Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  “No.” He was grateful when Devra took Ephraim, so he could be alone with his wife. “There is no need, my beloved.”

  Her head lolled to the right. Then the left. She pulled her hand from beneath the clean blanket—over her still-swollen stomach—and handed him a piece of paper. “The curse . . .”

  He frowned at the paper, but was more worried about the fading light in her eyes. “Shh, Gratzia. It is well.”

  “No,” she said around a hoarse throat. “The Lord gave me mercy”—she swallowed and wet her cracked lips—“did not deserve.” Her hand rested on his. A tremor of strength from her fingers might have been a squeeze.

  “Not true. You are the most deserving—”

  “No.” The word was a rasp. Broken. A tear slipped down her all-too-young face. “I’m so sorry.” Her face screwed tight. “I believed it a promise.” She breathed a pained, prolonged breath, tensing beneath the effort. “I wanted to bring a piece of our homeland with us.”

  “What—?”

  She nudged his hand.

  He glanced down. Remembered the paper. Wait . . . not a paper. It was crisper. Stiffer. He unfolded it. A wave of shock pounded him. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t believe what lay between his fingers. No . . . What had she done?

  A board in the room creaked. He looked. A man stood there. His eyes probing. Penetrating.

  Guilt stuffed the parchment out of sight. “Who are you?” Benyamin demanded. “Get out!”

  “You know who I am.”

  Benyamin didn’t. “I said—”

  “Please calm down,” Devra said from his side.

  But Benyamin’s outrage was complete at the man intruding on his wife in her bed. “Get out! You don’t belong here.”

  “But I do.”

  “Out!”

  “It I is need worse you when to you calm are down angry.”

  Benyamin blinked. The words made no sense. And yet perfect sense. He heard “it is worse when you are angry” and “I need you to calm down” spoken at the same time from different voices. But only one person stood there.

  “Sabba?”

  He jerked. Saw the young face of his nehda. Again. It had happened again? He glanced behind her. “Where is your friend?”

  Alison slumped, her head lilting to the side with sadness. “Sabba, no one is here but you and me.”

  He waved a hand. “Your lover. That’s what he is. Am I right? Tell me I am wrong.”

  “Sabba, I would never!”

  “Then why do you bring him to the house? Do you think I am so old and blind?”

  Her brow creased. “I have brought no one. We must be very careful with your illness.”

  “Bah!” Angry, he dropped back and looked to the curtains. Yes, he had an illness. A painful, lingering sickness that had infected his heart from the day his Gratzia fled the earth.

  It was the curse. Because Gratzia had pawned the parchment off onto him. He welcomed it and the pain. They meant he still had her with him. He dragged his hand over his breast and let it rest there. Breathed a little less agony. Yes, he had her with him.

  32

  — Day 12 —

  Jerusalem

  Nearly smothering beneath the wool hood and Israeli heat, Tox closed his eyes. Shut down his agitation. Focused on the environment, on the route. They’d been herded twenty-three paces, then banked right. Traveled ten more feet before another right. They were led down sixteen stairs then were stuffed into a vehicle. Diesel, by the fumes and engine rattle.

  “Cole?”

  The sound of Haven’s voice, small and frightened, struck a violent chord in him. “It’s okay.” The lie tasted weird on his tongue—he always told things straight. But he’d do anything to wipe that sound from her words, the one that reeked of fear. The one that made him scared he would fail her, too. That another Linwood daughter would die because of him. He wanted to touch her. Reassure her, reassure himself that wouldn’t happen. “You hurt?” He used the question as a homing beacon.

  “Just scared.”

  He shifted to his left, searching for her. “Trust Ram. He knows Israel.” Though while Tox trusted him, he didn’t like putting Haven’s life in his hands. Brooke would rise from the dead and haunt him if her little sister got hurt. “It’ll be okay.”

  A riffle against his sleeve made him freeze. The pressure grew—fingers crawled up his forearm.

  Tox turned in that direction, unable to see through the dense fabric. “It’ll be okay.” Man, he sounded like a glitching playlist.

  Weight pushed against his shoulder. She’d scooted closer. Past the thud of his own pulse, he heard her frantic breath as she leaned against him. With her touch came a strange sense of relief.

