"Please tell me this time you’re really coming back to me," she said. He could sense the hesitancy in her voice, the desperate hope that he was still coming.
"Yes! You can count on it!" He'd be in Istanbul tonight and on a British Airways flight to London tomorrow morning. By evening they'd be together. She told him how happy that made her, and as always, she urged him to be careful. He promised to check in with her later.
"That was your wife?" Abdel asked.
Brian nodded and changed the subject. He wondered if Abdel had been questioned by the Mossad last evening, but he decided not to ask. Instead he mentioned the growing likelihood that someone with an itchy trigger finger would start a war. Abdel expressed hope that conflict could be avoided and he apologized again for selfishly wanting to get his antiquities out of the country as soon as possible.
"I have worked a lifetime in this city, building a business and a reputation of which I am proud, and it would be devastating to see everything go away on a moment's notice. After everything that has happened, I am grateful you are still willing to help me."
This moment – when Abdel was leading him back to the treasure – wasn't the time to tell him the offer was off the table. Instead Brian pointed out how many times people in similar situations to Abdel's – doctors or dentists in Cuba, scientists and teachers from Vietnam and so many others – had walked away from everything and started over. A veterinarian from Havana might be sweeping floors in a bank building in Dallas for minimum wage, but the man would be thankful that his life had been spared and that his family had gotten out with him.
"If worse comes to worst," Brian advised, "you could leave Israel and start all over. Even if you lost everything you owned, you'd still have the most important things – your contacts and your reputation."
Abdel chose his words carefully in front of the driver. One never knew who worked for the Mossad. There were spies everywhere. He should know – he'd been one himself.
"I can only pray that Allah does not intend such a fate for me," he lamented. "I have done many wrong things. I pledged allegiance to a group now run by a merciless monster. But I saw the error in that decision and I have made things right. I am a good man, Brian. My hope is for peace in Israel, a home for both Jews and Palestinians and a life for all people free from strife and worry."
Brian wasn't sure if he should believe what Abdel was saying. "As noble as it sounds, that's not realistic," he replied. The threat of military action was greater at this moment than at any time since the Six-Day War in 1967 and both knew it. It was wishful thinking to believe this could somehow go away. Both the Bible and the Quran predicted conflict between these peoples until the end times.
Around seven, just as the sun's first rays were peeking over Mount Gilead, they arrived at the archaeological park. Abdel guided the driver to the top of the hill and asked him to stay with the car until they returned.
"Ready for a hike?" he said to Brian, pointing to a trail leading into a grove of trees.
"You bet!" he replied, his adrenalin pumping.
In a few minutes, they were at the edge of the cliff where Abdel had allowed Brian to remove his hood the last time. He found the rope; they lowered themselves to the brushy ledge and crawled into the cave. They donned their headlamps and Brian found himself captivated once more by the Egyptian statues.
"Who else knows about this place?" Brian asked.
"I learned about it from its discoverer, and I trust him to keep it a secret because of something I promised him. I hope this does not offend you, but I told him he might become wealthy if he would let me show this cave to the famous American treasure hunter Brian Sadler. I let him think that you and I might collaborate on a television documentary called 'Hidden Treasures of the Bible.'"
Brian wasn't offended; he would have done the same thing in Abdel's situation. One way or another, he intended to film the cavern before anyone disturbed the treasure. This opportunity would never come again. For now, he had to pretend their agreement was still on and he would talk about his promise to Abdel later.
"I'm excited about a documentary," he replied truthfully. "But it simply won't happen unless you allow me to take videos and pictures today. The networks have made a lot of money off my work, but they're hardheaded businessmen who are motivated by one thing – profit. If I demonstrate what kind of revenue the show can generate, I'm certain they'll jump on it. There may even be network bidding wars on this one."
Abdel thought to himself that he would soon be a celebrity. He had expected Brian to want to shoot video this time, and his reasoning made perfect sense. Bubbling with excitement, he gave permission for pictures and videos but only for Brian's production people. He made him promise there would be no announcement until Abdel allowed it.
Brian shot footage of the statues and filmed their walk through the narrow passageway. At the entrance to the treasure room itself, he took a panoramic shot. He walked around the room, zeroing in on the things that had most captivated him the first time he came – the miniature arks, the candelabra and goblets, and the haphazard piles of golden relics.
Forty minutes later he pocketed his phone and stood silently.
Abdel asked if he was ready to go, but Brian shook his head.
"Another couple of minutes," he said. "This place makes me feel like I'm in church. I have a sense of peace and reverence here, as though God is nearby. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yes," Abdel confessed. "I have similar feelings, even though these objects are not a part of my religion. The prophets Isaiah and Ezra, King Cyrus of Persia and the other great men who had a hand in the story of the temple treasure – all of them are important in Islam just as they are to Christians and Jews. One cannot help but be awed by the presence of such wonders."
They sidled back up the corridor and emerged into the sunlight. Brian thought he heard someone yelling. They quickly climbed the rope, and as they entered the grove of trees, he heard it again.
