The Brotherhood Conspiracy

by Brennan, Terry

  “Sure, Dad. I could tell. Your face was brighter red than the traffic light.”

  “You have no respect . . . oh, hi, Bronagh,” Tom said to the sometime bartender, sometime actress, full-time mom and wife who came to their table. “How about two glasses of cold water, two pints of Guinness, and . . .” He turned to Connor. “Beef stew? Okay, thanks, Bronagh.”

  The Bocht was quiet. There were still a few hours before musicians showed up for the traditional ceili and Tom soaked in the silence and the joy of just sitting with his son. Connor was twenty-two, two years younger than his sister, Caitlin, and followed his father’s legacy by graduating from Penn State a few months earlier. But there were few similarities between Tom and his son, except for how much they looked alike. Connor was long and lean, five inches taller than his father, and wore both his hair and his beard significantly longer than Tom. But his hair was the same coppery red with golden glints, his eyes the same pristine blue, and his smile held the same welcoming warmth.

  “Are you going to give this thing up?”

  Connor’s unannounced question caught Tom by surprise. “What thing? The Guinness?”

  “Dad, I’m serious.”

  Connor swiveled on the bench that sat up against the front window and turned his body to face Tom head-on.

  “This whole treasure hunting adventure thing . . . are you going to give that up?”

  Tom turned his back into the corner of the booth so he could face his son. Connor’s face had the look of someone trying to talk a daredevil out of jumping his motorcycle over the Grand Canyon.

  “I think we already have, Connor. I wouldn’t be surprised if Doc doesn’t send the mezuzah and scroll off to the British Museum with Brandon McDonough.”

  As if chiseled in granite, Connor’s expression didn’t change. “You’re kidding yourself, Dad. I think all of you are kidding yourselves.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t see each other’s faces when you talk about the message, when you talk about Jerusalem and the scroll,” said Connor, his voice betraying an uncharacteristic urgency. “Maybe you don’t hear the excitement in your voices or the palpable burst of adrenaline that rushes through each one of you when you talk about what happened over there. Yeah—you’re discouraged by the outcome. You’re upset that your discovery brought so much destruction and death when you thought it would bring peace. But it’s not over. Not for you, not for the others. You’re not ready to give it up yet. You still think you’re on some great adventure.”

  Tom was taken aback, both by the words and by Connor’s passion. “Where is this coming from?”

  Connor’s eyes turned to forged steel, hard and cold.

  “Mom’s been begging you to quit, to get out of it, to give it up, and you treat her as if she’s some child, patting her head and telling her not to worry. Mom’s worried, Dad. We’re all worried. And we have reason to be worried. There are people out there who will kill you, kill us, to get their hands on that mezuzah and scroll. But I don’t think that registers with you.”

  “Connor, that’s all over.”

  “No! Not really. You talk about our safety, like it matters, but you don’t do anything about it. You tell us you want to keep us safe, but you don’t throw away the one thing that keeps us all in danger. You’re just lying to yourself and to us.”

  Tom’s heart was pierced and his stomach knotted both by his son’s accusations and the realization that they were true.

  “I . . . I don’t . . .”

  “You’re not willing to give up this so-called adventure. I can tell. Mom can tell. And it makes us feel as if we’re not important. As if the only thing that’s important is that stupid mezuzah and a message nobody cares about.”

  Bohannon felt a shiver go up his spine. How could Connor . . .

  “But, Connor . . . it is important.”

  “Important!” Connor slammed his fist against the table. “You still don’t get it. What’s important is that Caitlin refuses to go back to Fordham at night because she’s still afraid of being abducted and that she can’t sleep because of the nightmares. What’s important is that Mom stares at her coffee cup each morning as if she’s a million miles away. What’s important is what you are doing to your family and you don’t give a . . . awww, what’s the use?”

  Connor pushed the table away, got to his feet, and was out the door before Tom could think of something to say. He was about to get up and run after him when he saw Bronagh standing at the other side of the table, two steaming dishes in her hands and a look of disbelief on her face.

  “Beef stew?”

  10

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 6

  Jerusalem

  “Do you have any idea what you’re requesting?”

