Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  27

  — Day 11 —

  Jerusalem

  “They’re toying with us.” Tox stood in yet another foyer. An empty foyer. He stared at his yarmulke-capped friend. “Third synagogue where Baum is supposed to be. And surprise—he’s not here.”

  Jaw muscle popping, Ram stared into the sanctuary.

  “How long do we wait this time?” Tox was sure he could have dug a trench several feet deep with his pacing over the last few hours. For what? To be made a fool of?

  “You aren’t very patient.”

  “I do patient just fine—when it has a point.” Like waiting out a terrorist in a village. Or waiting out an asset until he had enough information. Or watching Kasey until he had more certainty than doubt that she was Haven. He stabbed a finger toward the floor. “This has no point. Except to make us look stupid.”

  “There is a point.” Ram’s ferocity bled with frustration.

  With a questioning look to his friend, Tox just as quickly saw the expression—the same one Ram plastered on every time someone approached the vault of his past, his secrets.

  Tox shook his head. “This secrecy of yours . . .”

  “No worse than the last three years of your life.”

  “I told you about the last three years.”

  “Not everything.”

  Tox glanced up, ready to object, but the challenge in Ram’s eyes silenced him.

  Okay. True enough. There were things Tox hadn’t told anyone.

  “Whatever you did,” Ram said, “whatever they made you do, they also silenced you.”

  Tox ground his teeth.

  Steady, quiet eyes held his. “The same is true for me.”

  “They silenced you?” It made sense. “Mossad.”

  Ram didn’t deny it. Or confirm it. That was an admission in Tox’s book. The steady clop of shoes distracted them both. Down the hall strode a haredi, an Ultra Orthodox Jew. Tox stood.

  When Ram let out a heavy sigh, Tox knew it wasn’t Baum. Again.

  “Forgive me for making you wait.” The rabbi gave a slight bow.

  “It seems to be a practice with your kind,” Tox said. “What, did they call ahead from the other synagogues?”

  “Tox,” Ram chided. He turned back to the rabbi. “Forgive him. He is tired from our travels.”

  The rabbi frowned, glancing between them, then focused on Ram. “I am truly sorry for your troubles.”

  “Troubles?” Tox snorted. “We’ve been on a wild-goose chase. All we want is to ask questions about the Aleppo Codex.”

  The rabbi went white.

  That. That right there was what rankled Tox the most. They were all kind and humble until the Codex was mentioned. Then suddenly, You’re at the wrong place.

  “Tox. Stop,” Ram said, his voice thick.

  “Yes—and that is why I am confused,” the rabbi said, shaking his graying head. “The Crown is not housed here, nor at any of our synagogues. And Dr. Baum’s office is at the Israel Museum. That is where you should go, if you want to talk to him.”

  “Unbelievable.” Tox wasn’t surprised. Should be, but really, had they expected anything in Israel to be easy?

  Ram scowled, nudging Tox backward. “Thank you, rebbe. We will look there.”

  But Tox didn’t budge. He’d been played. By these rabbis. Men he’d instinctively had a pretty stiff level of respect for. Until now.

  Ram stepped into his path. “It’s not a long trip.” But something in Ram’s expression shot warnings at Tox. With gazes locked, Ram eased to the right just enough to clear Tox’s line of sight.

  A shadow shifted behind Ram. Adrenaline spiked, but Tox quickly dismissed it. Just tree limbs dancing behind the stained-glass window. Had to be. No need to be jumpy.

  Except the sun had gone down.

  That shadow wasn’t a branch. A person stood in the darkened passage.

  “Ready?” Ram asked, his tone light. Almost happy.

  Warning received. “Yeah.” Who was enough of a threat to worry Ram?

  Outside, the cool breeze did nothing to soothe the anger coursing through Tox. He trailed Ram a few feet, noting his friend’s squared shoulders. Clipped pace. “What was—”

  “Not yet.” Ram folded himself into the rental and turned the key.

  Tox climbed in. The car pulled forward, pressing him backward as he struggled to close the door, cement blurring beneath them. Though it took everything in him, Tox waited five minutes before probing for answers. “Anytime you’re ready.” Because this was messed up, seeing Ram scared.