  The vehicle lurched to a stop, tires squealing. The sound echoed, seeming to amplify. Were they in a tunnel or parking structure? Doors creaked and the vehicle shifted. Another door popped with a groan.

  “Out!” a man demanded.

  Tox scooted toward the voice, going slow enough for Haven, who kept her hold on his arm. A vise-grip hooked his bicep and yanked him around. Biting back a retort, Tox surrendered that fight. At least, mostly. He wasn’t a dog on a lead, no matter the situation. Resisting reminded these people that Tox and the others weren’t just going to lie down and play dead.

  A door squawked then shrieked, echoing to the right. From that, Tox could extrapolate they were at the end of a passage of some kind. A half-dozen more paces and a gruff voice ordered, “Stop.”

  Hesitating, Tox fought the urge to reach for the hood. Another weight—someone stumbled into him. Tox caught the person, steadying them.

  Without warning his hood was yanked off. Tox cringed, splinters of fire rippling across his scalp at the hair they’d ripped out. The explosion of light was cruel and blinding. Blinking, he took in their surroundings. Hard-packed earth surrounded them, arching overhead and spreading out until darkness swallowed what little light existed. One section of the passageway was lined with stones in perfect alignment. The network of stones swept overhead and rushed down into an intersecting tunnel.

  Ram stepped between Tox and Tzivia, whose olive complexion looked more Irish and less Israeli, blanched beneath the situation. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “What’s going on?” Tox hissed.

  With his back to the black-clad men, Ram angled closer. “Just be patient.”

  “You knew they’d do this?”

  Ram met his gaze with a glint of challenge. “We both did.”

  Tox flinched. It wasn’t completely unexpected. The Mossad and many other covert agencies across the world liked the cloak-and-dagger tactics. Tox knew how to play the game to get what he needed. “Is that our contact?”

  Ram gave a single shake of his head.

  “I believe that would be me” came a creaking old voice filled with age and wisdom.

  Ram pivoted. Inclined his head, his broad frame blocking Tox’s view. “Shabbat shalom.”

  “Shabbat shalom, Ram,” the man said in a thick accent.

  Tox shifted to the side, his shoulder nudging Haven’s as he sought a clearer view. The rabbi was at least a half-dozen inches shorter than Ram’s six-foot height, mostly the cost of age and arthritis. His gnarly gray beard was tightly trimmed and splotched with pure white.

  “Please.” He motioned back to the passage, producing a cane from beneath the folds of a black suit jacket that reached to his knees. “Forgive our rather rough methods for secrecy.” He huffed out words that were as slow as his pace. His hooklike fingers traced the walls as he shuffled onward. “But that secrecy is imperative for the mysteries we guard.”

  Ram fell into step with the rabbi, a hand hovering over the old man’s crooked spine, as if he could balance him—and yet, afraid to touch him. “Rebbe, we have come—”

  “I am aware of why you have come.” Though he moved slowly, he did so with familiarity in the dark tunnels, navigating them as easily as if they were fully lit.

  Tox kept Tzivia
and Haven in front of him. A few mind-bending twists and turns delivered them into a room cramped with wood and parchment. Large beams stretched across the ceiling. Cedar shelves stuffed with scrolls and books of parchments consumed the entire wall opposite the door. A long table hogged the middle of the floor and abutted the left wall. Where Tox half expected to find pots of ink and candles burning, only low-wattage lamps provided the dim glow of light.

  With a flick of his hand, the old rabbi sent them to four stools that hugged the thick, long table. “There is little comfort here, including what lies within these leaves and scrolls.”

  Tox positioned himself so he couldn’t be surprised. But the feeling that someone watched from behind the wall of shelving and scrolls had him checking over his shoulder more than once. Finally he surrendered and sat on a stool, folding his arms as the rabbi, with great effort, lowered himself into a rather simple wooden chair with a worn tapestry cover. The thick rug muffled the groan of the wood as he adjusted on the cushion.

  A shadow shifted in the corner, and Tox nearly came off his stool to reach for the weapon he no longer had, thanks to the shadowed men. But it was only another rabbi, seated in a corner and hunched over a small square table piled high with books and precariously propped scrolls. The yarmulke-topped head lifted as the rabbi peered at them down his bulbous nose. An overhead lamp caught coils of hair along the sides of his face and his beard, which still held its full color.

