The Jews? Confused, the priest read the clipping from the Jerusalem Post and realized exactly what had prompted this meeting. Digging deeper inside the satchel, his hands had come upon the smooth leather covers of the Ephemeris Conlusio.
22
******
Jerusalem
Outside Temple Mount’s northern gate, Barton avoided the chaos of the Western Wall Prayer Plaza, angling along the narrow cobblestone streets that webbed gently down Mount Moriah.
He had actually managed to persuade Razak to let him take the scroll back to his office to see if he could translate its text. Apparently, the Muslim was anxious to find some answers.
Passing through the busy Muslim and Christian Quarters, he entered the Jewish Quarter along Tiferet Yisrael and banked left into the open expanse of Hurva Square, the harsh noonday glare sharper in the absence of any breeze. He glanced over at the sweeping Hurva Arch—the Square’s focal point and sole remnant of the grand synagogue that had once stood here.
Hurva —literally meaning “destruction”—was well named, Barton thought. Much like Jerusalem itself, the synagogue had been destroyed and rebuilt many times, the result of endless disputes between Muslims and Jews. On the eve of Israel’s birth in 1948, the synagogue had been occupied by Jordanian Arabs and dynamited—its final death blow.
Almost six decades later, the same violent struggle for control continued far beyond its confines—a bitter turf war between Israelis and Palestinians. And somehow he now found himself caught directly in the middle of it all.
Though the main offices of the Israeli Antiquities Authority were located in Tel Aviv, a temporary satellite facility had been set up just three weeks earlier, here, inside the Wohl Archaeological Museum—very near the apartment rented by the Temple Mount suspects.
Parked in front of the building stood a gold BMW sedan with police markings. Barton inwardly groaned as he hurried to the front door to be met by his intern assistant, Rachel Leibowitz—an attractive twentysomething with flowing black hair, olive skin, and hypnotic blue eyes.
“Graham,” she was urgent. “Two uniformed men are waiting for you downstairs. I told them to stay outside, but they insisted—”
“It’s all right, Rachel.” Barton held up a hand. “They were expected.” He caught himself staring at her lips. If the IAA was trying to do him a favor by assigning him such an attractive assistant, they weren’t helping matters. At fifty-four, Graham Barton wasn’t exactly the dashing young man
he had once been. But in his small circle, he was a legend and that seemed
to make good for an aging facade. And eager students like Rachel would do
anything to get closer to him. “Please don’t put through any calls for the
time being.” Smiling, he moved past her, trying to avoid the intoxicating
smell of her perfume.
There had been no formal invitation for anyone to visit that day, but
Barton knew his inspection of the crime scene would have the police and
IDF breathing down his neck. Of course, they’d want to know every iota
of his findings.
Descending into the Wohl’s subterranean gallery, he moved past the restored mosaics and ritual baths of a lavish, excavated Herodian-era villa. The IAA had recently launched a huge digitizing campaign to catalogue
its enormous collection—from vellums to pottery, pagan statuary to
ossuaries—creating a database with every relic’s historical profile and 3-D
images. Internet-based tools needed to be developed to allow the field archaeologists to decrypt ancient inscriptions. Having pioneered similar programs in the UK, Barton had been the ideal candidate to head up the
initiative. It was here where he had begun piloting the digitizing program
to establish a good workflow before continuing through the Israeli museum network, ending with its most famous Israel Museum. Heading to the rear of the gallery, he made his way into a featureless
square room painted in a dull white satin, his temporary office. Waiting
for him there were the two men who had visited him only yesterday to
ask for his help in the investigation—the Jerusalem District police commissioner Major General Jakob Topol and the IDF’s head of domestic
intelligence, Major General Ari Teleksen. Each had claimed a metal folding chair on the guest-side of his makeshift desk.
“Gentlemen.” Barton put down his briefcase and sat opposite them. Teleksen was in his late fifties, thickset, with the face of a pitbull—
heavy jowls and puffy eyelids. He sat with his arms folded, making no effort to conceal the two missing fingers of his left hand. As Israel’s most
celebrated veteran counterterrorism agent, he retained a coldness befitting
someone who’d seen far too much. Olive fatigues and a black beret displayed the IDF’s insignia—a golden Star of David bisected by an intertwined sword and olive branch, the epaulets on each shoulder marking out
his rank. “We’d like to hear the results of your preliminary analysis.” His
voice echoed off the bare walls.
Barton stroked his chin as he gathered his thoughts. “The explosion breached the rear wall of the Marwani Mosque. The blast hole was very precise, very clean. Definitely professional.”
“We know that,” Teleksen impatiently replied, spinning his bad hand. “But for what purpose?”
“To access a hidden burial crypt.”
