“Seems so,” she said, flashing a smile. “I got the DNA profile from the lab.”
“And?”
“We have the missing information we need.”
Bersei watched over her shoulder as Charlotte brought up the web browser and accessed her e-mail account. Within seconds, she’d retrieved Aldrich’s data file, and opened it for Bersei to inspect—a dense spreadsheet of data. “Okay. Here it is.” She switched places with him.
He scrolled through the data. Three columns identified a universal code for each gene sequence, a layperson’s interpretation of the coding, such as “hair color,” and a numeric value specifying those attributes. In the case of hair color, a numeric value in the third column corresponded with a specific hue on a universal color chart.
“How does it look?”
“Incredibly specific. Looks like I can plug the data right into the program.”
She smiled to herself. Thank you, Evan.
Bersei opened the imaging software and located the file containing the skeletal scans and tissue reconstruction—the ghostly marble statue awaiting its final touches: the genetic “paint.” “For now, I’m going to go with the basics. The computer will fill in hair color, but not hair style, of course,” he explained as he formatted the data file for import.
Aldrich’s discovery of a mutation had prompted Charlotte to start thinking through a long list of possible diseases. Since most attacked the body’s soft tissues and didn’t affect the bones themselves—unlike the one raging inside her own bones that was determined to leave its mark—she couldn’t even begin to imagine what he could have detected. Her extraordinary desire to see the completed picture was now replaced by a sudden foreboding.
Bersei imported the genetic data and clicked to update the profile.
For a few agonizing seconds, it seemed like nothing was happening.
Then the enhanced reconstruction flashed back onto the monitor.
It wasn’t what either scientist expected.
40
******
Jerusalem
When Ari Teleksen’s cell phone rang, he already knew the purpose of the call. In the IDF’s downtown Jerusalem headquarters, he stood at the wide plate-glass window of his eighth-floor office with its panoramic view of the city. Just a few blocks away, his gray eyes were glued to the sickening plume of thick, black smoke that billowed up from street level like the devil’s breath. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said grimly.
Just last night, he had heard the first wave of news stories reporting
that the Temple Mount thieves had stolen an Israeli helicopter. With a growing sense of foreboding, Teleksen knew that the Palestinian response had just begun.
Without setting foot in the area, he retained an uncanny ability to foresee the aftermath of a bombing and the reverberations he had felt rattle his chest only minutes ago told him that there would be many casualties.
He hastily made his way down to the parking garage and jumped into the driver’s seat of his gold BMW. After turning on the ignition, he grabbed the magnetic blue police light from the floor and stuck it on the car’s roof. Peeling out of the parking garage, he jammed his foot down on the accelerator and rocketed down Hillel Street.
As his BMW approached the Great Synagogue, the chaotic scenes on King George Street looked all too familiar—the panicking crowds being held back by IDF soldiers and police, the site’s perimeter already cordoned off by wooden barricades. A fleet of ambulances had arrived, with emergency crews racing to tend to survivors.
Teleksen threaded the BMW through the mob, a young IDF soldier waving him forward, and parked a comfortable distance away. When he opened the car door, the air smelled of burned flesh.
Even at fifty meters he could see tattered chunks of bloody tissue and bone stuck to the walls of buildings adjacent to the scene, looking like wet confetti. The blast had stripped tree limbs and cast shrapnel, pockmarking the vicinity. Almost every window had been shattered.
At first glance structural damage seemed minimal. Compared with many other scenes he’d witnessed, this one was fairly low-level. But deep down, he knew many more would follow if the rising discontent stemming from the Temple Mount theft was not soon remedied.
One of the investigators recognized him and introduced himself. The man was in his fifties, with a mop of silver hair.
“Detective Aaron Schomberg.” He couldn’t help looking at Teleksen’s three-fingered left hand.
“What have you found out detective?” Teleksen lit up a Time Lite.
“Witnesses say a young Arab woman, dressed in plain clothes, ran into a crowd as they were leaving the synagogue and blew herself up.”
With Schomberg at his side, Teleksen walked toward the epicenter. He eyed the medical workers bagging human limbs and remnants too small for stretchers—the bomber’s ripped-apart remains, most likely.
“How many dead?” Cigarette smoke spun out of nostrils. “So far eleven with another fifty or so injured.”
He took another heavy drag. “No one saw her coming?”
“The bombs were strapped beneath her clothes. It happened too quickly.”
Ruing the time when terrorists had been easier to detect, Teleksen turned to Schomberg. “What did she say?”
The detective was confused. “Commander?”
“Sacrificial death is never without preamble.” Pinching the cigarette between the remaining fingers of his left hand, he pointed the lit end at the detective to emphasize the point. “Martyrs don’t give their lives in silence. Did anyone hear what she said before she detonated herself?”
