The Sacred Cipher

by Terry Brennan

  “Over the last hundred years, Warren’s Gate and its alcove were not only the subject of numerous theories but also the flashpoint for many crises. Rumors abounded in 1911 that British excavators had secretly tunneled underneath the Dome of the Rock and uncovered and absconded with the temple treasures. In the early 1990s, an attempt by archaeologist Dan Bahat to secretly make an opening in Warren’s Gate nearly caused a major war.

  “Now, beyond history, what makes Warren of such interest to you,” said Larsen, turning back to his rapt listeners, “is that Warren made a series of maps from his time in these tunnels. Today, it is clear that rather than spending most of his time burrowing beneath the Temple Mount as he thought, Warren actually discovered the continuation of the Western Wall. Warren reached bedrock at the northwest corner of the wall, and that’s where his digging was forced to stop. But those maps are still in existence, and at least it’s a place to start. Of all the spots in the tunnels that honeycomb Mount Zion, Warren’s Gate is the one most pregnant with possibility.”

  As he looked at the “class” arrayed before him, Larsen spotted the tell-tale signs of information overload.

  Joe Rodriguez stretched to the full length of his six feet and four inches. “Okay, so it looks like there’s at least one way in and probably others,” he said. “But there’s something that I just haven’t been able to figure out.

  “This temple was a pretty big place, I gather. So the cavern the Jews needed to create would also have been a pretty big place. And from what Tom has been telling me lately, the Bible is very specific about the dimensions of the temple and about the material that is to be used to construct the temple—cedar and gold and bronze and cut stones—and all the artisans that were needed. How could these guys manage to get all this material underneath the Temple Mount without anybody putting two and two together? And this cavern would have to be huge, right? Where would they put the debris? I’ll tell ya, it still sounds like the movies to me. It’s a good story, but it doesn’t make any sense.”

  Bohannon turned to squarely face his brother-in-law. “Yeah, the whole thing does sound like a movie, and it is hard to believe. But we’ve got one thing that appears to guarantee it’s all real.” He waited a moment. “If this is some fancy, elaborate hoax, why are people trying to kill us?”

  Rodriguez grimaced and slowly nodded. “Listen, I need a break,” he said, stretching his shoulders. “How about if we take ten minutes and then get back at it?”

  19

  Bohannon caught up with Joe in the hallway, even though it was only a few yards between the conference room and the director’s lounge.

  “Listen, Joe, how much have you told Deirdre about everything we’re doing?”

  “Not a lot,” said Joe, as he ushered Tom into the lounge, following the wonderful aroma that had invaded their deliberations in the conference room. “And probably not as much as I should have. I don’t think she would be very happy if she discovered that your ‘accident’ was a deliberate attempt to kill you, or that another one of this killer tribe tried to push Doc under a train. Or that the bunch of us are seriously considering embarking on a treasure hunt under the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. Geez, Tom, Deirdre and Annie would flip out if they realized everything that we’re keeping from them.”

  Bohannon ignored the room’s fine furniture and books and followed a finer smell into the kitchen, where some fresh-baked cookies—chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin—beckoned.

  “Mmm, they’re still warm,” Rodriguez cooed. “An afternoon ritual around here. One of the assistants pops some Otis Spunkmeyer in the oven. Good thing we’re just next door. These won’t last long.”

  Bohannon set to work scooping cookies onto a plate, while Rodriguez loaded a tray with mugs of coffee and tea.

  “I’ve told Annie about finding the scroll and trying to figure out what it meant. But not much since. She thinks we’re just trying to identify the message because it will be of more value to the mission once we understand what it means. But Joe, what am I going to tell her? Keep your eyes open when you go out because somebody may try to kill you? I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like I have to keep all of this from her. Other times I feel that if I don’t tell her, then I’m not protecting her. That she would probably be safer if she knew to be careful. I don’t know.”

  Bohannon caught Rodriguez’s concerned look over the steaming mugs.

  “There was a long time in our marriage when I wasn’t honest with Annie. I had a secret thought life. But after twenty years of marriage, God gave me the strength to be honest with her.”

  Bohannon saw alarm in Joe’s eyes.

  “Yeah, you can imagine what life was like then,” said Bohannon, shaking his head. “But over time, we worked through it, and Annie forgave me. And for the first time in our marriage, we could be honest, vulnerable, transparent with each other. You know what I found out? I used to believe that if Annie ever knew who I really was—you know, that guy that all of us have hidden under the surface, the one we never want our wives to know about—if she knew that guy, she would never be able to love me. How could she? I didn’t love myself. But you know the amazing thing? The more Annie knows me, all of me, the real me, the more she loves me. I’ll tell you, Joe, I don’t get it at all. But it’s the truth.”

  Bohannon hung his head for a moment, allowing the fullness of his emotions to be recorded and felt. “Ever since that day, our marriage has gotten better. Not every day is great, but over the last ten years, our life has been great, like we’re kids on our honeymoon. And you know why? Because even when I screw up, I know I need to be honest with Annie. Most of the time, I can do it. Sometimes, I fail. But we have a new life together, and we both work real hard to keep it safe and make it work.

  “And Joe,” he said, rubbing the heels of his hands over his bloodshot blue eyes, “I can’t keep this truth from her any longer. I just can’t. Being honest is not an option anymore; it’s a necessity.

  “So be forewarned. Annie is going to know all about this tonight. And I’m going to tell her that we’re going to Jerusalem as soon as we can figure out what we need and where to go. You can do what you want with Deirdre. I just didn’t want you to get blindsided at home.”

  Bohannon looked up, and he was alone in the kitchen. Glancing to his left, he could see the retreating Rodriguez turning out of the doorway and into the hall, an urgency to his normally aggressive gait. Glancing to his right, he saw the tray of mugs, abandoned on the counter.

  Good man, thought Bohannon. Good man.

  “So that’s the whole of it,” Bohannon said. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you all of this before. I never expected for it to turn into this huge . . . thing . . . and to be honest, then I got scared when we realized there were people after us.” Bohannon rested his chin in his right hand, shaking his head as if the weight of the world rested on his neck. “I don’t know. This has all been pretty crazy. But regardless, I should have filled you in on all the details long before this, and I’m really sorry that I didn’t.”

  They were sitting in Paesano’s, their favorite restaurant in Little Italy, at the little table tucked into a corner by the front window, giving them a clear view of the endless pedestrian traffic on Mulberry Street. It was a busy Thursday night, the weather was good, the Italian restaurants had once again invaded the sidewalks for the al fresco dining tourists loved, and Mulberry Street was closed to motor vehicles, giving the strolling throngs more room to study menus and listen to the pitch of headwaiters and a strolling brass band wearing red, white, and green caps.

  Even in Little Italy, Paesano’s was unique. While all around it, restaurants modernized, Paesano’s was the quintessential, old Italian restaurant from 1940s movies. Chianti bottles hung from battered oak beams along with potted plants and fake grape arbors, and antique opera posters decorated the white plaster walls. There were no red-checked tablecloths. But Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Perry Como
crooned from the speakers; good, inexpensive pasta was served; and patrons enjoyed a nice view of the street without being out in the middle of the crowd.

  Bohannon tore apart a piece of bread while he waited for Annie’s reply.

  “I forgive you,” she said with no trace of rancor. “I wish I had known before; I would have known how to pray for you—even though these guys with the lightning bolt crosses are pretty creepy.”

  Bohannon knew his wife well enough after nearly thirty years that he, finally, was able to tell when there was something lingering behind those pretty blue eyes.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s only one thing I need to know,” said Annie, searching his face. “Why you? Why not let Dr. Johnson take this scroll to the British Museum and let the archaeologists try to figure out if a temple could be under the Temple Mount? Why should you or Joe be involved any further?”

  That’s the big question, isn’t it? The one I’ve been asking myself.

  He reached out his hand to hold hers. “I’ve been praying about this for a long time, trying to understand—not what I want to do, but what God wants me to do.” He looked into her eyes. “Annie, each time I struggle with this, each time I bring it to God, I keep getting the same answer . . . This is what I’m calling you to do. Honestly, it doesn’t make any sense. I’ve got my job to take care of. Shoot, I’ve got you and Caitlin and Connor to protect. I shouldn’t be getting mixed up in something crazy like this. But . . .”

  Bohannon’s voice trailed off with his thoughts.

  “But God’s told you . . . called you, right?” said Annie. “Well, Tom . . . really . . . I’m not surprised.”

  Bohannon’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “Look, Tom,” she said, stroking the back of his hand, “you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. That’s what made you such a great investigative reporter. Even under the hammering you took over the Swinton case, you did what you knew was the right thing to do.”

  Annie looked out the window at the strollers passing by, took a deep breath, and turned back to her husband. “I don’t know why God picked you, but I know why I would pick you. You’re honest, and you’re trustworthy, Tom. You’re not out to make yourself a million bucks. If this message is true, the world will need someone of character and integrity—someone they can believe in—to be sure it’s not a hoax or some bad practical joke gone terribly wrong.”

  “But why me?” said Tom. “I don’t want to be a hero.”

  “You are a hero,” said Annie. “You just don’t know it yet. You’re made of the stuff of heroes. You and Joe, you’re the kind of men who have always made the difficult choice to be heroes.”

  Bohannon shook his head in disbelief.

  “No, I’m serious,” she said. “You would have been the guys to build log cabins in the wilderness; you would have been the guys riding the Pony Express; you would have been the guys holding the line at the Battle of the Bulge. Why did those men do it? Why did those men take such risks? Because they were called to it, they were built for it, and they had the courage to overcome their fear and do their duty.”

  Bohannon felt heat rush to his cheeks. Annie smiled.

  “I don’t know why God’s picked you for this,” she said. “But in one way or another, he’s been preparing you for this moment all of your life.”

  Annie waited until Alejandro, their favorite waiter, deposited their pasta in the appropriate locations.

  “So what do you do now?” she asked. They both knew the answer.

  Twenty minutes later, they were scooping up the remains of their shared tartuffo. Silence had been their companion.

  “Tom, I know you’ve got to go . . . honestly, I do. I can’t imagine you not following through. God has chosen you for this time, for this job. We know without a doubt that God brought us to New York, without a doubt that you were to work with the Bowery Mission. There are no unexpected circumstances in God’s kingdom. Remember how often we earnestly prayed that we would be in the middle of God’s will for us, no matter what his will was? You know that, once you seriously ask God to fulfill his will, the rest of it is his responsibility to work out. Well, I think God is working out his will in your life right now. And, Tom . . .”

  She waited until he lifted his eyes from the ice-cream mess on the plate.

  “I’m proud of you.”

  This was huge.

  “I’m really proud of you,” she continued, “because of how you have allowed God to work in you, heal you, change you. And how, for the last several years, you have never allowed one thing, not even failure, to deter you from pursuing God’s will in your life.

  “I’m proud of your character and your integrity, Tom. And most important, I fully believe that God will protect you and enable you to fulfill this work he has called you to.”

  Bohannon’s mind stalled. This was overload. This was abundance of blessing. This was . . .

  “Come on, hon,” Annie said, pushing back her chair and rising from the table. “Let’s go home and cuddle.”

  Bohannon’s smile lit up the night outside. And Alejandro was surprised by an unusually large tip.

  20

  Seven thirty in the morning comes late in New York City. Commuters by the tens of thousands are on the move by five o’clock in order to reach Manhattan before the bridges and tunnels get clogged, before the Long Island Railroad and Metro North trains are turned into sardine cans on wheels.

  Only a few leaden-eyed stragglers from Friday morning’s first wave remained in the coffee shop on Third Avenue, just a few blocks off Grand Central Station, when Bohannon stumbled through the door, looking like he was still half asleep, the last to arrive.

  Winthrop Larsen believed the coffee shop must have been modern in some earlier life. Now its chrome was dull, the plastic seats in the booths cracked and broken. But it smelled of fresh brewed coffee and toasted bagels. And that was good enough.

  The location was ideal because it was close to the Bryant Park library for Joe and Sammy, Tom could walk over from Grand Central after exiting the subway, and it was convenient to Winthrop’s hotel. Doc was needed at the Collector’s Club, so it was just the four of them.

  Winthrop was in the middle of a debate when Tom joined the others in a spacious, corner booth.

  “You’ve got to admit, this story of yours is hard to believe,” Larsen said. He rubbed his forehead. How do I get through to them?

  “So we’ve got some major hurdles to clear.” Joe threw up his hands. “But yesterday even you said it was possible for a temple to be under the Temple Mount.”

  “I also said it could be bogus,” Larsen volleyed, his index finger punctuating each word. “Just because something is plausible, or possible, doesn’t mean it’s real.”

  “Hey,” Bohannon interrupted, “can I get some coffee before we start duking it out?” Tom waved down a waiter, got a cup of coffee, and added on his order for blueberry pancakes.

  “Look,” said Larsen, “you guys believe there’s a hit squad out there waiting for you, determined to wipe each one of you off the face of the earth. Now, I agree that the Doc and Mr. Bohannon have had some close calls. So it’s understandable that you could feel there is some force out there opposing you.

  “But it’s also possible that this cross with the lightning bolt is the new punk rock symbol and six million have been sold around the world. And it’s possible for men with Middle Eastern features to be feeling a bit tender when they are accused of doing some evil thing in New York City. And it’s also possible that the message on the scroll is a fabrication.”

  Larsen was divided. Half of him wanted to believe this unbelievable story while the other half was laughing at his own naïveté. A divided mind was unacceptable for a scientist.

  “Joe, listen . . . if we’re ever going to take significant steps toward discerning the veracity of this temple claim, then we have to do it from a position of independent, unbiased observation, not assumptions. We need to t
est everything we believe, as much as possible.”

  “Okay,” said Bohannon, “so yesterday, based on your understanding of geology and the history of Temple Mount archaeology, we agreed it was possible to find or create a space beneath the Temple Mount that would allow construction of a Third Temple.”

  “But that still leaves us with a lot of questions,” said Rizzo, taking his bowl of oatmeal and bananas as the breakfasts arrived.

  “The piece of this puzzle that’s been driving me nuts,” Rizzo continued, “is how eleventh-century Jews could accumulate the materials necessary to construct the temple and get those materials through a tunnel, under the Temple Mount, without being discovered. Right?”

  Heads nodded.

  “Well, I think I may have an answer,” said Rizzo. “Look . . . I was checking this out last night.”

  Rizzo moved some of the dishes around, making space in the middle of the table, and laid down a piece of copy paper. On the paper were drawn a series of rectangles of different sizes. Each rectangle contained a protruding “tongue” on one edge and an indented “groove” on another end, but the location of the tongue and groove were different on each block.

  “I think the greatest challenge the Jewish builders faced was preparing and transporting the stones needed to erect the temple,” said Rizzo. “In most of the construction from that era, mortar wasn’t used to keep the stones connected. Instead, builders cut each stone specifically to fit in its exact position relative to the other stones around it. Each ‘tongue’ was in the right place and fit perfectly into each ‘groove,’ supplying the building with stability and strength.”