Temple: The Prophecy of the Hidden Treasure (Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries Book 7)

by Bill Thompson

  Over the past few days there had been rioting in parts of Jerusalem and things had escalated when the vice president set foot on Israeli soil. Arab demonstrators, furious that the American embassy now occupied a plot of land claimed by the Palestinians, chanted and threw rocks at Case's motorcade. There had been dozens of arrests, and Brian and Nicole occasionally felt uneasy outside the hotel, although they didn't let the situation ruin their adventure. Things happened in Israel now and then. It didn't mean you should stay at home. It simply meant you should be careful.

  "I'm glad the president ordered the relocation," Case continued. "It's been a law for twenty years, but until now no chief executive wanted to open what was going to be a huge can of worms. Despite what good friends he and the prime minister are, and despite how strongly Israel has urged every president since Bill Clinton to move it, it was a bold and risky step. The Arabs are furious. Everyone knew they would be, but my trip here is intended to show that America is Israel's ally, period."

  The last time they'd seen Don in person was at their wedding in the East Room of the White House last year. The president had served as best man, just as Brian had done long ago when Harry and Jennifer, his first lady, were married. They reminisced about the unsettling time when they all worked together against Chambliss Parkes, the former speaker of the house who was now on death row in Indiana. Case had been director of the CIA while Parkes had briefly led the nation before being sentenced to death for treason. After a harrowing set of events, Don had been instrumental in the dramatic return of Harry Harrison to the presidency, and Harry had chosen him as his running mate.

  Their conversation turned to the increasing violence in the Middle East following yesterday's announcement that the United States was focusing its efforts on taking out Syria's most deadly terrorist organization, a coalition called Tahrir al-Sham. Known in the West as the Levant Liberation Committee or al Qaeda in Syria, its ruthless leader was a young man known as Tariq the Hawk, who was on Interpol's most wanted list. Tariq had played a key role in the Chambliss Parkes affair, and he harbored intense hatred for President Harrison and the American people.

  "Frankly, I didn't agree that we should reveal our plans to wipe out the Syrian terrorists," Case explained, "but I totally agree that Tariq has to be eliminated. He's head of the deadliest group on earth and holed up in the most unstable country in the region. Prime Minister Lukin's very concerned about how Syria will respond. At the very least, it's a challenge – a threat. At worst, they could consider it an act of war. With Syria next door and itching for a fight, Israel's leaders should be worried. And so should we, although that can't stop us from helping our friends and battling killers like Tariq."

  Brian eased the subject into something lighter. "Are you heading back on Wednesday?" he asked, knowing from this morning's news that the vice president was scheduled to dine with Israel's prime minister and his wife tomorrow night.

  "We'll leave right after the state dinner, actually. Tonight I'm having dinner with Ambassador Sheller at the embassy. Tomorrow I'll be in Tel Aviv, meeting with government officials and doing an industry tour. Then it's back here for dinner and we'll take off after that, around 10:30 p.m. I'll be back in DC the next morning."

  "You're staying at the American Colony Hotel, right?"

  Case nodded.

  "I was supposed to be at an auction there tomorrow afternoon. Thanks to you, now it's moved down the street. I can't imagine how tight the security will be in that place with both you and the prime minister there at the same time."

  After an hour and with profuse apologies for rushing away, Don Case left for his dinner at the embassy. Brian and Nicole would never see him again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Next Evening

  One single item – a chalice – stood on a table at the front of the room. It literally radiated brilliance, glistening as the light reflected off its golden veneer. The auction catalog described it as "a wedding cup of Cana." Three of them had been uncovered near the site where Jesus was believed to have performed His first miracle, changing water into wine at a marriage feast. It was in perfect condition – there wasn't a scratch or a dent anywhere on the twelve-inch-high goblet. It might not have been touched by Jesus Himself, but it was nevertheless significant and very rare. Only because there were two more, each equally pristine, was it allowed to be put up for auction by its discoverer, who had been awarded the relic as his reward. Forty people sat in the petite salon of Jerusalem's Olive Tree Hotel and observed the battle for the last item – the most prized piece of the event.

