Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) (29 page)

“Why don’t we substitute another roll of parchment at
Caesarea
? Maybe we could be gone by the time they caught onto the switch.”

I managed a smile. “I trust you have a few old parchments around the apartment. I forgot to bring any more with me.”

“What about some heavy paper? I could write a bit of Hebrew on it. I’m sure Cohen would help. These guys are intelligence types. They aren’t archeologists.”

“True. But they aren’t dummies, either. You told me Levin would be a tough nut to crack. He’ll know the difference between a roll of paper and an ancient parchment scroll. Fact is, so would my next door neighbor.”

“Okay. It was a lousy idea.”

I sighed. “Maybe so, but I appreciate the motive behind it.”

We drove up the coastal highway past Netanya, where Jill and I had spent our last night in
Israel
less than a week ago. We had a fourth floor room with a small balcony that looked out on the blue
Mediterranean
. A cool breeze blew across the balcony and we huddled arm-in-arm as the sun lowered itself toward the sea, a fiery ball that looked as if it would create a cloud of steam when it sank. Jill talked about the trip, the thrill of walking where Jesus had walked.

             
She said, “I don’t think I’ve been that moved since the day you asked me to marry you.”

We made love passionately that night. I could feel the warmth of her body against mine now, though all I saw through the windshield was the chill of a rain-splattered highway. I tried to concentrate on the job ahead as Colonel Jarvis steered the Cherokee toward
Caesarea
. To stay focused I rechecked the little Beretta, popped up the barrel, checked the clip, carefully lowered the hammer to half-cock.

Just south of the old Phoenician
port
of
Dor
, we turned on the road to Zichron Yaakov, which would lead us to Kibbutz Kerem. Jake told us Baron Edmund de Rothschild had bought up a large area a hundred years ago. He’d hired French agronomists to plant vineyards, and it had developed into one of the country’s major wine production centers, with the largest Israeli winery located here. The area lay along the southern edge of
Mount Carmel
, with the
port
of
Haifa
to the north.

“Never mind the travelogue, Jake,” I said, my nerves shredding. “Let’s concentrate on finding Jill.”

Sitting in the back seat, Jake shrugged. “Kerem spreads across a hillside, lots of grapes.”

“Does it have a fence around it?” Jarvis asked.

“Right. The place is ringed by steel fencing. The old kibbutzim were surrounded by walls.”

“How about the road, does it run along the bottom of the hill?” I asked.

“That’s where the main entrance is located. I think there’s another near the crest, maybe at one side. It’s probably used by trucks and farm equipment.”

Jarvis looked around as the road began to wind its way uphill. “Where’s the winery?”

“Just off the main road. There’s a parking area in front.”

“Our best bet would probably be to go in and look around,” I said. “See who’s available to provide some answers.”

“Why don’t you two wander about asking touristy questions,” Jake said, “and I’ll try to find someone who can provide a little inside information.”

“Jake?” I turned to look at him.

“Yeah, Greg.”

“I got scratchy back there. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

The highway ran through a wooded area, something rare in most parts of the
Holy Land
, and as we rounded a sharp curve the Kibbutz Kerem sign suddenly appeared at the side of the road. It announced the winery entrance one kilometer ahead on the left. Symmetrical rows of grape arbors stretched up the hillside before us. Small houses clustered beyond the vineyards, next to a few larger structures Jake said would be the dining hall and administrative buildings. The winery was nestled among some trees a short distance away, flanked by a graveled parking area. Only a handful of vehicles were parked near the building. Dusk had arrived early, the setting sun hidden by a sky that was gray and overcast. The Jeep’s headlights flashed across a sign that showed a
5:30 p.m.
closing.

“If we’re going to come up with something,” I said, “we’d better do it in a hurry.”

Outside, the place had a rustic look, but when we strolled through the door, we found ourselves inside a surprisingly large and modern retail store. Wines of various varieties and vintages were attractively displayed on racks. Books, brochures, glasses, corkscrews and other paraphernalia were arranged on tables. A bar at one side was set up for tasting. Judging from the signs, one of Kerem’s claims to fame was an extra-sweet Kiddush wine used for Jewish blessings on various occasions.

We saw no more than half a dozen people wandering about the place. As the colonel and I headed for the bar, Jake strolled toward the wine racks where a thinly-bearded man appeared to be restocking.

A few stools sat in front of a dark wood bar. The counter top was Formica. Thin-stemmed glasses stood on their heads at one end, with a selection of wine bottles arrayed to the side. A young couple sat at the bar, sniffing, sipping and doing all those things I suppose one does in judging a wine. The bartender wore a look of anticipation as he poured wine into a glass.

“Be with you in a moment,” he said to Jake and me.

“I like this one,” the woman said in English. I wondered if they were tourists. “It has a robust flavor but a delicate bouquet.”

I wasn’t up on wine talk. Jill was the wine buyer. I liked something white and sweetish.

“We’ll take two,” her companion said. The man behind the bar pulled two bottles from beneath the counter and placed them in a plastic bag. He charged their credit card, handed over their order and moved down to us.

“We’ll be closing shortly,” he said in an apologetic tone. “What can I show you?”

We had been looking at the list on a board behind the bar and Jarvis spoke up first. “How about the Riesling?”

“That’s a favorite with Israelis.” The bartender set a glass in front of him and poured a small amount from the bottle. He turned to me. “And you?”

“Let’s try the Zinfandel,” I said. It was one Jill liked.

As he poured, I looked up innocently. “Is it too late for touring? I wanted to see the vineyards. I’m interested in growing grapes.”

