As they probed still deeper, their minds could barely comprehend what their eyes were seeing. Before them now stood the golden altar of the Temple and a pair of sculptured cherubim overlaid with gold. Their eyes went wide and their mouths grew parched. They didn’t know what to say and probably could not have gotten the words out anyway. Could these be the very ones that King Solomon had ordered built, Bennett wondered, the ones of which it was said in 2 Chronicles 3, “Then he made two sculptured cherubim in the room of the holy of holies and overlaid them with gold,” with a “wingspan” of “twenty cubits”?
It didn’t seem possible. And yet there it was. Illuminated by the flickering flames of the torches, the rooms glowed with the reflected glory of a lost world, now resurrected. The beauty and craftsmanship of the objects were beyond compare.
Jon and Erin wanted to touch everything, to feel the gold between their fingers, to reconnect in some small way with Levitical priests whose hands had last touched these precious artifacts two millennia before. But the truth was they were both scared, as well. Men had been hunting for these treasures throughout the ages, and now here they were, standing amid the greatest fortune man had ever amassed and willingly handed over to a God they could not see. And suddenly they felt unworthy even to be in its presence.
“I should find Natasha,” Erin whispered.
“Good idea,” Bennett whispered back. “I’ll go with you.”
“No,” she said. “You should stay here. Start taking pictures. The Copper Scroll doesn’t begin to do this justice.”
68
Erin grabbed a torch and her Uzi.
She aimed them both down the tunnel. She was largely confident they were alone. But Langley training dies hard, and she took her time until she was sure.
Bennett, meanwhile, fished through the backpacks.
He pulled out a notebook and a digital camera and began taking pictures of everything. In one room his eyes locked on a small box — about the size of a jewelry box — made of gold and studded with diamonds but covered with centuries of dust and cobwebs. Not sure why he was drawn to it when far greater treasures lay all around him, he nevertheless carefully reached down to pick up the box and dust it off. He tried to open its lid but found it stuck — sealed, it appeared, with a strange combination of wax and tar.
He pulled out his pocketknife, scraped away the tar, and finally pried it open. Inside was a clay jar roughly the size of a soda can, with a clay lid also smothered in wax and tar. Again he used his knife to pry off the lid, which he then set down on a pile of golden bowls. With his left hand, he tilted the jar to the side.
Into his right hand there slid a scroll — rectangular, about six inches long, three inches wide, and a quarter of an inch thick. But it was not made of papyrus, or animal skins, or even copper. This scroll was made of gold.
Bennett’s hands began to tremble. He set down the jar, wiped his left hand on his pants, and carefully cleaned off the surface of the scroll. Engraved on its face was lettering in what seemed to be a bizarre combination of Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek letters, laced with yet another alphabet, none of which he could read. Like the Copper Scroll, it appeared to be a list of some kind, this one bearing seven entries. And then he turned it over.
He gasped, for on the back of the scroll was an etching of the Ark of the Covenant. Even in miniature, it was gorgeous, far more beautiful and detailed than anything he’d ever seen in books or the movies, and he couldn’t take his eyes off it.
The Hebrew Ark. The most sought-after religious artifact in history. And the most dangerous. Could what he was holding in his hands possibly be a clue to where it now rested? He could only imagine the uproar that would be sparked around the globe simply by the unveiling of the Temple treasures. How much more tumult would the discovery of the Ark bring about?
Bennett’s quivering hands slowly closed over the golden scroll. He needed Erin and Natasha.
Erin stared at the trail of blood.
And the broken flashlight, covered with bloody fingerprints.
“Natasha,” she yelled, but there was no answer.
Erin sprinted into the tunnel another hundred yards and finally found her new friend crumpled against a wall. She set down her Uzi and felt for Natasha’s pulse. It was weak but still there. Natasha was breathing, but blood was everywhere. Erin shouted for Jon; then she leaned down and checked Natasha’s pupils. They were dilated and unresponsive.
“Natasha,” she said gently. “Natasha, it’s me, Erin. Can you hear me? Move your fingers if you can hear me.”
There was no movement. She called for Jon again. He didn’t respond.
“Lord Jesus, please, please have mercy on this girl,” Erin prayed. “I know how much you love her, and I pray that you would have mercy on her, Father. Let her live. Please, let her live. I can’t take any more death. There’s been too much dying, too much pain. Please, Father, spare her. Spare us, too. I pray in the name of Jesus. Amen.”
Erin opened her eyes. Natasha’s face was white as a sheet.
“Natasha, I want you to hold on, okay? Can you hear me? I want you to hold on. I’m going to get Jon. I’ll be right back.”
Bennett heard Erin shouting.
He set down his camera, grabbed his Uzi, and raced to find her, nearly running into her as she reentered the main antechamber. He could see the panic in her eyes and instantly knew what had happened.
“Is she still alive?” he asked.
“Barely,” said Erin. “Two shots. One to the stomach. One to the shoulder. We need to get her out of here now.”
But her words had barely registered when they heard the pump action of a shotgun.
“That may not be possible,” said a man’s voice neither of them recognized.
Bennett looked over Erin’s shoulder in disbelief. Beyond the mountain of gold coins beside them he could see someone in the shadows near the entrance. Someone who was holding a double-barreled shotgun aimed at their heads.
Bennett glanced back at Erin. He knew what she was thinking. But there was no way. He shook his head ever so slightly, just enough so she’d get the idea without drawing the gunman’s fire.
“Set your weapons down slowly, both of you,” said the man. “Then put your hands in the air and turn around.”
“Who are you?” Bennett asked as he and Erin both lowered their Uzis to the floor.
“I am your executioner.”
Bennett didn’t wait for confirmation. He grabbed Erin, threw her to the left, then dove to the right, behind a mountain of gold coins.
The shotgun blast was deafening. Then came another. Both missed narrowly, but coins flew everywhere, forcing the gunman to duck. Erin scrambled for cover in one of the back rooms, then drew her Beretta. Bennett, meanwhile, reversed direction, grabbed one of the Uzis off the floor, and dove into the next room behind Erin.
Another shotgun blast. Another near miss. The man was closer now. Bennett checked the magazine and found it half empty.
Erin peeked around the corner.
That drew another blast. She waited a beat, then checked again. This time the gunman was coming in fast. She fired off three rounds. Two went wide but the third hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him against a wall.
Erin caught Jon’s eye and nodded. He took the cue, pivoted around the corner, and fired off two rapid bursts. The killer wasn’t there, but his blood was splattered everywhere.
Erin took another quick glance. The tunnel was clear. She motioned to Jon to move on the count of three. She held up one finger, then another. On the third they both burst into the open, guns blazing, but the man was still nowhere to be found.