Distantly Baruch noted the use of the Lord’s more archaic name, but it hardly seemed important. He could not take his eyes from the treasure trove before him. There must have been thousands of scrolls and hundreds of artifacts.
“Who knows of this? Was it the work of Jedidiah?” The old king’s wisdom remained legendary even now, and seemed a natural fit for such a library as this.
“Only those who must know of it, and this stone was worked by no human hand,” Jeremiah told him cryptically. He turned as the two Levites joined them, both staring wide-eyed at the Well of Souls. They, it seemed, were not in the know. Carefully Jeremiah took the cedar chests from them and carried them deeper into the chamber.
Baruch hurried to follow. “What is in those chests?”
“The last of our secrets, recovered from their hidden places in Jachin and Boaz.”
Baruch blinked. “The great pillars?” He had passed between them daily each time he came to the Temple, but never suspected they were anything more than architectural features.
Jeremiah nodded towards a column as they passed it, its alcoves filled with clay cylinders and tablets that appeared to be overlaid with gold. There was a tall ladder leaning against its flank, with which one could access the highest alcoves. “In them were kept some of the wealth you see here. Including these.” He hefted the cedar chests.
“And what are they?”
“Tools bestowed upon our fathers by Elohim. Gifts with which to build His Temple. If found by Babel they would strengthen our enemy. And so they must be hidden.”
“Why not leave them within the great pillars? Surely no one would guess --”
“The Temple will be razed.” Jeremiah said it plainly, as if commenting on coming rain, and yet the pronouncement left Baruch stunned. “In their violence Babel would stumble upon any secrets hidden above. No, these must be moved to the Well, and the Well sealed off. That is the only way.”
They came finally to the end of the chamber, to a pillar beside the left wall. At Jeremiah’s instruction Baruch maneuvered the tall ladder so that Jeremiah could climb and place the chests in a high opening that seemed to have been fashioned specifically for their dimensions. He lingered there for a moment, eyes closed, mouth forming silent words. Then he climbed down, more slowly than he had ascended.
Baruch finally asked the question that had been burning within him. “Jeremiah – why not hide the Ark here, when Manasseh defiled the Temple? Why did the Kohanim take it away?”
“Manasseh knew of the Well,” Jeremiah said bitterly. “He extracted the information from those priests unlucky enough to be imprisoned rather than executed outright. The Ark would not be safe here.”
“Everything else seems to have remained undamaged.”
“Manasseh cared not for knowledge and wisdom. His concept of power was limited, but not misplaced. The king knew what the Ark was capable of, even though he did not serve Elohim. The Kohanim knew of his lust, and so they spirited the Ark away from Jerusalem and beyond his grasp. With it, too, went Moshe’s staff and the Urim-and-Thummim. They are connected, in a way, and were best hidden together.”
“But where? Where did they take it? And why has it not returned?”
Jeremiah placed a withered hand on his shoulder, turning Baruch around to meet his gaze. “That, my friend, is what you must discover.”
Baruch stared at him. “What?”
“The Kohanim originally intended to take the Ark to Mizraim, where it would remain hidden until wickedness had passed from Jerusalem. After Manasseh’s death, they should have returned. They did not, and we do not know why.”
“Mizraim?” Baruch repeated incredulously. That was almost as bad as Babel.
Jeremiah smiled. “Would you have ever dreamed of searching for the Ark of the Lord in the land of the pharaohs? Neither did Manasseh, which the priesthood counted on. Yet now, with Babel at our gate, I fear the time has come to unravel that mystery.”
A sudden fire filled Baruch, swirling in his belly. “With the glory of the Lord returned to us, we can retake our home, strike down Nebuchadnezzar and his forces! Yes, but how –”
But Jeremiah was shaking his head. “No, Baruch. The Ark is not a sword to be wielded against our enemies. Not anymore. If we try, I fear we are as like to destroy ourselves as is the might of Babel.”
“But…Jerusalem will fall. We will be captured, Jeremiah, just as you prophesied!”
