The Sacred Cipher

by Terry Brennan

  That same Tom Bohannon came to the surface as the president of the United States tried to fill him with fear. Clarity filled his mind while caution seasoned his thoughts, his instincts pencil-point sharp.

  “Mr. President, I understand you fully . . .”

  “Good,” said the president.

  “However, Mr. President,” Bohannon said, carefully choosing his words, “I am compelled to remind you, sir, that neither I nor my friends are members of the military. So we are not subject to your authority as commander in chief. In addition, Mr. President, what we do with our private property is our concern—”

  “Listen, mister—”

  “Mr. President,” Bohannon interrupted, “what will you do when a request under the Freedom of Information Act releases the tapes you have just made, threatening American citizens with unwarranted imprisonment?”

  With that shot across the bow, Bohannon softened, trying to negotiate for time.

  “Mr. President, don’t you think we understand the gravity of the situation? Mr. Krupp is intimately aware of the powers and pressures on both sides of the Mideast conflict. And all of us understand the risk of revealing the existence of the Third Temple. But, sir, this could also be an unprecedented opportunity to forge a lasting peace that would benefit generations to come. I understand your concerns, sir. But, respectfully, this is not your decision to make. And trying to pressure us is not going to help. I’m sure your advisors, who are listening in, will agree with me on that.”

  Bohannon took a breath. Whitestone stepped into it.

  “Don’t underestimate the power of this office, Mr. Bohannon. You would be surprised how much power I have at my disposal.”

  “Mr. President, I want you to use your power. But use it for bringing the two sides together in Switzerland. Use it,” urged Bohannon, getting out of his chair and beginning to pace, “to help bring about peace.”

  Bohannon looked at the others as he waited for the president’s response, wondering if he had pushed too hard, too far.

  “Bohannon, listen to me. There is no time for debate. You’re a Christian, you know the clock you will be starting,” said Whitestone, purportedly an evangelical Christian and demonstrably an ardent supporter of Israel. “But that’s not my concern right now. Right now, I’m concerned about the radical Islamists, the ones who are primed to ignite a holy war and precipitate the slaughter of millions, Jew and Arab alike. You or Mr. Krupp may convince the leaders of Jordan and Egypt to attend your intended summit in Switzerland. You may even convince them there is a solution to the Jerusalem dilemma. But what you will not be able to accomplish is the eradication of Al Qaeda or the dozens of splinter groups who are committed to jihad. Revealing this information is tantamount to lighting a fuse. We don’t know how long it will take, but eventually, the flame will reach the explosive. And then, God help us all.

  “You can’t do this, Tom,” said Whitestone, now adding intimacy to the weight of his office. “In all good conscience, Tom, you can’t do this. Millions will die if you do. That’s all I can say to you. Except, if you go through with this folly, you and your family will feel the displeasure of this government. That’s not a threat. It’s not a bully tactic. It’s just what will happen. Think carefully about what you do next. Please, consider this carefully. Tom . . .

  “Sir?”

  “Take it to prayer, Tom. Please. That may be our only hope.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, yes, I will. Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Drained, chagrined by his combative attitude toward the president of the United States, Bohannon placed the handset in the cradle and turned to the others. Rodriguez was standing right next to him. “Man, I can’t believe how you gave it right back to the president,” said Rodriguez, giving Bohannon a chuck on the shoulder. “Hey, you could be from the Bronx.”

  Bohannon put his hand on Rodriguez’s shoulder. “Thanks, Joe. I don’t know where that came from.”

  “He was bullying you, bullying us,” said Johnson, joining the other two. “Good for you for standing up to his strong-arm tactics. I was proud of you.” Bohannon took Johnson’s offered hand, but his eyes sought out Krupp, still seated, hands clasped on top of his head, a wounded grimace on his face.

  “Alex, what is it?”

  Bohannon led the way to Krupp’s side. “What’s wrong, Alex? You look like all the air just went out of you.”

  Krupp ran his hands through his red hair, shaking his head from side-to-side. “I don’t like this, I don’t like the way it feels. Something is way out of order here.”

  “What do you suspect, Herr Krupp?” asked Johnson, sitting in the chair next to the industrialist.

  “I suspect,” said Krupp, “that the Arab groups are not the only ones who are determined to keep this information from becoming public. Two hours ago I call the Israeli prime minister, give him the information, and invite him to Switzerland. Then we get a call from your president, here. How did your president know you were here, in my home?”

  “Eliazar Baruk called Mr. Whitestone,” said Johnson, stating the obvious.

  “Yes, but when?” Krupp asked. “Did he call the president when he and I hung up? Then why did it take the president two hours to contact us here? If Baruk waited for two hours before calling the president, what was he doing with the time? No, both of these men were emphatic, you will not divulge this information; it is of the most dangerous nature. If we don’t fall at their feet and promise obedience, what will they do next? Hope for our good faith?”

