phone, but I’ll be leaving here as soon as I hang up. Give me another number or tell me what time I can reach Moriah at this number.”

  That was obviously not what he wanted to hear. After a long pause, he said, “As you were told, there is no one here by that name. However, a staff member will speak with you, but I must have a number at which he can reach you.”

  I had come too far and waited too long to indulge in any more games. My patience was gone. “Look, my friend. You do not hold all the cards. Right now I’m dealing.
Understand? Where can I reach Moriah?”

  “I would caution you not to do anything you might regret, Mr. McKenzie.”

  “I’ve been doing things I regret for the past four days,” I said. “And it’s getting old. Give me a number.”

  “Do you wish to risk placing someone in further peril?”

  “You forget, I have the scroll. You have five seconds before I hang up.”

  “Call back in one hour,” he said. “Ask for Department 24.”

  I smiled as I hung up the pay phone. I hoped in an hour I would hear from Colonel Jarvis. I relayed the conversation to Jake and suggested we spend the next hour checking into religious kibbutzim within 150 kilometers of Jerusalem. It was a guess. But I doubted they would take her farther away than that.

  Jake drove us over to the Hebrew University’s Givat Ram Campus in West Jerusalem, not far from the Knesset, where Israel’s parliament meets. This modern complex was built after the original university campus on Mount Scopus was cut off from West Jerusalem in 1948. As Jake explained it, although east of the ceasefire line, the hilltop enclave of Hebrew University and Hadassah Hospital was held by Israeli troops as a fortified island inside Jordanian-held East Jerusalem. The institutions were re-supplied by monthly Red Cross convoys until their liberation in the 1967 Six-Day War. But, in the meantime, the new campus was built across town and now housed science departments, along with the National and University Library. We entered the university library, a huge structure that featured a stained-glass window depicting images of Jewish mysticism.

  Jake found a helpful young woman with a schoolmarmish look. She provided us with a directory of kibbutzim that detailed their makeup and origin. I learned there were some 270 of these communal settlements, with around 130,000 residents. After checking through the list, we narrowed the suspects to a few that met our criteria. They were within 120 kilometers–about 75 miles–of Jerusalem and were religious in nature. One operated a small winery in the hills north of Caesarea, not far from Zichron Yaakov, a town founded by Baron Edmond de Rothschild. Another was in the vicinity of Ashdod on the Mediterranean coast. Still another was located in a fertile valley beside a spring in the area east of Tel Aviv.