“I beg to differ, Jonathan,” Doron replied, pacing around the roof again. “Really, think about it. Who is going to stop us? All of our major enemies are gone. The world needs our oil. We’re about to see the greatest era of peace and prosperity in the history of the Middle East. As soon as cleanup operations in Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria are completed, we will witness an unprecedented wave of tourism to the Holy Land, the likes of which no one has ever dreamed. We’re already planning for it — new airports, new roads, new hotels, new theaters and convention centers, all financed by the petrodollars that are pouring in right now. The Third Temple will be the main attraction, for Christians and Jews alike. For everyone, really. And that’s just the beginning.”
“Meaning what?” asked Jon.
“Meaning I don’t want us to simply rebuild the Temple. I want to fill it with the lost treasures from the First and Second Temple eras. I want pilgrims to come from all over the world and see ancient biblical history come alive, right before their eyes. I want them to be able to see the past — touch it, experience it — and thus have hope for the future.
“That’s why immediately after the firestorm, I authorized funding for a team of the world’s leading archeologists and experts on the First and Second Temple periods. I asked them to search heaven and earth for the greatest Jewish treasures of the ages. I figured if Eli was right about even a small fraction of what he was saying — if we really are living in what the Scriptures call ‘last days’—then anything’s possible. Maybe the God of Israel is about to reveal that which has been hidden for centuries.”
Bennett’s head swam as he tried to make sense of all that Doron was telling him. “But how is all this related to Dr. Mordechai’s death?” he asked.
“Well, that’s just it,” Doron continued. “About a month ago, I got an update from Mordechai and the team of archeologists I’d put together. They told me they had new leads. The team seemed excited about the progress they were making. And then… ” Doron paused. He shoulders seemed to slump a bit.
“Then what?” asked Bennett.
“And then one by one, the team started dying, starting with Lionel Mansfield, then George Murray, then Barry Jaspers, and now Eli himself.”
Mansfield. The name surprised Bennett, but it registered instantly. Professor Lionel Mansfield was the famed British archeologist from Oxford who had died in a mysterious car accident in London a few weeks earlier. That was the story he’d been trying to remember when he heard about Murray’s death in Washington.
“You think their deaths are related?”
“I’m absolutely sure of it,” said Doron. “They were all part of this clandestine archeological team I put together, and now they’re all dead.”
“What was Dr. Mordechai’s take, before he died?”
“We actually talked about the Mansfield and Murray deaths by phone while he was at your reception,” Doron replied. “He had no doubt the murders were related. He just couldn’t figure out how anyone could have known that both men were part of this team I’d assembled. There’s been no publicity about the Temple project, or the team, or anything. Not yet. Even now, only a handful of people know what we’re up to.”
“Then you’ve got a leak,” said Bennett.
Doron shook his head. “That’s what I said. But Eli said, ‘No, it’s worse than that. It’s not only a leak. People are dying. You’ve got a mole.’ It didn’t seem possible. I personally selected each member of the team. Only a handful of my senior aides knew anything about it. But what else could it be? So I asked Eli to launch a mole hunt the minute he got back from Washington. And now look what’s happened.”
“Was anyone else on this team of archeologists?” asked Bennett.
“Just one,” said Doron. “Yossi Barak over at the Israel Museum.”
“Did you say Barak?”
“Yes, do you know him?” asked Doron.
Break. Brock. Broke. Could that be it — Yossi Barak?
“I’ve never heard of him until now,” said Bennett. “But just before Dr. Mordechai died, he was trying to tell me something. It was hard to hear him. At the time I wasn’t sure what he was saying, but that may have been it. Yossi Barak.”
“That would make sense,” said Doron. “They’ve been friends for years.”
“And who is he?”
“Yossi is the chief archeologist at the Israel Museum. He’s also the head of the Archeology Department at Hebrew University and the world’s leading expert on the Copper Scroll.”
“The what?” asked Bennett.
“The Copper Scroll,” Doron repeated. “Eli never told you about it?”
“No, why? What is it?”
The prime minister pulled out a pen and a small piece of paper, wrote down Barak’s name and private phone numbers, and handed it to Bennett. “Call him. Tell him you need to see him immediately and that I said it’s urgent. He’ll know who you are and why you’re coming. I’ll have a car meet you downstairs.”
Bennett wasn’t sure how to respond. He was still in shock over his mentor’s death. He had a grieving wife to care for, and he was supposed to be on his honeymoon. The last thing he needed to be doing was tracking down a serial killer. But Mordechai’s dying request was that they find whoever was responsible and stop him before something far worse happened, and something told him he’d better move quickly.
18
Khalid Tariq poked his head into the darkened office.
He expected to find President Al-Hassani reviewing his stack of briefing books for the upcoming visit of European Union foreign minister Salvador Lucente. The trip was shaping up to be a critical one. Lucente’s aides were hinting that their boss was bringing a new proposal to discuss but had no other details, and given that Al-Hassani’s own plans were likely to cause a great deal of anxiety in Brussels, they had to be ready.
But Al-Hassani was no longer sitting at his desk. Rather, he had settled into a rocking chair by a crackling fireplace, surrounded by his beloved books. Among them were Churchill’s The Gathering Storm, Gibbon’s The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Tuchman’s The Guns of August, and The United States of Europe: The New Superpower and the End of American Supremacy by former Washington Post reporter T.R. Reid, which Al-Hassani had become fond of quoting of late. Each was dog-eared and on the verge of falling apart, having not just been read but thoroughly devoured by a man desperate to make up for the years Saddam Hussein and his thugs had stolen.
Tonight Al-Hassani’s head was buried in yet another thousand-page tome of some kind, and while Tariq from his vantage point could not see the title, he could see the ubiquitous yellow highlighter in Al-Hassani’s left hand and the steaming cup of cardamom tea in his right. It was an all-too-rare moment of literary solace for a onetime professor so long deprived in prison of the reading materials that had once been his life and who was now once again increasingly deprived of the time with which to enjoy them.
Tariq cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Your Excellency.”
Al-Hassani motioned for his aide to enter, though he remained fixated on the book in his lap. “Khalid, how much do you know of the British monarchs?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Then you must read this when I am finished. Did you know, for example, that at the funeral of England’s King Edward VII in 1910, nine of the kings and queens in attendance were actually related to him?”