  The auctioneer announced, "Three twenty-five. I have three twenty-five. Do I hear three fifty?"

  Like a back-and-forth tennis match, every head in the room moved to the right as a paddle rose into the air and quickly dropped.

  The auctioneer acknowledged the bid with a nod. "Three fifty. I have three fifty. Now three seventy-five?"

  All eyes shifted to the left. There was no reaction from the man on the other side of the room.

  "Mr. Malouf, the bid is three fifty. Do I hear three seventy-five?"

  The man sat impassively for a moment before raising his paddle. "Four fifty," he said in heavily accented English. There were gasps from the spectators. The auction estimate had been two hundred thousand dollars, but the bidders had sailed past that mark several minutes earlier. Where there had once been five contenders, now there were only two.

  Brian Sadler stared stonily into space, his face devoid of emotion. Damn, he had wanted that piece and he had come here intending to have it.

  "Four fifty to you, Mr. Sadler. Will you bid four seventy-five?"

  Thirty seconds went by. Then fifteen more. There wasn't a sound in the room.

  The auctioneer had no desire to rush the bidder, but in fairness to everyone, it was time for a decision. "Mr. Sadler, will there be another bid?"

  He shook his head. "No." There was enthusiastic applause from the assemblage as the winner exhaled in satisfaction. He gave Brian a brief wave and got a nod in return.

  "Mr. Malouf, you are the winner at four hundred fifty thousand dollars. Congratulations. That concludes today's auction, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming and thank you to all our bidders."

  As Abdel Malouf walked to the front of the room to complete the paperwork for his purchase, Brian was approached by an attractive woman in her twenties. "Mr. Sadler," she said, "I'm Miriam Rosen with the Post. Could I have a moment?"

  The last thing Brian wanted right now was to subject himself to a reporter's questions, but this was part of the game. Win or lose, the public deserved to know the thoughts and emotions of people who could offer a fortune for an artifact, only to see it go to someone else when the gavel fell for the final time. He'd done these interviews a hundred times since becoming owner of Bijan Rarities, often as winner but sometimes, like today, on the losing side. Brian's attendance at auctions always piqued the public interest, given his notoriety and his close personal relationship with Harry Harrison, the president of the United States.

  "I need a word with my colleague first," he told her. "I'll be back in a moment."

  Malouf was seated at a small table, reviewing the sale document with a representative of the auction house. He stood as Brian approached and offered his hand.

  "Congratulations," Brian said sincerely as he shook the Arab's hand. "I had hoped to take that magnificent chalice home, but it wasn't meant to be." He'd never faced this adversary before, but he knew the man by reputation. A Syrian, Abdel Malouf was perhaps the most famous purveyor of biblical relics in Israel. His shop in the Muslim Sector of the Old City was a showplace of fascinating rarities.

  "I'd like to invite you to come by my store for a cup of tea before you leave Jerusalem," Malouf offered. "It would be good to know each other better."

  Brian was about to accept when he heard a rolling sound like thunder. There was an enormous rumbling whump, then another. From the hallway outside the salon came shouts of alarm. A securi
ty guard rushed into the room and yelled, "Evacuate! Now! Go out through those emergency exits!" He pointed to a series of French doors along the side that opened into a garden and guided everyone toward them.

  A representative of the auction house grabbed the chalice and whisked it outside as Malouf yelled to the guard, "What's going on?"

  "There's something happening down the street! It sounded like a bomb! Get out!"

  Brian had a sickening feeling. Car bombings happened periodically in Jerusalem. But a bombing down the street, today? He glanced at his watch. It was 6:13 p.m.

  Surely this isn't about ... Dear God, don't let this be what I think it is. The state dinner was set to begin at six, just fifteen minutes ago. At this very minute the vice president, the Israeli prime minister and his wife should be sitting in the dining room of the American Colony Hotel a few blocks away.

