Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  “If you don’t hear from us, you know what to do,” Tox said.

  “Um, no, we don’t.” Tzivia straightened. “And Dr. Cathey will be contacting me. I need the freedom to go with him.”

  “You have it, but limit the in-and-out.” Ram adjusted his beanie again, nodding to the men. “Until then, just follow their lead. They know.” With that, he started for the door.

  As they made their way to the rental car, though modestly dressed, Tox felt naked beneath the glares of the suited and bearded Jewish haredim and Muslims. Or maybe that was his distrust of those he didn’t know. In the Old City, walking beneath the warmth of the sun and their glares felt like the longest twenty minutes of his life.

  Tox quickly grew tired of the monotony of Jerusalem stone covering nearly every visible surface—walls and sidewalk alike. Occasionally grass would stab defiantly through the mortar or a weed would launch upward, as if it too praised God from rocks.

  Everything felt the same. Low arches, short doors, and narrow passages. It’d be easy to get turned around and lost, especially for someone who couldn’t read Hebrew. While some words had a marginal similarity to Arabic, of which Tox had a passing knowledge, the letters were harder to sort.

  He scanned the narrow street for signs of a large synagogue. He’d loved the soaring architecture and incredible mosaics in many of the mosques across Afghanistan and Iraq. The artistry and extravagance there knew no limits. Well, until it met with the head of a two thousand-pound JDAM. But here—here he found only simplicity.

  Ram banked right between two stone columns and pushed open a wrought-iron gate. He ducked beneath its scrollwork. Brass lettering on the—surprise!—Jerusalem stone clung to the building, probably the name of the synagogue.

  Ram reached for the door and swiped off his beanie.

  Surprise lit through Tox. He stopped. Stared at the small round cap that seemed glued to Ram’s brown curls. A yarmulke? “Since when?”

  “Shut up and go inside.”

  “You been wearing one the whole time beneath that beanie?”

  “In,” Ram growled then pushed past him and entered.

  Tox grinned. “How have I missed that?”

  “Shabbat shalom.” Ram was speaking softly to someone within the synagogue.

  Tox hurried in but suddenly felt out of place. He took a second, glancing around to gain his bearings and adjust to the dimmer light. In those seconds, he noted three men huddled near a small alcove. Others were scattered around the synagogue’s interior. Just beyond the foyer, Ram stood in quiet conversation with a rabbi. Body language conveyed little. Respect. Reverence. But it didn’t seem Ram knew this guy.

  Not their contact?

  Tox glanced back to the doors, gauging his best route of escape, and counted only one door to his right. Two on the left. Within the synagogue, a raised section cantilevered over the rest. Rows of chairs mirrored the rows of stained glass. Ironic how the simplicity of the building made the stained glass seem more elaborate.

  Ram pivoted on his feet, his head slightly bowed still, and motioned to a small bench. “We wait.”

  Wait? Tox looked at the bench. Then the door. Back to the theater-style seating of the main area. Ram sat on the thin pad, his back pressed against the wall.

  Tox folded his arms. Stayed on his feet. In his experience, sitting implied submission. Implied he wasn’t in control.

  “Sit,” Ram said. His tone wasn’t combative. But it also wasn’t placating.

  “I’m good.”

  “Tox”—Ram skated a glance around—“sit.”

  Teeth clenched, Tox let out a huff. Planted himself on the bench. He felt like a freakin’ kid at the principal’s office. “I don’t do this well.”

  “I know.” Ram twisted the beanie as if wringing water out of it.

  Tox didn’t have anything to wring—except Ram’s neck. Did they have a contact to meet with or not? Didn’t sitting here compromise them? Put them in the open too long?

  The door opened, light fracturing the dim void of the synagogue. A man entered with his son, whose ringlets around his face reminded Tox of something from that prairie show with the little house. He wouldn’t say anything. Not here. But the inappropriate comment sat on the tip of his tongue. A defense mechanism to shift the focus from his discomfort.

  The silence, the gaping void of activity, pelted Tox’s nerves like tiny needles of sleet. How he could sit on the cliffs overlooking the African savannah for hours on end without a problem but not sit here in a synagogue defied explanation. He needed a distraction. “So, the yarmulke . . .”