“Indeed. And so it must be, for now.”
Baruch wrenched free of Jeremiah’s grasp. “Then why seek it out at all? Why not let the Ark remain hidden? Adonai has abandoned us, and so have you, apparently. What good will any of it do?”
“Knowledge.” Jeremiah’s voice resounded through the Well of Souls, firm and strong. “Look around you, my friend. Look where you stand. This is Elohim’s greatest gift to us – knowledge of His creation, His glory. The Ark is more than the crude instrument of Manasseh’s narrow imaginings; it is the pinnacle of that knowledge, a repository for the fullness of His glory. It cannot be lost to history, not forever. Even if it never returns to Jerusalem, it must be safeguarded. Its location must be known, if only to a few.”
Baruch found he had no words to argue. Suddenly he felt the weight of the Earth above him pressing down on his shoulders. He glanced back the way they had come, to where the Levites still lingered at the chamber’s entrance, abandoned but ready. Faithful, he thought, to the end.
“Very well. I will do what you ask. If I can.”
Jeremiah was visibly relieved. “I have faith in you, my friend.”
“But where do I begin? Mizraim is vast, and there is no telling if the Kohanim are even still there.”
“Their road was known, in the beginning. And, despite all our efforts, a band of high priests with the Ark of the Covenant in their company could not enter Mizraim without drawing some attention. Follow in their steps, Baruch. Question the people. With luck and the grace of Elohim, you will find your way.”
Baruch remained silent. It was a start, but a thin thread to follow. And all this is assuming we are not slaughtered by the sword of Babel.
Strange, how distant it all seemed now: the peril they were in, the violence wracking Jerusalem. So much had happened since he answered Jeremiah’s summons to meet at the Temple, and yet only minutes had passed.
“What happens now?”
The prophet closed his eyes. His hands were clasped, the fingers of one idly twisting the sapphire ring on the other, as if for comfort. When his friend spoke, he sounded as exhausted as Baruch felt, the old man’s strength finally gone from him. “The city will fall. Israel will enter into captivity. We will be taken to Babel. Once there, my days will be short.”
The words pained Baruch to hear. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I will not fail you. I will find the Ark and the relics of Moshe, and – and make certain they are kept safe. For the rest of my days, if I must.”
Jeremiah opened his eyes. “Then you must leave at once. Exit the city to the south.” He turned, indicating a small passageway behind the opposite pillar. It was little more than a slot cut into the stone. “There are caverns that will take you beneath the walls and out into the quarries; the same caverns that were used to steal away the Ark. Nebuchadnezzar’s army is massed to the north and east; they should miss you. Take the road to Bethlehem, and from there to Mizraim.”
A burst of sound came echoing from the entrance to the Well, making Baruch jump. A tremendous bang, and the shouts of voices. Muffled, but close.
“They’ve reached the Temple,” he breathed, voice thick with horror.
Jeremiah was in motion, the burden of his grief vanishing in an instant. “I will seal the passage beneath the Temple. Go now, quickly --”
Baruch seized his arm. “Come with me. Escape this madness.”
“No, my friend. The entrance must be sealed. Babel must not find this place.” He removed himself from Baruch’s grip, gently but firmly, and motioned to the Levites. “Th
ey will travel with you, but my place is with our people. And I am old. Too old for the journey to Mizraim.”
“Will the journey to Babel be any kinder?”
Jeremiah did answer. He clasped both of Baruch’s hands for a moment, then turned and moved with haste towards the entrance. He paused to give the acolytes brief words of encouragement, then turned and called to Baruch: “Be wary. The Ark is the seat of Elohim. But it is still dangerous. You may find…it may not want to be discovered.”
A thunderous boom came rolling like thunder down the passageway. Baruch could hear the pounding of feet and the clatter of weapons, as if the Babylonians were already beneath the Temple.
“Quickly now,” Jeremiah said. “To the tunnels.”
Baruch turned to study the small opening in the wall. It was dark, and a cold, damp breath issued from it.