  Brian left the room with the others and was directed to the sidewalk by a hotel employee. He hurried across St. George Street, cut through the Addar Hotel, jaywalked across Derech Shchem Road and turned onto Louis Vincent Street, where the American Colony Hotel sat. There was a thick black plume of smoke rising into the air left of the hotel's main entrance two blocks ahead of him. In the distance, he heard a wail of sirens growing louder and louder.

  The American Colony Hotel was a very unusual place. Unlike most of the real estate in Jerusalem, which is fervently claimed by both Arabs and Jews, this nineteenth-century oasis had always been considered neutral. Owned by neither Arab nor Jew but instead by foreigners, it was a quiet fortress where both sides could gather in peace. Ambassadors, representatives of the United Nations and diplomats worldwide stayed and conducted business in a safe, comfortable setting. This venue had been chosen for Vice President Case's stay and tonight's state dinner since this was the first time an American leader had set foot in Israel since the embassy was relocated and things were sure to be tumultuous at the least.

  At precisely the moment Abdel Malouf had won the bid, the American vice president was being seated in the American Colony's dining room at a table already occupied by Prime Minister Avraham Lukin and his wife, Aya. The Israeli leader knew Case, having met him earlier in Washington.

  Servers poured wine and offered menus as the leaders chatted amiably. The room was quiet since there were no other guests. Besides the waitstaff, the only others present were two dozen Secret Service and Israeli security guards along the walls. They were silent sentinels, alert to every movement in the room.

  Because of the event, there were large numbers of soldiers and security personnel stationed inside the hotel and out. Now it seemed as if they were flying about in every direction, screaming instructions and brandishing a variety of weapons from handguns to automatic rifles. Secret Service agents and Israeli security guards barked orders amid the chaos, establishing their jurisdictions and ordering local police to secure the streets around the burning structure.

  "Halt! Stop right there!" a cop yelled as Brian approached, raising his Dror light machine gun menacingly. Five more joined him to form a human barrier across the street. Behind them the hotel was a scene of frightening confusion. From here, Brian could pinpoint the exact location of the black smoke he'd seen. It had grown denser than before, a sign of the blaze's intensity, and it bellowed forth from the northwest corner of the building. Another huge burst of flame shot over the top of the retaining wall encircling the hotel.

  Brian knew the layout. He and Nicole had had lunch last week in the same room where tonight's dinner was set. He glanced at his watch again; if things were on schedule, the state dinner would have begun twenty minutes ago in the room that was now a blazing inferno.

  His mind raced with fear and diminishing hope. With all the security concerns, could the venue have changed at the last minute? Was there a possibility the leaders might not have been here at all? Could the explosion have been an accident?

  Brian's cellphone rang. He looked at the screen, saw the code name "WHH4" and knew the answer.

  William Henry Harrison IV, the president of the United States, was calling. This wasn't good news.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The president shouted, "Brian! Where are you?"

  "I'm at a barricade a couple of blocks away from the American Colony Hotel."

  "What? You're at the hotel? What the hell are you doing there? Were you at the dinner?"

  "Hang on a sec, Harry. It's not that at all. It's a coincidence. I was at an auction down the street when everything started, and I walked over here to see what happened. Nicole and I had a drink with Don Case yesterday. Are he and the prime minister okay?"

  "I don't know. I'm in the elevator, heading to the Situation Room, and I wanted to check on you and Nicole before things got crazy."

  "She's back at our hotel. We're fine. What's happening?"

  "I'm not sure. We'll have choppers overhead in a few minutes. But from early reports, it looks really bad."

  At that moment, it seemed that every emergency vehicle in Jerusalem arrived simultaneously. The clashing scream of a dozen sirens was deafening. Brian kept the president updated as a truck filled with barricades pulled up. A team of soldiers began blocking off the streets as medical workers with gurneys ran toward the hotel's front entrance and a dozen fire trucks came off the main highway onto narrow Louis Vincent Street, taking up positions around the hotel and beginning the battle to bring the situation under control.