Schomberg flipped through his notepad. “Something along the lines of ‘Allah will punish all those who threaten him.’ ”
“In Arabic or English?”
“English.”
They had reached the spot where witnesses told Schomberg the suicide bomber had positioned herself only a few meters from the synagogue’s entrance. At first, it seemed like an odd place for the bomber to detonate since the explosives were typically designed to be most effective in closed spaces, like buses or cafés. Studying the close proximity to the building’s ravaged cement façade that looked more like a bank than a place of worship, Teleksen quickly realized that it actually wasn’t a bad choice. He could see that the victims strewn across the steps had been corralled in, and the looming cement wall behind them had actually amplified the blast wave. So if the bullet-like shrapnel hadn’t killed them, the blast’s crushing shock wave would have done the job by pulverizing their internal organs and bones.
Teleksen’s cell phone rang, and he saw from the display it was Topol. He flicked the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk. “Yes?”
“How bad?” The policeman’s voice was urgent.
“I’ve seen worse. But all the more reason why we need to resolve this issue quickly. When can you get here?”
“I’m only a few blocks away.”
“Be quick.” Hanging up, Teleksen wondered how much more of this would happen before they came up with real answers for Friday’s theft.
The clutch of media vans momentarily distracted him. The Palestinian TV channel was particularly troublesome. Hatred and discontent required little stimulation. The pressure was really on.
Thirteen Israeli soldiers and two helicopter pilots killed. Now innocent Jewish civilians had died.
And for what? he wondered. The English archaeologist, supposedly the best in his field, insisted it was a relic. Teleksen knew ancient relics fetched huge prices—particularly those from the Holy Land. There was no telling what some people would do to realize them. But hijack helicopters? Kill soldiers? How could an ossuary possibly be worth that much? He had seen dozens of them in Israel’s museum galleries and they weren’t nearly as well hidden or protected. What could make this one so special? It made no sense.
His best intelligence people kept insisting that only an insider could’ve been capable of such an elaborate heist. Teleksen knew what they meant. To se
crete weapons into Jerusalem was like walking on water. One would need to be able to circumvent checkpoints, metal detectors, and myriad other logistical hurdles. Few could accomplish that.
Of course, the helicopter had proven to be a tremendous tactical weapon. Was its theft intended to mock Israel’s security system? Luckily, his agents had managed to prevent the Palestinians and the media from discovering the true fate of the Black Hawk. But knowing that beyond these borders many were unwilling to cooperate with Israeli intelligence, Teleksen was deeply troubled by the fact that the thieves had so quickly reached international waters. Because if the relic had been taken out to sea...
Something rubbery beneath his left foot interrupted his thoughts and he looked down. Lifting his shoe, he realized he had been standing on a human ear. Scowling, he stepped sideways.
Was there any way out of this? Barton was supposed to be coming up with answers, but only seemed interested in peddling wacky theories about ancient history. The archaeologist was proving to be a real problem.
Then an idea suddenly came to Teleksen, and he was sure Topol would approve of it. Far from being a liability, Barton might actually be the solution.
41
******
Vatican City
Both scientists stared in amazement at the screen.
The scanned skeletal frame had been calibrated to reconstruct muscle mass with a layer of colorless skin applied. Now this new data had transformed the statue-like image into a complete 3-D human apparition.
Astonished at the final result, Bersei’s hand was covering his mouth. “What would you say is his ethnic origin?”
Charlotte shrugged. It looked like maybe Aldrich had been correct after all. “I’m not sure he has one.” Her words sounded totally implausible.
Blending dark and light, the assigned skin pigmentation added an eerily lifelike quality, defining muscles and highlighting features.
Giovanni zoomed in on the face.
Though unmistakably masculine, the image exuded a subtle androgyny. With their hypnotic aquamarine irises, the eyes were wide, tapering slightly upwards in the corners beneath slender eyebrows. The long nose broadened slightly above full, mocha-colored lips. Blackish-brown wisps formed a thick hairline that pinched in hard corners at the temples. The facial hair was similarly colored and thick, mostly evident along the angular jaw line.
“Quite a handsome specimen,” Bersei said in a very clinical tone.
“I’d say he’s perfect,” Charlotte replied. “I don’t mean in a male model or movie star sort of way...but he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever seen.” Looking for anything anomalous, nothing about the image suggested a genetic defect, unless perfection was considered a flaw. Now she wondered what Aldrich’s analysis had actually detected. Could the prototype scanner have malfunctioned? Had the imaging software misinterpreted the data?
Tilting his head sideways, Bersei said, “If you took all the typical ethnic characteristics of humanity and put them in a blender, this would probably be the end result.” Face tight, he held his hand out at the computer, still overwhelmed by what he was seeing. “It’s absolutely fascinating that any one human being could display such complexity.”
“Now what?”
