The Copper Scroll

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  Bennett lowered his equipment first, then strapped on the MP5 machine gun Natasha had given him and lowered himself into the cave. There was no telling who or what was already in there. But he was not about to let Erin go first into the unknown.

  The air inside was cold and moist. The walls were damp and mossy. The granite floor was thick with mud.

  “You okay?” he asked when Erin joined him, also outfitted with an MP5.

  “Yeah, I guess,” she said. “How about you?”

  “I’d rather be back in that honeymoon suite in Ronda; that’s for sure.”

  “Me too,” she said wistfully. “Me too.”

  They helped each other put on the hefty backpacks full of gadgets and supplies, then flicked on the flashlights atop their weapons and began moving forward, weaving through stalagmites and stalactites. The tunnel was narrower than Bennett had expected, without much headroom, giving him a feeling of claustrophobia he had never experienced before.

  The farther they walked, the colder it became. Bennett’s mind began wandering as they probed deeper into the tunnel. He wondered what had happened to Donovan and Harkin. How far had they gone? How close had they come? How had they died?

  The cobwebs were thick in his face, suggesting that no one had been down here in quite some time. With any luck they had beat Farouk and his minions to the punch. On the other hand, they had no guarantee they were on the right track. All they really had to go on were the scribblings of a dead Syrian rabbi and the testimony of two rogue CIA agents willing to sell out their country for buried treasure that might not even be real.

  Soon the granite below his feet began sloping downward at a fairly steep angle. Bennett steadied himself against the cold, wet walls, but behind him he heard Erin lose her balance and slam onto her back. With nothing to grab on to, nothing to break her fall, she began sliding, picking up speed as she plunged into the icy darkness. Instinctively, he reached out to grab her, but she was moving too fast. Her screams echoed through the tunnel chambers, silenced only by an enormous splash as she hit the surface of the springs below.

  * * *

  Erin gasped for air, but she needed more.

  The bone-chilling waters seemed to suck all energy from her body. She thrashed around, desperately trying to regain her footing, but the weight of her pack began pulling her under. She was sinking—sinking fast—and she had no idea what to do. She expected to touch bottom any moment, but there was nothing there, nothing to grab on to, nothing to push off of.

  Terrified, she wrestled with the backpack, trying to unhook it and get it off her back before she drowned. She finally managed to pry it loose and slip away, but she was still going down. She tried to kick off her boots, heavy and now waterlogged, but they were tied too tightly. She couldn’t get them off. The gun was gone. The pack was gone. Tens of thousands of dollars of Natasha’s gear was gone. And she was still sinking.

  * * *

  Bennett expected Erin to resurface any moment.

  But there was no sign of her, just a mass of bubbles that were fading quickly.

  With his adrenaline pumping, he moved with desperate caution, working his way down the sloped tunnel floor, trying to get to the water’s edge without slipping in himself. When he got to the bottom, he made his way around the edge of the pool to another tunnel that shot off to one side. He tore off his backpack and gloves and tossed them into the side tunnel, along with his gun. Then he quickly untied his boots, ripped them and his socks off his feet, and plunged in headfirst. The frigid water instantly numbed his hands and feet, and a shock of pain shot through his skull. The icy temperatures stung his eyes, and he was forced to close them. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The water was pitch-black. He wouldn’t have been able to see Erin if she had been just inches way.

  His lungs screamed for oxygen. His hands grasped for his wife. Though he could barely feel his legs now, he kicked as hard he could, trying to close the gap.

  * * *

  Suddenly, finally, Erin felt her feet hit rock.

  She bent her knees to cushion her landing and then sprang back up with all the force she could muster. Up, up she crawled, her legs flailing, her lungs burning, her body freezing, her heart racing. Out of nowhere, she felt Jon’s hand and felt hope jolt through her body like a charge of electrical current.

  * * *

  Bennett’s hands clamped on to Erin’s.

  He had her and he would never let her go. But now he had another problem: how to stop his descent. He had to reverse course and pull her and himself back to the surface. But his weight and the added weight of their soaked clothing were making it almost impossible to gain upward momentum.

  Suddenly, as they thrashed about in the murky darkness, they slammed against something. He felt a jagged shard of rock slice deep into his knee. He had almost no air left in his lungs. It was everything he could do not to scream out in pain. But instead, he wedged his foot into the side of the razor-sharp crag and used it as leverage to push his way up.

  The pain in his foot shot through him like a knife. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before, worse even than when he had been shot a few years before. But it worked. A moment later, he felt Erin pushing off the edge as well, and soon they both burst to the surface, gasping for air.

  But there was no time for rejoicing. Erin suddenly went limp. He dragged her to the side and scrambled up onto the rocky edge while still holding fast to her shirt and arms. Then, using every last ounce of energy he had, he pulled her out of the water and into the side tunnel and rolled her onto her back.

  To his horror, he realized she wasn’t breathing.

  44

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 15 – 7:01 p.m. – THE GOLAN HEIGHTS

  An Israeli Apache gunship rose over the ridge.

  It made a low sweep over the western slopes, its spotlight on and directed toward the ground. Was this a normal patrol, Natasha wondered, or were they hunting for someone? Were they hunting for them? Were the authorities on to them already?

