As she drew closer, Bohannon made observations below the hat. “Sammy Rizzo, you dirty old man,” Bohannon whispered with admiration.
Kallie Nolan was wearing a fairly standard archaeologist outfit: khaki shorts, short-sleeved khaki safari shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder, and well-traveled leather boots. But it wasn’t the clothes that drew Bohannon’s attention. It was how the clothes wore Kallie. Golden bronze, the fitness of a runner, Nolan was a stunning, healthy, well-built, thirty-something who was all legs, arms, golden strawberry ponytail, and dazzling emerald eyes that overflowed with a joy of life that infected all who entered her orbit.
Everyone was watching Kallie, but she wasn’t watching anyone except this little guy in the fluorescent green shorts. Sammy stopped in his tracks and stood open-mouthed, staring at Kallie as she approached.
Putting his bag down, ignoring the catatonic Rizzo, Bohannon took two steps toward Kallie and grasped her outstretched hand.
“Kallie, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Bohannon said sincerely. “This is Doc Johnson . . . and Joe Rodriguez. And that guy . . .”
Before Bohannon could turn toward Sammy, the plaid and green flashed past his eyes and landed in Kallie’s open arms.
“Kallie . . . it’s your kissin’ cousin, home from his travels,” Rizzo crowed, wrapping his arms around Nolan, who had dropped down to one knee, and hugging her close as she hugged him right back. Bohannon then realized that Rizzo’s shirt was the same tartan design that Kallie had wrapped around her Stetson.
She unwrapped Rizzo from her neck and held him at arm’s length. “It’s good to see you again, Sammy Rizzo. And good to see that you are still in one piece. I’ve been worried about you.” She looked up. “About all of you. Your last few messages were frightening. I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Larsen.”
Rodriguez and Johnson both shook her hand with the same warmth and sincerity as Bohannon. But she quickly turned her attention back to Rizzo, who hadn’t left her side.
“I was beginning to think that I would never see you again,” Kallie said to Sammy, who was soaking up all of the amazed stares that were directed his way. “I didn’t think I’d have the opportunity to tell you how much I respect you and how much I have valued your friendship.”
Bohannon watched in amazement. For the first time in his memory, Rizzo had morphed from the master of wisecracks and put-downs into a man of gentle sincerity.
“Thanks, Kallie . . . I’ve missed you, too,” Rizzo said, looking into her eyes as if there were not a thousand people within earshot of his comments. “Thank you. I don’t think I’m worthy of your respect, but I’ll take it, gladly.”
Rizzo the gentleman gave Nolan a tender embrace.
But it was Rizzo the instigator who turned toward his three companions.
“So, you human sweatbands, I would say I’ve just hit a grand slam, eh? Rizzo, four—the rest of you clowns, zero.” Taking Kallie’s hand in his, Rizzo turned away from the terminal. “So, one of you can carry my bag. Lead on, my beauty.”
Bohannon, Rodriguez, and Johnson began to evaporate in the heat. “Come on,” said Kallie, over her shoulder. “I’ve got the university’s van over in the parking lot. Let’s get you guys to the hotel. Then we can talk.”
All felt their spirits lift: air-conditioning!
“Sorry. The van’s not air-conditioned. But the hotel’s not too far. And we can keep the windows open.”
It was hot . . . heat hot . . . jungle hot . . . Africa hot. The windows were not going to help.
The one thing they had talked about on the trip over was that they would keep Kallie Nolan out of this project as much as possible. If nothing else, just to protect her. Who knew where the Prophet’s Guard would turn up next.
Now in Israel, the obvious slapped Bohannon silly. What they had been trying to avoid thinking about for weeks was all around them, living, breathing, and speaking. Men in robes and head coverings; women with veils over their faces; men in uniform, automatic weapons cradled in the crook of their arms; women in uniform, their eyes relentless, always on guard.
