The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (10 page)

It was an unfortunate circumstance for the Israelis, as well as the Iranians, that both vault doors were open when the explosions occurred. Because the second shaped charge blasted another silvery cloud of glittering dust in the opposite direction—out the door of the vault, into the guard rooms and the staging area. The silver comet crashed into the far wall and was fractured in a thousand directions. The particles, yellowing in the atmosphere, wormed through any opening. Large clouds of them were sucked into the Central Bank’s ventilation system. Within seconds, the dust was spreading throughout the complex. Worse for nearby residents of Tehran, the building’s venting spewed a continuous stream of yellowing dust into the atmosphere, a lethal combination of strontium-90, cesium-137 and carbon-14: a “bone seeker” that would quickly claim the life of any human who inhaled it or upon whom it fell. Dust that would entomb Iran’s gold reserves for two hundred lifetimes. Dust that was, at that moment, raining radioactive devastation over several kilometers of the heavily populated, congested, and smog-choked streets of central Tehran.

Ten minutes too early. And ten thousand would die.

3:14 p.m., New York City

The metal-on-metal screech set Connor Bohannon’s teeth on edge, matching his nerves. He stood in the sprawling NYPD evidence warehouse in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of midtown Manhattan, watching two officers maneuver the Jaws of Life—used for prying open the crushed metal of crashed automobiles—into place again. Slowly they forced apart the heavy doors of the antique metal safe that had once resided in the hidden office of Lewis Klopsch, the first president of the Bowery Mission in New York City.

This safe, damaged when agents of the Prophet’s Guard hijacked it in transit nearly three weeks earlier, had been the hiding place for hundreds of ancient books, pamphlets, and documents collected by Klopsch during his years leading the Bowery Mission, the third-oldest rescue mission in the United States. Through benefactors like the Reverend Charles Spurgeon and his world-traveling colleagues, Klopsch had amassed a treasure of ancient documents. When Klopsch’s office was discovered, hidden for over one hundred years behind the organ pipes of the Bowery Mission chapel, and its massive safe opened, Connor’s dad, Tom Bohannon, found an artifact that changed many lives—and altered the course of history.

An etched brass mezuzah sealed with wax was pulled from one of three small drawers in the middle of the safe. It was this mezuzah and the scroll it contained, written in the extinct language of Demotic—the third language on the Rosetta Stone—that sent Tom and his companions on two deadly quests.

First, the team decoded the intricate cipher on the scroll. The message was a letter, which claimed that one thousand years earlier, the Jewish community of Jerusalem, led by the priest Abiathar, had built and hidden the Third Temple of God under Jerusalem’s Temple Mount. As the team searched for clues, agents of the Prophet’s Guard—protectors of the scroll and its secrets for nearly eight hundred years—stalked the group’s members, attempting to regain possession of the mezuzah and its scroll at any cost.

Over the next several months, the scroll and mezuzah divulged not only the message of the Temple’s existence but also clues that led to the unearthing of the biblical Tent of Meeting, Abiathar’s plan B to restore ritual sacrifice to Temple Mount. Each driven by their own motivation and coerced into action by the US government, the team eventually recovered the Tent of Meeting. But not without cost. Three friends had given their lives. And ultimately, both the hidden Temple—by earthquake—and the Tent of Meeting—by heavenly fire—were engulfed during the partial destruction of Temple Mount itself.

But one thing was never discovered.

What was in the two locked drawers of Klopsch’s safe that flanked the one which once held the mezuzah and scroll that began their saga?

With New York City Police Commissioner Rory O’Neill on his left, Bowery Mission CFO Stew Manthey on his right, and a pencil-thin locksmith with fidgety hands standing to the side, Connor watched as the two police officers pulled the doors farther askew, providing the group with their first look at the insides of the massive safe built by Diebold Safe & Lock in 1896—eight feet wide, five feet high, and three feet deep.

“There’s nothing left inside, as far as we know,” said Manthey. Closing fast on retirement, his bushy, gray-flecked beard making him look more like Grizzly Adams than a buttoned-down CFO, Manthey was more than Tom Bohannon’s co-worker. Through the ten years they had worked closely together, Manthey had become Tom’s mentor and friend. “We sold a lot of the books and documents at auction and used the money to renovate the Bowery Mission Women’s Center. But we could never figure out the secret to the two drawers—forgot about them, actually, once all the excitement started.”

“I’m glad you asked me to come,” Connor said to Stew.

“I can’t take credit for that. It was the commissioner’s idea. He figured one of the Bohannon’s should be here when we tried to get those drawers open.”

“Helping out like this is the least I can do,” said Connor. “I’m just glad Dad’s all right.” He cast a sideways glance toward the CFO. “Stew … do you have any idea how Mr. Rizzo is doing?”

Manthey put his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “I don’t know. But I’m sure they’re fine. And, who knows? This could be another windfall for the mission.”

Connor stepped closer to the safe, listing to the right after the hijacked truck carrying it crashed on the FDR Parkway. “Or it could be more trouble.”

The locksmith looked over in the commissioner’s direction, and O’Neill gave the man a nod. As the locksmith stepped inside the open doors, he set the satchel on the floor and ran his fingers over the two locked drawers.

Manthey leaned in toward Connor. “You needn’t worry, Connor. Your mom and dad are in good hands. God hasn’t taken them this far to abandon them now.”

An image flashed through Connor’s mind: the last time he and his dad had a serious conversation. He winced at the memory of the bitter words that flowed out of his frustration and toward his father. Caught up in the current rush of excitement and apprehension, he understood more … empathized more. And he hoped for the opportunity to apologize to the man he respected so much.