  “Certainly.” Chaim Shomsky tried to appear relaxed, confident. But his confidence was as rumpled as his suit. “We’re asking for funds to mount an operation that must never come to the attention of the government, the press, or the Arabs. Even though we believe we know where to look, finding the Tent will be a challenge. But once we get it here and get it set up, any Arab hope will be blocked. We’ll be in control of the Mount, and all Jerusalem, once again.”

  When Shomsky first met him, Meyer Feldberg’s eyes were a glittering, glacial blue—the color of the diamonds Feldberg’s slaves pulled from the earth of South Africa. That was when the money Feldberg poured into Baruk’s political ambitions was fairly clean. But Feldberg’s heart later became as black as his tactics and his shadowy associates, and the money became more tainted, with more strings. Polluted by years of cigar smoke and infected with the poison of greed, Feldberg’s eyes were now clouded deeply gray, surrounded by bloodshot fractures, tongues of damnation fire flickering in their midst. Feldberg—clearly comfortable in his position, his advantage, and his five-thousand-dollar suit—easily pierced Shomsky’s well-honed outer coating of disdain. Once again Shomsky felt the menace of wealth and power in the hands of the ruthless.

  “Where did this brainless idea come from?”

  “I was talking to a rabbi after the Temple’s discovery,” said Shomsky, his anger restrained by the bonds of prudence. “He said, ‘Next thing you know, someone will find the Tent of Meeting.’ And I thought, why not?”

  “You make it sound so simple,” said Feldberg, fit and muscular in his fifties, his bald head as smooth as a baby’s cheeks. “Clearly, ignorance is bliss. Sadly, your ignorance of Scripture is legion.”

  The insult penetrated the folds and rolls of Shomsky’s flesh, mixing with the tide of perspiration that flowed beneath his shirt. Shomsky hated meeting in Feldberg’s study. It was safer than either man’s office, but Feldberg kept his home like a hothouse and Shomsky left each meeting feeling like, and looking like, a well-used dish towel.

  Shomsky absently attempted to restore the crease to his pants leg. “You, Meyer . . . you read the Scriptures?” he said, raising his eyes.

  Meyer Feldberg picked a cigar from the humidor on the desk, rolled it between his thumb and index finger, lifted it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. His eyes were closed, drinking in the deep aroma of Cuban tobacco. “Choose your words wisely, Chaim. Push the wrong button and”—he picked up the large, gold cigar scissors next to the humidor and neatly sliced the tip off the Cuban—“you might lose something you find precious.”

  A shiver of ice ran up Shomsky’s spine. He’d witnessed the outcome of Feldberg’s displeasure firsthand. This man, whose wealth held Eliazar Baruk in bondage, was not one to trifle with. Diverting his gaze to the window, he straightened his tie and squared his shoulders.

  “No offense, Meyer. Your knowledge of the Talmud just surprises me.”

  “There is much about me that would surprise you. If Baruk were more a scholar than a lawyer, he might understand that what he is asking would take a miracle.”

  Feldberg sat down behind his desk, now a bulwark between him and Shomsky.

  “Look,” said Feldberg,
“there are two monumental problems, at least, facing anyone who hopes to find the Tent of Meeting. First, it’s fallen off the face of history without a trace. Second, even if it existed, even if it were found, getting it secretly into Jerusalem—let alone on top of the Temple Mount—would be next to impossible.”

  Shomsky cursed Baruk, silently, for putting him in this office in the first place. Feldberg’s power and arrogance were palpable, and Shomsky always felt like a child in the principal’s office, waiting to hear the litany of his sins, each time he was forced to sit across from Feldberg.

  Feldberg placed the unlit cigar on the desk and spread his hands apart.

  “The Tabernacle was the portable structure the Israelites constructed in the desert, to the specific instructions and dimensions that God gave to Moses on Mount Sinai, and it housed the Ark of the Covenant and the great bronze altar,” said Feldberg, as if instructing a child. “It was a huge structure built of wood and hides and it protected two rooms that were built inside the Tent: the Holy place, which was the site of the altar and ritual sacrifice, and the Holy of Holies, where the Ark of the Covenant was kept. The entire Tent was often referred to as the Tabernacle. It was led by the pillar of fire by night and the pillar of smoke by day. This is the structure that Baruk is talking about when he refers to the Tent of Meeting.

