“Call to Me and I will answer you, and I will tell you great and mighty things, which you do not know.” Mordechai’s verse came back to mind. It had worked before. Maybe the Lord would bless him again. God certainly knew where the scroll was. And didn’t Jesus say, “Seek and you will find”? There was no time like the present.
He set the gun down and got on his knees to pray. When he opened his eyes again, he noticed dead ahead of him small bits of dried mud in almost a zigzag pattern. Curious, he picked up several pieces and examined them more closely. They were from the tread of a boot. Someone had been here before. Not in the last few minutes, but a whole lot more recently than two thousand years ago. Could Donovan and Harkin have made it this far? Could these be their boot prints? Who else could possibly have been down here? A smile crossed his face for the first time in days.
“Thank you, Father,” he whispered.
Then he grabbed the MP5 again and followed the prints. He heard the noise of a helicopter overhead. It sounded military—an Apache. Were the Israelis on to them? It didn’t really matter, he realized. There was nothing he could do about it now. He had to keep moving.
Bennett pressed ahead another two hundred yards before coming to another fork. He stopped again, caught his breath, and double-checked the map and his watch. None of these forks were marked, but the map did indicate that the spring waters of the Yarmuk River were nearby, and the markings on the map seemed to indicate that the ancient smuggler tunnels followed the path of the underground springs to the river itself.
He closed his eyes and strained to listen to every sound. The helicopter had briefly passed out of range, and now he noticed that through the smaller of the two tunnel branches he could hear the ever-so-faint sound of water trickling in the distance. That had to be it. He crawled into the small tunnel and before long was scrambling down a muddy embankment. The only way forward was through more icy waters. But at least he’d found the river, and his heart was racing. He had to be incredibly close now.
* * *
“Angel One to Base Camp, over.”
“Base Camp, over,” said Natasha. She heard the strain in her voice. She was increasingly fearful of getting caught.
“You still with me?” asked Bennett.
“Absolutely. What do you need?”
“What’s it looking like up there?”
“Not good,” she admitted. “There are now three choppers in the air—no, wait, there’s a fourth. They’re passing by every few minutes. I think they’re on to us. You need to get Er—Angel Two out of there now.”
“Any boots on the ground?”
Natasha picked up her pair of night-vision binoculars and scanned the horizon.
“There was a patrol that went by about forty-five minutes ago. I don’t see anything else at the moment.”
“What about the radios?”
“They’re using encrypted channels. The police bands have been pretty quiet. How much longer?”
“I don’t know,” said Bennett. “Just start thinking about how we get Angel Two out of here.”
“Will do,” she said, but the truth was, she had no idea.
* * *
It suddenly dawned on Bennett how much danger he was in.
His wife was battling hypothermia, as was he. But rather than getting either of them back to safety, he was advancing deep into the demilitarized zone between Israel and Syria, moving under an active minefield, almost to a waterfall on the border with Syria, with Israeli gunships buzzing overhead, hunting a treasure that almost no one on the planet believed actually existed.
Some honeymoon.
The tunnel now narrowed sharply to a small hole in the granite floor. Bennett tossed a rock into the hole to gauge its depth, then pointed the flashlight of the MP5 to see what was down there.
No rodents. No vipers. Just a claustrophobic’s nightmare.
He lowered himself into the hole, then dropped to his belly and crawled forward about twenty or thirty yards. He soon found himself crawling through a partially collapsed tunnel, and when he came around the next corner, he thought his heart would stop.
He was staring into a man’s eyes.
46
THURSDAY, JANUARY 15 – 9:07 p.m. – THE GOLAN HEIGHTS
Eye sockets, to be more precise.
Bennett shuddered. Not six inches from his face a skull stared back at him, and scattered behind it were shattered pieces of bone and electronics and small shreds of clothing. He pushed the skull aside and pulled himself into the slightly larger tunnel. To one side, he found a CIA-issue sidearm. A few feet away he found the dead man’s wallet. He took a deep breath and opened it.
The credit cards and the Continental Airlines ID gave the name Marcus T. Morelli, as did the Virginia driver’s license. But the face was Ray Donovan’s. He recognized Donovan immediately from the photo his brother had included in the materials he’d sent to Mordechai, and shuddered. No wonder the Agency had never found him. He’d been blown up by an underground land mine.
Bennett picked through the mangled metal device and scorched pieces of wiring scattered about. Might there be more mines down here?
He stuffed the wallet into his pocket and kept moving, crawling into an antechamber another dozen yards ahead. This room seemed much bigger than the last one, and the sound of the distant helicopter was much louder here. Looking around, Bennett realized that this once-hidden antechamber was now partially exposed to the northeast. The far side of the room had collapsed at some point, leaving a small mountain of rock and dirt in the center of the room. He would have to move fast. He couldn’t stay exposed here for long.
He looked at the floor again and found more bones. Unlike the first pile, though, these formed an intact skeleton.
