He picked up the flashlight and turned its beam toward the back of the cavern. Thirty feet ahead, the halogen lamp’s beam bathed the yellow walls in a wash of blue light. It was time to move. He wasn’t going to find anything sitting here. Rodriguez pulled himself to his feet, gathered up his backpack, the GPR detector, and headed in the direction of the light.
Shortly, Rodriguez came to a fork in the tunnel passage. He pulled the fluorescent yellow dots from his pocket. This is one trick that sure helped. As Doc had done in the caverns under the Temple Mount, Joe stuck three small, fluorescent circles near the floor, just inside the tunnel he was entering. Then he turned, crossed the junction point, and put three circles on the opposite wall and moved to his left and put two yellow circles at floor level just inside the tunnel he was exiting. If he came to another point where he needed to make a choice, Rodriguez would put four circles at the beginning of the tunnel he was entering. That way, he could follow the yellow circles and find his way out, or realize he had doubled back on himself.
From his pocket he fished out a shekel and flipped the coin in the air. Right or left? Heads. Okay, right. Joe swept the beam of his flashlight down the length of the right-hand tunnel, then up along the right wall, across the ceiling and . . .
The blue beam wavered . . . swinging in arcs back and forth in response to Joe’s shaking hand. Above his head, at the apex of the tunnel’s curved ceiling and just inside the portal, the beam of light reflected back and fell on Joe with a soft, golden glow. Within the light gleamed four sets of familiar symbols—aleph and resh; kaf, shin, mem; the four arches; and the Triple Tau. They looked as if they were inlaid with gold. And they spoke to him of an old friend.
In spite of the passing of ages, the golden-toned paint nestled inside carved grooves held a richness of color that threw light back into Joe’s face. He stretched to run his fingers over the surface of the carvings, over the pitted, but intact, paint and—not for the first time—felt as if he were being beckoned onward by a force outside his understanding, but not outside his experience. As there had been under the Temple Mount, there was a palpable spirit in this cave, a living presence . . . a feeling that he wasn’t alone, and he wasn’t here by chance.
Joe glanced down at the top of the carbon detector. Alternating with each turn of Joe’s body, the display on the screen bounced back and forth. He turned to face the shaft with the symbols . . . and the radar cursors collided in the middle of the screen and pulsed with the strength of a healthy heart.
Drawing in a deep breath, he surprised himself with a short prayer, something that rose unbidden from his years in Catholic school. He aimed the beam of light down the shaft, and followed the calling in his heart.
12:56 a.m., Jerusalem
“Levin checked out,” Colonel Posner said. “The brother-in-law dropped out of sight ten years ago and no one in the family has seen him since. They had suspicions, but no evidence he was involved with Hezbollah.”
“The phone call?” asked Orhlon. The general filled the space behind his desk, spilling over the sides of his chair.
Colonel Posner poured himself another cup of coffee from the eternal pot that sat on a sideboard in Orhlon’s office in the Defense Ministry’s command center.
“Levin ordered a computer for his son. The phone number is registered to ITech Technology—which could mean anything. It took awhile to track down the owner . . . he’s a one-man show. An American, if you can believe it, named Daniel Cantwell. He has his main office in Jericho, but a shipping facility in Dar’a. We had one of ours pay him a visit. All the paperwork was there. He still had the phone message on his recorder. And Levin has the computer and the receipt.”
“How did he handle it all?”
“The interrogation?” Posner shrugged one shoulder. “He told me he would have taken the same steps if he was in my position. He’s a pro—although he lit up the board when we showed him the photo and the phone records. But who wouldn’t? There is always that initial panic until reason establishes control.” He set his cup on the corner of General Orhlon’s desk.
“Now what?” the general prompted.
Posner placed a photograph on Orhlon’s desk. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s only one left. I’m planning to see him tomorrow.” Posner pushed his bottom lip back against his lips, contorting his porcelain features, and shook his head. “Maybe my list—my hunch—was wrong. I should know by tomorrow night.”
