The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (12 page)

“How do we find out?”

“I don’t know,” said Manthey, sitting back away from the wooden desk. “But my gut tells me that finding an answer will be even more complex than you can imagine.”

6:55 p.m., Washington, DC

“Baruk won’t pick up,” said Cartwright, as he cradled the phone. “Either he has his hands full over there, or he can’t bear having to face you … or both.”

President Whitestone paced in front of the
Resolute
desk in the Oval Office. Normally photogenic, his face was drawn and tight this evening and testified to the long, sleepless night he had endured in the residence, waiting for word from his national security advisor.

“We should be celebrating today,” Whitestone mumbled as he crossed the presidential seal in the blue carpet. “Whatever nuclear threat the Iranians embodied yesterday has vanished. Their government is impoverished and impotent. With the evidence of Iran’s complicity in the assassination attempts, we had the world behind us, cooperating, when we froze their foreign assets. Now …”

Whitestone stopped in midcourse and turned to his right, lifting his open palms in a gesture of helplessness.

Cartwright put down the phone. “The reports are only getting worse.” Cartwright hated delivering more bad news to the president. He’d known Whitestone long enough, had been his accountability partner for so many years, that he could see the toll the office and now this disaster were taking on the president’s health.

“The Israeli scientists are very clever,” said Cartwright, perching himself on the arm of one of the twin sofas. “The radioactive gas released into the Central Bank’s gold depository was a combination of strontium-90, cesium-137, and carbon-14.”

“That’s a strange combination,” said the president, turning in Cartwright’s direction. “Strontium-90 and cesium-137 are two of the main components of nuclear fallout. They would quickly contaminate the gold on their own. Why the carbon?”

“To make it last longer,” Cartwright replied. “Strontium and cesium have half-lives of about thirty years, which would have ruined that gold for a generation. But the carbon-14 has a half-life of over five thousand years. The Israelis wanted to be sure that gold was never used again. But it also made the radioactive cloud far more lethal.

“For those who are close to the Central Bank building—which is located in the middle of downtown Tehran—the strontium will penetrate their bodies. It’s called a ‘bone seeker,’ like calcium. The cesium will burn the skin and eyes. Their bodies will suffer from radiation sickness both inside and out. Death will come quickly. But for those farther away … well this gas is very light, so it spreads far. Once inhaled, the carbon settles in the body and stays there. You’ve been given a death sentence and don’t even know it. This cloud has been dispersed over a large area. The numbers of dead are multiplying every minute—those who will die this week and those who carry death and will never see another birthday.”

Whitestone seemed to falter, a slight waver through his shoulders. He took his right hand and ran it through his graying hair. “God help us … God help them.”

“But we have other problems,” said Cartwright. “There is no actionable evidence as to who was behind the attacks on Fordow and Natanz, the oil complexes, or the Central Bank. Yet, as expected, both the Arab world and the rest of the world community are heaping scalding criticism on the Israeli government … on Baruk in particular. Consensus is no other nation has the motive or the means to carry out a raid like this. Hezbollah rockets are falling on northern Israeli villages as we speak. Palestinian leaders are calling for another intifada. The only break we have is that Syria is incapacitated and Egypt remains politically impotent, or there might already be tanks rolling across Israeli borders.”

“Our turn comes next,” said Whitestone, a somber resolution in his voice. “Perhaps we would have avoided the outcry had it just been the raids. But this nuclear contamination changes everything. We won’t escape being tarred with the same brush.”

Compassion and concern guiding his actions, Cartwright eased over to the president, took his arm, and led him to one of the sofas in the middle of the room. He captured Whitestone’s gaze and held it.

“Jon, your statement this afternoon was perfect. Your rationale for freezing Iranian assets resonated, at least for the moment. And your criticism of the recklessness of the raid on the Central Bank building and the tragedy of its outcome hit the right chord. But you’re right; we’re most likely going to take some kind of hit. The repercussions from this radioactive disaster are going to last a long time. And if our complicity with Baruk ever comes to light—well, I don’t want to think about what that will mean to our position in the world, or the ability of this administration to function. We would face Congressional hearings that would tie us up for years. This is why I think you need to get on TV and make another statement.”