  "I can't stay where I am," Brian advised. "The soldiers are pushing us back."

  "I'm in the Situation Room now. I want to put you on speaker for a minute. Everyone, this is Brian Sadler, a friend of mine who's outside the hotel in Jerusalem. Brian, tell us what you can see. We're being told the entire left front quadrant is engulfed in flames."

  "I saw the same thing when I got here, but it's impossible to tell what's happening now," he told Harry. "That's where the dining room is; I'm sure you know that already." He explained that the hotel was surrounded by a privacy wall. Because of it and the acrid smoke that was becoming more and more dense, it was [PN1]difficult to see anything inside the grounds. "There's a helicopter coming," he advised.

  "That's ours," Harry replied, and Brian saw the American flag on the door of an Apache Longbow chopper now hovering fifty feet off the ground about a block away. "We're getting feed from them now and I must go. Stay safe and keep in touch."

  The last time a hotel in Jerusalem had been bombed was over seventy years ago when a Zionist group attacked the King David Hotel, killing ninety-one people. That building had been the headquarters of the British military command, and the bombing was in retaliation for the arrests of Jews who were accused of seditious acts.

  There were flare-ups of violence and mayhem in Jerusalem on a regular basis as terrorist organizations struck against what they considered the illegal occupation of Palestine by the Jews. But today's attack was different. If the American vice president was dead, the United States would undoubtedly unleash its full fury whoever had committed this horrific atrocity. The Israelis would do the same if their beloved prime minister and his wife were gone.

  At 10:30 p.m. local time the Israel Broadcasting Authority and major American networks aired simultaneous news conferences from Tel Aviv and Washington. President Harrison and the head of Israel's Knesset solemnly informed the world that Vice President Donovan Case, Prime Minister Avraham Lukin and Lukin's wife, Aya, had been murdered in a bombing at the American Colony Hotel during a state dinner. Twenty-seven others were killed, mostly hotel staff and security personnel. Fourteen of the dead were Secret Service agents assigned to guard the vice president. No group had claimed responsibility, and the American president promised to do anything he could to help Israel bring the perpetrators to justice.

  As they watched the newscast from their hotel room, Brian and Nicole saw the grim resolve in Harry's face and the way his hands gripped the podium like a vise. He was obviously struggling to restrain himself and not doing a very good job of it.

  Six
hours later the Syrian state news network RTV aired a live press conference from an undisclosed location. A man whose face was covered in a black mask stood outdoors next to a tank and read a brief statement in Arabic. Tahrir al-Sham – al Qaeda in Syria – was proud to claim responsibility for the assassination of the evil leaders of America and Israel. It had taken place because the American embassy had been moved to West Jerusalem – land that rightfully belonged to Palestine.

  "How dare the infidels think they can challenge Allah's chosen people?" the hooded spokesman concluded. "May they rot in hell for eternity. Allahu akbar. God is great."

  By morning the world waited to see what the United States and Israel would do next. A full-scale military response was possible, White House sources said, although striking Syria would surely unite the Arab nations against a common enemy. If that happened, first-world nations would join their allies. Once sides were chosen, lines were drawn in the sand and someone issued an ultimatum, World War III could follow.

  In today's environment where several nations had the weaponry to destroy the planet, the next great war could truly be Armageddon, the final battle between good and evil. According to the Bible, God's wrath would be unleashed against the forces of Satan in a literal war the likes of which man has never seen. It would happen in the Jezreel Valley south of modern-day Haifa in northwestern Israel, and it would be the end of everything on earth.

  And it could really happen. Very soon.

  Around eight a.m. the next morning, a somber group of senior embassy officers gathered at the Tel Aviv airport to bid a fallen comrade farewell. A squad of Marines carried a casket to a huge Boeing 757 with United States of America emblazoned on its fuselage. They snapped to attention and saluted as the coffin was loaded, standing in silent vigilance as Air Force Two rolled down the runway, carrying Vice President Donovan Case on his final trip back to the United States of America.

  _____