When they needed a break from packing, they reviewed the satellite photos provided the day before by Winthrop’s well-connected uncle and the small assortment of electronic gadgets Winthrop had purchased from Uncle Ethan’s shadowy contact—a satellite phone with an encryption option in a padded, metal carrying case; a pair of high-end GPS units; and a small, square item about the size of a laptop computer battery.
“What’s this little do-dad?” Rodriguez asked.
“It’s called Siren,” Larsen answered, “and it is a very sensitive and effective tool to detect sound. This little device just may save someone’s life.”
Rodriguez and Rizzo had been busy packing a medical kit on Johnson’s conference table at the corner of the room, but they were also following the conversation between Bohannon and Larsen. “Winthrop,” Rodriguez asked, “why would a sound detector be so valuable?”
The maps and drawings of Jerusalem still hung from the bookcases. Larsen crossed to one close-up of the Temple Mount. “You see these walls,” he asked rhetorically, pointing to the massive walls that supported the Temple Mount platform. “They may look strong, but they are far from it. The walls supporting Herod’s Temple platform, after two thousand years, are crumbling before our eyes.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“All of the walls have at one time or another collapsed in part or in whole,” said Larsen. “The Romans, after conquering Jerusalem, spent an entire month systematically tearing down the Temple and its retaining walls, dumping the debris into the surrounding valleys until the fill reached the level at which they were working. The south and east walls were probably collapsed to the last few courses by the Roman soldiers. By late in the Roman occupation of Palestine, it is believed that the Mount was somewhat restored in order to construct a pagan temple on the platform.
“Of one thing we’re sure,” Larsen continued. “During the early days of the Muslim occupation, the entire area was beautifully restored. Many of the stones from the retaining walls were placed back in line, and extras were used to construct two elaborate palaces along the southwest corner. But then in 749, a transitional period between the Byzantine Empire and the Muslim rule, the southern wall collapsed completely from a massive earthquake. Another, more destructive earthquake devastated the Mount in 1546, swallowing up the Al-Aqsa Mosque, damaging the Dome of the Rock, and destroying the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
“Now, all of that would simply be a history lesson,” Winthrop stressed, “except that the two walls that remain the most vulnerable to collapse are the southern and eastern walls. These are the highest walls and the ones that run farthest down into steep valleys below. The primary danger remains earthquakes. Jerusalem is only a twenty-five-minute drive from the most active seismic area in the world, a fault area that records three hundred measurable events each year.”
Winthrop walked over to the outside wall of the office, turned on the device, and held it against the wall. “Today, right now, the southern wall is in a state of possible collapse,” he said. “During the Intifada uprising in 2006, Muslim authorities illegally carried out a radical digging project along the southern wall, emptying out the interior of the Mount’s southeast corner. The Muslims kept no record of what was done structurally. It is possible, more than likely probable, that retaining features inserted by Herod and designed to stabilize the integrity of the wall were removed. The wall began to buckle and now is curving outward and leaking water after rainfalls. The last information I received is that the Israelis had agreed to allow the Jordanian Waqf to send Muslim engineers to inspect and repair the wall.
“But the engineering crisis remains,” Winthrop said, turning to face the room while he held the device against the wall. “If the worst happened, Joe, and you were trapped on the other side of this wall, I think you would be very happy if one of us had this dandy little trinket in our back pocket.”
“Yeah,” said Rizzo, “maybe we could use it to order a pizza.”
Winthrop looked at the small device in his hand. It was far from high-tech, but it might be the most important piece of equipment they were carrying with them. The object was simple, but sturdy, essentially a motorized video camera about the size of a thin cell phone mounted on a narrow, steel plate. The plate was welded to a pair of axles and a small electric motor that drove four, independently suspended, mini tank treads. The entire unit was painted a flat gray and was no more than five inches long, a couple inches wide, and about two inches deep.
“Sewer Rat. It’s an apt name.”