  “So,” Ram said, his voice quiet, “Haven.”

  Silenced, Tox nodded. “Fair enough.” He pushed to his feet and paced to the doors. Glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes. How long were they supposed to wait for this guy? “Did—” His friend’s grin stopped him. “What?”

  Ram smirked then shook his head. “Sit.”

  “Don’t you have an appointment?”

  “Right, I called and said I’m an American black ops soldier and need to talk to you about a deadly plague that may or may not have supernatural—”

  “Might’ve been faster,” Tox muttered sarcastically.

  “And deadlier.”

  “There is that.” Tox shifted back to the door with stained glass, then swung around to check the offices for movement. With a grunt, he dropped onto the bench again. “This place is driving me nuts.”

  “Guilt in a synagogue could imply—”

  “Too much. I know.”

  “You call her Haven.”

  Tox had known this was coming at some point. “That’s her name.” He didn’t like the other one. It had too much attached to it. Like a dead husband.

  “Not according to her. And nobody else uses it.”

  Tox lifted a shoulder. He checked the offices again. “Aren’t we supposed to be meeting someone?”

  Again, that smirk. “She likes you.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “For you to—”

  “My apologies” came a deep voice.

  Tox punched to his feet and muttered, “About time.”

  “Shabbat shalom,” Ram said, inclining his head to the black-clad rabbi. “We are looking for Rebbe Baum.”

  The rabbi, wreathed in both solemnity and severity, glared at Tox then dragged his attention back to Ram. “Why do you look for him?”

  “Regarding the Codex.”

  The rabbi scoffed. “You are wasting your time with Rebbe Baum. The Codex is in the Israel Museum.”

  “Yes, we were informed, but we had questions for him.”

  Hands held out, the rabbi said, “Truly, I am sorry, but Rebbe Baum is not here.”

  Ram cocked his head. “You told us he was in a meeting.”

  “Yes.” He managed a flat smile—they didn’t need Haven’s deception skills to know it was fake. “There were several rebbes in the conference room”—as if to confirm his words, a sea of black swept past them and into the afternoon sun—“but I was wrong. He was not here.” He chuckled. “How silly of me.”

  Silly? Tox would put silly through his skull.

  “Do you know where he is?” Ram asked.

  “Yes.” He motioned to an office door. “I have just learned he went to the Great Synagogue.”

  Ram hesitated. Frustrated. “The Great Synagogue.”

  “Yes. There is a bat mitzvah there.” The rabbi was trying too hard to make it convincing. Or maybe Tox was overly paranoid. “A friend of a friend, I hear.”

  “Thank you. Shabbat shalom.” Ram started for the door.

  Outside and bathed in the fading warmth of the Jerusalem sun, Tox waited until they were back in the rental car before speaking. “You said he was always there.” He fisted his fingers. “Is this . . . normal?”

  “What is normal here?” Ram pulled into traffic.

  “But you’re bothered.” In fact, Tox would say very bothered. Skeptical and maybe annoyed. But Ram wasn�
��t saying anything. Hadn’t confronted the rabbi. Was it a mutual respect? What?

  “Time’s been wasted,” Ram replied.

  “Is this other synagogue far?”

  “By car, about ten minutes.”

  “I feel like we’re getting strung along.” They’d lost forty-five minutes waiting. But they’d endured worse beneath pelting live fire. Or a ball of fire like at Kafr al-Ayn.

  Tox kept track of the streets and turns in the off-chance he had to find his way back to the hotel alone. He used landmarks as a guiding beacon. They headed down King George Street. Two very large Jerusalem stone buildings surged from the monotony. They might use the same material, but there was nothing blasé about these buildings. “Now that’s more like it,” Tox muttered.

  “What?”

  “This—it holds its own against the great mosques.”

  Ram glared at him.

  “What? I only mean that all the mosques we saw in A-stan and Iraq were filled with gold and glitter. Here, things are . . .” He waved his hand, not sure how to word it.

  “More concerned with the heart than the suit the man wears.”