  “Our number one problem, then, is that no one has seen the Tent for thousands of years. Which makes me doubt whether you or Eliazar could possess any real idea of where the Tent may rest.”

  “That’s it?” With effort, Shomsky managed to sound affronted. “I tell the prime minister, sorry, we’ve decided that it doesn’t exist?”

  Feldberg fingered the brass letter opener lying on top of his desk. It brought a smile to his face. Shomsky could visualize its point pressing hard against his throat.

  “Look, Chaim, do you want the truth, or do you want some fairy tale? The Tent disappeared from history; it’s as simple as that. After the Israelites entered the Promised Land, they eventually set up the Tent of Meeting and the Tabernacle in Shiloh, where the Ark of the Covenant was kept, presided over by the priesthood. In the time of Eli the priest, the Philistines routed the army of the Jews. So the elders decided to bring the Ark from Shiloh and send it into battle with them, expecting God to destroy their enemy. He didn’t, the Israelites were defeated, and the Philistines captured the Ark. They didn’t keep it long. Supposedly, God sent a plague and the Philistines begged the Israelites to take the Ark back.”

  Feldberg was still toying with the letter opener, but his eyes were on the cigar. He picked it up and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. Shomsky could tell keeping it unlit was a true struggle. “So, what happened to the Tent?”

  “After the Ark was captured, the Tent of Meeting was taken down and removed to the city of Nob. Remember the story of David eating the shewbread? Scripture says David went into the house of God to eat the shewbread. That was the Tabernacle at Nob. Sometime after that, no one knows when, the Tent was moved from Nob to Gibeon. And it remained in Gibeon until Solomon completed the first Temple.

  “And that’s where history loses track of the Tent,” said Feldberg. “We’re told that, when Solomon dedicated the Temple in Jerusalem, he brought up the Ark and the Tent of Meeting and all the sacred furnishings that were in it. And that’s the last word recorded in the Scripture about the Tent of Meeting’s existence. Not surprising, since the Tent of Meeting was, in effect, the sanctuary that moved with them. With Solomon’s Temple constructed, there was no longer any need for another Tabernacle. And it disappears from history. Gone. Poof.”

  Feldberg was intently studying the tawny richness of the Cuban cigar between his fingers. Slowly, he raised his eyes and bathed Shomsky with a look of thinly veiled contempt.

  “So, that’s the first challenge. Find it. And I can tell you that we’ve already started moving on that front. What’s the second?”

  Feldberg picked up the letter opener. He idly tapped it against his index finger then pointed its tip toward Shomsky’s rumpled body. “The second challenge, my strong-backed friend, is picking it up.”

  He took the unlit cigar, deposited it into the inside pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket, pushed himself to the front of the chair, and rested his elbows on the edge of the desk.

  Once again, Shomsky felt like he was playing catch with a scorpion. A stab of adrenaline barely masked his fear.

  “Because the Tent of Meeting the Israelites carried through the wilderness probably weighed over ten tons . . . twenty thousand pounds. It took six heavily loaded wagons to move the Tent. And the six treasures of the Tabernacle, such as the Ark and the golden altar of incense, were carried on platforms on the shoulders of the Kohathites—eight thousand men. So, tell me, how do you plan to smuggle the Tent and the Tabernacle into Jerusalem, even if you do find it?”

  “We plan to bring it in by truck . . . make it look like building material for the Mount.”

  Feldberg nodded his head. Shomsky could almost see him calculating the angles.

  “That might work,” Feldberg said. Once again he fiddled with the letter opener. “And I’ve got a lot invested in Baruk already. I think it’s a fool’s errand . . . but tell Eliazar he will have his money and he can mount his search.”

  Shomsky unfolded himself from the chair, anxious to be out of the billionaire’s presence.

  “But . . .”

  He stopped on his way to the door, knowing what was coming next.