This was not America, not even post–9/11 America. Israel was not even like New York City, thought Bohannon, where the scars were deepest and the expectation of “again” the highest.
Life in New York City had changed forever. More and more buildings had surrounded themselves with flower planters—those huge, concrete, reinforced planters that doubled as car bomb protection and fooled no one.
Downtown, the precautions were even more draconian. Streets around the New York Stock Exchange were still blocked with police barricades and uniforms with automatic weapons. But it was around the federal buildings that New York looked more like Baghdad. The streets were impassible, secured by thick, metal, pneumatically controlled barricades that were lowered only after presentation of highest security clearance ID, and only after the vehicle was subjected to a thorough search.
Grand Central Station was constantly patrolled, not only by the NYPD but also by roving squads of military in their camo, each entry under heavily armed guard. Subway stations now routinely, but randomly, were under close surveillance by squads of specially trained NYPD officers. Most New Yorkers were aware of, and thankful for, these heightened security measures. But what most New Yorkers failed to notice was the “army of the normal.” New York’s antiterrorism squads had been well publicized. No one spoke of the spooks: the taxi drivers; UPS deliverymen; street vendors; moms with baby carriages . . . the hundreds of plainclothes disguises that made up the thousand officers who comprised Rory O’Neill’s “army of the normal.”
Daily reminders of how life had changed were dotted all over the New York City landscape.
Yet the flow of New York had not changed.
There was no fear. Concern, but no fear. Millions still rode the A train or the N/R from Queens without a second thought. They ate in restaurants, went to work in ridiculously tall buildings, raised their children. The city continued to grow, rents continued to climb. And people moved from place to place, building to building; neighborhood to neighborhood, city to city, with few worries. America remained an open society even in the face of unseen warriors fighting an unconventional war against Western civilization.
Being driven out of Tel Aviv Airport, past fortified checkpoints, Bohannon realized just how much freedom was being taken for granted in his home city. Israelis were serious about security; they had to be. They were all targets, and their enemies surrounded them. At times, their enemies were right in their midst. In New York, Bohannon admitted, the soldiers made him feel safer, more at ease. Here in Israel, the soldiers made him feel like a suspect, as if they were just waiting for a wrong move. And his guilt was magnified by the secret he carried with him.
28
Kallie turned the van east on Highway 1, pointing it toward Jerusalem and trying to gain enough speed to bring some relief to these guys who were looking pretty damp. Rizzo was riding shotgun and appeared to be enjoying the scenery . . . Kallie’s legs. Bohannon, Johnson, and Rodriguez each sprawled across one of the bench seats, the luggage stuffed in the rear.
“I’ve confirmed the arrangements you made,” said Kallie, her eyes straight ahead and both hands firmly on the steering wheel. But the aging van had a mind of its own, rapidly drifting right at any slip in concentration. “Hotel Tzuba is confirmed, a nonsmoking suite, and the rental car will be there, waiting for you. It took some convincing for the rental company to find and supply the kind of big SUV you requested. There’s not much demand for big cars like that over here—gas is so expensive. If you hadn’t been so specific and so insistent with the company, I doubt you would have gotten what you were looking for. By the way,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant, “why will you need such a large vehicle?”
Bohannon turned in his seat to look at her. “Kallie, I thought we had an agreement.”
“Oh, come on!” A sudden shift in posture, and the van began tracking for the shoulder, so Kallie had t
o return her effort and attention to controlling the beast. “Do you guys actually think I’m going to allow you to come here on a quest for antiquities and leave me sitting home while you have all the fun? Who’s the archaeologist here? Who’s the one who dug up the information on Abiathar when you needed it? So you’re tracking down something that has to do with Jerusalem at the time of the crusader conquest, you won’t tell me what it is, and you won’t let me help you out, right? Well, that just stinks. I’ve got half a mind to drop you off right here and let you walk the rest of the way.”
“Where is here?” a sleepy Rodriguez asked from the depths of the van.
