Sacred Bones : A Novel

by Michael Byrnes

  Not for the first time Razak wished the Keeper didn’t play his cards so close to his chest. “Professional job then?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Did the explosions damage the mosque?”

  “Luckily, no. We immediately contacted a structural engineer. So far it seems the damage is contained to the wall.”

  Razak frowned. “Any idea who could have done this?”

  Farouq shook his head.

  “It was the Israelis I tell you!” one of the elders burst out, quivering with rage, his lower lip dramatically curled.

  All heads turned to the old man. His eyes shifted away and he eased himself back into his seat.

  “That is not certain,” Farouq firmly cut in. “Though it’s true that eyewitnesses reported an Israeli Black Hawk was used to transport the thieves.”

  “What?” Razak was stupefied.

  Farouq nodded. “It landed in the esplanade outside the El-Aqsa Mosque and took them away.”

  “But isn’t that restricted airspace?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Though he wouldn’t admit it, Razak was impressed that anyone could pull off such an operation, especially in Jerusalem. “How?”

  “We don’t have details.” Farouq’s pen resumed its tapping. “All we know is that the helicopter was spotted over Gaza minutes after the theft. We’re awaiting a full report from the IDF. But let’s not forget that thirteen Israelis were killed during the attack and many more injured,” Farouq reminded the assemblage. “Policemen and IDF soldiers. To assume Israelis were responsible...for now that wouldn’t seem to make sense.”

  Another elder spoke up. “This situation’s very complicated. Clearly this theft has occurred within our jurisdiction. However, that so many IDF soldiers were killed does matter greatly.” He spread his hands and paused. “The Israelis have agreed to keep this quiet, but ask that we cooperate in sharing all information uncovered through our internal investigations.”

  Razak fingered his cup and looked up. “I’m assuming the police have already begun preliminary investigations?”

  “Of course,” Farouq interjected. “They arrived minutes after the episode occurred. Problem is they’ve yet to present any definitive evidence. We suspect important facts are being withheld. That’s why we’ve summoned you. Confrontation seems inevitable.”

  “If only—” Razak began.

  “Time’s limited,” another Waqf member with a thick head of silver hair overrode him. “Both sides are concerned it won’t be long before the media starts drawing its own conclusions. And we all know what that will lead to.” His grave eyes circled the table to draw support. “Razak, you know how fragile our role is here in Jerusalem. You see what’s happening outside on the streets. Our people rely on us to protect this place.” He stuck out an index finger and tapped it on the table twice. “There’s no knowing how they’ll react. Unlike most of us,” he eyed the first outspoken elder, still purple from rage, “they will assume the Israelis are responsible.”

  Farouq came in again. “You can well imagine that Hamas and Hezbollah are both anxious to lambaste the Jews for this.” His face darkened.

  “They’re asking for our support implicating the Israelis to further Palestinian liberation.”

  The situation was far worse than Razak had imagined. Tensions were

  already running high between the Israelis and Palestinians. Both Hamas

  and Hezbollah had garnered much support over the past few years in their

  efforts to outwardly oppose Israeli occupation and this incident would

  surely bolster their political agenda. Razak tried to not think about even

  more drastic consequences that were likely to occur. The Waqf was now

  stuck in the middle of a very precarious political situation—one that felt

  impossibly fragile to Razak. “So what do you wish of me?” he asked, looking round the table.

  “Determine who stole the relic,” replied the soft-toned elder. “We need

  to know who committed this act so justice can be served. Our people deserve an explanation as to why such a sacred place has been so maliciously

  violated.”

  In the ensuing silence Razak could hear the taunting, muffled sounds

  of protestors through the window, like voices from the grave. “I’ll do

  whatever’s necessary,” he assured them. “First I’ll need to see where this

  happened.”

  Farouq rose to his feet. “I’ll take you there now.”

  4

  ******

  Vatican City

  Charlotte Hennesey was battling the unforgiving eight-hour time difference, and three espressos earlier that morning hadn’t helped to settle her. As instructed, she was waiting in her guest suite until summoned. Unlike the limousine and first-class service that had whisked her from Phoenix to Rome, her accommodation at the Vatican City’s Domus Sanctae Marthae residence hall was austere. White walls, simple oak furniture, twin bed and nightstand, though she did have her own bathroom and a small refrigerator. Seated at the sun-filled window, she gazed out over the tiled roofs of Rome’s western sprawl. Having finished her novel on the plane—Anne Tyler’s Saint Maybe—she’d now had to settle for the English edition of L’Osservatore Romano, reading it from cover to cover. Sighing, she set the paper down and looked over at the nightstand’s digital alarm clock—3:18. She was anxious to get to work, but wondered what purpose an American geneticist could possibly serve here. As the head of research and development at BioMapping Solutions, Charlotte typically made off-site visits to pharmaceutical and biotech companies looking to apply the latest discoveries in the human genome to their research.

