“Except for the list of dead bodies,” replied Mitchell. “And the fact that someone does seem to be tracking Jon and Erin Bennett.”
MacPherson looked back down at the names typed, single-spaced, on CIA letterhead. “There’s another possibility here. If there is a mole, it’s possible that it’s not in Doron’s office at all,” he said to no one in particular. “Theoretically, it could be one of our own.”
The room grew icy and still.
Mitchell shifted in his seat. “Yes, sir,” the DCI said at last. “I guess it could.”
MacPherson turned to his chief of staff. “Bob, get the attorney general and the director of the FBI on the phone. I want a lie-detector test given to every American on this list by close of business tomorrow. I want to know who leaked this thing, and if anyone in my government was involved, I promise you, heads will roll.”
49
Natasha led Bennett into the basement.
They flicked on some lights and then entered a storage room, and there in the far corner was a strange machine with all kinds of wires and tubes running in and out of it.
“What is that?” Bennett asked as his eyes adjusted to the harshness of the fluorescent bulbs overhead.
“A laser,” Natasha said as she went over and turned it on.
“It’s huge.”
“It’s industrial strength, top-of-the-line.”
“But why’s it so big?”
“Copper is one of the toughest metals to cut with a laser,” said Natasha. “It’s highly reflective and highly conductive, meaning it can absorb a truckload of heat without melting or cracking, both of which slow down the cutting process. Typically, the less copper an alloy contains, the faster it will cut. But in this case, we’re dealing with extremely pure copper, which means we needed a laser that could operate at 400 watts, rather than the typical 100 to 250 watts. The problem is, 400 watts is a whole lot of energy and creates a whole lot of heat. Making sure the laser — and the scroll — are stable and keeping the laser well cooled and ventilated takes a bit of space.”
“I guess so,” said Bennett. “And you just happened to have one lying around?”
“I told you already,” said Natasha. “My grandfather and I have been making preparations for this for almost three months.”
“Right, but I thought that’s why he had the special saw built at the museum.”
“He did.”
“Then why this?”
“It was my idea,” said Natasha. “I thought I’d play around with it a bit and see if it would work. I asked Miriam if she would get me one, and she agreed.”
“Did you tell her why you needed it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did you tell her about the Key Scroll?”
“Of course not. I just said I needed it for an upcoming project. She said yes. End of story.”
“Did your grandfather know about it?”
“No, I never told him.”
“Why not?”
“You met him,” said Natasha. “He was old-fashioned. He had a certain way of doing things, and that was that. He was in the room when Dr. Baker opened the Copper Scroll in Manchester in 1956. He saw how it was done, so he decided that’s how it should be done. He wasn’t exactly open to new ideas about the latest technology.”
“Not big into lasers, huh?” asked Bennett.
Natasha shook her head. “He never even saw Star Wars.”
Ken Costello kept tossing and turning.
It was only 2 a.m. in Washington, but his body was still on Israel time, and there it was nine in the morning. He was glad to finally be back in his own bed after several wrenching days in Israel, back with his wife, whose pregnancy was just beginning to show. But as she slept soundly, he couldn’t sleep at all. He kept replaying the meeting in the Situation Room over and over in his mind.
How in the world could Mitchell have authorized wiretaps and other electronic surveillance on Israel’s top leaders? How could he have kept all that from the president? Costello could only imagine the political firestorm that would erupt if such information leaked out. Any leverage MacPherson might have over Doron to keep the Temple from being built would fly right out the window.
But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it wasn’t shock he was feeling so much as anger. Had someone at the CIA or NSA leaked Doron’s Temple project? To whom? For what reason? And as much as he wished it weren’t true, Costello couldn’t shake the feeling that it was.
There was no shortage of officials in the American intelligence community opposed to Israel’s plans to rebuild their ancient Temple in Jerusalem. Some opposed the idea for geopolitical reasons, fearing it could trigger another regional war or impede the peace process. Others opposed it on ideological grounds, convinced as they were that religious fundamentalism was at the root of most of the world’s conflicts and thus suspicious if not outright hostile to those who held strong spiritual convictions.
As for himself, Costello didn’t know where he stood. He and Tracy had quietly been studying End Times prophecies for weeks, drawing much of their information from Eli Mordechai’s Web site, as did millions of other curious souls. Though he could never admit it at work, he found himself intrigued by the possibility that major prophecies were coming true in their lifetime and that even bigger ones could be on the way.
Mordechai had taught that the War of Gog and Magog was just the beginning. The Temple would be built next, he explained, whether world leaders wanted it to be or not. And the Rapture could happen at any moment, he warned, followed by the rise of the Antichrist and then the Tribulation. Is that what was really about to happen?
In some ways it seemed so ludicrous. Yet so much of what Mordechai had predicted had already come true. What if the old man was right about the rest, too? And then there was the big question: when Jesus came, would Costello be allowed to meet Him in the air, or was he in danger of being lost? Costello wondered. And what about Tracy? Would they go to heaven together or suffer seven years of hell on earth, if they even made it that long?
Such were the questions that weighed on him these days, but he could not make up his mind. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t seem to take the leap of faith required to become a true, devoted follower of Christ. The notion of being “born again” was just a little too much for him. And yet the words of the Bible seemed to haunt him. “He who has the Son, has eternal life; he who does not have the Son of God does not have the life… . Now is the day of salvation… . Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me.”
Suddenly, Costello heard someone pounding downstairs. Then the doorbell rang. It wasn’t spiritual. It wasn’t metaphoric. There was actually someone at his front door. Startled, he put on his glasses and ran downstairs in his boxer shorts and T-shirt. He peered through the curtains. It was a courier. At this hour? He opened the door.
The courier was a tall black man in a large blue parka. “Are you Mr. Kenneth Costello?”
“I am.”
“You ordered a ‘rush’ job from the Library of Congress?”
“I did.”
“Sorry it’s so late, but I got here as fast as I could,” said the man. “Sign here.”
Costello scribbled his name, took the large sealed envelope, and closed the door. Next, he went into the kitchen, flicked on some lights, turned on the coffeepot, and ripped open the package. Inside was a note from the chief librarian—“As requested”—along with a first edition of the book that Costello had a hunch was going to occupy the rest of his day. He stared at the cover.