When he looked back towards the entrance, Jeremiah had gone. He stood alone in the Well with only the Levites and the secrets of generations for company. For a moment he was seized by the urge to run after Jeremiah. Better to join him in captivity than abandon his friend.
One of the Levites spoke in a tremulous voice. “Should -- should we go?”
The man’s fear acted as a bulwark for his own. Baruch drew a steadying breath. “Yes. We must.”
They took a burning brand for light and made for that dark opening, leaving the warm glow of the Well behind. In the narrow, twisting tunnels beyond, the prophet’s last words repeated in his head:
It may not want to be discovered.
He could only wonder in dread at what that meant.
Part I
The Ethiopian Job
Today I abandoned my people, perhaps as Adonai has already abandoned us. I write this for myself, a confession – and a trail for others to follow, should I fail the task my mentor and friend has charged me with.
My friend. Jeremiah. Have I abandoned him too? I smell smoke on the night wind and know it is my home that is burning. The valley of Gehinnom, ablaze. That he urged me to leave, gave me holy purpose, does nothing to quiet the wailing in my heart.
We stop at the side of the road, to rest our feet. The Levites urge haste. Mizraim is so far, and yet already I am tired. How can one man , one servant, be expected to redeem a people? I am no Moshe, and yet I seem destined to follow in his footsteps.
I look back and see the sky bleed. A false dawn, painted with the blood of my people. Perhaps we have been abandoned, but there is still hope. The Throne of Adonai must be returned. Jerusalem must be restored.
I must not fail. I will not.
One
Chicago
Illinois, The Third Coast
It is a common misconception, even in the mid-21st century, that modern museums are tough nuts to crack. Pop culture, so fond of laser-grids, pressure-plates, and all manner of elaborate measures, has engendered the “fortress museum” myth, painting pictures of these institutions as veritable vaults for the most valued artifacts and art in human history. Impenetrable to all but the most skilled of criminals.
In truth, even the most famous of museums can hardly afford to stay afloat on their meager allotment from the state budget and public donations, let alone beef up their security. Unlike banks, in which the Federal government holds a significant interest, most museums have little more than a few security cameras, window alarms, and guards fresh from the mall or early retirement, armed only with pepper spray and Tasers, if at all. And while it is true that many of the pieces on display are replicas, their more authentic and valuable counterparts being held in cold storage, there is ample opportunity for the competent thief to lay hands on the real thing. All it would take to pull off a successful heist would be a little luck, some careful timing, and an ounce of boldness. With that, one could very well walk right through the front door.
Or, as was the case on the morning of July 5th, one could drive a reinforced Amazon delivery van through the rolling door of the shipping dock at the Chicago Field Museum of Natural History.
The final pieces for a new exhibition had just arrived that morning when the steel door caved in with a piercing shriek, yielding to the nose of the van and offering no resistance to the rest of it. The courier responsible for the delivery and the security guard had little time to react to the carnage of metal and cinder blocks: the van slammed into the truck already parked at the dock, shoving it roughly aside. Before either vehicle had come to a complete halt two armed men in black masks were already leaping out of the Amazon van, waving guns and shouting commands that were lost in the echo of their own voices.
The security guard, wisely deciding that a multi-shot Taser was no match for the firepower of three blunt and vicious-looking assault rifles, quickly surrendered. Much to the relief of the courier, who was a smart-enough man to know when it was time to call a loss. He certainly wasn’t being paid enough to put his life on the line for some old relics. Let the insurance take care of it. At the urging of the two armed men he pressed the thumb of his right hand against the flexible display of the band around his left wrist. The three large black crates sitting at the edge of the loading dock unlocked with a trio of clicks.
While one rifle remained trained on the courier and the guard, the smaller of the masked men quickly searched through each of the crates. He collected a large silver box from the middle one, scanned the barcode sticker with his own wristband, then nodded to his companion. Both quickly backed into their van, weapons entering the vehicle last.