  “Mossad.”

  The lone word zapped Tox with enough fear to silence him. “I thought you were . . . acquainted with them.”

  “To them, I’m an American operator.”

  Read: not Israeli. Not trustworthy.

  And somehow Ram and Tox had their attention. Did Tox have a red dot on his forehead right now? The urge to duck grew surreal. But what? What had lured them out of their dens? “This about the Codex?” It was the only thing that made sense. “Or the plague? Censers?”

  “Any and all.” Ram sighed. “But this—this silence, it is normal when you inquire about the Codex. There are too many mysteries about it, and nobody is so expertly prepared to protect a national treasure than the IAA or Mossad.” He nodded to Tox. “Ask questions of them, get silence.”

  “And a maddening wild Codex chase.”

  Ram nodded. The car rounding another corner exerted the force of gravity on Tox—and his mind. He noted the buildings. The streets. Wait. They weren’t headed back to the hotel. “Why are we going to the museum still?”

  “He told us to.”

  “But we’re compromised!”

  “We were compromised as soon as we boarded the plane to Israel.”

  Tox bit back a curse. More secrets. More Ram couldn’t say. “This is—” He shook his head. Then nodded. Unbelievable. He’d done his best to shut down his questions and theories about Ram’s connections. But with his racial background and tactical experience—more like excellence—there weren’t many theories remaining. Tox just wasn’t ready to accuse Ram of treason.

  “They are testing me.” Ram turned the wheel hand over hand as they took another corner. “If I don’t go, then they will say I am scared or impatient.”

  Neither would be a lie.

  “And if I am scared or impatient, then I am not worthy of whatever truth they can reveal.”

  “You mean whatever they are hiding.” Wrapping his mind around the fact that they were dealing with this secretive, deadly, and highly effective organization was hard. It created a whole new pucker factor. “How’d we tick them off?”

  Ram gave a caustic laugh. “I think it is in my blood,” he said, referring to his family’s long history of drawing the wrath of the Israeli agency.

  Tox didn’t know the whole story, and Ram wouldn’t tell it, at least not every detail. Only that his family fled Israel in the middle of the night because his father wouldn’t do something. Then his father died under mysterious circumstances, and their American-born mother raised them in New York, quietly and humbly. But Ram had never forgotten. Or forgiven.

  “Think they realize who you are?”

  “They know who I am.” No merriment or laughter in his voice. Dead serious. “We’re here.”

  Looking out the window, Tox sagged. Another place to wait. Find out they’d been baited. “How long do we sit this time?”

  Ram shrugged. “At least we won’t be bored here.”

  Tox was forced to study the building, a 1960s structure if he ever saw one with its long, clean lines and little but nature to accent it.

  “This is the largest cultural institution in Israel.” Ram almost smiled. “It’s ranked among the world’s leading art and archaeology museums. Tzivia loves this place.”

  “I imagine her professor does as well.”

  “Indeed. In fact, Dr. Cathey has cooperated with the institute and been here on numerous occasions to work with or
see the scrolls and codices.” Ram’s cheek twitched. “Our problem is knowing where to look for Baum on the twenty-acre complex.”

  “Information desk?” It was meant to be funny, but really, where else would they start? The rabbi hadn’t given them instructions.

  They made their way up the path with its intermittent pegs and stairs. The far quarter actually had steps of light, providing ample illumination as dusk pushed away the warmth of the sun and the serene glow from the steel and glass structures. Tox tried not to stare at a giant apple core, a sculpture that must hold some importance. His mind wandered to Adam and Eve, but who knew why there was an apple core on the path to the museum entrance.

  Beyond the plates of glass and translucent walls, they found the entrance. Ram strode to the information booth in the middle of the grand foyer. He palmed the counter, and Tox turned a slow circle, taking in the museum, artifacts, patrons, and exits.

  Ram spoke in Hebrew to the woman, and while Tox didn’t speak the language, he heard Baum’s name. She replied quickly and quietly, drawing a long, dour look from Ram. He finally sighed and shouldered Tox.