  It was her boss, BMS founder Evan Aldrich, who had taken the call al

  most two weeks ago from a Vatican cleric named Father Patrick Donovan. Having heard the priest’s compelling proposal, Aldrich had volunteered her services for a highly secretive project. Few things could divert Evan Aldrich from his work, especially when the request required him to hand over his best researcher.

  Clearly this was one of them.

  At thirty-two, Charlotte was a lithe five-nine with striking emerald green eyes and a smooth, healthily tanned face framed by shoulder length curls of chestnut hair. With a rare balance of intellect and charm, she’d become her company’s chosen spokesperson for an industry typified by gray scientists. Human genetics was often misunderstood and always controversial. With BMS aggressively promoting its latest gene-mapping technology, the right public image was important.

  Recently she had added media appearances to her arsenal of talents— talk shows and news programs. Aldrich had told her that the Vatican priest mentioned seeing one of her most recent interviews concerning the reconstruction of maternal lineage through mapping mitochondrial DNA, prompting his request for her services.

  Now that her time was split between research and public relations, she wondered exactly what role she’d be asked to play here. After all, the conservative papacy was surely not one of her biggest supporters.

  Her thoughts drifted back to Evan Aldrich.

  Aldrich had abruptly shifted his career ten years ago, abandoning his secure tenure as a Harvard professor of genetic science to enter the uncertain world of business. And he had handled the switch brilliantly. Not for the first time, Charlotte mused about what made Evan tick. Not money, though when BMS eventually went public he would make a great deal of it. What really drove the man was his sense of purpose, his belief that the work they did and the choices they made really mattered. It was his passion and genuine charisma that first attracted her to him. The fact that she thought he looked like a movie star didn’t hurt either.

  Almost a year ago, she and Evan had begun dating, both very cautious about the potential work-related conflicts such a relationship might bring about. But if there could exist a natural fit between two people, Charlotte had certainly found it—like the inevitable laws of physics she found her
self hopelessly drawn to him. Only four months ago, things between them seemed perfect.

  Then fate decided to throw a curveball at her.

  A routine blood test taken during her annual physical detected abnormally high protein levels in her blood. Further testing followed that included a painful bone biopsy. Finally came the devastating diagnosis: multiple myeloma.

  Bone cancer.

  At first, she was angry. After all, she was practically a vegetarian, rarely drank, and exercised like a fiend. It just didn’t make sense, especially because at the time, she felt perfectly fine.

  That wasn’t the case now. Just a week earlier, she began taking Melphalan—her first round of low-dose chemotherapy. Now she felt like she was battling a permanent hangover, complete with intermittent waves of nausea.

  She didn’t have the heart to tell Evan. Not yet, at least. He had already been talking about a more permanent future, even kids. None of that seemed possible now and it crushed her. Over the past few weeks, she had grown more despondent. In all fairness to him, she needed to be absolutely certain that she would be among the ten percent who actually beat this disease before she could commit to anything more serious.

  A discreet knock pulled Charlotte from her thoughts.

  Reaching the door in four strides, she opened it to see a bespectacled bald man barely her height, dressed in a black suit and shirt. His complexion was smooth and pale. Maybe in his late forties or early fifties, she guessed. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the white priest collar.

  “Good afternoon, Dr. Hennesey. I’m Father Patrick Donovan.” His English was flavored with an Irish brogue. Smiling pleasantly, he extended a thin hand.

  My Vatican admirer, she thought. “A pleasure to meet you, Father.”

  “I so much appreciate your patience. I apologize for the delay. Shall we go?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  5

  ******

  Temple Mount

  Deep beneath Temple Mount, Razak and Farouq stood amidst the rubblestrewn floor of the Marwani Mosque. As the Keeper had indicated, the damage to the site had been considerable, yet contained. Pole-mounted spotlights had been erected to illuminate a gaping hole in the rear wall about a meter-and-a-half in diameter. On seeing it, Razak felt his stomach twist into a knot.

  The first time he had seen this place was in the late 1990s. Back then, rubble and debris had completely filled the space, floor to ceiling. But that was before the Israeli government had allowed the Waqf to initiate excavation and restoration. In exchange, Jewish archaeologists had been permitted to excavate the Western Wall tunnel—an underground passage far beneath the buildings of the Muslim Quarter, connecting the southern Western Wall Plaza to the Via Dolorosa on the embankment’s northwest corner. As usual it was a compromise that wasn’t without bloodshed. Riots had broken out between Palestinians and Israelis opposing the excavations, resulting in the deaths of over seventy soldiers and civilians, including Razak’s closest friend, Ghalib, who vehemently opposed Israeli digging beneath his home that abutted the Temple Mount’s western retaining wall.

  Some Muslims had clung to the belief that a demon called the Jin had deliberately filled this underground room with rubble to deter entrance. And now that its restoration was nearing completion, Razak couldn’t help but feel a malevolent presence still lurked here in the shadows.