  Tox nodded. “Whatever. I only meant—”

  “Here.” Ram whipped the car into a spot and parked. He was out before Tox could finish his sentence.

  Normally Ram wasn’t easily offended, and it bothered Tox that he had somehow irritated him. He huffed before opening the door. He hurried to catch up with Ram, whose pace was clipped and fast.

  A blur of white snagged his attention. He glanced to the side. And stopped cold.

  His hearing hollowed. His mind powered down, his brain processing only one thing: the man standing at the end of the walk.

  Not just a man.

  The one who’d reached down to him in the fireball in Kafr al-Ayn. The one who’d spoken to him at the temple in India.

  “Tox!”

  He jerked, eyes on the man. “Who are you?”

  “Tox! What are you doing?” Ram. It was Ram talking to him.

  His Israeli friend stepped in front of him. Tapped his shoulder.

  Tox blinked. “That man”—he glanced around Ram, only to find the stone path empty—“What?” He turned a circle. “Where’d he go?”

  “Who?”

  “The man. The one—” Tox bit down on the words. He’d recounted the story about that man in the fire only once. He’d never do it again. Saw the His mind went outside the wire and didn’t RTB racking up. “Nothing.” A heavy weight thudded against his gut. Shake it off. “Let’s get this done.” He shifted toward the building. Two entrances presented themselves. “Which one?”

  Ram frowned but hooked a finger at the building on the left.

  “Let’s go.” Tox marched to the thick wood doors, leaving behind the empty sidewalk and gut-churning experience.

  Inside they were greeted with more of the alluring simplicity—and incredible beauty—of the stained-glass depictions that were prevalent.

  Ram headed to a bank of doors and rapped on a jamb. “Shabbat shalom,” he said to a rabbi Tox could not see.

  “Shabbat shalom,” a voice intoned.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Ram said, “but we are looking for Rebbe Baum.”

  Tox angled to see farther into the sanctuary. Split in two levels, the splash of color from the stained glass never ceased. A veritable rainbow—and in fact, a legit rainbow hung over the ark and seemed to divide the glass mural into two halves.

  “Ah, well, I’m not sure he’s available right now. Let me check.” A short, rotund rabbi emerged from the office. He made his way down the hall, his gait crooked, probably from arthritis.

  Tox waited as Ram crossed the hall. “This Baum seems rather . . . busy.”

  “Mm, or—”

  “Might I ask what this is about?” a voice called from a long, dark hall. The same voice, Tox believed, that belonged to the rotund rabbi.

  “It’s very urgent,” Ram said, moving toward the voice. “We need to ask him about the Aleppo Codex.”

  Shuffling was the only answer, the shadows darkening again.

  “Maybe next time,” Tox said, feeling exposed beneath the murals, “we should say he’s come into a wealth of money.”

  “That wouldn’t matter to a true rebbe.”

  “True being the operative word.”

  “Mm.”

  The second usage of that word tugged at Tox’s brain. Ram was going internal, processing. That meant something was up, a sentiment nagging with doubts.

  Heavy feet pounded down the hall. Different person. Maybe the contact was here after all.

  A younger, stouter man emerged from the shadows. “I am Rebbe Gershon. How can I help you?”

  Or maybe not.

  “I need Rebbe Baum,” Ram said, his tone firm. “We were sent here by a rebbe from Or Zaruaa.”

  “Oh. Well.” The rabbi slid Tox a gaze that felt more like oil being poured over him than a friendly gesture. Slimy. “My apologies.”

  “For what?” Tox pulled forward, his irritation obvious.

  Ram held up a hand. “It is very important, Rebbe, that we speak with him. Lives are at risk.”

  The man swallowed. “Of course.” He shrugged. “But . . . I am sorry. He is not here.”

  Patience wasn’t Tox’s strong suit. “We were told he’s doing a bat mitzvah. Those are pretty important, right?” He wasn’t leaving without checking this place.

  “Those–those aren’t done here.” Sweat dotted the man’s olive complexion. “They’re in the banquet hall—”

  “Good, we’ll look there.” Tox started walking and felt assured when Ram fell into step with him.