  “Let me guess—not here.” Although he didn’t directly eyeball them, Tox noted the half-dozen security cameras peeking from the ceilings like black eyes, monitoring the museum that perfected the art of cement, steel, and glass for a cool, retro-classy look.

  “She’s never heard of him.”

  “But he’s your contact—and he does exist, right?”

  “My contact exists. But his name”—he shook his head—“is whatever he needs it to be.”

  “So you don’t know him?”

  “Not personally.”

  Tox blew out a frustrated breath and probed farther into the galleries, all littered with remnants of history. Some open and unprotected, others in glass cases. A conglomerate on shelves.

  Recognition flared. The man by the statue—Maangi. What was he doing here?

  Another man stood with a woman, inappropriately close in this cultural climate. He had a possessive hand at the small of her back. He bent his dark head toward her as she spoke into his ear. Weren’t there laws or something here about that kind of PDA?

  But then the woman laughed. Tox started. Haven. And Wallace. Something in Tox twisted and clenched.

  “Tzivia.” Even as Ram named his sister and stalked toward the gallery where she stood with the others, Tox spotted Cell and Chiji across the gallery, hovering over a sculpture. Buzzing with a truckload of annoyance, he couldn’t decide if they were subtle enough in their presence, even though the gallery was heavily populated with tourists of all ethnicities. They weren’t sticking out.

  A huddle of visitors off to the left muttered quietly, looking at a brochure. Tox saw a blur of flesh—bald—and let his gaze drift around the gallery.

  Wait. Tox stopped, his mind pinging back to a second ago. Not a bald head. He pivoted. Craned his neck to search the crowd across the way.

  “What?” Ram asked, his voice quiet.

  A man stepped into view. Definitely bald. But that—that wasn’t what Tox saw. “Tanin.”

  “Here?” Ram breathed.

  Darting a look around disproved his thought. “Maybe not.” One more long, probing check didn’t reassure him despite finding nothing. “Guess I’m imagining things.”

  “Either way, let’s move.” Ram strode toward his sister. “What are you doing here?”

  Tzivia might be small and look demure, but she was a tightly coiled rattler. She drew up straight, her eyes blazing. “Research.”

  Tox knew Ram could handle his sister and the absent-minded professor, so he maintained a watchful eye. Had he seen Tanin or not? He aimed toward Haven and the too-slick-for-reality Wallace. But just as quick, a dark wall slid between them.

  Chiji towered over Tox, his presence like a cloud in the blazing heat. “Dr. Cathey told us some good news.”

  “Yes, yes,” Dr. Cathey said, hurrying closer. “The Aleppo Codex—it is here.” He shook his head. “Not in this building but in the Shrine of the Book, which is on the property.” He swiped a hand through the air. “Well, actually it’s not even there. Not really.”

  Had he taken his medication? “Is it, or isn’t it?” Tox asked.

  “Yes and no.” Dr. Cathey smiled. It seemed the brainiac was enjoying the moment where he knew more than everyone else. “In the Shrine of the Book—” He huffed and scratched his head. “Come. Let me show you.”

  It was better than standing around waiting for a rabbi who probably didn’t exist, or for Tanin to prove Tox right and put an arrow through his chest. Seven headed out with the doctor, Ram at his side. But Tox drifted back, watching their sixes, watching Haven, stuck at the hip to Wallace, who obviously had a thing for her. Did she share the interest?

  Tox worked through the way she’d responded to him, to his touch, when he’d talked to Attaway. Had he imagined that? The distance between her and Wallace suggested he had. They trailed the professor from the glass and steel structure into one with a white domed ceiling and a basalt wall. The dichotomy of black and white was stark.

  “A contrast of colors representing, most likely, the War of the Sons of Light”—without slowing, Dr. Cathey pointed to the white dome—“and the Sons of Darkness.”

  “What war was that?” A military history buff, Tox didn’t recall that conflict.

  “Not a war. A scroll,” Dr. Cathey corrected as they entered the unique building. “A manual for military organization and strategy discovered among the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

  That would explain why Tox hadn’t heard of it.