"Mr. Sadler! Mr. Sadler! Can you hear me?"
"That's our driver! Hurry! Something's wrong!" As they ran, he yelled, "We're coming!"
The driver was in the front seat with the engine running. "We must leave quickly!" he cried. "There's been an attack!"
As he drove frantically toward Jerusalem, the man explained that Syria had launched a missile against Israel that had exploded before entering Israeli airspace. Early reports indicated it struck and destroyed a building on the Syrian side of the border. Regardless of its failure, the intended attack sent an ominous message that the Arabs didn't intend to sit still any longer. If the missile had worked properly – if it had entered Israeli airspace – it would have been an act of war.
Brian read the report on his phone, noting that Israel was going into full battle mode. All airports had been closed and a no-fly zone had been established across the nation. There would be no cross-border vehicular traffic, and interior checkpoints between Jewish- and Palestinian-controlled lands were closed. Residents of the Gaza Strip, the West Bank and other areas occupied by the PLO were no longer allowed to pass into areas controlled by the Jews.
Jerusalem was a unique problem, given the tenuous coexistence between Palestinians and Jews. Definable Arab areas would be cordoned off, the news report advised, and the Old City itself would be emptied. Everyone inside would be forced to leave and the walled city would be on lockdown.
Brian read that part of the story to Abdel, who lamented that he had waited too long to act. "Everything I have worked for will be gone when I see my shop next."
"But if the authorities remove every single person from the Old City, there won't be anyone left to loot your store."
"They can't remove everyone. Forty thousand people live inside the walls. Forty thousand! The Jews aren't going to send soldiers on a house-to-house search because it would infuriate the people. They will attempt to clear out the area, but they won't find those who are determined to stay. Those people are the ones who will create problems for the rest
of us. They will rob and loot and vandalize."
Brian knew he was right, and there really was nothing they could do about it now.
The trip back took much longer because of hastily erected military checkpoints along the highway. Long lines of cars waited to be searched and cleared to pass. At the first one they encountered, soldiers examined their passports, asked where they had been and were going, and looked under the car's hood and in its trunk. The next checkpoint was at the exit from the tollway to the main east-west highway between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. The search at that one was far more thorough. This time they had to exit the vehicle and bomb dogs sniffed through its interior. With all the delays, it was mid-afternoon when they finally arrived back in Jerusalem. Brian would have been late, but it didn't matter now. Nobody was leaving the country now.
Hoping he could get his room back, Brian had called earlier and snagged the last room – a two-bedroom suite at a nightly rate three times higher than his last one. He would have paid even more for the security and comfort of the David Citadel.
They passed throngs of people marching in the streets, screaming and chanting. Police and soldiers in riot gear kept a close eye, but they also maintained a respectable distance. Although the situation was unnerving, Brian understood that unless things turned violent, it was better for soldiers to let people vent their emotions instead of inciting them further. The news flashes were popping up on his phone faster than he could read them. Brian told the driver that there were several thousand students massing outside the parliament building. Since streets all around the Knesset were shut down, the man took an alternate route.
Brian got a call from the ambassador, who pointed out sharply that Brian had successfully dodged one more attempt to force him to leave Israel. The country was virtually an island now, sealed off from the rest of the world and hunkering down for an attack. The ambassador said he'd been in touch with the prime minister's office. The whereabouts of Brian Sadler was no longer a priority for Shigon, but again Sheller strongly urged him to move to the embassy.
"I'm back at my hotel for tonight," he answered, unwilling to give up what little freedom he might still have. The embassy would be a fortress within a fortress, and once he was inside, he knew he wouldn't be allowed out again. The ambassador was neither happy nor surprised about the response. President Harrison had told him that Sadler didn't handle restrictions well, and he had asked Sheller to do what he could without curtailing Brian's movements. That was fine with him. If the president's friend deliberately put himself in danger, then that was his problem. If Sadler came calling for help, that would be another thing. He didn't intend to jeopardize American lives to save one foolhardy adventurer, although his boss – the president – could change Sheller's mind in a flash if it happened.
The David Citadel Hotel was a different place than when they'd left eight hours before. It was a stronghold with tall metal fences blocking both ends of the porte cochere that was usually packed with idling taxis and limos. The driver dropped them along the sidewalk that was teeming with people in line to enter the hotel. When it was their turn, Brian showed his passport to an armed security guard, who checked his name off a list of registered guests. Abdel presented his documents and Brian said they were together, working on a business deal. The man jotted Abdel's information on another sheet while a guard frisked him.
Once they were inside, Brian left his suitcase with the concierge and they went directly to the second-floor bar. Brian ordered a glass of wine and Abdel had a coffee. Relaxed at last, they visited the lunch buffet and chose an outside table. From this vantage point it was easy to forget what was happening just outside their five-star refuge. Guests chatted and families with kids splashed and laughed in the pool a floor below them. It was a pleasant, surreal oasis in the middle of a city on edge, tensely awaiting the next move.
