Donovan raised his head, eyes gleaming. “Certainly....We can go there now if you’d like.”
Martin offered a reassuring smile. “Bless you, Father.”
70
SUNDAY
******
Jerusalem
Graham Barton had never been so glad to see the dusty streets of Jerusalem. He drew a deep, invigorating breath, savoring the familiar smell of cypress and eucalyptus. It was a lovely morning. He grinned when he saw Razak standing at the bottom of the steps of the police station and his smile grew even wider when he saw that Jenny was standing beside him.
She ran up and threw her arms around him. He could feel her tears as she kissed him.
“I’ve been so worried about you.”
“All I’ve been doing is thinking about you. Thank you for coming.”
She smiled. “I’ll always be there for you, you know that.”
“I’ve heard that in Jerusalem, being framed happens often.” Razak embraced Barton. “But justice has a way of finding the guilty.”
“It certainly does. Speaking of which,” Barton said, confused, “how did you manage this? What convinced the Israelis it wasn’t me?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Razak replied. “I brought a gift for you.” He held out a thick envelope that looked like it contained a large book.
“What’s this?”
“A copy of one of the exhibits presented as evidence in your defense,” Razak answered cryptically.
Barton accepted the package.
“There’s a lot of history inside that envelope,” Razak promised. “You should read it. It says many interesting things.”
71
******
Farouq sat on his veranda, overlooking the red-tiled roofs and weathered facades of the Old City’s Muslim Quarter. It was an unusually mild day, with a flawless sky and a gentle breeze fragrant with the scent of palm.
He felt good. Better than he had felt in a long time, in fact. Israel was once again teetering on the verge of violent confrontation, the struggle for Palestinian liberation was alive and well, and the faith of all—the vital fire required to keep the conflict burning—was strong. Smiling, he sipped his mint tea. In the distance, he could hear the crowds near Temple Mount, though today, the tone seemed to carry a different air, sounding almost... celebratory?
Inside the apartment, the phone chimed.
Farouq levered himself out of his chair and went inside to get it.
“ As-salaam.”
“Sir,” Akbar’s voice was shaky. “Have you heard the news?” “No, I have not. What are you so worried about?”
“Please. Turn on your television . . . CNN. Then call me to let me
know what to do.”
There was a click and the line went dead.
Alarmed, Farouq grabbed the remote and turned to CNN. Two commentators were on split-screen—an anchorman sitting behind a news desk, and an attractive blond woman standing against the backdrop of the Temple Mount. On the bottom of the screen, a text box read: “Live from Jerusalem.”
Crossing his arms, Farouq remained standing as he listened in. Farouq’s face sagged. Relics? Informant? The anchorman turned to the camera.
“I’m sure this is causing quite a stir in Jerusalem,” the male reporter stated in a serious tone. “Taylor, how are local officials reacting to this news?”
There was a slight delay as the satellite feed bounced the question from New York to Jerusalem.
“Well, Ed, as it stands,” the female reporter replied mechanically, “we’re still awaiting a formal statement from the Israeli government. So far, we’ve only been hearing reports through local news stations.”
“And has this anonymous informant been identified?”
A longer delay.
“As of now, no,” she replied, cupping her earpiece. “And that seems to be causing just as much excitement as the relics themselves.”
“If you’re just tuning in, we’re live with a breaking story coming out of Jerusalem, where late this morning, Israeli officials recovered a key item linked to last Friday’s violent exchange that took place at the Temple Mount, leaving thirteen Israeli soldiers dead ...and until now, many unanswered questions. Taylor, this book that’s been given anonymously to the Israeli police...is it certain it’s authentic?”
It can’t be, Farouq tried to convince himself. Knees suddenly weak, he slumped into an armchair.
“We’ve been told that the archaeologists working with the IAA—the Israeli Antiquities Authority—have analyzed this ancient manuscript and that based on carbon dating studies, yes, they are convinced the document is real. They have invited outside scientists to see the evidence, leading many to believe that the claim is valid.”
“Have you been told what the book says?”
The transmission sputtered for a split second.
“We haven’t been told yet,” she replied, shaking her head, “But the
IAA will be holding a press conference tomorrow afternoon to release complete details. Sources close to the investigation suggest that the book contains compelling historical accounts of the Jewish temple that was situated on the Temple Mount in the first century. Equally astounding, the book is said to contain shocking facts about the life and death of Jesus Christ.”
“Shocking indeed.” The reporter’s face intensified and his shoulders became even more rigid.
“As you can imagine”—her brow creased tightly—“this is all nothing short of astounding. Jews here are celebrating in the streets... Muslims are not at all pleased. And certainly, the Christians we’ve spoken to are anxious to learn more. The Temple Mount has long been the center of an ongoing religious rivalry between the three faiths...”