  Natasha was almost a mile from the tunnel opening. She was parked in a roadside rest area near Kibbutz Ein Gev, on the eastern shores of the Sea of Galilee. But she had a clear view of the Golan Heights, and she watched as the chopper made one pass and then another.

  Forgetting the code words they had agreed upon, she grabbed the radio and whispered, “Guys, you there? We have a little situation up here. Come in, over.”

  She waited a moment, but there was no response.

  “Guys, seriously, we’ve got a problem. There’s an Apache sweeping back and forth over your location. I repeat, an Israeli gunship over your location. How much longer are you guys going to be?”

  * * *

  Bennett was now giving his wife mouth-to-mouth.

  But nothing was working.

  A minute went by, then another, but it felt like an hour. Bennett was begging God to let Erin live. She couldn’t die. She couldn’t leave him. Not here. Not like this. They’d only been married a few days. It wasn’t fair, he argued. Why would God do this to them? Why would He give them a taste of the happiness of being together and then rip them apart forever?

  * * *

  “Hey, guys, are you there?”

  Natasha checked the frequency and the batteries and tried again. “Base Camp to Angel One, Angel Two, are you okay? Come in, over.”

  But there was still no response, and now she began to fear the worst.

  * * *

  Suddenly Erin gagged.

  Bennett turned her head, and she began vomiting uncontrollably.

  But she was back. She was breathing. And he began to sob. He held her in his arms for what seemed like an eternity, rubbing her face and hands, trying to get her warm. His mind reeled. What was he supposed to do now? She obviously couldn’t keep going forward. But how in the world was he going to get her back to the surface?

  He grabbed the radio. “Base Camp, this is Angel One, do you read me? Over.”

  “Jon, it’s me,” respond
ed a startled Natasha. “Are you okay?”

  “Hey, hey, no names,” he insisted.

  “Right, I’m sorry. I forgot. But where are you guys? I’ve been calling you forever.”

  Bennett explained what happened.

  “I’m afraid she’s slipping into hypothermia,” he said. “I need to get her out.”

  “Jon, listen to me. If she’s hypothermic, you have to stabilize her. You can’t move her yet.”

  There was silence for a moment; then Bennett said, “Did you hear what I just said? She’s unconscious. We need to get her out of here, and fast.”

  “If you move her in this condition, she could get worse or die,” said Natasha urgently. “You need to raise her core temperature right away.”

  “What do I do?” Bennett asked.

  “Do you still have your backpacks?” asked Natasha.

  “Erin’s is gone. But I’ve still got mine.”

  “Open it. Tell me what’s in there.”

  “Why? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s either archeological gear or medical supplies,” Natasha said. “I don’t remember which of you had which.”

  Bennett set down the radio and scrambled to find the pack. He dragged it over to Erin’s side and quickly rifled through its contents. “Okay, got it,” he told Natasha. “I see several blankets and a large first-aid kit.”

  “Okay, good. Put the blankets over her,” Natasha instructed. “Then dig to the bottom of the pack.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “A tan pouch, about the size of a small transistor radio.”

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Unzip it. It’s an IV warmer. Put a bag of fluid in there and turn it on.”

  Natasha waited until Bennett’s voice came back over the radio.

  “Okay, done. Now what?”

  “There’s an LED reading on the top. Do you see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “101.”

  “Good,” said Natasha. “When it hits 104, give her the IV. It’ll bring up her core temperature. Do you see a long, narrow, black-canvas bag right there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Open it. There’s a special thermometer for taking core temperature readings.”

  “I see it. Now what?”

  Natasha quickly explained how to use it. “What kind of reading are you getting?”

  “She’s at 92.1,” Bennett said.

  “Do you have a flashlight handy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Check her pupils.”

  “They’re constricted.”

  “But are they reacting to the light?”

  “A little, yes.”

  “How’s her pulse?”

  “Weak, but she’s hanging in there.”

  “Okay, check the IV warmer.”

  “105.”

  “Perfect. Give it to her now.”

  With Erin’s blood vessels so constricted, Bennett had trouble finding a good vein. When he finally did and breathed a sigh of relief, Erin suddenly went into convulsions.

  “Oh no! Erin!” Bennett shouted.

  “What’s happening?” came Natasha’s voice over the radio.

  Bennett couldn’t answer. He was terrified. Erin’s back arched. She shook violently. Then as quickly as she began, she stopped.

  “She was convulsing,” Bennett reported, “but now she’s stopped.”

  Immediately Erin’s body started shaking again.

  “Now she’s convulsing again! What do I do?”

  “Don’t worry,” Natasha said. “Her body is reacting to the temperature change. Just keep her stable and make sure the IV doesn’t come loose.”

  Bennett did as Natasha instructed, praying aloud the whole time, asking Jesus to heal and comfort the woman he loved so much. He didn’t care what Natasha thought. He didn’t even realize the radio was still on. He just couldn’t bear the thought of living without Erin, the woman who had saved his life again and again.

  “Jon, do you see another canvas case in there?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s a special ventilator,” said Natasha. “It pumps in heated air. There should be a twelve-volt battery pack in there.”