“Crypt?” Topol was staring at him. Clearly the junior of the two, his uniform more befitted a commercial jet pilot—a powder-blue collared shirt with rank-marking epaulets on each shoulder, and navy blue pants. Centered on his policeman’s cap lay the Israeli police insignia—two olive leaves wrapped around a Star of David. Middle-aged with a thick frame, his face was angular with deep-set eyes.
“A crypt,” Barton repeated, as he pulled out one of the rubbings he’d taken. “See here. There was a tablet on the wall that listed all of their names.”
The eyes of both lawmen leapt to the rubbing.
“What was stolen?” Topol’s voice was gruff.
“I’m speculating, but it seems to have been a burial box. An ossuary.”
Teleksen threw up his disfigured left hand. “Burial box?”
“A small stone vessel about this big.” Barton outlined the ossuary’s dimensions in the air. “It probably contained a disassembled human skeleton.”
“I know what a burial box looks like,” Teleksen replied. “What I’m interested in here is motives. You mean to tell me that we’ve lost thirteen IDF men for a box of bones?”
Barton nodded.
Teleksen made a dismissive motion. “Feh.”
Topol coolly looked back at the image, pointing at the Hebrew names. “So which one did they take?”
Knowingly, Barton pointed to the defaced image on bottom. “This one. But as you can see, it’s now illegible.”
“I see,” Topol said, clearly trying to mask his puzzlement. The night of the theft, when he had personally first visited the scene with his detectives, he specifically recalled the strange image that had been there—a carved relief depicting a dolphin entwined over a trident. Such an odd symbol wasn’t easily forgotten. Yet on Barton’s rubbing, the symbol was gone. If the thieves hadn’t done this, then who had? “What do you think the motive could have been?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Barton drew breath. “The theft seems to have been coordinated by someone who knew exactly what the box contained.”
“Motive, shmotive. What good would a box of bones be to anyone?” Teleksen interjected, making no effort to temper his scorn. He dipped into his jacket’s breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Time Lites. Tapping out a cigarette, he skipped the formality of asking Barton if smoking here was okay and lit it up with a silver Zippo.
“Difficult to say,” Barton replied. “We’d have to speculate on what could have been inside.”
There was a v
ery long silence. The two lawmen exchanged looks.
“Any theories?” Teleksen enunciated each word slowly. Holding the cigarette in his bad hand, he took a deep drag and exhaled, the smoke curling in tendrils from his nostrils.
“Not yet.”
Topol was more levelheaded. “Is it at all possible that this wasn’t a burial box? Was there anything else that could’ve been in the crypt?”
“No,” Barton was emphatic. “It wasn’t customary to leave valuables in crypts. This isn’t ancient Egypt, Major General.”
“Did you find any evidence that could lead us to the perpetrators? Anything that might suggest Palestinian involvement?” Teleksen persuaded.
It seemed they would never understand that—unlike many native Israelis—Barton wasn’t motivated by either religious or political allegiance. “As of yet, nothing obvious.”
“Isn’t there any way of tracking down this ossuary?” Teleksen was losing patience.
“Perhaps.” Barton regarded both men levelly, though Teleksen’s sour demeanor and cigarette smoke were eroding his patience. “I’ll be monitoring the antiquities markets closely. That’s the most likely place it’ll turn up.” He reached into his briefcase for another sheet of paper and pushed it toward Topol. “Here’s a basic drawing of what the ossuary probably looks like, along with the dimensions and approximate weight. I suggest you circulate this among your men, particularly at checkpoints. And here are pictures of the other ossuaries found in the crypt.”
Topol stowed them away.
“I think you might be missing a very important part of all this,” Barton added quietly.
Both commanders raised their eyes.
“A crypt beneath Temple Mount would reinforce the Zionist notion that a Jewish temple once stood above it. Perhaps you should share that information with the prime minister.” Barton was playing off the idea that every Israeli Jew—orthodox and secular alike—clung to the hope that one day solid archaeological evidence supporting Jewish exclusivity to Temple Mount would be discovered.
Teleksen shifted uneasily, the metal legs of his chair scraping against the floor.
“So don’t be too surprised if this investigation leads to a much larger discovery,” Barton added.
“Anything else?” Topol queried.
For a split second, he thought about divulging his discovery of the scroll now back inside its cylinder, safely secured in his pants pocket. “Not at this point.”
“I hardly need to remind you what’s at stake here,” Teleksen said firmly. “We’re teetering on the verge of a very unpleasant confrontation with Hamas and the Palestinian Authority. Plenty of people on their side are ready to use any excuse to accuse us of a terrorist act against Islam.”
Barton looked at them. “I’ll do all I can to find the ossuary.”
Teleksen took a final drag that burned the cigarette down to its filter. “If you find this box, notify us both immediately. You’ll have complete access to any necessary resources.” He tossed the butt onto the floor and stubbed it out with his right foot. “But please keep in mind that next time we meet, we’ll require more than just a lesson in archaeology.”