“Hard to believe, that’s for sure,” said Orhlon. “But we can’t move until we are absolutely certain . . . and not until we’ve briefed the prime minister. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” said Posner, standing. “But he won’t go anywhere without a team of eyes on him at all times.”
1:08 a.m.
Leonidas listened to the voice-mail message, replaced the telephone handset in the cradle, and looked at the clock on the wall of his office. They were too close. It was time to move . . . now. Tomorrow would be too late. Tomorrow he could be in military custody.
1:32 a.m.
“Major Levin . . . we’ve picked up something on our radio wave scanner.”
Lieutenant Stern pointed at a split screen on the right edge of a bank of screens that surrounded his desk. Levin closed the space with the speed of a diving hawk. “What is it?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” admitted Stern. “See this reading? It’s being recorded by our drone. There’s some sort of electronic signal being generated, but it’s not radio, it’s not satellite phone . . . it’s not showing the characteristic range of any kind of communication we normally register.”
Levin leaned over Stern’s right shoulder. “It’s not bounce-back. Too steady for bounce-back.”
“No sir, there’s something down there emitting a signal. Faint—it’s very localized. Its travel loop is very short. But it’s there. And . . . sir . . .”
“I know . . . it’s moving,” said Levin. “Can you locate it?”
Stern ran his cursor over the screen and clicked on a crosshairs icon. The signal analysis screen faded and a map replaced it: a high-altitude, infrared view of the Negev. Stern clicked his mouse again and the screen zoomed in at dizzying speed.
The image on Stern’s screen stopped moving . . . hovered a moment over a barren plateau that fell away into a deep defile to the east. The crosshairs shifted, as if smelling for a scent, then pushed the view southward and zeroed in on a series of cliff faces and ravines. The crosshairs on the screen kept descending, slower now, seeking. Then they stopped, settled finally on a cleft of shadow and light so stark in its contrast that everything in the cleft, lying below the surface, was blacker than the far side of the moon.
“Scorpion Pass?” asked Levin.
“No, sir . . . not exactly. One hundred and thirty-seven meters south of Scorpion Pass. Whatever is emitting that signal is several hundred meters below the sightline of our drone.”
“Underground.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Levin picked up the telephone to his left and hit the top, red button. “This is Levin,” he said to the Central Command dispatch officer. “We’ve got him. Send everyone to thirty degrees; fifty-five minutes north . . . thirty-five degrees; seven minutes east. He’s underground. There’s got to be a cave down there. All right, a lot of caves. Get our men in there and find him. Now—”
Levin stopped in midsentence as the dispatch officer’s voice was replaced by the commanding baritone of General Orhlon. “Yes, sir—good evening. Yes, sir, I believe we have located the American. He’s down in the caves, south of Scorpion Pass. Yes, sir, we’ll find him.”
Levin listened again, his face contorting into a grimace. “Due respect, sir, but I’d rather stay at it with the men here until Rodriguez is apprehended. He—The Mount? Yes, sir, I know they will . . . but . . . yes, sir. I’m on my way.”
He eased the handset into the cradle, afraid that if he slammed it as hard as he wanted to his men might think he was insubordinate. Levin pried his finge
rs from the handset.
“General Orhlon has ordered me to the Temple Mount,” Levin said to the wall. “Rumors of Hezbollah infiltrators getting into the city. He wants the Mount secured.” He glanced down at Lieutenant Stern. “Don’t lose him. Stay on that signal.”
2:47 a.m., The Negev
Steadying the carbon detector and the halogen flashlight secured by its magnet to the side of the metal box, Rodriguez picked his way along the uneven, rubble-strewn floor of the cavern like a man walking across spring ice. He didn’t want to fall and damage the sensor. The tunnel carved a sweeping turn to the right, curving back around on itself as it dropped deeper under the surface. At the end of a nearly complete arc, Rodriguez entered a small, circular space where the ceiling of the cavern lifted, and two tunnels branched off. He pulled the flashlight away from the box and swept its beam across the inside ceiling of each tunnel. There were no symbols, no clue to lead him. Joe looked down at the display on the carbon sensor. It was blank. He twisted the dials, tapped the screen, and shook the box in his hands. The display remained blank—black—as if all power was lost. Useless.