  Krupp’s eyes darted to each in turn. “I doubt it. Here is the most powerful man on earth ordering us to back off and that you must return home . . . or what?” He got up and began pacing in front of them. “The highest official in the state of Israel, after Switzerland the most buttoned-up country in the world, tells us he needs twelve hours to make a decision, then calls the president of the United States for muscle? Israel, which sent raiding parties into Uganda, bombed a nuclear energy plant in Syria, and invaded Lebanon for abducting one of its soldiers. Can you believe that Israel would just sit back and allow the American government to bail them out?

  “Since when did the Israelis ever rely on someone else to take care of their problems? Never. And the Israelis are not going to wait and see what happens, now. The Israelis are on their way here,” said Krupp, smacking his left hand with his right fist. “They are coming after you, after all of us. And you can be absolutely certain they are not coming to politely request our evidence. They are coming to wipe all evidence from the face of the earth, including us.”

  Krupp stopped in mid stride, put his hands on the top of a winged-back armchair, and gathered them all in his icy stare. “They’re coming to kill us, and we will get no help from your government. The Israelis could be here in twenty minutes, or in several hours. Whatever we do, we had better do it quickly.”

  Once they entered European airspace, there would be no radio contact, either with the other plane or with Orhlon in Israel. Painter, standing in the doorway between the two pilots, patiently watched as the radar tracked their progress. The blip crossed a white line on the dark screen.

  Painter pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. So simple, he thought. With all of our high-tech equipment, this is so simple.

  Painter pushed a button and sent his text message: “Final leg. All well. Down soon.” That was it. Simple. I wish all in life was that simple.

  “What are we doing here?” Bohannon asked no one in particular. “How did I ever allow any of us to get into such a mess?”

  These men had left their families and risked their lives to pursue something they believed was vitally important. Bohannon was angry with himself and with everyone who tried to stop them. And now this—abandon the pursuit that already cost so much, or face the wrath of both the Israeli and American governments. They had found the Temple. But now, they couldn’t tell anybody about it? Heads and spirits were bowed. No one spoke. What could they do against insurmountable opposition? Either thei
r discovery would die, or they would put themselves, their families, who knew what else at significant risk by trying to reveal it. What a waste! Why did they ever get involved in something this crazy to begin with?

  Krupp reached out and put his hand on Bohannon’s arm. He looked into Rodriguez’s eyes. “No matter what we do,” Krupp said quietly, “we are all still at risk. And will always remain at risk simply because of what we know. And that risk will include our families . . . our wives and our children.”

  “So, gents, this is it,” said Rodriguez. “What are we going to do?”

  Krupp turned toward Bohannon, rested his other hand on Bohannon’s shoulder, and drew him closer. He wanted eyeball-to-eyeball contact.

  “Tom, ever since I’ve known you, there are a couple things I could rely on,” said Krupp, embracing Bohannon’s mind with his eyes. “One of them was that you would always do the right thing. It didn’t matter if it was difficult, didn’t matter if it was unpopular. You took the time to find out what the right thing was, and then you went out and did the right thing. Always. Consistently. It was something we could hang our hopes and expectations on.”

  Krupp reached out with his right hand and gently touched Bohannon’s left shoulder.

  “Tom, go ahead, do the right thing,” said Krupp. “Ask God to tell you the right thing. I know he will. And then, all of us, we’ll follow you. All of us, we all want to do the right thing. We just don’t know what it is. Will you do it, Tom? Will you ask God for the right thing?”

  With a light spirit, but a heavy heart, Bohannon opened his arms. What resulted was a football huddle; four men, their arms resting on each other’s shoulders. Three silently supportive, one mumbling for help and guidance, all of them determined to follow.

  Moments later, Bohannon opened his squished eyes and saw the other three staring at him. “I just kept thinking of one thing. We have got to go public. Right now, it looks like us against the world. To tell you the truth, I don’t see how we’ll ever be able to get this information out. We have to go public, but it looks pretty hopeless.”

  Rodriguez, silent for some time, stepped away from the huddle and crossed to the windows, looking at the faint outline of mountains in the darkening distance. “I know a way.”

  51

  For the next hour and a half, the four men worked feverishly, though separately. Krupp increased security around his estate and, against her wishes, dispatched his wife and children to the farm of his security chief, not too far distant. Bohannon wrote a detailed account of the search for the Temple, from start to finish, and Rodriguez reviewed, edited, and compiled the video evidence of their investigation and discovery, arranging it all in proper order with the help of Johnson.

  When all was ready, Krupp opened his direct, secure landline. Within seconds, Rodriguez plugged in his laptop and connected to the Internet, to the worldwide library exchange system that keeps every library in the world updated with cutting-edge technology and the latest information in the world of books.

  For a moment, Rodriguez looked up at the faces around him. He took a deep breath. And pushed Send. Instantly, all of the information concerning their discovery of the Third Temple of God, hidden under Jerusalem’s Temple Mount, was electronically communicated to every library in the world.

  Less than ten minutes from the jump zone, Painter and his captain reviewed the terrain maps once again, questioning each of the men on their particular assignment and what each would do if everything that could go wrong, went wrong. His men, like those in the other plane, were fully geared-up: high-altitude diving suit, helmet and night-vision goggles, bat-wing mini-chute, and a wide array of ammunition and weapons including, ironically, a nasty little submachine gun manufactured in Bavaria by Krupp Armaments.