Whitestone’s face registered the question he asked. “And say what?”

“I think we’ve got to condemn the Israelis … throw them under the bus.”

“What? Baruk would be apoplectic. He would probably leak evidence that we were involved. And we were involved, Bill. How can we jump on the Israelis now?”

Seated beside the president, Cartwright sorted through the options once again and came back to the same conclusion.

“We knew these days would come, Jon … and we decided to pay the price to occupy this office. Days when our decisions would be politically correct, but perhaps not morally palatable—days when we would make choices that were expedient, self-serving. I thank God those days have been few. But you didn’t win all those elections by being mister nice-guy. And you didn’t keep your seat in the Senate by being soft or politically naïve.

“If we don’t condemn Baruk and his government, we’ll be standing alone,” said Cartwright. “And the rest of the world will wonder why we’ve remained silent while thousands of innocent people die excruciating deaths. But if we condemn the use of nuclear weapons as irresponsible, while empathizing with Israel’s valid fear of a nuclear Iran, I think we’ll be seen as reasonable and moderate. If I know Baruk, he would do the same thing if the roles were reversed.”

Jonathan Whitestone settled back into the folds of the sofa. His eyes were shut, his head shaking back and forth. Cartwright witnessed the inner struggle, but there was little more he could do. This was the president’s decision.

“Nine tonight?” asked the president.

“Eight thirty. Viewership will be higher.”

594 BC

Jerusalem

Jeremiah stood before the king, Zedekiah, in the Great Hall of the Sanhedrin. King in name only. Zedekiah was a puppet, with the Babylonian emperor Nebuchadnezzar pulling the strings. Though a reluctant and rebellious puppet, Zedekiah still retained the power of Nebuchadnezzar’s support and a small troop of Chaldean soldiers to add authority to his words.

“Because the emperor—our great king Nebuchadnezzar, may Baal exalt his name—requests your presence,” said Zedekiah, his whispered homage dripping with sarcasm. “That is reason enough. Your caravan will be escorted for safety. The emperor has ordered that you travel in every possible comfort. A wagon is being readied for you, covered to keep out the sun, cushioned to protect your bones. And your servant, Baruch, may accompany you, of course.”

After the eleven-year reign of his persecutor Jehoiakim, who regularly had Jeremiah beaten and restrained in the stocks at the Gate of Benjamin because of the prophet’s words of rebuke and coming judgment, Jeremiah’s health, in his body and his spirit, had been gradually restored over the last two years. Zedekiah was a weak and vacillating ruler, but his periods of support, though unpredictable, afforded Jeremiah the freedom to worship the one, true God of Israel and the time to regain his health as a free man. So he knew what he risked.

“And what if I don’t wish to embark on this journey? If I refuse?”

Zedekiah rose from the throne that was much too big for him and came to the edge of the steps that led up to his raised platform. He carried his weakness in every bone and sinew of his body, in every reflection of his mind. Sickly thin, a head shorter than Jeremiah, Zedekiah looked even smaller because he was incapable of standing straight. He moved with the slither of decay, not actually walking, but dragging himself along the floor. His black hair was long, oiled, and as rank as his breath. Zedekiah appeared to be rotting away from within, the victim of his own excess. Even his voice left a veneer of mold on the air carrying his words.

“You will go because the emperor decrees it,” Zedekiah whispered. “Or you will go because, if you don’t, I will take Baruch’s head, boil it in a pot, and feed the broth to your sister’s children.”

Baruch paced manically through the small room. “But we must remove the Ark and the Tent while there is still time, before Zedekiah rebels openly against Babylon,” he pleaded. “Now, with only a few soldiers defending him and his mind as weak as his body.”