Dr. Johnson had come up behind Larsen and sat down next to him. “I wonder how engineers ever checked the integrity of pipe installations before this little guy was invented,” Johnson marveled.
“The remarkable thing to me,” said Larsen, “is not only that they use something like this to inspect underground sewer and gas lines, but they can also use it inside major conduit to inspect the integrity of telephone or fiber-optic wire systems. It has proven very reliable. Between the Sewer Rat and the video-head catheter systems we got through medical supply, we should be able to penetrate just about any area under the Temple Mount. At least,” said Larsen, looking over at Johnson, “I hope so.”
“Well, Winthrop, if this most unlikely of expeditions is successful, we will all owe you a great debt of gratitude. Your generosity and your uncle’s assistance have provided just about anything we could have dreamed.”
Larsen self-consciously nodded his thanks and looked to his left. He was surprised to find Johnson staring at him. Johnson’s steel-gray eyes were alive with concern, not excitement, an intensity that unsettled Larsen’s equilibrium. He held Johnson’s gaze and waited.
“Winthrop, why are you doing this?” Johnson asked in a low baritone, trying to keep the conversation private in a very animated room. “Why are you willing to risk your life on what may be a wild-goose chase? I understand why I’m going.” Cradling his coffee cup, Johnson leaned against a door frame and closed his eyes. “I would shoot myself if I couldn’t go on this adventure,” he whispered, his head slowly rolling back and forth. “God or no God, Temple or no Temple—this could be making history, not just reading about it or teaching it. And it’s time I made some history.”
Johnson’s eyes opened abruptly as he continued. “We both know why Tom and Joe are going. I’m told Rizzo also has some powerful, personal motivation. But you, Winthrop, don’t you realize how much you are risking here?
“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’re brilliant, you’ve got more money than most governments, and you’re good looking enough and good natured enough to find a woman who’s going to love you for you. Why take a chance on something as whacky as this? You agree that some group appears to be intent on stopping us. You know that if the Israelis, the Waqf, or Islamic terrorists get wind of what we’re trying to do, they will try to stop us. I doubt they will be acting with any restraint. This is serious, and it’s dangerous, and you don’t need it.”
Johnson moved closer to Larsen, whispering in his left ear. “Go home, Winthrop. Leave this alone. It’s bad enough that four of us who know better are willing to do something stupid. Please, don’t take this risk.”
For years, Larsen had revered Dr. Johnson and longed to live a life like his. Engulfed in a wave of Johnson’s genuine concern and apprehension, moved by the passion and pleading in his mentor’s voice, Larsen momentarily felt his resolve waver. As he raised his head to look at Johnson, his eyes swept across the thermal imaging scan of the Temple Mount. His heart pounded, his breath caught in his throat, a ripple of electricity cruised across the muscles of his shoulders. When Larsen’s eyes met Johnson’s, his decision had already been carved into will.
“Doc, thank you for caring so much about me . . . about my safety and well-being. I appreciate it; I really do. It means a lot to me to hear such concern and caring in your voice.”
“Then, why—”
Larsen firmly put his hand on Johnson’s arm. “D
oc, there have been eight generations of Larsens living on these shores since the first one stepped into what they believed was a virgin wilderness. More than two hundred years separate me from those men and women, but each day I walk in their shadows. There’s not really all that much that a Larsen has been required to do to become successful, at least not for the last one hundred fifty years. All the work was done long before my great-great-great-grandfather was born. The only question left is whether you will work in the family business, or whether you’ll choose a life of luxury and boredom, or both. It wasn’t easy walking away from the temptation to be a Larsen. But there was something I wanted more than money. It was self-respect. And once I got the opportunity to work and study at the British Museum, once I met you and others like you who were dedicated and determined to bring value to the world instead of just taking valuables out of it, I knew that was the life I wanted to live.”
Winthrop dipped his head a few degrees to the right, just enough to get under Johnson’s eyes as they stared toward the floor. “Doc, I decided a long time ago not to live the life of a Larsen. That decision has already been made. So I don’t have that life waiting for me. But even if I did, Doc . . . even if I did”—he paused, making sure he had Johnson’s attention—“this is the kind of decision that will define a man’s life. For some reason, I’m not even sure why, the men in this room have become my family, not the Larsens. If I were to walk out now, I would be walking out on everything I cherish, everything that holds value for me: trust, honor, respect, commitment, faithfulness. The things that define a man’s character. That’s what this is about, Doc, about living out, walking out the character I hope lives in me.”
Larsen searched Johnson’s gaze. “Does that make sense? Do you understand?”
Johnson stretched out his right arm and gently placed his hand on Larsen’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just nodded his head and held his gaze, until Rizzo reminded them of his presence.
“Are you two lovebirds about to break this up, or are you going to make me puke?”
“Rizzo, you’ve got all the manners of a sow.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Rizzo chirped, “I think you’re swell, too. But listen, how about if we cut out the cutesy cuddling, get this gear packed up into the van, and go home to get some sleep? How about that for an idea, eh?”
Rizzo struck his Ninja pose and Larsen was suddenly frightened that Johnson might actually strike Rizzo, a fine start to what would inevitably be a difficult enough task, even with the best of team spirit.
“All right,” said Larsen, getting up to grab his jacket. “Let me get the van, and we can load all this stuff. Doc, the van’s across the street, should I just double-park out front?”
“No, there’s a small driveway between our building and the hotel on the corner,” said Johnson. “It’s protected by an iron gate, so you wouldn’t have noticed it. I’ll disengage the electric lock, and the gate will be open. Back the van into the driveway, and we can load the gear right out of the elevator on the bottom floor.”
“Okay, be back in a minute.”
First there was the flash. Milliseconds later, the windows imploded. The deafening roar and battering shock wave of the explosion were hurled into the room, propelling a shower of glass shards that impaled every visible surface.
A moment earlier, Rizzo had been leaning his chair against the back wall, checking messages on his Blackberry. Rodriguez was in the restroom, Bohannon was carrying two duffels out to the elevator, and Doc Johnson was stashing all the rolled up maps, charts, and photos into a small storage closet behind his office door.
With the rattle of falling debris still filling the office, Bohannon burst into the room, thousands of window splinters crunching under his feet. He saw Joe across the office, picking himself up off the floor of the restroom. Doc Johnson, who had been caught in a door-sandwich, was sitting groggily on the floor, a purple knot rising on his forehead while he rubbed what was clearly going to be a badly bruised forearm. Sammy was on his back, on the floor, both he and the chair knocked backward by the blast. The sparkle of broken glass dotted the bottom of the chair and the bottom of Rizzo’s shoes. There was no blood, but Rizzo laced the air with impassioned profanities. “Tom,” he squawked, “find Winthrop.”
Bohannon turned and sprinted to the elevator, Rodriguez on his heels, hoping he was not going to discover his fears blown all over 35th Street. The front doors of the Collector’s Club were askew on their hinges, hanging like drunken soldiers against the marble pillars. Pushing through the broken doors, Bohannon ignored the cacophony of car alarms, his eyes riveted to the smoking hulk that was once a white van. Bohannon reached out for something to keep himself from falling and found Rodriguez’s arm. Neither one of them could—at that moment—gather up the courage or the will to venture any farther. The doors to the van had been blown out and Larson’s body, parts of it, had followed, thrown against the wrought-iron fence. Larsen’s right leg, from the knee down, was missing, as were his right arm and shoulder. His back, what was left of it, was pressed against the wrought-iron fence. His body was charred, still smoking, and a half-dozen glass spears were embedded in his skull. Winthrop’s startled and lifeless gaze failed to see Bohannon’s tears.
25
Several hours later, Rory O’Neill, accompanied by his omnipresent bodyguards and a squad of uniformed officers, walked into Johnson’s mangled office.
Tom, Joe, Sammy, and, for much longer, Doc had been downstairs in the library, talking to detectives, going over and over the same story until they felt they were going to scream. The homicide detectives knew they were hearing only part of the story. But Bohannon had pulled Rory O’Neill’s business card out of his wallet—the one with O’Neill’s private office number and his nearly secret home number written on the back in O’Neill’s own hand. It was almost a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. But not quite.
The card was powerful enough for the detectives to grant Bohannon’s request that he would only speak to O’Neill.
Rory and his wife, Vivian, regularly volunteered at the Bowery Mission on Thanksgiving, when 850 volunteers helped serve twenty-five hundred meals to the poor and homeless. It was through that long-term relationship with the O’Neills that Bohannon had earned the privilege to request the commissioner’s presence at the Collector’s Club that night. So here was the police commissioner of New York City, a man who controlled a uniformed force of thirty-six thousand highly trained officers, larger than the armies of most countries, and he was making a personal, not professional, visit to a crime scene.
Bohannon was out of his chair and walking to the door as soon as he saw the commissioner walk in. “Thanks for coming, Rory. I really appreciate this. I know it’s probably way out of line and not the normal protocol. I hope you don’t take any heat because of it. I didn’t know what else to do. We desperately need your help.”
O’Neill was relatively short, with a boxer’s build. In spite of the power, prestige, and pressure of leading a small army and trying to protect the world’s greatest city from predatory radical terrorists, O’Neill was a sweet, soft-spoken man who often purposely retreated to the background when accompanying the mayor, world dignitaries, or his wife.
“Tom, that’s okay,” said O’Neill, leading Bohannon over to a pair of chairs. “I know you wouldn’t have asked me to come if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. And I’m sure you understand that I’ll help where I can. But there’s only so far I can, or will, go. Now, why don’t you tell me what this is all about? Start from the beginning. But I need to know why a man died tonight, okay?”
Bohannon’s face revealed the relief and gratitude he felt, but not his growing unease. Anything they hoped to accomplish in the future would depend on how well, and how fully, he told their story. “This may take awhile, Rory, but I’ll tell you everything that I know and then leave it up to you.”
Over the next forty-five minutes, Bohannon laid out the entire story for the commissioner, and he seldom mis
sed a pertinent detail. At intervals, O’Neill would interrupt Bohannon’s narration to ask probing questions, but it didn’t take the commissioner long to understand why Bohannon had been such an excellent reporter.
When Bohannon had finished his narrative, O’Neill looked at him impassively. Friendship and police work never mixed well.
“And you want me to let the four of you get on that plane tomorrow?”
“No, Rory,” Bohannon said, shaking his head. “Not tomorrow—but once the funeral is over, then yes, more than ever, I want you to let us go, let us leave the country, go to Jerusalem, and find out if this thing is real. Because now, I’m convinced that it is.”
O’Neill ran his right hand over his naturally slick dome. “What if the guys with the necklaces leave New York with you and follow you to Jerusalem? You won’t be any safer, and we won’t have any suspects. But if I keep you here, your attackers will also stay here, and we’ll very likely pick them up—because they will try again to get the rest of you.”
It didn’t make any sense to let them go. O’Neill’s job was to find and apprehend the men responsible for this homicide and what was probably a multiple-homicide at the newsstand on Lafayette Street. Having Bohannon, Johnson, Rizzo, and Rodriguez close at hand would make that job much easier.
“Rory, you’ve got us for the next three or four days, at least,” Bohannon said, obviously scrambling for a convincing argument. “And for the next three or four days, our friends with the lightning bolt will also know exactly where we are, or where we will be. We’ll give you the next week. But, Rory, after that, I’m leaving. And I’m sure the others will be leaving with me. You understand the implications for the Middle East—the implications for right here, for New York City? If the temple is under the Temple Mount, the whole dynamic in the Middle East changes. Maybe there’s peace—”
The Sacred Cipher Page 19