Feeling as if the world were crashing down around him, Farouq alJamir stared at the screen. He tried to postulate how the original manuscript could have found its way back to Jerusalem...and so suddenly. Certainly, the Vatican wouldn’t have offered it up, knowing full well the nasty consequences. Surely, Razak had given the Vatican envoy the original text in Rome, not a copy. Or had he? Could there possibly have been a second book? The odds seemed highly unlikely.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
No visitors were expected that morning. Scowling, the old man made his way back inside just as the bell rang again. “I’m coming!” he yelled impatiently.
Opening the front door, he was surprised to find a yellow DHL delivery van parked out front, the Palestinian driver standing on the stoop in uniform, the white cords of an iPod dangling from his ears. He was holding a chunky rectangular device. Farouq frowned when he saw that the young man was wearing shorts.
“You should dress in proper clothing,” Farouq grumbled. “Do you have no shame?”
The deliveryman shrugged. “You have a package.”
The Keeper’s face showed his puzzlement. He wasn’t expecting anything. “And what might it be?”
“How would I know?” the young man replied. “If you’ll just sign here, I’ll unload it.” He held out the electronic package-tracking module, pointed to an illuminated touch screen signature box, and handed him a plastic stylus. Farouq signed.
“It’s large. Heavy, too. Where would you like me to put it?”
Feeling more anxious, Farouq began stroking his beard—an old habit from his days as a soldier. “In the garage.” He pointed to it. “I’ll open the door.”
Inside, Farouq pushed the garage door button, and groaned as he squeezed past his wrecked Mercedes. The only nearby body shop that was any good was owned by a Jew who, given the current state of affairs, had refused the job. Now the mess would have to sit here until Farouq could find someone who could do the work. Standing with his arms crossed, he pouted as the door slowly rolled back on creaking hardware.
The driver was waiting on the other side with the delivery.
The moment his eyes landed on the crate, the creases in his wooden face smoothed out. He stepped outside and looked both ways
down the narrow street.
The driver lowered the crate onto the cement floor of the garage, rolled the handtruck back to the van, stowed it, and drove away.
Farouq eyed the shipping label. The package had come from Rome and the return address was a P.O. Box. The sender’s name was a Daniel Marrone.
The Keeper suddenly felt light-headed.
It took Farouq ten minutes to gather the courage to open the crate. And once he started, it hadn’t been easy. With the cover off, the box had been filled with bubble wrap. Stripping it all away, his fingers detected the cold touch of stone. A sinking feeling came over him—a profound sense of loss and failure. First the book. Now this? Pulling away the last layer of bubble wrap, he stared vacantly at the beautiful etchings on the ossuary’s fractured lid. He immediately recognized the design since he’d seen it in the Ephemeris Conlusio.
Without warning, figures suddenly materialized in the garage opening.
“Stay right there,” a voice commanded in Arabic.
Farouq stood bolt upright to see four men, each with a gun targeting his chest. They wore plain clothes and bulletproof vests, but he immediately knew who had sent them. Shin Bet agents. Ghosts from his past. “What is this?” he demanded.
Ari Teleksen appeared round the corner, his saggy jowls raised on both sides by a sardonic smile. A cigarette dangled between his stern lips. He exhaled a plume of smoke, knowing it would offend the Muslim. “Farouq alJamir,” Teleksen’s haunting baritone filled the garage. “Thought I’d bring you the owner’s manual for your delivery. You seem to have left it in your office.” Gripped between the three fingers of his disfigured hand, he held up a plastic-covered ream. “If you’d like to see the original, maybe I can talk to my friends at the Israeli Antiquities Authority.”
Farouq immediately recognized the photocopy of the Ephemeris Conlusio.
“Just like old times, eh?” Teleksen was grinning now. “Ready to go for a ride?”
For the first time in a long while, Farouq felt afraid. Very afraid.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With deep gratitude, I’d like to thank those who inspired me and provided me with a bottomless well of emotional support and technical expertise:
To my beautiful wife Caroline for her patience and encouragement, and to my loving daughters, Vivian and Camille, for their daily reminders that family is the most precious gift of all.
To all my friends and family—you know who you are!—who have endured my incessant ramblings and provided the stimulating debates that balanced my thoughts and kept my feet on the ground.
To my literary agents and friends across the pond, Charlie Viney and Ivan Mulcahy, who believed in me and helped me realize my full potential—Jonathan Conway too!
To the progressive Judith Regan—thanks for taking a chance with me! To an amazing editor named Doug Grad whose incredible grasp on his craft is only surpassed by his wit ...and Alison Stoltzfus who adds even more talent to a winning team.
Finally, to the remarkable body of research that sits on bookshelves, plays in VCRs and DVDs, and floats around cyberspace for all to experience. Explore!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL BYRNES attended Montclair State University in Montclair, New Jersey, and earned his graduate degree in business administration at Rutgers. The Sacred Bones—his first novel—is a labor of love born from his fascination with theology, science, and the human condition. Byrnes lives in New Jersey with his wife, Caroline, and daughters, Vivian and Camille.
www.thesacredbones.com
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE SACRED BONES . Copyright © 2007 by Michael Byrnes.
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