  Painter was so focused on studying the map that he was totally unaware of the pilot by his shoulder until he was startled by his touch.

  “We’ve been recalled,” said the pilot, handing Painter a piece of paper, returning immediately to his cockpit to calculate fuel and flying time.

  Painter looked at the sheet in his hand in disbelief. “The cat is out. Too late. Come home.” The message had been sent over regular radio. Obviously, there was no longer any need for secrecy, or any need for their lethal skills.

  The cell phone in Rasaf’s pocket began its incessant rattle. This one, I will not answer, he thought, pulling into the parking garage at the airport.

  Lieutenant Daniel Stern was getting more worried with each passing moment. The Hawk had been apoplectic since the telephone call, screaming at the top of his lungs, smashing his balled fists against anything that entered his orbit.

  True sleep was impossible, but Kallie was lying on the stainless steel slab that was mockingly called a bed when she heard the click and the faint hiss, and the door to her cell slid silently open. Her breath caught in her throat when the guard called for her to step through the opening.

  He was big, not an ounce of fat on his chiseled muscles.

  “You are free to go.”

  It was like a slap in the face, unseen, startling in its speed, stinging in its wake.

  “What . . . what . . . what do you mean?” she stammered.

  “You are free to go,” said Mr. Muscles. “Your clothes and all your belongings are in the dressing room.” He pointed down the cell block with his truncheon.

  This is a trap. This is a setup, Kallie thought.

  “Please, ma’am, this way, please. Your clothes are down here. Then you can go. Please.”

  With that, Mr. Muscles turned down the cell-block corridor, leaving a dazed and confused Kallie in his wake.

  Twenty minutes later when she stumbled out the door and into the bright sun, Kallie still didn’t know what was going on. What she did know was the guy standing on the sidewalk across the street, propped against a tree.

  “Man,” said Rizzo, moving in her direction, “I’ve had other women keep me waiting, but this was ridiculous.”

  Rizzo reached up with his hand to steady Kallie as she cleared the last step. “How did you find me?”

  “It’s amazing what you can dig up on the Internet.” Rizzo led Kallie to the rental car. “You’ve forgotten what a cyber-wizard I am. The Israeli military operates only one prison that can house civilians. From there, it wasn’t hard.”

  Blinking against the sun, Kallie stopped at the passenger-side door. “How long have you been here?”

  “Oh, not long,” Rizzo waved, “not long at all. Two days, I think. But I was all set to leave. I was only going to wait a little bit longer, maybe just another day . . . or two. If you weren’t out by then I was—”

  “Shut up,” said Kallie, kneeling on the ground and giving Rizzo a bone-rattling hug that lasted and lasted and lasted, matching the tears that flowed from her eyes.

  Eliazar Baruk was in the one place he could be alone, a stall in the men’s room outside the situation room. He took a deep, cleansing breath. Then another. He grabbed a handful of tissue and wiped the tears from his eyes. Took another deep breath, sighed, and left to return to the emergency meeting.

  “Chaim, call up the reserves,” Baruk said simply, as he cleared the threshold and walked to his chair at the head of the table. “Bring all of our forces up to full alert. Have half of the air force in the air at all times. Warm up the missile batteries, but keep the hatches closed. No need for unnecessary provocation. Have the navy put to sea. Every ship. I don’t care what kind of shape it’s in. Get everything away from the docks.”

  The prime minister got to his chair but declined to sit down. He looked around at his colleagues of so many years, so many crises. He wondered how many of them would survive. “Well, at least we will not be caught napping.”

  Secretary of State Jennings was a compassionate man, a wonderful guy to work for. That made it even more difficult for both of them.

  Sam Reynolds closed the door to the secretary’s office and immediately he began to wonder if there were any openings with his old law
firm.

  Annie saw him first, and her heart jumped into her throat. Sitting on the porch Saturday morning, reading the Times, she immediately saw the unmarked, black SUV pull up in front of the house with an escort. The two uniforms in the leading squad car got out and stood at attention.

  Please, God, let it be good news.

  52

  Thirty days later, every head of state in the Middle East attended a Mideast Summit hosted by Krupp and the European Union at Krupp’s sprawling, but easily defended, estate in Bavaria. There, at 7:00 AM local time on Tuesday, July 21, Israel signed a peace treaty with leaders from every Arab nation in the region. Jerusalem was declared an “international city,” open to all. Muslims controlled the top of Temple Mount, the Jews controlled everything below the Mount “platform,” and a European Union multinational police force was empowered to maintain order and access on and around the Temple Mount.

  “I wonder how all of this is going to play out?” said Bohannon. “There are so many ways for this peace plan to unravel.”

  They sat on the terrace of Richard Johnson’s apartment in the brittle darkness, collectively swimming in the backwash of anxiety stirred up by the delayed reaction to unimaginable trauma and fear. It was just past midnight in New York City, and the seven of them had wandered out onto the terrace after watching the treaty-signing ceremony broadcast live by CNN from Germany. Central Park spread out before them like a green bandage on a concrete body, the night sounds of Manhattan far below.