  “Yeah, it’s right here.”

  “Good. Hook it up, turn it on, and get it on her right away.”

  It seemed to work. After eight or ten minutes, the convulsions subsided, and Bennett began to relax. Erin’s temperature was up to 96.4. Her pulse was stronger. And after a few more minutes, her eyes began to flut-ter open.

  “Jon?” she asked, her voice weak and groggy.

  “I’m right here, sweetheart,” he replied, putting his hand on her forehead.

  She mumbled something else, but it was barely a whisper.

  “Just rest, Erin,” he told her. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  But again she tried to speak.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “What did you say?”

  “Did we get it?” she asked, barely audible.

  Bennett was stunned at the question. “What, the scroll?”

  Erin couldn’t seem to nod. She barely had enough energy to speak. But she blinked hard, as if she was trying to say yes.

  Bennett shook his head, amazed at her focus, even now, with all that she had just been through. “I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait, Erin. We need to get you out of here and find a hospital.”

  “No,” she whispered back emphatically. “You . . . go . . . ”

  A moment later, however, she had slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Bennett radioed Natasha, his voice thick with emotion. “She just blacked out.”

  “That’s ‘after drop,’” Natasha explained. “It’s normal. It’s part of the process. She’s going to be out for a while, but she’ll be fine. I promise.”

  Bennett took a deep breath and tried to believe that. He rechecked Erin’s temperature every five minutes, and sure enough, it slowly began to rise, as did her pulse.

  He thought about what Erin had said. It was a crazy thought. He couldn’t bear the idea of leaving her here all by herself, even for a little while. Who knew what lay ahead? But then again, given all that they had been through already, how could they give up now?

  45

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 15 – 8:16 p.m. – THE ROAD TO TIBERIAS

  Viggo Mariano and his men sped up Highway 90.

  Unless they hit traffic or police roadblocks, neither of which he expected, they would be in Tiberias in the next ten to fifteen minutes. Mariano pulled out a satellite phone and hit speed-dial.

  Abdullah Farouk’s voice came on the line. “Where are you?” he demanded.

  “We’re almost there,” Mariano assured him. “How about you?”

  “I’m safe in Amman. The rest of the team is in position in the north. They just called. You were right. The U.N. vans worked like a charm. The hills are swarming with blue helmets. They blend right in. No one has even asked for ID. Perhaps I should have gone with them.”

  “No,” said Mariano. “You need to stick with the plan and keep out of sight. What about the communications equipment I sent them?”

  “They got it, and they’re sweeping every frequency, as you requested,” said Farouk. “They’ve found nothing yet, but they promised to call the moment they do.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Farouk,” Mariano said. “These guys are very good. If Bennett and his wife and the Barak girl are up there, they’ll find them and neutralize them. On that you have my word.”

  * * *

  Erin wasn’t the only one battling hypothermia.

  It was pure adrenaline—and the grace of God—that had kept Bennett from slipping into shock as well. But he couldn’t just sit there. Shivering and soaked to the bone, he checked on Erin again. She was out—cold, as it were.

  He picked up the radio and pressed send. “Angel One to Base Camp, do you copy? Over.”

  An instant later,
Natasha came on the line. “Base Camp to Angel One. How’s she doing?”

  “She seems to have stabilized.”

  “Should I come back up there to get you guys?”

  Bennett hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew the stakes, and he knew time was running out. But he also knew that if the scroll was still here, it wouldn’t be for long.

  “No, not yet,” he replied.

  “Why?” asked Natasha, worry rising in her voice. “What’s the matter?”

  Bennett paused to catch his breath, then said, “I’m going for it.”

  “You’re gonna do what?”

  But Bennett didn’t respond. He stuffed the radio back into his coat and checked Erin’s temperature again. It was 97.1. Her pulse was improving. Her head was resting on his backpack, and she was wrapped in two thick wool blankets. He gave her a kiss on the forehead and said a brief prayer. Then he scooped up his MP5, double-checked Donovan’s map, and proceeded as rapidly as he could down the tunnel.

  Ten minutes later, as he raced through an ever-narrowing passageway, a cruel thought crossed his mind: Erin’s backpack had had the shovels and the metal detector. So even if he found his way to the right place, even if he found the scroll—which still seemed highly unlikely—what was he supposed to do then? How was he supposed to dig it up? It had been buried for more than two thousand years.

  He shook off the thought and kept moving. He would simply have to blow up that bridge when he came to it.

  The good news: the farther he went, the drier the tunnel got.

  The bad news: it was getting colder—much colder—and his hands and feet were already numb. His gloves were soaked, so he’d left them behind. At least his socks and boots were dry. But he was shivering uncontrollably. He could feel his reflexes growing sluggish, and his head was throbbing.

  And then more bad news: the tunnel abruptly branched off in four directions. Which route did he want? Which route had Donovan and Harkin taken, if they had even made it this far? He pulled the map from his pocket and studied it carefully, but there was no indication of a fork. He had hit another wall. Erin was waiting for him. He didn’t have time to check all these tunnels. He barely had time to check one.