As Rodriguez looked at the opening of each shaft, he felt a growing unease and an escalating urgency to finish this search and get back above ground. A sense of, what? Danger? Fear? Or reverence, as if he were sneaking into church and God was watching him. He looked at the sensor—switched it off, then back on again. Nothing. Joe put his flashlight on the floor and slipped the carbon sensor from his shoulders, lowering it with a reluctance that mirrored the turmoil in his spirit.
Not going to get any closer standing here.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the same shekel, and flipped it. Tails. Joe peered into the darkness of the left shaft, took a deep breath, reached down for his flashlight, and took one halting step, then another.
Israeli patrols in heavily armed Jeeps entered the desert wadi at both ends—three from the south; three from the north—units peeling off at the entrances to several caves.
“Lieutenant, can you get us any closer?” His headset linked to the High Altitude Reconnaissance Center, the patrol leader motioned his vehicles to a halt. “There are too many caves here.”
“He’s one hundred meters south of you,” Stern replied. “That was our last signal, just a few minutes ago.”
“But which way is in?” The patrol leader flipped the switch that illuminated the spotlights welded to the roll bar of the Jeep. The sandstone cliffs turned gray, the cave mouths a mocking black. He looked up and down the dry defile, as far as he could see in the beams of light. “I can see six . . . eight . . . ten cave openings from right here.”
“I don’t know how to tell you to go,” said Stern’s voice. “I can only tell you where we believe he is. How you get there? I’m afraid that’s up to you.”
The patrol leader knew he didn’t have the luxury of time. “One man to a hole . . . constant contact . . . engage your GPS beacons.” The men in the first Jeep were already on the ground, running, before the leader’s last words left his mouth.
He was back in the small, circular chamber. The tunnel to his left just led him to a dead end.
So much for flipping a coin. As he turned to look down the shaft to his right, his eyes fell upon the ground-penetrating radar, left abandoned on the chamber’s floor. Why not? He stooped over the stainless steel box and flipped the power switch—just to know that he had tried. The display lit up, the cursors hard and true to the right tunnel.
“Hallelujah!”
“We’ve got him!” Lieutenant Stern dialed in the crosshairs and overlaid the patrol leader’s GPS coordinates. “Micah, lay down a track of the previous transmissions.”
Stern toggled a switch to his left. “We have contact,” he told the patrol leader. “He’s almost directly below you, but he didn’t enter near your location. He entered . . . Micah?” The soldier to his right passed Stern a topographical map with coordinates written on it and a large X over a cut in the cleft.
“Fifty-four meters to your south . . . western wall. His path, as far as we have it, switched back twice and had several turns. Recall the rest of your men and I’ll guide you through the best I can. But he’s there . . . right below you.”
Once again the metal box hung from his shoulders, against his chest. But he didn’t need to touch the dials. He was dead on. And he was getting very close.
The lower the shaft dropped, the heavier the air became . . . a whisper of weight, a constraint against his skin. His lungs struggled for breath and, with each step, his legs got heavier, the effort to move more demanding. He was being pulled forward and held back at the same time. But he kept moving—downward.
The shaft ahead of him took another hard turn to the right. And the magic box went to sleep once more.
Something was around that corner.
“You’re breaking up on me,” said the patrol leader. “We’re in a small chamber. There are two shafts. Which one do we take? The one on the right, or the one on the left? Stern?”
Rodriguez set the box on the floor and edged up to the corner. There was no one there. He felt like a kid at the Saturday matinee, waiting for a slasher to jump out of a closet in some awful B movie that would give him nightmares for a week.
I’ve got to get out of this line of work.
The beam of the flashlight bounced to the beat of his shaking hands. He stepped out, into the corridor, and looked down its length.