Maybe it was nerves, or a simple streak of sadism. At the last moment one of the rifles went off with a single sharp crack, clipping the security guard in the left shoulder and sending him spinning in a near-perfect pirouette, arms still raised above his head, left shoulder now fanning blood like a sprouting wing. There was a shout from inside the van, and then the door slammed shut and the tires squealed on the wet concrete. By the time additional museum security showed up, the courier was frantically trying to stem the flow of blood from what remained of the guard’s shoulder, and only a van-sized hole remained of the thieves. The raid had taken less than three minutes.
Five minutes later, the museum received confirmation that emergency services were on the way, and that the police were already trawling every possible route away from the museum for a white Amazon delivery van with damage to its front. Unfortunately, there was at any given moment a fleet of about five hundred identical vans swarming through the city. No decent plate numbers could be retrieved from camera footage, or the memories of either the guard or courier.
With a driving summer rain slowing traffic to a crawl, rapid response was decidedly less so. By the time the Chicago Police Department deployed their recon drones to scan the streets from above, the white van had already left the museum complex behind and, for all intents and purposes, disappeared into the city.
When Special Agent Booker Hopkins arrived on-scene, twenty-five minutes after the incident, he was greeted by the gaping hole that had once been the entrance to the Field Museum shipping dock. The bits of cinder block and the crumpled roll-up door spoke of a confidence that came with either extreme inexperience or seasoned years.
The shipping dock was in a flurry of activity, bodies in CPD blues rushing about as if to make up for lost time. Forensics had already staked their territory in yellow tape, cordoning off the truck with its dented side, the three black cases on the lip of the loading dock, and the bloody spot of concrete where the security guard had lay. The man had already been spirited away by a blazing orange chopper, plugged with enough tubes and hoses to keep him alive until he made it to Northwestern Memorial. An interior door led from the dock to the museum proper, where two officers were struggling to hold back the press of museum employees straining for a glimpse.
“Don’t imagine things ever get this exciting for them,” said a voice at Booker’s elbow. He turned to see a bald man dressed in a slightly-rumpled coat, watching the melee of employees. A CPD cap was tucked beneath one arm; he stuck out the other hand. “Detec
tive Hollis.”
“Special Agent Booker Hopkins.” Booker fumbled his badge from his coat pocket, but Hollis barely glanced at it.
“Figured, what with the suit.” The detective met his eyes with a blue gaze that was amicable enough, and more than a little curious. “What’s the FBI’s interest in this case?”
“The theft of any public museum piece automatically makes it a Federal matter,” Booker told him. “It gets kicked over to the Art Crime Team.”
“What, really? I didn’t even know there was an Art Crime Team.”
Booker held back a sigh. Yeah, neither does the Bureau. “I can assure you, we exist. Just don’t see that much field work these days.”
“FBI’s too busy putting out fires across the country, huh?”
“Something like that.”
Hollis studied him a moment longer, then nodded and donned his cap. Without a word he started forward, and Booker fell in step beside him. “At approximately 8:45 this morning, a white van marked with an Amazon decal plowed through the door and deposited two gunmen, who forced the museum courier to unlock those three cases there.” He spoke in a rapid, clipped tone, pointing to the loading dock where the cases sat. Only the middle one was open. “Amazon’s already been in contact, and they reported no vehicles missing or gone off their scheduled routes, so my guess is the van was a dummy, the decal a decoy. Anyway, the two gunmen retrieved a single item, put a bullet in the guard, and bolted.”
“So they knew what they were looking for,” Booker noted, hurrying to keep up. Most mornings he was still getting his coffee and donut around this time. “Any idea what was in the shipment?”
“The Field Museum was set to open a new exhibit this week. ‘Cursed Treasures’ or something like that. Today’s shipment consisted of the final pieces. As to what exactly they were…” Hollis shrugged. “We’re still getting our bearings here, so nobody’s found the time to fill me in. Whatever it was they took, it’s gotta be worth something to somebody.”
A Covenant of Thieves Page 2