Brian stepped away from the table and called Nicole. He brought her up to speed on where he was and how his day had gone. He had proof of the treasures now, something tangible to begin the process of a documentary, and he said his work here was almost done. He wanted a meeting with the director of the Antiquities Authority and he'd be out of Israel immediately afterwards.
Sitting in her office alone, Nicole thought about her husband and all the things he was experiencing in Jerusalem. Normal people would be terrified, she mused, wishing for a moment that Brian was one of those.
But there was nothing normal about him. She knew he was happier to be in the middle of chaos than to be tied down to a desk job somewhere. She knew him well after all these years, and there was one thing she knew for sure – when his time was finally up, he damned sure wouldn't die sitting in a La-Z-Boy at some retirement village.
She asked herself which way was better? She hoped they’d grow old together, strolling through Walmart on the weekly grocery run or going to dinner with friends. But there was also the realization that someday he might head out on one of his adventures and never return.
He was never happier than when he was on the trail of another discovery. She knew that better than anyone, and so she would keep on listening without complaining while her heart and her gut wrenched from the terrifying possibilities of his choices.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Having nowhere to spend the night in Jerusalem, Abdel gratefully accepted Brian's offer to use his second bedroom. That offer almost didn't become reality, however. Instead of fighting the hubbub and sporadic demonstrations outside, not to mention the endless line to reenter the hotel, they decided to stay in the suite until cocktail hour. Brian shared his computer, allowing Abdel to check emails and conduct some business. That allowed the time to pass more quickly, and at five they went downstairs for Brian's nightly martini and an early dinner. Soon after they were seated, a hotel employee approached and asked when Mr. Malouf would be leaving the building. The government had put a 10 p.m. curfew in place, he advised. Brian saw through the man's question – it was clear that the hotel's security team was carefully monitoring those people who belonged in the building and those who did not.
Brian explained that he had asked his friend to stay overnight since he wasn't allowed to return to his house in the Old City. The employee excused himself to speak with the manager. When he returned, he asked Brian and his guest to stop by the front desk after dinner. There the night manager, a man with whom Brian had interacted previously, apologized for the inconvenience but said that his orders were that no one except registered guests could be on the premises after the curfew. Mr. Malouf would have to leave.
He rarely pulled strings to make things happen, but now it was required. Abdel truly had no place to go. "We'll be back in a moment," Brian said, looking at his watch and calculating the time in D.C. With the manager keeping a close eye, he and Abdel sat in the lobby as he placed a call, spoke for a moment, put it on hold and walked back to the front desk. He handed his phone to the manager, who listened as Cynthia Beal, personal assistant to the president of the United States, requested that Mr. Sadler be allowed an exception to the rule.
The manager handed his phone back and left for a few minutes, returning to say he was pleased to allow Mr. Malouf to spend the night, given his stature in Jerusalem as a prominent antiquities dealer. "But only the one night," he advised. "I'm afraid tomorrow we must enforce our policy."
Brian took the master bedroom and Abdel the other. Drained from the long day, they turned in early.
At 1:49 a.m. three bombers soared into the sky from the deck of the USS Harry Truman, a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean Sea. Within the hour, the Syrian base from where the dud missile had been launched lay in smoking ruins. Soon after, the White House press secretary issued a brief statement saying that there would be no further strikes unless Israel and its allies were provoked again.
They awoke around seven, turned on the news and watched the head of the Palestinian Liberation Organization offer peace in Jerusalem in exchange for a lifting of the lockdown at the Old City and the o
ther Arab-controlled areas. By noon Shigon had agreed. Although its borders and airports remained closed, things slowly began returning to normal inside Israel.
"Will you come with me to the shop?" Abdel asked Brian. "I am apprehensive about what might have happened, and perhaps we can discuss once again how to safeguard my property." Brian said yes; he was interested to see for himself how the Old City had fared during the tumultuous night.
They encountered a gaggle of soldiers and news reporters at the Herod's Gate entrance, but pedestrians flowed in and out of the ancient passageway without impediment, Brian and Abdel among them. They'd heard that the Jaffa and New Gates had reopened for vehicular traffic, although soldiers were still screening for bombs before cars and trucks could enter.
When they turned off the Via Dolorosa and entered the narrow side street, Abdel breathed a sigh of relief. One of the store's plate-glass windows had been shattered, but iron bars behind it had kept anyone from entering. He had wisely removed everything from the windows and covered things on the showroom floor with tarps. It took only a few minutes to determine that nothing was missing. Shortly afterwards a man in a pickup truck stopped by and offered to put plywood over the hole where the window had been. Looters or hoodlums – who knew which? – had broken dozens of windows overnight while the Old City was on lockdown and the enterprising man was making good money boarding them up. It was a lucrative business, and Abdel quickly hired him.
Brian wanted to focus on the treasure, but Abdel could talk of nothing else but removing his things. He hired the man who was covering his broken window to build shipping crates. Since Brian had made up his mind what he was going to do about the situation, he decided not to stay any longer. He told Abdel he needed to get back.
Temple: The Prophecy of the Hidden Treasure (Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries Book 7) Page 12