The man’s clothes had largely been eaten away by rats and other rodents, as had, presumably, his flesh. But Bennett had no doubt who it was.
Sure enough, he quickly found a moldy leather wallet. Again the credit cards and various IDs were all in the names of an alias. But it was Harkin, all right. How had he died? Bennett wondered. He knelt down to examine the remains and found two bullet holes in the skull—one in the back down by the base of the neck, the other dead center in the deceased’s forehead. Harkin had been murdered, senselessly killed at the age of twenty-five. But by whom? Had somebody known they were coming, or had Harkin been cut down by a Syrian sniper? Bennett wondered whether the tunnel had been partially collapsed when Donovan and Harkin had come here. Maybe a sniper had seen Harkin, his attention drawn by the sound of the land mine exploding.
Thunder rumbled through the night sky, and again Bennett realized he would have to hurry if he wanted to avoid Harkin’s fate. There were two shovels near the mound of dirt and rock in the center of the room, undisturbed by time. That must be where they had been digging.
His heart accelerated. As terrible as he felt for what had happened to these two men, he was suddenly oddly grateful for their sacrifice and for the clues they had left behind for Mordechai and thus for him. They had come so far and gotten so close, and now he was about to discover what they had not—whether this really was the final resting place of the Key Scroll.
He peeked out the gaping hole to the northeast and scanned for signs of life but saw nothing. He could hear the choppers not far away, and he knew that U.N. relief forces were operating nearby. But the chances that they would hear him had to be minimal, he figured, so he grabbed a shovel and began to dig.
* * *
“Jack Knife to Black Box.”
“Black Box, go.”
“I’ve got something.”
Excitement spread through Mariano’s team.
“What is it?”
“Movement to the southwest, half a click from the old Syrian bunker.”
“How many?”
“Looks like just one, sir. He’s inside the collapsed tunnel. Hold on. Let me see if I can get a better angle.”
“No, don’t move,” Mariano ordered. “Nothing that could
attract attention. Nomad, can you see anything from your position?”
“No, sir.”
“What about—?”
But before Mariano could finish the thought, his lead sniper broke back in.
“Jack Knife to Black Box, he just moved into plain view.”
“Who is it? Can you see?”
“Negative. It’s too dark.”
“Is it Bennett?” Mariano pressed.
“I can’t tell. But he’s definitely alone—and he’s digging.”
Mariano couldn’t believe it. Their inside source had come through for them again, giving them exact coordinates of where the Bennetts were headed, and just in time.
Then Jack Knife radioed again. “I’ve got a clear shot,” he told Mariano. “Should I take it?”
“What’s he doing now?” Mariano asked.
“Digging furiously,” came the reply. “But I’ve still got a shot. Should I take it?”
* * *
Bennett struck metal.
Exhausted, he nevertheless dug faster. The exercise was, after all, helping to warm his frozen body a little, and he was thrilled beyond belief at the possibility of what he was about to find. Soon he had uncovered a small trunk, which he promptly yanked from the ground. The lid was stuck. Bennett pulled a knife from his pocket.
* * *
Again Mariano’s radio crackled to life.
“I have the shot,” said Jack Knife. “I repeat, I have the shot. Can I take it?”
“Hold one, Jack Knife, hold one,” Mariano barked into the radio.
He pulled out his satphone and speed-dialed Farouk.
“We’ve got him,” he said the moment Farouk answered.
“Who?”
“Bennett. One of my men has him in his sights. What do you want to do?”
“Are you with him?”
“No, no, he’s on the Syrian side. I’m on the Israeli side. But I’ve got him on the other line, and he needs authorization, fast.”
Mariano’s radio came to life. It was Jack Knife again.
“He’s got something.”
“Hold on, Mr. Farouk,” said Mariano, grabbing the radio. “What have you got, Jack Knife?”
“He’s got something—it’s in his hands.”
“What—what is it?”
“It’s a box of some kind.”
“What’s he doing?”
“He’s trying to pry it open.”
Farouk was screaming on the other end of the line, demanding to know what was happening. Mariano explained while Jack Knife fed him second-by-second updates.
“He’s got it open,” said the sniper.
“He’s got it open,” Mariano repeated into the phone. “What do you want me to do, Mr. Farouk? Do we take him out? I need to know now.”
* * *
Bennett had no idea that his head was centered in a sniper’s scope.
All he could think of was the scroll in his hands. It was small and metal—probably copper, like the other—oxidized and encrusted with twenty centuries of dirt and filth. He had no idea how they were going to get it open. It felt as though it could disintegrate into a fine powder at any moment. Something to worry about later. For now he had to get back to Erin and get both of them out of there alive.
* * *
“Where are you?” asked Farouk.
“Tiberias.”
“How long will it take you and your team to get into the Golan?”
“Another twenty or thirty minutes—why?”
“Get moving, now,” said Farouk. “I’ll explain while you’re en route.”