  “When I have need of a favor,” Feldberg said with the silken smoothness of a serpent, “many favors . . . Eliazar would be wise to accommodate my requests. Is that not right, Chaim?”

  Despite the suffocating heat in the study, Shomsky shivered as he opened the door.

  New York City

  Tim Maybry pulled Bohannon into the Bowery Mission chapel. “C’mon, Tom, I know you’ve got a board meeting,” the construction manager argued, “but I need you to look at this. It will only take a minute—and you’ll thank me afterward.”

  The Bowery Mission’s renovations had continued during Bohannon’s absence in Jerusalem, Maybry’s capable leadership and a willing group of workers performing miracles with the old, once dilapidated-looking building. With the precise care of world-class surgeons, not only did they remove decades of paint from the mission’s façade, revealing a startling number of architectural wonders hidden for years, but they also came up with an inventive solution for presenting a unified look to the three side-by-side, disparate, different-age buildings that were built with four styles of brick: pink mortar. Mixing red coloring with the mortar, the bricks of each building were re-pointed with the pink mortar, effectively blending the different styles and shades of brick into a cohesive whole.

  This morning, Maybry clearly had another goal in mind. A head shorter than Bohannon, Maybry looked more like a school teacher than a construction company owner—slight of frame, tightly trimmed hair, horn-rimmed glasses constantly sliding down his nose. But he had earned his stripes with a string of arresting church buildings. This man knew his stuff. And Tom trusted his opinion.

  “We’re just about done with repainting the vault roof,” Maybry said as they walked, hitching a thumb toward the arched ceiling of the chapel. “We were ready to reinstall the organ pipes—they did a beautiful job of restoration, by the way—when we found a real problem. Here . . . this is shorter.”

  Maybry swung up on a ladder propped on the chapel’s altar. The ladder disappeared into a hole in the ceiling and Bohannon followed Maybry up the rungs. He knew where he was going, even though he wasn’t happy about being this high off the floor. Heights were fear-filled. Now he was anxious about more than the board meeting.

  Bohannon emerged into a dusty space behind the organ pipes. “Tim, what’s wrong?” But Maybry had already crossed the small room, ascended newly constructed stairs, and unlocked an unfinished wooden door. He waited for Bohannon.

  They stood together on the top step.
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  “Look at the floorboards under the safe,” said Maybry.

  But Bohannon already recognized the problem. The room was the office of the mission’s first president, Dr. Louis Klopsch, hidden for nearly one hundred years. On the far side of the room was a massive safe. When the office was discovered during the early stages of the renovation, this safe—more than eight feet wide, five feet high and a good three feet deep—yielded an incredible treasure trove of ancient, museum-quality books, manuscripts, and pamphlets, including the scroll—sealed inside an etched, brass mezuzah—that ultimately launched Bohannon and his motley team of secret-seekers on a quest that tested their courage, character, and faith.

  “The boards under the safe have bowed into an unstable arc. The last time I was in here, two weeks ago, they were fine. Something we did when we were shoring up the old organ supports—we needed to do that to keep the organ pipes secure and make sure that one of them didn’t suddenly eject itself into the chapel—something caused a shift . . . something changed.”

  Now Bohannon had another item for the board’s agenda.

  “The safe has to come out,” Bohannon said. Then he looked at the size of the door, the steep steps, and the size of the hole in the floor. “This is going to be interesting.”

  Bohannon turned to face Maybry. “I’m curious to see how the inventive talents of your crew will solve this problem,” he said. “I guess we’ll be talking more after the board meeting.”

  He shot a glance into the small room, and said a prayer that the safe stayed right where it was until they figured something out. At least until the meeting was over and the board members left the building.

  11

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 8

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  It often dismayed the prime minister that his beautiful, sprawling home in Tel Aviv had been turned into a virtual fortress. Even the damage done by the recent earthquake disturbed him less than the loss of his idyllic retreat. When Baruk’s Kadima party had shocked the political pundits and secured the highest number of seats in the Knesset, Eliazar Baruk woke to find himself prime minister of Israel, titular head of a fragile coalition government, and a prisoner in his own home.