Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) (32 page)

Chapter
43

I fell into about an inch of cold water, just in time to hear the most God-awful explosion I have ever witnessed. It shook the ground around me. As I looked up, I saw flames shooting skyward and shards of molten metal flew past my crypt.

Struggling up, I managed to get my head above the rim of the excavation and was shocked at what I saw. Nothing was left of the tractor but a pile of smoldering debris and a small fire that must have been the remains of the padded seat. The tires had been blown yards away. There was no sign of Moshe Levin. Whatever remained of him lay elsewhere, tossed by the blast.

I climbed out of the muddy hole that had saved my life, checking to see if I had broken anything. Thanks to the soft mud I seemed to be intact, but my hands tingled and my breathing was labored. Looking around in the faint light of two remaining flare pots and the destroyed tractor, I finally saw what appeared to be the major part of a torso. As I walked toward it, I noticed bloody stumps where legs should have been. It was then I spotted a few tattered scroll scraps scattered about the road. Even if somebody found enough of it to reassemble, there would be enough gaps to rule out deciphering any coded message.

“Greg!”

I saw Jill trying to walk toward me with Jake Cohen assisting her.

“I’m okay,” I called. I hurried in their direction.

When I reached her, Jill stared at me as if I were a ghost. And I must have looked like some sort of apparition–clothes, hands, face covered with muck.

I grinned. What could I say?

She threw her arms around me and sobbed.

“Where is Levin?” Jake asked with a wary expression.

I jerked a thumb at the smoldering wreckage. “He was sitting on that tractor when it blew. I saw part of him on the road nearby.”

“What happened?”

I stroked Jill’s hair, savoring her even as she cried out her fears. It had been so long without her.

“The hood had been taken off the tractor. It must have left the gas tank exposed. I threw a cooper’s adz at him and it apparently pierced the tank. Then I threw one of those flare pots–I guess it set off the gasoline in the tank.”

From somewhere in the distance, we heard people shouting.

“We’d better get the hell out of here,” I said. “Help Jill toward the house while I pick up something.”

I returned to the blast site and gathered up a handful of scroll scraps. I thought they might be useful in explaining the situation. I hurried back to Jill and stuck them in the pocket of my jacket, which she was wearing.

“Do you think we can get this golf cart started?” Jake asked.

“We’ll use Colonel Jarvis’s Jeep.”

“But we don’t have the keys.”

I waved him on. “Maybe we do.”

When we reached the area where the Mercedes had been parked, I stooped down and searched for the spot I had seen the colonel drop something. After a few moments, my fingers snared a small chain. And there they were.

The noise in the darkness of the road up ahead was getting louder.

“Climb in,” I said. “Let’s move.”

We drove up to where the road branched off beside the tractor shed and found a gate in the fence. It was tightly secured with a chain and padlock.

“What do we do now?” Jill asked.

“Hang on a minute.” I jumped out of the car and rushed over to the shed. I found the sledgehammer where I had seen it earlier. When I picked it up, it seemed to weigh a ton. I realized I was exhausted from all the running and wallowing and falling I had been subjected to in the past half hour.

When I got back to the gate with the tool, Jake offered to take a swing at the lock and I didn’t object. I wasn’t sure I had enough heft left to peel a banana. But a few solid licks by Jake and the lock broke, letting the chain fall free.

Flashlights and lanterns suddenly appeared beyond the tractor shed.

“Get in back and take care of your wife,” Jake shouted. “I’ll drive.”

He got no argument. I was beginning to shake from the cold and wet and near exhaustion. As Jake smashed the Jeep through the gate. I fished a towel out of the colonel’s laundry bag and used it to plug the hole in the window where Levin had broken it. Then I lay back wearily and snuggled against Jill.

I awoke when we arrived at Colonel Jarvis’ apartment in Tel Aviv. He rushed out to greet us.

“Thank God you made it! What the hell happened to you?” he asked, questions tumbling. “How did you get away?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Where are Zalman and the woman?”

“When we got here, I told them I was damned certain you hadn’t left any scroll at my place. They searched around for a bit, then Zalman tried Levin on the cell phone but got no answer. Then he called the kibbutz. From what he told the woman, I gathered there had been some kind of explosion back of the vineyards. A body had been found, but they weren’t sure whose. I don’t think Zalman was too happy getting involved with diplomatic personnel to start with. He didn’t say anything to me, just grabbed the woman and high-tailed it out of here. They haven’t been gone for long.”

After I related the gory details and handed over the scroll scraps, Jarvis said we should head for the embassy. He had already called for the ambassador, who was due there shortly. I pleaded for time to get a shower, then borrowed a clean shirt and pair of pants from the colonel. Since we were about the same height, they fit fairly well, except the pants were tight. I had to rely on my belt to cinch me in.

For the next couple of hours, we sat around a highly-polished conference table flanked by American flags, with Ambassador Hamilton, his counselor and a political attaché who was obviously the
CIA
station chief. They brought in food for us, which was something Jill definitely needed, though I ate the most. The interrogation began immediately. I found it difficult to concentrate on the questions with Jill so close. Neither of us could go for long without looking around to catch the other’s eye.

After we had finished eating, I held Jill’s hand as I told our story forwards and backwards, starting with the souvenir purchase in Jaffa less than a week ago, and winding up on the gravel road at Kibbutz Kerem. My emotions nearly got the best of me when it came to the moment in the farmhouse when I first saw Jill. I kept feeling the squeeze of her hand while I told my story.