“Visitors aren’t allowed in the vineyards,” he said. “With the weather like it is, you would be a muddy mess anyway. Come back another time and we’ll show you through the winery. There’s a big window over there where you can see some of the process.” He pointed across the room, squinting. “That looks like the vineyard superintendent in there now.”

I could see several large gray vats and a stack of wooden barrels. Two men stood in front of the vats talking. I sipped the wine.

Jarvis looked up at the bartender. “You sound like an American. Where are you from?”

“I
was
Canadian.
Toronto
. I’m an Israeli now.”

“Did you start out here as a volunteer?”

“Yes. I did a probationary period, then became a member. Where is your home?”

“
Indianapolis
, originally. But that was a long time ago. I work at the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv.” Jarvis swallowed the last of the Riesling. “Have you run into an American woman who just arrived at the kibbutz in the past few days?”

There was a shift in the man’s eyes from Jarvis to me and back. The guarded look told me a lot. As an agent, I had learned a concept called NLP, or Neuro-Linguistic Programming, that helped identify deception through eye movement cues. I knew his next statement would be a lie.

“I am not aware of any such person. If you’re talking about a volunteer, I don’t know of any joining us in the past week or so.”

I pushed my glass back, thanked the bartender and turned to Jarvis. “Let’s go take a peek at the winery.”

“Did you believe him?” The colonel murmured as we strolled across toward the large window.

“He was lying. Jill is here.” And something gave me an odd sensation that we were close.

A door stood beside the window that offered a view into the winery. As we approached it, a tall, lanky man dressed in work clothes and an orange baseball cap walked out and turned toward the rear of the store.

“Pardon me,” I said, stopping him.

He turned, a questioning look on his face. “Yes?”

“I’m interested in growing grapes,” I said, smiling. “Are you the vineyard superintendent?”

“I am.” He was a raw-boned man in his fifties.

“Can I ask a few questions about your operation?”

“If you’ve a mind to.” He sounded British. His dark eyes had a look of forbearance.

“How large are your vineyards,” I asked.

“Sixteen hectares.”

“What’s that in acres?”

“Around forty,” Jarvis said.

I nodded. “I guess it keeps you quite busy at harvest time.”

“We gather seven tons every other day.”

“That much? Do you have a machine to pick them?”

“No. We do it by hand.”

“You must put everybody to work picking,” Jarvis said.

“Quite a lot.”

“Could I use tractors to haul the grapes?” I asked.

“Of course. We use tractors with other crops as well as the grapes.”

“Could I drive one through my vineyards?”

“Only in a few places. The rows are planted too close to accommodate a tractor.”

Just then we heard the bearded bartender call out, “It’s closing time. If you want to make a purchase, please bring it to the bar now.” When he spoke in Hebrew, I presumed he was repeating what he had just said in English.

I looked around to see Jake Cohen hurrying toward us. He looked excited.

Behind me I heard the vineyard superintendent’s voice saying, “I will return for you shortly.” Turning, I saw he was talking through the doorway to the man inside the winery. Then he scooted off toward the back of the store.

“What’s up?” Colonel Jarvis asked Jake.

“Wait till we get outside,” he said. When we reached the parking lot, he flashed a big grin. “The guy I talked to is a volunteer. He’s only been here a few months. I told him I was a tour guide and was interested in learning more about the kibbutz. When I asked if they had an ambulance, he said they did but apparently didn’t use it much. Then he added that they might have to if somebody got contaminated by chemicals.”

“What did he mean by that?” Jarvis asked.

“Some kind of agricultural spray. An insecticide, I imagine. He said it had been spilled in the old vineyard superintendent’s house near the back gate. A danger sign had been posted a couple of days ago. Nobody was allowed near the place.”

Jarvis looked at me and I nodded. “Jill for sure. Did he say where the back gate was located?”

“No. But he mentioned a vineyard access road. I gather it goes around the perimeter.”

I figured it was now or never.

“Let’s find it,” I said as we climbed into the colonel’s Jeep.

Chapter
39

Night had fallen like a veil, the darkness heavy with dregs of a rain. Amber lights on poles glowed through the haze. We drove around to the rear of the winery building. In the distance we saw a gate in the chain link fence surrounding the kibbutz. The gate was closing, apparently controlled electronically, behind a pickup truck that drove off into the compound.

“That was probably the vineyard super,” Jarvis said. “Too bad we couldn’t have ridden in on his coattails.”

I pointed at a box on the left side of the barrier. “Pull up at the gate and let me check the controls.”

I got out and walked over to the white metal box mounted on a post about five feet high. Judging from the small window facing the road, the gate was activated by an infrared signal. I checked the mechanism that pulled the whole thing back on a wheeled track. It looked new with no way to force it open. Then I saw a piece of heavy chain on the ground that likely was used to secure the gate before it was upgraded.

I hurried over to Jarvis’ Jeep. “Remember hearing the super say he’d be back for the other guy?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Drive back a short distance, as out of the way as you can get, and park. I found a piece of chain over there. I’ll try using it to lock the gate open when he comes back out. As soon as he parks his truck, drive through and I’ll release the gate.”

As Jarvis turned around and headed back toward the edge of the winery, I laid the chain where I could quickly shove it through the retracted gate. Then I huddled behind an old oil drum. The only light was on a pole inside the compound. It wouldn’t reach me.

After an interminable wait, I checked my backlit watch. Barely ten minutes had passed. I checked it again and tried to stretch my legs to keep them from cramping. Then headlights appeared in the road. I crouched as the gate mechanism rumbled and began to pull the barrier back.