  “These scrolls contain an apocalyptic prophecy of a war between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness. The war is described in two distinct parts, first the War against the Kittim, which was purported to be a battle between the Sons of Light, who are the sons of Levi, Judah, and Benjamin, and the exiled of the desert, against Edom, Moab”—he waved his hand as if to say so-on and so-on—“and those who assist them from among the ‘wicked who violate the covenant.’ The War of Divisions is the second part of the war and is described as the Sons of Light, now the united twelve tribes of Israel, conquering the nations of vanity. In the end, all Darkness is destroyed and Light lives in peace for all eternity—at least, that’s what the prophecy says.”

  “What about the Codex?” Tzivia, eyes wide with wonder, slid up alongside Tox. “Just listen,” she whispered to him, threading her arm through his. “It’s incredible.”

  “Ah!” The older man’s face lit beneath his bushy eyebrows and rimless glasses. “Isn’t it a beauty?” He nodded to a display built into a stonelike alcove. The rectangular enclosure held a propped-up book that looked ancient and thick.

  It made Tox curious. “How many pages?”

  “They’re called leaves, not pages,” the professor corrected. “And there are only two leaves there right now.”

  Tox frowned at the protected book. There had to be easily a couple of hundred.

  “What you see on top is the only real leaf. The rest are props to make it appear real.”

  “Where are the rest?”

  Dr. Cathey smiled. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Because even that first page is not real. It’s a copy.”

  Tox leaned closer, intrigued.

  “Seriously?” Cell muttered. “It looks legit.”

  “The real Codex is too valuable to display, even in a protected case. There are many threats against the Codex.” Dr. Cathey sighed. “Terrorists are brazen. Treasure hunters ruthless.”

  “Where’s the real one?”

  He stroked his beard, thoughtful. “They keep it hidden well below the city.”

  “Where?”

  “That is another question,” he said around a smile. “Ask them and you will find yourself engaged in a conspiracy of silence.”

  “I think we already have,” Tox muttered. But then frowned again. “So why are we here? Why did you bring them out here and endanger—”

  “They wer
en’t in danger,” Agent Wallace said. He really wanted his face rearranged, didn’t he?

  “We came because I wanted to meet a colleague,” Dr. Cathey said. “And I did.”

  Wallace scowled. “That’s not what you said.”

  “We’re out of time.” Ram had that look again, the one that put Tox’s hackles up. The one he’d had in the last synagogue when the Mossad agent appeared.

  Nerves thrumming, Tox motioned the others to the door. “Move out. Time’s up.”

  “Oh, we don’t need any more.” Dr. Cathey strode confidently toward the front entrance. “I already met with my friend.”

  Silence cracked the normal but quiet thrum in the museum. The others were looking at each other, then back at the doctor.

  “When?” Wallace demanded.

  “While you were talking with Agent Cortes.” He patted Levi’s shoulders. “You were very good to be distracted so my friend wouldn’t feel threatened.”

  Tox pivoted toward the agent.

  Chiji’s hand fell on Tox’s shoulder and redirected him into the balmy evening.

  Tox nudged it off. Glared at Wallace. “If you can’t handle protection when you’re—”

  “I had eyes on her at all times.”

  Rage lit through Tox as he lunged at Wallace.

  Arms hooked beneath his. “Easy, easy.” Ram drew him backward.

  Tox reeled in his anger. A little. He pointed at the agent. “You fail her again, I can’t promise you’ll wake up alive.”

  Wallace drew up straight. “Kasey and I were doing just fine before you showed up.”

  Tox balled his fists.

  “Hey,” Ram snapped.

  “Doing fine?” Tox said, feeling a thud in his chest. One that warned him his heart was about to climb out. “You didn’t even see the professor make contact!”

  “Hey.” Ram’s voice was tight as he grabbed Tox’s arm, urging him down the path.

  Somehow, the tension in his friend’s voice registered. Not tension as in trying to stop Tox from taking a piece of Wallace, but trouble. Tox recalibrated. Flashed a questioning look at Ram.

  “We have a problem.”

  “What?”