Mariano was beside himself. “Fine, but what do I tell my man? He’s got the shot. I say he should take it.”
* * *
“Angel One to Base Camp, the eagle has landed.”
Natasha heard the words but couldn’t believe them.
“Base Camp to Angel One, come again?” Natasha asked, her voice trembling with emotion.
“The eagle has landed,” Bennett repeated. “I’m coming home.”
* * *
Jack Knife steadied his rifle and adjusted his scope.
He had to account for the strong breeze now picking up through the valley. He would likely have only one shot, and he had to get it right.
* * *
Farouk finally made the call.
“Tell your man to hold his fire,” he ordered.
“What?” said Mariano, apoplectic.
“Tell your man not to shoot.”
“Why not? We may not get another chance like this.”
“It’s the scroll I want, not the Bennetts,” Farouk growled.
“We can do both,” Mariano insisted. “Let me take this guy out, and I’ll go into the tunnel and recover the scroll myself.”
“No,” said Farouk. “It’s too risky. You start shooting and that whole mountain is going to be teeming with special forces. You’ll never get another chance to get in there.”
Mariano couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But if they get it—”
Farouk cut him off. “Then we’ll follow them.”
“What if they take the scroll to the authorities?” asked Mariano, nearly ready to authorize Jack Knife to take the shot anyway.
“Haven’t you been listening to the news?” Farouk demanded. “The Bennetts are wanted for murder. They’re not going to the authorities.”
“They could cut a deal.”
“Then we’ll cut their throats.”
“When?” Mariano wanted to know, eager to do the job himself.
“After they lead us to the treasures,” said Farouk. “Let them get the scroll out of the tunnels. Then follow them. If they head to the police station, kill them. But I guarantee you, that’s not going to happen. They want the treasure. That’s what they’re going after. After all, it’s the only leverage they can use to stay out of prison.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“And think about it, Viggo,” Farouk added. “Who is more likely to decode the scroll—the Barak woman and the Bennetts, or you?”
47
FRIDAY, JANUARY 16 – 6:46 a.m. – TIBERIAS, ISRAEL
Erin had no idea where she was.
She stared up at a ceiling fan for almost five minutes before she noticed it wasn’t spinning. Slowly, painfully, she turned her head to the right. All she found was wallpaper she didn’t recognize. When she finally turned all the way to the left, she found a small night table, a lamp that was off, and a digital alarm clock that told her it was morning, though of what day she hadn’t the foggiest idea.
A few minutes later, she noticed the electric blankets wrapped around her and the needle stuck in her arm, attached by a tube to a bag of fluid hanging from the bedpost. She noticed that her feet were wrapped in thick bandages. Slowly she began to remember flashes of the cave, the water, Jon’s face, Jon and Natasha pulling her out of the tunnel and putting her in the back of the SUV. But no sooner did it all register than she once again drifted away into a long and dreamless sleep.
* * *
Bennett stepped out of another long, hot shower.
As he dressed, he tried to clear his head and think about the next steps, but it was still almost impossible to believe that they had all made it this far. He checked in on Erin. Her pulse and temperature were both back to normal. Breathing a sigh of relief, he kissed her on the cheek and went down to the kitchen to make some coffee.
It was going to be a long day.
Downstairs, Bennett found Natasha hard at work at the kitchen table, tools and brushes and bottles of solvent spread everywhere.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Slow,” said Natasha. “I’ve been up all night with it.”
“Well, not to put any pressure on you or anything, but you are aware that the entire Israeli police force is hunting us down, right?”
Natasha was not amused. She set down the small toothbrush she was using to clean the outside of the scroll and looked Benne
tt in the eye. “We only get one shot at this, you know? One wrong move and this thing will turn to chalk dust faster than you can blink. Okay?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just worried about Erin, for starters.”
“Me too,” said Natasha, accepting his apology. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
“I know,” he said, rifling through the cabinets to find something to eat.
“Third door on your right,” Natasha said as she focused again on her work.
Bennett opened the cupboard door and found a box of granola. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. But there’s no milk.”
“No milk?”
“No. Well, there was, but it had gone bad. I poured it out.”
His stomach growled.
“There are some eggs in the fridge,” Natasha added.
“Any bacon?” he asked, pulling the refrigerator door open.
“Very funny,” said Natasha. “You’re in Israel, remember? Not a big market for bacon here, you know?”
“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. He couldn’t let the stress eat him alive. There was too much at stake. “How about if I make us some fried eggs and toast?”
Natasha looked up. “That’d be nice. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said, pulling out pans and firing up the stove. “So how much more time do you think you’ll need?”
“You’d better pray that I’m faster than Baker was,” Natasha replied.
“Who?”
“Dr. H. Wright Baker.”
“Who’s that?”
“He was a professor of mechanical engineering at the University of Manchester Institute of Science and Technology in England. He was the one who finally came up with the solution to opening the Copper Scroll without destroying it.”
The Copper Scroll Page 21