  Approaching the aperture, he ran his fingers along its jagged edge, feeling a gummy residue. He peered into the secret chamber beyond where the rubble was minimal.

  Farouq appeared beside him holding a piece of masonry and handed it to Razak. “See this?” He indicated a smooth arc that ran along one edge of the brick. “The Israelis found a drill the thieves left behind, used to make cores that were then packed with explosive.”

  Razak examined the brick. “How could explosives be smuggled into the heart of Jerusalem, past all the checkpoints?”

  “Explosives and guns. These people were smart.” Farouq leaned through the hole and peered into the chamber. “I didn’t want to mention it in front of the others, but this seems to suggest that someone on the inside helped them. Perhaps the Jews did have something to do with this.”

  Razak wasn’t so sure. “You said the police have already seen this?”

  “The police and the IDF’s intelligence people. Studied it for two solid days following the theft.”

  Their thoroughness didn’t surprise Razak.

  “We’ve been awaiting a full report,” Farouq added. “It has yet to come.”

  Both men climbed through the hole into the space beyond.

  Additional pole lights illuminated the inner chamber clearly carved from Mount Moriah’s soft limestone bedrock with thick earthen pillars supporting its rocky ceiling. The walls were bare of any ornamentation. Here the stagnant air still smelled of explosives.

  Razak turned to face the Keeper. “Did you know about this chamber before?”

  “Absolutely not. Our excavations were contained within the mosque itself. Any unauthorized digging would have been strictly forbidden.”

  Farouq’s gaze was steady, but Razak was well aware that, when it came to excavations, the Waqf had taken some liberties in the past.

  Against the east wall, Razak detected a line of nine compact stone boxes, each etched in a language that looked like Hebrew. He moved closer. At one end, a rectangular depression in the earth suggested a tenth box had been removed and he moved closer.

  Unexpectedly, a voice broke in from the other side of the blast hole. “Gentlemen. Can I have a moment?”

  Razak and Farouq whirled round to find a plain looking middle-aged man peering through the aperture. His face was pale and streaked by sunburn, topped off by a nest of unruly brown hair.

  “Sorry, do you speak English?” The stranger had a refined English accent.

  “We do.” Razak rapidly approached the hole.

  “Marvelous.” The stranger smiled. “That’ll make things easier. My Arabic’s a little ropey.”

  Farouq elbowed Razak aside. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Barton.” He moved forward through the opening. “Graham Barton, I—”

  Farouq threw oversized hands in the air. “You dare come in here? This is a sacred place!”

  Barton stopped in his tracks, looking like he had just stepped on a landmine. “I’m sorry. But if you’ll just let me—”

  “Who let you in?” Razak moved past Farouq to shield the chamber.

  “I was sent by the Israeli Police Commissioner, to assist you.” He pulled out a letter on police department stationery.

  “An Englishman!” Farouq was gesticulating wildly. “They send an Englishman to assist us. You see where that got us in the past!”

  From the extensive time Barton had spent on projects in Israel, he was painfully aware that here the English were still best known for their botched colonization efforts in the early 1900s—a debacle that only served to deepen Palestinian resentment toward the West. He grinned tightly.

  “Need I remind you,” Farouq warned, “that non-Muslims are banned here?”

  “My religious affinities aren’t so easily defined,” Barton scowled. There was a time when he regularly attended Anglican services at Holy Trinity Church near his Kensington home in London. But that was a long time ago. Now he considered himself a more secular believer who shunned the establishment, but still sought a better understanding of his belief that there was indeed something bigger than himself in this miraculous universe. That search had yet to exclude elements of most faiths, including Islam, which he regarded highly.

  “So what is your purpose here?” Razak demanded.

  “I work with the Israeli Antiquities Authority,” Barton persisted. He was already feeling that accepting this job had been a very bad idea. The guppy was now in the piranha tank. “Ancient Holy Land antiquities are my specialty.” Biblical antiquities was more like it, he thought. But mentioning that to this pair didn’t seem smart. “I’m well regarded in my fi
eld.” Renowned, in fact, he thought. Trained at Oxford University, head curator of antiquities for the Museum of London, and a resume that read like a novella—not to mention the countless archaeological digs he’d managed in and around Jerusalem and his regular pieces in Biblical Archaeology Review. And just prior to the theft, the IAA had commissioned Graham Barton with a generous stipend to oversee a massive digitizing campaign that would catalogue the entirety of its priceless collections throughout Israel’s museums. Wisely, he chose not to elaborate on those details.

  Farouq was dismissive. “Credentials do not impress me.”

  “Right. But I can save you a lot of time,” Barton added, dodging the Keeper’s outright hostility. “Besides, the IDF and Israeli police have retained my services. I’ve been told you’re committed to full cooperation in order to determine what happened here. I have a letter of introduction.” His tone was more assertive now.