Sacred Bones : A Novel

by Michael Byrnes

Farouq hung up.

  Emanating from the network of loudspeakers across the Haram eshSharif esplanade, he heard the call of the muezzin. It was time for midday prayer.

  The Keeper eased himself onto his knees, faced south toward Mecca and began his recitation.

  34

  ******

  Vatican City

  Standing to get a better look at what Charlotte had found, Bersei could see that nestled in a carved niche at the very bottom of the ossuary was something that resembled a metal test tube.

  Above the white fabric of their masks, the two scientists exchanged looks.

  “I’ve just about had all I can take right now,” Giovanni motioned to the cylinder. “You do the honors.”

  Charlotte reached down as if into a black hole. Her fingers closed around smooth metal. Slowly, and with infinite care, she withdrew it from the ossuary.

  Turning her hand over, she rolled the tarnished tubular casing along her latex covered palm—a stark contrast of old and new. Both ends were sealed by round metal caps. There were no distinguishing marks or inscriptions.

  “A container of some kind?” She inspected each end in turn. Her eyes were on him, searching for an explanation, but Bersei could not speak. “Giovanni, I think you should open this.”

  He waved her away.

  Charlotte rotated it. The metal looked similar to the coins. Was it bronze? “Okay. Here goes.” She held the cylinder over an empty section of the tray. Clenching her teeth, she took hold of the cap sealing one end, applied equal pressure in the opposite direction and twisted. At first it didn’t budge. But an instant later, a muffled cracking sound indicated the wax seal had broken.

  The cap came free.

  Fellow conspirators, the two scientists gazed at one another. Tilting the cylinder closer to the light, she glimpsed something rolled up inside.

  “What do you see?” Bersei’s voice was hoarse with tension.

  “It looks like a scroll.”

  He balled his hand into a fist, pressing it against his chin. “Handle that extremely carefully.” His voice was loud. “It’s probably very brittle.” First the coins, now this, he thought. It was getting to be overwhelming.

  Gently tapping the unopened end of the cylinder, Charlotte coaxed the scroll from the tube. Sticking at first, it slid out suddenly, landing on the tray with a small thump. They both froze. “Shit! I didn’t think that would happen so easily.”

  Bersei reached out and gingerly rolled it back and forth with his index finger, assessing the damage. “No harm done.” He exhaled heavily. “Looks like it’s in excellent condition.”

  “Is that parchment?”

  Bersei studied it. “Most likely calfskin.”

  “Have you ever handled ancient documents?”

  “Personally, no,” he admitted.

  “We can’t just unfurl it, can we?”

  “We’d have to research that. It looks remarkably well preserved, but of course it will be frail. There will be strict procedures. We can’t risk any damage.” He was trying to imagine what it might reveal. “Don’t you think there’s just too much evidence here?” His expression hardened.

  “Perhaps. But I’ve got some really interesting news for you.” Charlotte had his complete attention.

  “The radiocarbon dating results?”

  She nodded. “That bone sample I submitted to Ciardini.” He studied her face intently. “What did he find?”

  “Ready for this? The sample was so good that it’s 98.7% certain the bones date from between 5 and 71 AD.”

  Uncertainty was growing in Bersei’s eyes again. That narrow time range was almost incredible. With his left hand, he massaged a cramp that was setting into the base of his neck. Stress. “This is compelling news.”

  “And the wood splinter—which, by the way, is from a type of walnut tree indigenous to a region in Israel. There’s an 89.6% degree of certainty it dates from between 18 and 34 AD.”

  Bersei’s eyes jumped over to the skeleton as if it had suddenly come to life. “When do you think you’ll have the results of the genetic analysis?”

  “We might have it tomorrow.”

  He stared down at the rolled calfskin. “Good. Let’s go ahead and document all this,” he suggested.

  Charlotte got the digital camera, turned it on and started snapping shots of the ossuary’s interior.

  Locked in thought, Bersei knew that something about all this felt very wrong. No wonder Father Donovan had wanted to call in leading scientific expertise. The priest had to know more than he was letting on. After Charlotte captured an image of the rolled scroll, Bersei carefully returned it to its metal housing, and sealed the cap.

  35

  ******

  Erez Crossing, Israel

  An hour southwest of Jerusalem, the lush farmlands of Israel’s transformed desert began to fade back into arid landscape as Razak drove down Highway 4 toward the Gaza border.

  “Have you ever been on that side of the fence?” Barton motioned with his eyes through the distant tall posts and steel wiring of the separation fence that ran along the Gaza Strip’s fifty-one kilometer border, cutting away the tiny sliver of land from Israel’s southern coast.

  “Only once,” Razak replied in a dreary tone. He did not elaborate.

  A sour taste came into the back of Barton’s throat. Seeing as he’d be only one of a handful of Europeans in the tiny place inhabited by almost 1.3 million Palestinians, he would have preferred a more reassuring response from Razak—especially since Westerners were prime targets for abduction by Islamic militants, like the El-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade.