Both men stood and made their way out into the gallery.
Once he buzzed Rachel upstairs to confirm that they had left the building, Barton quickly closed the door and excitedly pulled out the cylinder. Uncapping it, he tapped the scroll out onto a clear area of his desk. From boxes on a nearby shelf, he retrieved a pair of latex gloves and a plastic Ziploc bag. Sitting at the desk, he swung the retractable arm of a desk lamp closer, then slipped on the gloves.
After delicately opening the vellum, he slid it face-up into the plastic bag, then gently ironed it flat with his hand. Neatly handwritten in a large font, Barton didn’t require a magnifying lens to make out the text. However, he confirmed that he was certainly going to need a translator, because Greek was not his strong point.
And as far as he was concerned, there was only one man in Jerusalem whom he considered an expert.
23
******
Vatican City
Charlotte Hennesey was still grappling with the notion that the ossuary’s skeletal remains suggested that the thirty-something male subject— otherwise in pristine health—exhibited multiple signs of trauma resulting from crucifixion.
She and Bersei were now preparing to establish further evidence reinforcing the subject’s identity, estimating date of death. Carbon dating would need to be performed on the bone, and the ossuary itself would need to be examined closely for any telling clues.
Standing in front of the ossuary, they examined its limestone shell. “I found some information about an ossuary similar to this discovered in Israel in 2002,” Bersei said. “On the basis of its inscriptions it was initially thought to have once contained James, the brother of Jesus. Though the ossuary itself was judged authentic, the inscriptions were determined a forgery. Reviewing the forensic analysis on that relic, I’ve got a pretty good understanding of what to look for here.”
“How did they know it was a forgery? What’s the difference between genuine carvings and fakes?”
“Occasionally it’s a leap of faith,” Bersei responded. “But it’s mainly the integrity of the patina that legitimizes inscriptions.”
“This stuff?” She pointed to a thin layer of muted gray-green sediment that evenly covered the stone.
“Yes—kind of like the greenish oxidation that occurs on copper. In the case of stone, moisture, sedimentary drip and airborne material builds up naturally over time to form a residue.”
“And the patina’s organic composition would indicate the type of environment where the ossuary would have been found?”
“Precisely.” He put on his reading glasses, peered down at a notepad and read from a list of notations. “Last night, I did some research about ossuaries and it seems that the practice of using them occurred mainly in Jerusalem during the first century BC, and didn’t last very long—only a century or two.” He glanced up at her. “Therefore, I’d expect that this limestone, like the James ossuary, was quarried during that period somewhere in Israel.” “Right, the patina’s mineral content should then be consistent with geological elements in that region,” she said. “But wait a second, Giovanni. Assuming this ossuary falls into that category, that would mean this is about two thousand years old.”
“Correct. And seeing as crucifixion was commonly practiced during that period, it appears that we’re on track.”
Hennesey peered closely at the patina. “So if the stone was tampered with, wouldn’t the patina be disrupted?”
“Correct again,” Bersei smiled.
“Is there any way to date the stone?”
He considered this for a second. “It’s possible,” he admitted, “but not very useful.”
“Why not?”
“We’re not really concerned with when the limestone was formed. The stone itself will be millions of years old. We’d be much more interested in when it was quarried. The patina and inscriptions are probably our best gauges determining its age.”
“Aha.” Charlotte pointed to the fused symbol of the dolphin and trident. “Think we’ll be able to determine what that means?”
“I’m fairly certain it’s a pagan symbol,” Bersei continued. “It’s funny, I know I’ve seen this somewhere before. First, let’s figure out if this patina’s legitimate.”
“While you finish analyzing the ossuary, I’ll work on preparing a bone sample for carbon dating.” She motioned across the room to the skeleton.
“Sounds good. By the way,” Bersei reached for his notepad and jotted something down. “Here’s the name and number of my contact at an AMS lab here in Rome.” He tore off a sheet. “Tell him I referred you. Say we’re doing work for the Vatican and need immediate results. That should get his attention. And request that he call back with the results straight away. The dating certificate can be sent later.”
Hennesey read it. “Antonio Ciardi
ni?”
“Pronounced Char-dini. Old friend of mine, plus he owes me a favor.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t worry, his English is pretty fluent.” Bersei glanced at his watch: a quarter after one. “Before you do that, how about taking a lunch break?”
“I’d love to. I’m starving.”
“The tuna sandwich didn’t appeal to you?”
“Not my idea of Italian cuisine.”
24
******
Jerusalem
Graham Barton turned off Souk El-Dabbagha in the Christian Quarter and stopped briefly to admire the magnificent facade built by twelfthcentury Crusaders that masked the original crumbling edifice of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 12