“Where would we go? Where would we hide something as precious as the Ark and as huge as the Tent?” Jeremiah sipped the water in his cup. It was sweet, recently drawn from the pool at Siloam. “We can’t carry the Ark across the desert to Babylon, or to Egypt. The Tent is safe. The Ark is where it should be, resting near the Holy of Holies. It is in God’s hands and will remain safe. But the power … the power we must protect.”

Baruch dropped onto a sack of lentils as if he’d been felled by a blow to the head. The storeroom was small. Dust rose and mingled with the smell of cinnamon and rosemary. They were hidden in the inner confines of the house Jeremiah was given when he was in the king’s good graces. A comfortable house, but too close to the palace, too close to the puppet and his spies. Only in this small, windowless room did Jeremiah and Baruch speak of the things that were most precious to them.

“Listen to me, my son,” said Jeremiah, taking Baruch’s hand in his. “Our choices are very limited and our time is very short. We must decide what is the most important thing to protect, the most important thing to save—because we certainly cannot protect or save all that is our responsibility.”

Baruch’s eyes filled with tears, and his mouth opened in protest, but no sound emerged.

“Can you and I carry the Tent?” asked Jeremiah. “Even with those who would be willing to help, how much could we carry? How far could we go?

“No, my son, we must save the one thing that could unleash evil on the world. Imagine the disaster that would befall our people if the staff of God ever got into hands of those who work evil.”

Baruch jumped to his feet. “But how can you believe that taking the staff to Babylon is safer than leaving it here, buried deep under Mount Zion?” he cried. “We must keep the staff out of the hands of Nebuchadnezzar. Why carry it into his lap?”

“Because in his lap is where it belongs,” said Jeremiah. “Come here, my son. Listen to what I must tell you.”

Like a man on his way to prison, Baruch dragged himself to Jeremiah’s side and sat on his right, on the same, small, wooden bench.

“It is not at the command of Nebuchadnezzar that we will make this journey,” he said, “but at the request of Daniel, the prophet of God and favored of Nebuchadnezzar. Years ago, when I prophesied that Nebuchadnezzar would vanquish both the Assyrians and the Egyptians and rule as emperor of the East, it gained me great favor with the king, just as Daniel now has great favor. We must use that favor to our advantage.

“Do you know that Babylon was the first city built by men after the great flood of Noah? The city was founded over fifty-five hundred years ago by Nimrod, grandson of Noah and son of Ham. In the Assyrian way of speech, Babylon means ‘Gate of God.’ It was Daniel, who in his studies of the ancient Assyrian documents discovered that just as Jerusalem is built on holy ground, Babylon was also built on holy ground.

“Noah shared the great secret with his son Ham, who entrusted it to Nimrod, a mighty warrior. That under the sand, dirt, and silt piled into the region by the great flood was the birthplace of man. Nimrod built the first city of man over the birthplace of man, the site of the garden of Eden.”

Baruch put his hands on his head as if to hold his skull together. His eyes were almost as wide as his mouth. “No, father … I can hear no more,” Baruch pleaded. “I am a weak man. Please, do not leave such a great secret in my keeping.”

Jeremiah nodded his wrinkled head. “Yes, it has been a great secret. But now that secret is at risk. Yet it is a risk that gives us opportunity.

“A great tower has been a significant part of Babylon from its earliest days. But just any tower is not good enough for Nebuchadnezzar, emperor of the East. He has decreed a tower be built that would reach the heavens, so high that he can commune with his god, Marduk.

“Daniel, his chancellor, has been placed in charge of constructing this tower,” said Jeremiah. “But to build the tower, the Babylonians need also to dig a foundation—a foundation almost as deep as the tower is tall. And Nebuchadnezzar has ordered that his tower be built over what he believes is the exact location of the garden. For Nimrod, building his city on that spot was an act of worship. For the Babylonians, building the tower over that spot is intended to keep the garden hidden.