  Up ahead, the roadway was snarled for almost three kilometers with idling vehicles—taxis, cars, and vans awaiting clearance through the Erez Crossing. Pulled off to the side of the road, many had already overheated. With no cover in sight, the scorching sun beat down unforgivingly on the stranded motorists.

  Even with the windows up, the sounds of crying children and the choking stench of exhaust fumes permeated the Mercedes’s airconditioned interior.

  “Who exactly is this contact we’re meeting?” Barton asked. “An old school friend of mine. A man who shares many of my concerns for the future of the Middle East,” Razak explained. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to request that you let me do all the talking.”

  “Agreed.”

  It took almost two hours until they reached the expansive metal canopy resembling a doorless hangar that shielded the IDF border patrol guards from the sun. Cement barricades and barbed wire lined the road. Tanks and armored vehicles were positioned on both sides of the gate.

  Razak turned to Barton. “Do you still have that letter the Israeli police gave you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good. I have a feeling we may need it.” Razak tried his best to disregard an Arab taxi driver who was being interrogated by a gang of IDF soldiers on the exiting side of the roadway. A pair of German shepherds sniffed the car for explosives. He remembered hearing that the Israelis were particularly suspicious of lone drivers coming out of the Gaza Strip, many of whom had been suicide bombers.

  Finally the IDF soldiers, wearing full combat gear, waved Razak forward, making no effort to point their rifle muzzles down. Surveillance cameras were mounted high up on the steel beams that supported the shelter, glaring down. A scrawny young Israeli soldier stepped forward. “Open your rear compartment and let me see your papers,” he stated in rough Arabic, taking a moment to admire the Mercedes’s smooth lines.

  Razak pushed the trunk release button and handed over their passports to the guard.

  Two soldiers paced along either side of the car, running mirrors under the chassis, eyed the interior, and made their way to the rear to inspect the trunk.

  The guard crouched slightly to get a look at Barton. He shook his head. “Not from here, I see.” Grimacing, he shifted his gaze back to Razak and said, “You must be crazy going in there, especially now. This car. Him.” He made a smug face as he eyed Barto
n. “What’s your business?”

  The trunk slammed shut, making the Englishman jump.

  Presenting Barton’s letter, Razak explained that the Israeli police had commissioned them to aid in the Temple Mount investigation. The guard seemed satisfied.

  “Go, but be careful in there,” he warned. “Past this gate, you’re on your own.”

  Razak nodded seriously, then pulled ahead. Letting out a prolonged sigh of relief, he maneuvered the Mercedes through more cement barricades positioned below a concrete guard tower.

  Fifteen minutes later, heading south down the region’s main highway, Gaza City’s unimpressive skyline came into view. The concentration of buildings tightened as Razak drove mindfully through the crowded downtown streets where the bombed-out facades of some structures still lay in ruin. Lasting reminders of Israel’s frequent rocket attacks.

  For a long while, both men remained quiet, each taking in the bleakness of it all.

  “This is awful,” Barton finally said.

  “Over a million people packed into a tiny parcel of land.” Razak’s tone was grim. “Horrible sanitary conditions, political instability, a devastated economy...”

  “The perfect recipe for discontent.”

  Parking along the curb, Razak paid a Palestinian boy with a round face forty Israeli shekels to watch the car. The streets were mobbed. The hot, lifeless air smelled of sewage.

  Getting out of the car, Barton tried to avoid eye contact with the curious Palestinians who passed by.

  “We’ll be meeting him over there,” Razak said, motioning subtly with his eyes to a tiny outdoor café situated on the busy street corner in the shadow of a formidable mosque whose minaret stabbed defiantly into the blue sky. “Let’s go.”

  The contact—a Palestinian with a sturdy frame and a bearded, smooth face—was already seated at a table, sipping mint tea from a clear glass. He called over to Razak.

  Smiling, Razak greeted the man with a blessing and a handshake, then introduced the man to Barton by his first name—Taheem.

  Barton smiled and extended a hand in greeting. He couldn’t help but notice that the forty-something contact was well dressed in a neatly pressed linen suit—a sharp contrast to the majority of Palestinians here who donned traditional Islamic dress. Many of the women even wore the burka that covered them from head to toe.

  Taheem’s grin noticeably faded as he looked around before reciprocating the gesture. “Please, sit.”

  “Will it be all right if we speak in English?” Razak asked.

  Bouncing his stern gaze off Barton once again, Taheem hesitated. “Of course.”

  “So tell me, my friend. How are things here?”

  Shaking his head, Taheem rolled his eyes. “You’d think the Israeli pullout would have helped matters. Far from it. The parliament is overrun by fundamentalists looking to formally wage war on Israel. Funding from the UN and the West has dried up. And now, with this incident in Jerusalem...” His eyes shifted somewhere off in the distance.

  “I know it must be difficult.”