“We’re just coming into Latrun,” said Kallie, trying to relax her forearm muscles for a moment. “There’re the ruins of a crusader castle over there on the right—the Castle of the Knight. You could practice your treasure hunting over there while you were waiting for some schlump to pick you up.”
“Schlumps? Yeah, that’s us,” said Rizzo. “A bunch of schlumps from Schlumpsville. Hicks on a hunt.”
“Aw, come on you guys. I know you’re up to something that has adventure all over it. Do you know how absolutely boring it is to be an archaeologist? Ninety-nine percent of the time we’re using a paintbrush to move dust one particle at a time. There’s not much adrenalin rush in this business. Except for this stupid van,” she said, trying to wrestle it into submission.
She felt a gentle hand come to rest on her right shoulder. “Kallie, it would be an honor for us to include you in this project,” Johnson said quietly. “In one way or another, you’ve been a part of this almost from the beginning. Including you would be the right thing to do. With all that being said, don’t you understand that there must be another, overriding, reason why we are trying to keep you at arm’s length?”
Nolan kept driving, the clenched muscles of her jaw losing traction against common sense.
“We are all traveling in uncharted waters here; we have no idea how, when, or where this will end up. It’s possible,” said Johnson, “that we could get ourselves into some significant trouble. And, Kallie, none of us are willing to put you in that position, even though you are more than willing to sign on. I’m sorry, dear, but you’re just dealing with three old, overly protective academic types who are scared of our own shadows and our dear Mr. Rizzo, who doesn’t have an ounce of sense in his diminutive body.”
Rodriguez and Bohannon had the good sense to remain quiet.
“Listen, Kallie,” said the reasonable Rizzo, sitting to her right, “in spite of Doc Johnson’s inaccurate diagnosis of my capacity, everything else he is saying is right. We don’t know what we’re getting into, honestly. But none of us are willing to allow you to take the same risk.”
Muscling the van into a right turn at the Mevasseret Zion interchange, Kallie turned south, on road 3965. “Yeah, you guys are scared and I’m the Queen of Sheba. I can see it on your faces. I see it on other faces all the time. The thrill of the hunt, the adrenalin of the unexpected, the chance to uncover treasure: you are clearly on a mission that has your passions and your curiosity inflamed. I just want a chance to be part of that action.”
“I’m sorry, Kallie, I really am,” Johnson said, his gentle voice nearly sucked out the window. “But that just won’t happen.”
Silence settled in the van. They drove past a quarry on the right, then circled the Sataf roundabout, bearing right on road 365 to the Kibbutz Tzuba. None of the men knew exactly where they were heading. All Kallie had e-mailed them was that she had arranged for them to stay at the Hotel Tzuba, outside of Jerusalem but close enough to have easy access. Driving through the main gate, Kallie pulled up in front of a quaint-looking country inn, square in the middle of a kibbutz.
“Welcome to Hotel Tzuba,” Kallie said wryly of the sixty-four-suite hotel with great views of the Judean hills, only fifteen minutes from Jerusalem. “Whatever you guys are up to, it’s unlikely anybody is going to look for you here.”
That evening, the Jewish Sabbath complete, four men slid into the black SUV with the tinted windows and continued their drive down Highway 1 into the fabled city of Jerusalem. Over her strenuous objections, Kallie had been dispatched back to her apartment. Johnson knew they were fortunate the SUV didn’t get into a wreck or kill any civilians, because none of them were looking at the road, not even Bohannon, who was driving. They looked more like bobble-head dolls, bouncing and twisting this way and that, trying to see everything at once. Kallie had wrangled them invitations to a university reception that was to be held in the courtyard and gardens of the Citadel, known as David’s Tower, located just south of the Jaffa Gate.
Johnson, who was now the closest thing they had to an expert on Jerusalem and its history, was constantly surprised by how different the real thing was from the “book” thing, or the “picture” thing, or the “Internet” thing. The group was stunned into silence by the beauty and history, but Johnson coped with the magnitude of the city by telling the others the history behind the sites.