Bersei looked haunted, as if the image was almost torturing him. “I’m really not sure.” Tearing his eyes from the monitor, he glanced up at her with tired eyes. “We’ve performed a full forensic examination”—he began counting off with his fingers—“carbon dating, a complete genetic profile. The only major item left is the symbol on the ossuary.”
“Well, if you want to look into that,” Charlotte suggested, “I can begin preparing our preliminary presentation for Father Donovan. I’ll compile all the data, the photos, and start writing a report. Then maybe tomorrow we can tell him what we’ve found so far. See what he recommends.”
“That sounds like a plan. Who knows, maybe that symbol has something to tell us about this guy.”
Bersei returned to his workstation and turned on the digital camera. Humming softly to himself, he proceeded to snap several close-ups of the ossuary’s single relief, uploading the images onto the computer terminal.
Marveling at the quality of the engraver’s work, he ran his finger over the raised symbol carved onto the ossuary’s side:
From the onset, this image had perplexed him. The ossuary was clearly used almost exclusively by Jews in ancient Judea. Yet he remembered both the dolphin and the trident as being primarily pagan symbols, adopted by many early Roman cults. It was clearly in contradiction to the relic’s supposed origin.
Back at the computer, he brought up the web browser. He began with simple search criteria: trident. Almost instantly, a flood of hits came back at him. He began clicking through the most relevant ones.
The trident itself had many meanings. Hindus called it the trishul, or “the sacred three,” symbolizing creation, preservation, and destruction. In the Middle East, it was associated with lightning. Its alter ego, the pitchfork, later found its way into Christian art to symbolize the devil—an early attempt at discrediting pagan imagery.
Singularly, the dolphin was equally mysterious. In ancient times, the intelligent mammals were revered for their devotion to saving the lives of shipwrecked sailors. Romans also used dolphins to signify the journey souls would take far to the ends of the sea to their final resting place on the Blessed Isles. The dolphin was also strongly associated with the gods Eros, Aphrodite, and Apollo.
But certainly, the symbol engraved into the ossuary fused the two for a more purposeful meaning. But what could it be?
Bersei tried to find more references that could explain the dolphin twined around the trident.
The dolphin and trident seemed to first appear together in Greek mythology, both symbolizing the power of Neptune, the sea god. His trident was a gift from the one-eyed titans, the Cyclops. When the god was angered, he’d pound the ocean floor with it to stir the oceans, causing storms. Able to morph into other creatures, Neptune frequently chose to appear to humans in the form of a dolphin. The Romans later renamed the Greek sea god Poseidon.
Bersei was certain there had to be more that he was missing.
Another hit came back, linking to ancient coins minted by Pompey, a Roman general in the mid-first century BC. On the front of the silver coin was an effigy of the general’s laurelled head flanked on both sides by a dolphin and a trident—not blended together, but certainly depicted side by side. And Bersei recalled that early in Pompey’s career, he had invaded Jerusalem.
He leaned forward.
Following his siege of Jerusalem in 64 BC, he had ordered the crucifixion of thousands of Jewish zealots—all in a single day. It was said that so many crucifixes were needed, that the general had stripped away every tree from the city’s surrounding mountains.
Crucifixion. Jerusalem.
Could this be the connection? Could the ossuary be linked to the notorious Roman general?
Considering this for a long moment, Bersei still wasn’t satisfied. He still vaguely recalled seeing this exact depiction somewhere else. And somehow, he strongly believed it was linked to Rome.
The hunt continued.
Using various search phrases, like “dolphin around trident,” he finally found a clear hit. Clicking the link, he was astounded when the exact image on the ossuary filled the screen.
A smile broke across the anthropologist’s face. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he muttered.
Scrolling down, he read the text that accompanied the image.
The words hit him like a stone. He read it again, dumbfounded, his entire world caught in the screen’s contours. “Charlotte,” he called out. “You have to see this.” He slumped back into his chair, covering his mouth with his hand in disbelief.
Two seconds later, she was at his side. His face drained, the Italian pointed at the computer screen.
“What is it?”
“The meaning behind the relief on the ossuary.” Bersei’s v
oice was quiet as he pointed again to the monitor.
Seeing his bewildered expression, she scrunched her face and said, “Looks like it did have something to say after all.”
“I’d say so,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Leaning closer, Charlotte read the text aloud: “Adopted by early Christians, the dolphin intertwined around the trident is a portrayal of...” she paused.
The low drone of the ventilation system became suddenly pronounced.
“. . . Christ’s crucifixion.” Her voice trembled as she uttered the words, which seemed to hang in the air like vapor.
It took Charlotte a moment until the full impact hit her. “Oh my God.” A vice tightened in her stomach and she had to look away.
“I should have known.” Bersei’s strained voice sounded tormented, weak. “The dolphin shuttles spirits to the afterlife. The trident, the sacred three, representing the Trinity.”
Sacred Bones : A Novel Page 21