Afterward, Jake Cohen was sent on his way home with a stern admonition to say nothing, while Jill and I were escorted to a suite in a first class hotel and told the same thing. A driver would pick us up in the morning and return us to the embassy.

I was impressed by the clout of the U. S. Government when a clothing shop in the hotel was opened just for us, but I noticed Uncle Sam let us use our Visa card when it came time to pay the bill. At any rate, Jill appeared almost totally revived with a fashionable new wardrobe in hand.

When we got to our room, where my suitcase had been delivered, I reached into a zippered pocket.

“Here’s something you lost along the way,” I said, unfolding some tissues.

“My ring!” Her eyes and her mouth were open wide. “Where did you find it? I thought it was gone forever.”

“Zalman presented it to me about the time you took off for
Israel
. It was his way of proving they really had you.” I grinned. “Did you like the plaster on his nose? I got him with a good left hook.”

I took the ring and placed it on her finger, and we retired to the fancy king-size bed where I held her like the world was coming to an end. Or just beginning.

“At times, when the drugs would wear off,” she said, “I had moments when I was quite lucid. When it happened this morning, I had a strange feeling that you were near. Talking to me, telling me not to worry, that you’d come after me.”

I smiled and kissed her, then told her about my little
ESP
trick. Had it really worked?

“I don’t know,” she said. “But thank God you found me when you did.”

Despite all the fatigue and furor of the past few hours, I remembered. “Speaking of thanks, do you realize what this is?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“At home they’re sitting down to carve the turkey. It’s Thanksgiving Day.”

Chapter
44

The next morning around ten, looking much brighter and considerably more presentable, we were ushered into the same conference room at the embassy, with the same players around the table. Vases of colorful, cheery, fresh cut flowers had been placed at either end. The scent of roses tinged the air. I wasn’t sure if it meant we were getting the royal treatment, or about to get the royal shaft. Ambassador Hamilton, a suave, white-haired man in his early sixties with an easy-going manner and a look of serenity, no doubt wanted to put us at ease. He leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“I hope you rested well. Was your room adequate?”

“It was excellent,” Jill said. “My first genuinely restful night in a week.”

I nodded. “I’ll second that.”

He leaned forward on his elbows and spoke in a voice as sincere as one could expect in a professional apple polisher. “We were most disturbed by the events you described last night. I have been in contact with the Israeli government about it. I have also spoken with a representative of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Representatives of both countries wish to speak with you when we are finished.

“As I believe Colonel Jarvis told you, the scroll was found in
Jordan
and brought to
Israel
without the knowledge of Jordanian authorities. This has caused some friction between the two countries, which we would very much like to dispel. Right now a stable peace in the area, with cooperation among all parties, is the top priority of the
United States
government.”

He had become terribly serious and I began to wonder if he was about to make us ambassadors pro tem, or plenipotentiary, or whatever they call spur-of-the-moment emissaries. I didn’t know about Jill, but I didn’t feel up to forging a new peace treaty right now.

“I get the feeling there’s something you want us to do, Mr. Ambassador,” I broke in.

“It would be in the best interests of all three countries if this incident could be disposed of in the utmost confidence,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

I picked up on it immediately. “Whitewashed,” I said.

He frowned. “That would not be my choice of terms. The government of
Israel
had no hand in this affair, but they could be adversely affected by any publicity.”

“Won’t the story of a fatal tractor explosion at Kibbutz Kerem make the newspapers and television?” I asked.

“According to officials there, it was purely an accident. A former kibbutz member was checking out a tractor that had been undergoing repairs. No strange activity was observed in the area and no outsiders were seen there.”

Noting the benign look on the
CIA
man’s face, I suspected he had been in touch with his Mossad counterparts. The cover-up was underway.

“There are two Temple Alliance agents still running around loose who kidnapped my wife, illegally transported her to Israel, drugged her and made life generally miserable for her. And we should say nothing?”

The ambassador did not enjoy my line of reasoning. “Officials of the
Temple
Alliance
,” he said, “which, incidentally, has no connection to the government, assure us that Moshe Levin and his compatriots were acting totally without their knowledge. The two agents involved will be seriously reprimanded, possibly fired.”

“But not criminally charged.”

“As a former Air Force special agent, I’m sure you have dealt with cases where, in the best interest of all concerned, prosecution was deemed to be unwise.”

He had me there. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll go along with your little charade with one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That Messrs. Zalman and Lipkowitz be permanently barred from entering the
United States
for any reason, under any circumstance.”

He thought about it. I think he was expecting something worse. But he didn’t concede. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise it.”

I smiled. “Well, I can promise what I will do if you don’t.”

He glanced around the table and got brief nods. “Consider it done,” he said.

The rest was farcical, though entertaining and, in at least one respect, educational. The representative from
Jordan
thanked me for saving scraps of the scroll for their archives. He wanted my assurance that the people involved were not a part of the Israeli government. I said to my knowledge they were not. I thought about adding
at least not now
, but I figured I had pushed my luck far enough. I was afraid that muddling things any further might jeopardize Warren Jarvis’ position.

I did have one question, though. “I was never told who found the scroll and how it got to
Israel
. Can you enlighten me on that?”