  “Ah, this is Rebbe Natan Sokolov,” the older rabbi said. “He is very devoted to the preservation of the texts, their transcriptions, and translations.”

  Ram dragged a stool across the room and sat beside the tapestried chair. He leaned forward like a young boy waiting for a story before his grandfather. “Rebbe Baum, you remember my message?”

  Baum? This was Baum? But Ram had acted like he hadn’t met him. No . . . he just hadn’t answered the question.

  “Yes, yes,” Baum said, waving his hand. “The miktereths. The plague.”

  Ram tugged out his phone and showed it to the rabbi. “This is what my sister”—he threw her a look over his shoulder—“found at a dig site.”

  “Jebel al-Lawz.”

  Okay, the old guy had Tox’s attention now.

  “Three miktereths, yes, young lady?” Wizened eyes sparked with vibrancy.

  Tzivia nodded. “Yes. They were well below the main dig site.”

  He chuckled. “Of course they were.” He laughed again. “And you have them?”

  “They were stolen, Rebbe,” Ram said. “By different men.”

  “Oh my.” The rabbi steepled his fingertips. “That’s quite a shame.” He focused on Ram again. “You came because you think they belonged to Korah and his rebel leaders, Dathan and Abiram.”

  “Yes.”

  “Always knew Eli had good blood.” Baum struggled to push from the chair, and Ram came forward to assist.

  Tzivia twitched. “You knew our father?” she asked, her voice unusually high. Her face piqued.

  Rabbi Baum made his way to a shelf and pointed to a scroll, which Ram removed. They turned together, and Baum motioned to the long table. Haven was on her feet, facing the men as they laid out the scroll.

  Hands propped on the wood, Rabbi Baum smiled. Fondness filled his gray eyes as he peered at the parchment. His fingers wavered as he reached for the text. He swallowed then opened it. The scraping of pages seemed to scratch against the very fabric of time. “What you are looking for is written in Numbers chapter sixteen.”

  “And that’s in the Aleppo Codex?” Tox asked.

  Rabbi Baum turned to Tox, his eyes now piercing. “What do you know of the Keter?”

  “The what?”

  “The Keter Aram Tzova.”

  Ram nodded. “It means ‘the Crown of Aleppo.’”

  “What do you know of it?” Rabbi Baum challenged again.

  Tox shrugged. “Not enough. Which is why we’re here.”

  “A quiet fool is half a sage.”

  The remonstration was subtle yet clear. Annoyance spilled down Tox’s spine as he clenched his jaw—they needed answers, not a lecture.

  Baum raised his eyebrows, pleased his message for Tox to stop interrupting had been received. “Now, Numbers relates the story of Korah and those who mounted the rebellion with him.” He nodded to Tzivia. “You found the site below ground.”

  “A good half mile, if not more. It was submerged near a spring.” Tzivia was on her feet.

  “Of course.” His hand took on a life of its own, sliding along the columns of neat script as he rolled the scroll apart in one direction, closing the other at the same time. Fingertips trailed over the parchment columns of Hebrew script. “Yes, here. ‘Korah son of Izhar, the son of Kohath, the son of Levi, and certain Reubenites—Dathan and Abiram, sons of Eliab, and On son of Peleth—became insolent and rose up against Moses.’”

  “Is that the Codex—er, the Crown, or whatever it’s called?” Tox asked, leaning over Haven’s shoulder.

  “Heavens, no,” Rabbi Baum said with a laugh. “This is a scroll.”

  That was supposed to imply something, and apparently Tox wasn’t the only one confused by the old rabbi pointing out what was obvious.

  Haven shook her head. “I don’t under—”

  “The Codex is bound,” Tzivia said, with a bit of exasperation. “In fact, it was the first of its kind. The first full Masoretic text bound as a book.”

  “I’ve heard that before—Masoretic,” Tox mumbled.

  “It’s the Hebrew text of the Tanakh approved for general use in Judaism,” Tzivia explained.