  “But you can’t!” the man squeaked as he hurried behind them.

  They banked down the hall, Tox letting Ram lead, since he could actually read the signs on the walls that led to the banquet hall.

  “Please. You can’t do this!”

  To the right. It was a rush to sidestep obstructions and get on with finding answers. What was going on? Why were they getting the royal runaround?

  “Please wait. There’s—”

  Ram tugged open a door. They stepped inside.

  A swath of ribbons and flowers. Laughter and merriment. A shout went up, followed by more laughter. A bride . . . and groom. A wedding reception.

  Gasps rippled through the hall.

  Tox backed up, right into the rabbi. He spun and barely resisted the urge to grab the rabbi by his jacket. “What are you hiding? Does Baum even exist?”

  “Hey, hey. Easy.” Ram stepped between them. Gave Tox a firm look before focusing on the religious man. “Please. It’s important. People are dying. Rebbe Baum may hold the answers.”

  “Dying?” He shuddered through a breath, easing away from Tox with bulging eyes. “I shouldn’t . . .” He glanced to the side, as if afraid he’d get caught. “O-okay. Hecht.”

  Ram muttered something and shook his head. “You’re sure?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “Who’s Hecht?”

  “Not who. What.” Ram pivoted on his feet. Stomped down the hall and back out the route they’d come.

  Tox trailed him closely, agitation churning into anger. “Where are we going?”

  “Hecht Synagogue.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Rage flung through Tox. “I thought you knew this guy. Knew where he was. And why are you being so nice to them?”

  “Respectful,” Ram corrected, stalking down the sidewalk. The sun now hid behind walls and multistoried structures.

  “Ram.”

  In the car, he pulled back into traffic. Focused on traffic, lights, pedestrians.

  “What if Baum doesn’t even exist?”

  “He exists.”

  Maddening. “Have you even met this guy before?” Tox motioned to the streets. “We’re chasing our butts and getting nowhere fast.”

  “Just trust me.”

  Tox snorted, yet Ram’s words stemmed some of his frustration. He did tru
st Ram. Almost more than anyone. Except Chiji. “I need to know the plan.”

  “I know.”

  “You haven’t told me that plan.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?” He’d known Ram Khalon for nearly ten years. Worked with him for six. And the guy was the truest soldier he’d ever met. But he’d always had “insider knowledge,” especially pertaining to things he shouldn’t know. This wasn’t the first time Tox wondered who—or what—Ram was behind his stoic demeanor. “If you put us in danger, I will kill you.”

  Ram smirked.

  ****

  — The Israel Museum —

  The eyes of an FBI agent were keen and alert, a veritable detector of deception and criminal activity.

  Except when distracted by a beautiful woman. And Joseph Cathey used that to his advantage. While Wallace and Cortes were engaged in a discussion, he slipped to the side and stared at a brightly lit vase dating back to the days of David.

  “You are making much noise,” a stiff voice said from beside him.

  Joseph tilted his head, focusing on pottery striations, careful not to look at the man. The “noise” he referred to were the rumblings within the secretive community. “Noise must be made to be heard. The leaf—”

  “Many would be very eager to take it from you.”

  It was a common tactic to ascertain where the artifact was and who had it by insinuating a threat. Joseph knew better than to play into the hands of mysterious persons. “Three miktereths were stolen from the site in Jebel al-Lawz. I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if the remaining miktereth could be verified. And the leaf must be verified.”

  “Then you have it.”

  Joseph bristled. “Whoever has it must verify it. There is a plague sweeping our world.” He bent closer to the brown pottery, lifting his glasses for better inspection. “Unless you are as Moshe and can persuade Yahweh to stay this one.”

  “Yahweh used Aaron to check the plague of Korah’s rebellion.”

  “I would not waste any more time trying to ascertain its location, Akiva,” Joseph said, watching in his periphery as the agents’ discussion grew more agitated. “I need to speak with them about the Codex. We need to see it.”

  “Careful, Joseph,” Akiva whispered as he turned. “I’ll convey your request, but be warned—this may be an invitation to death.”