“This has been the weakest point of Jerusalem’s defenses since one thousand years before Christ,” said Johnson as they entered into the Citadel’s grounds. Johnson and Bohannon wore light pants, open collared shirts, and light, poplin jackets—fairly standard reception wear. Rizzo was out of character in a pair of Dockers and a navy blue golf shirt. Rodriguez, on the other hand, had descended on the kibbutz store and was arrayed like a fashionable Israeli . . . simple, wide-lapelled safari shirt, kibbutz shorts, and boots.
“Every major change in government has added to, improved on, or extended this fortress,” said Johnson as they walked through the gardens. “Herod the Great added three massive towers; the Romans used it as a barracks after destroying the temple; it was the last part of Jerusalem to fall to the crusaders; and it was the seat of the king of Jerusalem. The Ottoman Turks added that dominant minaret, and the Citadel served to garrison Turkish troops for four hundred years until the British, under General Allenby, took control of Jerusalem in 1917. Once the nation of Israel was formed in 1947, the fierce and feared Jordanian Arab Legion took up position in the Citadel to defend the Old City because it had a dominant view across the armistice line into Jewish Jerusalem. And so it continues. The Tower of David—which has nothing to do with King David—still dominates Jerusalem’s skyline and is master of its sight lines, even more than the Dome of the Rock.”
Turning to his friends, Johnson smiled. “And tonight, it is the best place for us to be, with an unfettered view of the Temple Mount and two sides of the Mount itself. Hopefully, it will show us a way in.”
Wine flowed, talk flowed, self-importance flowed all around them that evening, but as the moon rose over the Mediterranean, the musketeers from New York remained huddled by themselves, at the far eastern wall of the Citadel, trying not to look too obvious as they diligently studied the Mount and its surroundings.
What had struck Johnson unexpectedly was the palpable force he had experienced the moment the team had exited the SUV. It was more than a feeling. This was a weight, a presence, a reality that he was experiencing mentally, physically, and emotionally—and if he were willing to admit it, Johnson would have to say spiritually, though he wasn’t sure what “spiritual” really meant to him. Jerusalem exuded a dominating presence, a power of its own, as if it were a living, breathing entity.
Perhaps, because he had visited Jerusalem before, the presence overwhelmed Johnson more completely than his three friends. He tried to shake it off at first. During the reception, he tried to ignore it. But as he stood on the ramparts, looking out over this ancient city, Jerusalem’s call became too insistent.
“This city is alive,” Johnson said softly. Rizzo was by his side, but his words barely gained the attention of Bohannon and Rodriguez. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but there is something living here that is spiritual and not human. Clearly, it’s not a circumstance of history that the three religions that dominate this world, each of which believes in a single deity, l
ook upon that hill over there as the most holy site of their faith. It’s not the hill that’s holy. It’s what is under the hill, or in the hill.” Johnson shook his head, violently. “Oh, I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“That’s okay, Doc,” said Rizzo, more subdued than usual. “I understand where you’re coming from.”
Johnson’s silence stretched across the roofs of ancient buildings, straining to touch the Mount. Both Bohannon and Rodriguez turned toward the silence.
“If there is a God,” said Johnson, with an accent of reverence, “and if this God can be known by man”—Johnson put both of his hands on the round, metal railing at the top of the rampart and leaned far over the wall, getting himself as close to the Temple Mount as was physically possible—“then that is where he lives.”
29
Self-consciously trying to look like tourists, they strolled down David Street, one of the few straight, direct streets probing deeper into the Old City, in the direction of the Western Wall Tunnel. The reception had been winding down, and they had done as much reconnaissance as possible from the tower’s rampart. Evening had passed with a cooling breeze, and the night had great promise of clear sky and moderating temperatures. Impulsively, they decided to take a walk, with the Western Wall as their target and espionage as their goal.
The Sacred Cipher Page 21