  “It comes from masoreth, meaning tradition. Therefore,” Rabbi Baum continued, “it is the traditional Hebrew text of the Jewish Bible.”

  Tox rubbed his forehead. “And the Masoretic text is the Aleppo Codex?”

  “No, it is a Masoretic text. One of the oldest, most complete texts of the Hebrew Bible,” the rabbi said. “The Aleppo Codex was a full manuscript of the entire Bible, which was written around 930. For more than a thousand years, the manuscript was preserved in its entirety in important Jewish communities in the Near East: Tiberias, Jerusalem, Egypt, and Aleppo.”

  “So if it was in all those cities,” Ram asked. “Why is it called the Aleppo Codex?”

  “That is one of its many names. Around 930 AD in Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee, sages led by the ben Asher family assembled all twenty-four holy books and painstakingly hand copied each one into a single bound book—the Codex, which is the first definitive Tanakh, or Hebrew Bible. Besides being the first complete text to be bound as the Romans had done, the Codex also contained the cantillations, which are vocalization marks. This was very unique and very helpful.”

  “Again,” Tox asked, “why is it called the Aleppo—”

  Baum held up his gnarled hand. “‘Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.’” He smiled, his beard almost hiding the smirk beneath it. “Aristotle.”

  Tox pinched the bridge of his nose. The rabbi seemed bent on annoying him, or melting his brain with too much information.

  “In 1099, the Crusaders laid waste to Jerusalem,” Rabbi Baum continued, “and it is they who removed the Codex from the Holy City. They held it ransom, and the Fustat Jewish community in Cairo paid an enormous ransom for the Codex. In the twelfth century, Moshe ben Maimon—also known as Maimonides—was a great medieval Sephardic Jewish philosopher, astronomer, and one of the most prolific and influential Torah scholars and physicians of the Middle Ages. In creating his Mishneh Torah, he used the Codex, which he regarded as one of the most accurate and holy texts. Decades later, his grandson migrated to Aleppo and took it with him. It was safely guarded there for six centuries.”

  “So that brings us up to our day.” Ram was bent over the scroll but watched the rabbi, who had eased onto the stool Tzivia scooted over to him.

  “Mystery surrounds the current condition of the Codex and how it came to be in Israel. There are many stories of its journeys over the last sev
enty-nine years. One particular story is that it was secreted out of Syria in 1947.”

  “The UN vote to divide Palestine,” Tox suggested.

  “Precisely,” Rabbi Baum said. “There was great fear of backlash against the Jews after the vote. Some say the Codex was smuggled out before the vote in anticipation of riots and attacks, while some say it remained hidden in Aleppo.” He shrugged and pursed his lips. “Who can know?”

  In the alcove of the other room, the younger Sokolov lifted his head from his work and stilled. A moment later, he gave a sidelong glance at the elder rabbi, then met Tox’s gaze and quickly returned to his work on the scroll.

  “But it reappeared in Jerusalem,” Tzivia said, her tone . . . off. Stiff.

  “It did—”

  “Missing nearly forty percent.”

  Baum lowered his head, his expression grave. “Yes.”

  “What happened to it?” Haven asked, her green eyes darting between them.

  “That is the mystery,” Baum said. “For years we all believed the leaves were destroyed in the fires when the Jewish quarter was attacked, but there were witnesses who claim to have seen the Crown—complete—months afterward.”

  “So how did forty percent go missing?”

  “Who knows?” Baum shrugged again.

  Again the yarmulked head in the corner lifted, but not as high this time.

  Tox shifted. “Okay. This is a great history and Bible lesson, but—”

  “But what does this have to do with the censers and plague?” Baum finished his thought. At least they understood each other. “In Aleppo, where the Codex was safeguarded, the Jews believed it possessed magical properties. It was said that women who looked upon it would become pregnant, that those who held the keys to its safe—”

  “Safe?” Tox asked, his attention again sliding across the room when Sokolov stood from his station, rested his hands on the wood surface for several long moments, then shuffled to the wall of scrolls and books. The rabbi moved without drawing attention from the older rabbi. He could probably do anything he liked as long as he didn’t interrupt Baum. The younger rabbi plucked a book and returned to his station. His gaze darted toward the others, then rested on the unopened book.