  “I’m just happy that I have no family here,” Taheem added. “And you? How are things? As good as that fancy car you drive?” He motioned with his head down the street about thirty meters away where the young boy was urging some pedestrians away from the Mercedes.

  Razak grinned. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Glad to hear that.” He called for the waiter to bring two more teas.

  “As you might imagine,” Razak said in a hushed tone, “I’m anxious to know what you’ve heard about the theft.”

  Taheem eyed Barton once again.

  “It’s okay,” Razak reassured him. “Graham is not an Israeli. He’s looking to help us.”

  Taheem paused while the waiter set down the two glasses for Razak and Barton, waiting until he was out of sight to continue. “You know about the helicopter, I presume?”

  “Yes,” Razak said. “The Israelis are still trying to find it.”

  He looked surprised. “Then you don’t know.”

  Confused, Razak’s face scrunched up.

  “They’ve already found it,” Taheem added.

  “What?”

  Sipping his tea, Barton listened in silent astonishment, trying to ignore a series of bullet holes that ran a neat line across the café’s cinderblock façade.

  “I heard that a Palestinian fisherman caught some things in his nets three days ago, a few kilometers off the coast. Pieces from a helicopter— seat cushions, flotation vests...and the head of a dead pilot wearing an Israeli flight helmet.”

  Shocked, Razak was speechless. “How can it be that no one knows this?” At a minimum, he was sure that Al-Jazeera would have taken a shot at the story—facts or no facts.

  Taheem scanned the area before answering. “Rumor has it that the Shin Bet killed the fisherman before he spoke to the media. But not before he had told his brother—a dear friend of mine who will remain nameless, for obvious reasons.”

  “But why was the helicopter in pieces?”

  “The night of the theft, many heard it flying low over the rooftops and watched it go out over the sea. Minutes later, some even had a chance to see what looked like an explosion out over the horizon.”

  Suddenly feeling helpless, Razak knew that Taheem’s story confirmed his lingering fear that both the ossuary and the helicopter were long gone. He exchanged an uneasy glance with Barton.

  “There’s more,” Taheem said. “As you know, when the Israelis pulled out of Gaza, they had given the Palestinian Authority control over the southern border crossing into Egypt. Since then, many weapons and explosives have flooded into Gaza. Many have found their way over the fence.”

  Razak was confused. “I thought the fences were equipped with sensors and electrical charges that could detonate explosives?” Effective deterrents that had largely thwarted most suicide bombers from getting into Israel, he remembered.

  “Let me explain.”

  Barton could see that Taheem was beginning to sweat more. “Not long before the theft in Jerusalem took place, a helicopter was flying along the border fence.” Pointing west, the Palestinian subtly traced the air with his finger, out over the city. “A routine occurrence,” Taheem admitted. “However, some say that it hovered for a few minutes, just over the fence...into Gaza. A bold move for an Israeli helicopter, one might think, since such an easy target might attract a rocket-propelled grenade.” His voice cracked and he took a sip of tea. Clearing his throat, he continued. “Anyway, I was told that some cargo was hoisted up from the ground and loaded onto the helicopter.”

  A look of alarm widened Razak’s eyes. Of course! The only way to circumvent the checkpoints was to avoid them all together.

  Taheem leaned in closer. “I was also told that someone inside Jerusalem coordinated the whole thing.”

  “But—”

  Before the words escaped Razak’s mouth, Taheem’s face suddenly exploded outward, spewing blood and fleshy chunks onto the wall, instantly followed by something ricocheting off the wall. Instinctively, Razak catapulted out of his chair and onto the ground, pulling Barton out of the chair and down beside him as Taheem’s lifeless torso teetered forward and landed hard on the tabletop.

  A few nearby pedestrians screamed and scurried away.

  “Jesus!” Barton yelled, shaking in fear. “What on earth was that!”

  The silent shot had been so precise, Razak knew instantly. “Sniper.”

  A second round hammered into the thick wooden tabletop, barely piercing through just above Razak’s head. Both he and Barton flinched. A third snapped off the pavement in front of them, almost grazing Barton’s arm.

  “We’ve got to get out of here right now.” Razak’s head spun down the street toward the car. “We’re going to have to make a run for it.”

  Barton’s breathing was heavy, sweat dripping from his chin. He nodded. “Okay.”

  Scrambling to remove the car key from his pocket, Razak said, “We’ll split up
and meet at the car. Run fast and low through the crowd.” He pointed along the sidewalk where most of the pedestrians had yet to figure out that shots had been fired. “I’m heading for the opposite side. It’s our only chance. Go!”

  Both men sprung out from beneath the table, racing off in opposite directions. Razak barely missed being run down by a dilapidated Ford hatchback as he darted across the street.

  Barton did his best to avoid running into the pedestrians, feeling remorseful as he strategically kept them in the sniper’s line of fire. Fully anticipating being taken down by the gunman, he was surprised when he came nearer to the Mercedes without registering another shot. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Razak cutting swiftly through the throngs across the street.