“Stern?” His whispered question hung in the stale air.
The patrol leader pushed on the radio’s earpiece with his right hand, as if that would improve the reception, and the flashlight in his left hand fell to his side. That’s when he saw the four fluorescent yellow dots at the bottom of the left tunnel. Pointing rapidly at his team and the shaft in succession, he sent his patrol down the tunnel on the left.
Fifty feet in front of Rodriguez, the cavern shaft came to an abrupt end—not the end of the tunnel, but a wall. A man-made end. The wall filled the tunnel completely, huge limestone blocks at its base, smaller ones reaching to the ceiling, mortar filling in every ridge and groove up to the curving roof. But in the middle, near the base, was a low door—or, what looked like a door—a heavy wooden lintel, with stones now sealing the opening shut. Joe stepped up to the wall, extended his hand, and massaged the stones. You’ve been here, haven’t you?
The patrol leader held up his left hand—the two men in front were stopped at a corner, the tunnel snaking a hard turn to the right. He stopped his team in its tracks, slipped past the men on point, and pressed his back against the tunnel wall, just short of the corner. The beams of their lights, the noise of their running boots, gave them away. So there was little need for silence. If there was anyone with evil intent around the corner . . . He motioned one of his men to the opposite wall of the tunnel, dropped into a crouch, and darted his head out from cover as the soldier opposite pointed a bright beam of light down the tunnel.
Off in the distance, the curving shaft came to an abrupt end . . . a dead end.
Joe sat cross-legged in the dust of the cavern’s floor, his hand on the solid stone filling the doorway, his imagination on the other side of the stone. Somebody has been here . . . the wall is protecting something. Could it be the Tent? Could it be more? Only one way to find out. He retrieved a pickax from his backpack, raised it over his head, and drove the pointed end deep into the ancient mortar between the blocks of stone.
The clang of metal against rock—a rhythmic claxon—echoed up from the depths of the cave. The patrol leader heard it before he emerged from the left tunnel. He and his men curled through the small chamber and poured into the right shaft—two-by-two, leap-frogging down its length.
It was easier going than he expected. The mortar was intact, but degraded over the ages so that it was soft under his pick and pulled away from the stone like corn bread—falling in crumbs at his feet. Four of the stones already lay on the floor next to him; only two more and he could squeeze through the ho
le. But curiosity trumped expediency—Joe picked up his flashlight. He had to see what was inside.
As his light played over the space on the other side of the wall, Rodriguez figured it was about ten yards deep. But it was so wide that he couldn’t see the sides. That didn’t matter. In front of him was a wooden platform, about half the depth of the space, up against the back wall, extending to the sides beyond the point that Joe’s light illuminated. At the rear of the platform were several mounds covered in what appeared to be animal skins of some kind. The mounds also extended into the darkness on both sides. The mounds were each about four feet high and six feet wide and rounded on top. In front of the mounds, stacked neatly, were dozens of thick, stout, long wooden poles. And running along the front of the platform were smaller rectangular objects, also wrapped in some kind of animal hide. The covering on one of the smaller objects had fallen away. As Rodriguez played his light over the surface, its carved legs glistened and reflected a deep, golden glow.
“Holy cow!”
Holding his breath, his pulse thudding against the walls of his arteries, Joe pushed his arm and his head through the small opening, throwing the light down the length of the left side of the enclosure. More mounds and poles extended into the far reaches—the space much larger than he first imagined—and ended in the distance, where he saw a huge, wooden cask. Bonded by straps—leather or metal, he couldn’t tell from this distance—holding down a massive, arched, wooden lid.
At the sight of it, Joe jumped. His head hit the top of the stone opening, he bit his tongue, and swallowed the expletive that wanted to burst from his mouth. Pulling his head out of the hole in the wall, he tested the extent of damage to his tongue with his free hand, turned around to find his pickax—and found himself looking down the barrels of too many guns in the hands of too many stone-faced Israeli soldiers.
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 33