Connor was twenty-two, two years younger than his sister, Caitlin, and recently graduated from Penn State with a teaching degree, though uncertain if that was the right course for his life. In many ways—good and bad—much like his father, Connor had the same long and lean physique, the same copper-colored hair and beard, the same blue eyes and welcoming smile as Tom. Though five inches taller than Tom and his hair and beard significantly longer than his dad’s, both Connor and his father had the same innate curiosity, attention to detail, and easy-going personality that won friends and earned respect throughout their lives. Everybody liked Connor Bohannon.

But today he wasn’t too happy with himself. One of the last times he spoke with his dad before the team’s second trip to the Middle East, Connor had unleashed sharp words for his father, challenging Tom for getting involved once again in the danger and intrigue of the mezuzah and scroll.

Now with his mother and father in Israel and both Doc and Kallie dead, Connor regretted his anger and the words that caused his dad unnecessary anguish.

And … who knew what was coming?

“Whoa, baby …”

The words and low whistle that came from inside the safe broke into Connor’s thoughts.

The locksmith, keys and pins and other gadgets sprouting from between the fingers of each hand, stepped back a pace from the three drawers—the one in the middle about twice the width of those flanking it. He cocked his head to the side, as if examining the drawers from a different angle would make them open magically. Then he threw all the keys and pins into a bin by his feet and started rummaging through the satchel.

“Somebody’s been pretty serious here, bub,” the locksmith said in the general vicinity of Commissioner O’Neill, his accent betraying his Brooklyn heritage. “The old locks, you know, like this baby in the middle … those suckers were pulled out of these side drawers and replaced with random-width lever locks.” He turned toward O’Neill. “You got me?” He returned to his intense dig into the satchel. “You guys could have been working on these monsters for a year and gotten zippo! Ah … that’s what I need.”

The locksmith stood up, his knees cracking in the process, and he scratched the top of his head with a long, stiletto-thin metal rod with nubs in an irregular pattern around its miniscule circumference. He approached the drawers again, holding the metal rod with the deftness of a surgeon about to invade a body.

“The English dreamed up this nightmare—crazy Brits—and, when it was perfected, it drove every locksmith bonkers. But that was over a hundred years ago.” He spoke as he inserted the rod into the lock with purpose and care. “The gizmo’s got six spring-loaded levers, each a random width to give you an even bigger headache. Try to pick it or use the wrong key, and it triggers a jamming mechanism. Then your goose is really cooked … oh, that’s one. It’s like looking for your socks in the dark, trying to find a pair that … oh, that’s another.”

The locksmith probed and twisted. “Hey, Mack, you want I should open ’em both at the same time?”

Connor looked at Manthey, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t wait,” said Connor. “Get one open. I want to see what’s inside.”

“You got it.”

One more twist of the rod and Connor could hear the snap.

“Holy cow. We got a winner.” The locksmith withdrew the rod and stepped away. “Okay, gents. Who wants to do the honors?”

Manthey gave Connor’s elbow a little nudge. “Go on, this has more meaning for you and your family than anyone.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Connor stepped in beside the locksmith, placed his fingers around the brass knob at the center of the drawer front … and pulled. Like a whisper carried on a breeze, the drawer slid open. Connor looked down and saw a round, metal container, about four inches across.

He picked it up. The metal was a dull gray, heavy, thick, and smooth but soft—malleable—to the touch. The container was about two inches deep, and clearly came apart in the middle, a top and bottom half. Connor put one hand on top and the other on the bottom and flexed his arms to …

“You might want to think about that for a minute.”

Rory O’Neill was close behind, looking over Connor’s shoulder. “Just test it, gently, to see if it’s loose or sealed.”

Connor relaxed his hands, then tried to twist the top and bottom halves. Nothing. The pieces didn’t budge.

“Okay … they’re either stuck because the container is so old,” said the commissioner, “or they’re stuck because somebody wanted to keep them sealed. And there could be some risk in getting them open.”

“Look. It’s your nickel,” offered the locksmith. “But let me open the other drawer and see what’s waiting for you behind door number two. Maybe it will help you to decide what to do with this thing.”

The three men stepped aside so the locksmith could get to his work. Connor handed the metal case to the commissioner.

“Looks like pewter to me,” said O’Neill. “Heavy, but soft. You can bend pewter out of shape pretty easily.”

Manthey held out his hand, took the container from O’Neill, held it in front of his face, and shook it back and forth. “Something inside,” he said. “Almost as big as the container, seems like. There’s not much movement.”

“There must be some significance to what’s in this container,” said Connor, taking it from Manthey and hefting it in his hand. “It was in the drawer right next to the mezuzah, so you’d think …”

“Well, that’s a jab in the eye with a stick.”

They turned from the metal container and looked toward the safe. The locksmith held up a brittle-looking, yellowed envelope in front of him, pinching a small spot on a corner between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t think this is gonna rock your socks unless it’s how-to instructions for your hermetically sealed container.”

Connor felt a quickening in his heart, a heightening of awareness … an adrenaline rush moving up from his chest into his head.

He took the envelope from the locksmith—it was square, about four inches on a side. There was no address or any other writing. On the back, over the flap, was a dollop of red wax, stamped in the middle with a stylized K.

Connor accepted the offered penknife from the locksmith, slit through the wax seal, and turned up the flap. He pulled two pages of heavy, beige-colored paper from the envelope. The rush in his veins increasing, Connor scanned the two handwritten pages as fast as his eyes could move and his brain could work.

“Oh … this is not good.”

Connor began to read: