The situation was far worse than Razak had imagined. Tensions were
already running high between the Israelis and Palestinians. Both Hamas
and Hezbollah had garnered much support over the past few years in their
efforts to outwardly oppose Israeli occupation and this incident would
surely bolster their political agenda. Razak tried to not think about even
more drastic consequences that were likely to occur. The Waqf was now
stuck in the middle of a very precarious political situation—one that felt
impossibly fragile to Razak. “So what do you wish of me?” he asked, looking round the table.
“Determine who stole the relic,” replied the soft-toned elder. “We need
to know who committed this act so justice can be served. Our people deserve an explanation as to why such a sacred place has been so maliciously
violated.”
In the ensuing silence Razak could hear the taunting, muffled sounds
of protestors through the window, like voices from the grave. “I’ll do
whatever’s necessary,” he assured them. “First I’ll need to see where this
happened.”
Farouq rose to his feet. “I’ll take you there now.”
4
******
Vatican City
Charlotte Hennesey was battling the unforgiving eight-hour time difference, and three espressos earlier that morning hadn’t helped to settle her. As instructed, she was waiting in her guest suite until summoned. Unlike the limousine and first-class service that had whisked her from Phoenix to Rome, her accommodation at the Vatican City’s Domus Sanctae Marthae residence hall was austere. White walls, simple oak furniture, twin bed and nightstand, though she did have her own bathroom and a small refrigerator. Seated at the sun-filled window, she gazed out over the tiled roofs of Rome’s western sprawl. Having finished her novel on the plane—Anne Tyler’s Saint Maybe—she’d now had to settle for the English edition of L’Osservatore Romano, reading it from cover to cover. Sighing, she set the paper down and looked over at the nightstand’s digital alarm clock—3:18. She was anxious to get to work, but wondered what purpose an American geneticist could possibly serve here. As the head of research and development at BioMapping Solutions, Charlotte typically made off-site visits to pharmaceutical and biotech companies looking to apply the latest discoveries in the human genome to their research.
It was her boss, BMS founder Evan Aldrich, who had taken the call al
most two weeks ago from a Vatican cleric named Father Patrick Donovan. Having heard the priest’s compelling proposal, Aldrich had volunteered her services for a highly secretive project. Few things could divert Evan Aldrich from his work, especially when the request required him to hand over his best researcher.
Clearly this was one of them.
At thirty-two, Charlotte was a lithe five-nine with striking emerald green eyes and a smooth, healthily tanned face framed by shoulder length curls of chestnut hair. With a rare balance of intellect and charm, she’d become her company’s chosen spokesperson for an industry typified by gray scientists. Human genetics was often misunderstood and always controversial. With BMS aggressively promoting its latest gene-mapping technology, the right public image was important.
Recently she had added media appearances to her arsenal of talents— talk shows and news programs. Aldrich had told her that the Vatican priest mentioned seeing one of her most recent interviews concerning the reconstruction of maternal lineage through mapping mitochondrial DNA, prompting his request for her services.
Now that her time was split between research and public relations, she wondered exactly what role she’d be asked to play here. After all, the conservative papacy was surely not one of her biggest supporters.
Her thoughts drifted back to Evan Aldrich.
Aldrich had abruptly shifted his career ten years ago, abandoning his secure tenure as a Harvard professor of genetic science to enter the uncertain world of business. And he had handled the switch brilliantly. Not for the first time, Charlotte mused about what made Evan tick. Not money, though when BMS eventually went public he would make a great deal of it. What really drove the man was his sense of purpose, his belief that the work they did and the choices they made really mattered. It was his passion and genuine charisma that first attracted her to him. The fact that she thought he looked like a movie star didn’t hurt either.
Almost a year ago, she and Evan had begun dating, both very cautious about the potential work-related conflicts such a relationship might bring about. But if there could exist a natural fit between two people, Charlotte had certainly found it—like the inevitable laws of physics she found herself hopelessly drawn to him. Only four months ago, things between them seemed perfect.
Then fate decided to throw a curveball at her.
A routine blood test taken during her annual physical detected abnormally high protein levels in her blood. Further testing followed that included a painful bone biopsy. Finally came the devastating diagnosis: multiple myeloma.
Bone cancer.
At first, she was angry. After all, she was practically a vegetarian, rarely drank, and exercised like a fiend. It just didn’t make sense, especially because at the time, she felt perfectly fine.
That wasn’t the case now. Just a week earlier, she began taking Melphalan—her first round of low-dose chemotherapy. Now she felt like she was battling a permanent hangover, complete with intermittent waves of nausea.
She didn’t have the heart to tell Evan. Not yet, at least. He had already been talking about a more permanent future, even kids. None of that seemed possible now and it crushed her. Over the past few weeks, she had grown more despondent. In all fairness to him, she needed to be absolutely certain that she would be among the ten percent who actually beat this disease before she could commit to anything more serious.
A discreet knock pulled Charlotte from her thoughts.
Reaching the door in four strides, she opened it to see a bespectacled bald man barely her height, dressed in a black suit and shirt. His complexion was smooth and pale. Maybe in his late forties or early fifties, she guessed. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the white priest collar.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Hennesey. I’m Father Patrick Donovan.” His English was flavored with an Irish brogue. Smiling pleasantly, he extended a thin hand.
My Vatican admirer, she thought. “A pleasure to meet you, Father.”
“I so much appreciate your patience. I apologize for the delay. Shall we go?”
“Yes, of course.”
5
******
Temple Mount
Deep beneath Temple Mount, Razak and Farouq stood amidst the rubblestrewn floor of the Marwani Mosque. As the Keeper had indicated, the damage to the site had been considerable, yet contained. Pole-mounted spotlights had been erected to illuminate a gaping hole in the rear wall about a meter-and-a-half in diameter. On seeing it, Razak felt his stomach twist into a knot.
The first time he had seen this place was in the late 1990s. Back then, rubble and debris had completely filled the space, floor to ceiling. But that was before the Israeli government had allowed the Waqf to initiate excavation and restoration. In exchange, Jewish archaeologists had been permitted to excavate the Western Wall tunnel—an underground passage far beneath the buildings of the Muslim Quarter, connecting the southern Western Wall Plaza to the Via Dolorosa on the embankment’s northwest corner. As usual it was a compromise that wasn’t without bloodshed. Riots had broken out between Palestinians and Israelis opposing the excavations, resulting in the deaths of over seventy soldiers and civilians, including Razak’s closest friend, Ghalib, who vehemently opposed Israeli digging beneath his home that abutted the Temple Mount’s western retaining wall.