The Illumination (35 page)

It was suddenly much quieter here, within the grounds, than outside on the teeming, bustling cobbled streets. A tangible serenity seemed to fill the space as they broke from the tour
group just short of the door. Quickly, they crept along the wall toward the garden, breathing in the tangy clean scent of sage and mint.

Suddenly, D'Amato skidded to a stop, one hand on Natalie's arm, holding her still. From around the corner came the quiet murmur of men's voices.

 

“Show it to me.” Ken Mundy had waited long enough. He had no desire to exchange pleasantries with this man—Shmuel or whatever his name was at the moment—who'd betrayed him and Shomrei Kotel. His contempt showed on his face, but he was far from caring. If this Judas thought he was going to continue calling all the shots, he could guess again.

“Show me the money.” “Shmuel's” broad grin was cocky, triumphant. He shot a glance at the briefcase clutched in Mundy's manicured hand.

But the Sentinel wasn't having it. “You first.” His tone was that of a man used to being in command. “Be quick about it. The longer we stand here, the more dangerous this becomes. For you as well as us, I'm sure.”

Shmuel gestured toward the centuries-old church and the excavated Pools of Bethesda beyond. “You're worried about those nuns going in to stand on the famous star-shaped stone to sing before the altar? They frighten you?”

“Cut the crap, Shmuel, or whoever you are. Either let us see the Light or our business with you is finished.” Mundy shook off the warning hand the Sentinel put on his arm.
No. I'm not going to pull any punches. Not when everything I've been working for is within my reach.

It grated on him that his success was now dependent upon this smug, arrogant traitor. The Sentinel had risked the most of all of them, risked everything. The next moment or two would determine whether it was all for naught, whether Mundy would have to return to the Sons of Babylon and admit to them that the Light had slipped from their fingers again.

“Do you want the ten million? Or don't you?” The Sentinel's keen gray eyes bored into the man's grinning face.

* * *

D'Amato tensed, hunching closer to the corner of the building. “I know that voice,” he whispered in disbelief.

“Whose is it?”

He leaned around the stone for a quick instant, needing a visual confirmation. He jerked back, incredulous. “I don't believe it. Your government at work. That's Elliott Warrick—our Assistant Undersecretary of Defense.”

 

The burly young man snorted in contempt. “My price is now fifteen million. And this is what you'll get in return.” He dug deep into his right front jeans pocket and withdrew a tin matchbox. He lifted the lid to reveal a glowing crystal. Light pulsed from it, bathing the garden in a dazzling aura as brilliant as a streak of lightning.

Mundy choked back tears. It was luminous, beautiful beyond words. He couldn't tear his eyes from the Light. He reached toward it, aching to touch it, but Shmuel jerked it back with a laugh, his fist clamping over the ancient jewel.

Warrick flashed a swift glance around, checking to see if anyone else had entered the garden. “Where's the pendant it was sealed in?” he demanded. “That's part of the bargain.”

Mundy drew a breath. Yes, Daniel's pendant of carnelian, lapis, and jasper. He'd been so dazzled by the Light that he'd forgotten about the jeweled pendant that had concealed it for thirty centuries. He needed that, too.

“It's gone. You'll have to settle for this.” Shmuel produced the worn leather pouch, painted on each side with eyes of protection. “Now the money. Wire it to my bank account in Cyprus, and we're finished here.” He shoved a slip of paper at the Sentinel.

“Do it,” Mundy ordered, still hypnotized by the magnificent light spilling from between Shmuel's chunky fingers.

But as Warrick lifted his phone, his expression darkened. “The cell towers are down again. It's impossible to transfer the funds.”

“Then we have no deal.” For the first time anger simmered in Shmuel's deep eyes. “You are screwing with me? Fine, I have
other buyers.” He dropped the tin cover back in place and shoved the matchbox, along with the pouch, back into his pocket.

Instantly, a dense cloud seemed to descend over the church grounds, yet the sun still glowed unobscured in the sky.

“No—wait!” Mundy cried.

Shmuel regarded him with insolent eyes. “I have no time to wait—not for you, not for the cell towers.”

“I have five million dollars in this briefcase,” Mundy bit out in a low, furious tone. “That's a down payment. You'll get ten more when the damn cell towers start working.”

Shmuel laughed, kicking at a stone. “You insult me.”

Warrick's face was pale, grim. “You're living on borrowed time, my friend. You're a marked man. And you're on your way out of the country. It's all over your face. Five million cash would ease your travels. Take you as far away as you want to go. If you think you'll find someone else who can wire the money to you—today—right now—then walk away.”

The only sound in the courtyard was the muted echo of women's voices lifted in song, floating from within the acoustically perfect hallow of the church.

Sayyed didn't hear it though. All he heard was his own voice telling him this bastard infidel was right. The five million in cash was too handy to pass up. And the hour of the explosion was too near.

Hasan is busy right now, but as soon as the Noble Sanctuary goes up in pieces, he'll rush back to the shop and find his wife dead and his safe empty. Then all of the Guardians of the Khalifah will be hunting me down. I don't have time to haggle.

“Five million now. Ten million later.”

Mundy snapped open the briefcase, lifted the false bottom without a word, and showed him the stacks of bills. The exchange was made without a handshake, and Mundy stared in awe at the eternal treasure now glowing against his palm.

“Praise be to God. The Light is home. And the Sons of Babylon will return it to the Third Temple.”

He hesitated only a moment before slipping the gem back into its pouch, sighing as the Light diminished once again.

Elliot Warrick took a deep breath. “Time for us to get out of
here.” He spun toward the courtyard and Mundy joined him without another glance at the man now holding his briefcase.

Fools,
Sayyed thought, watching the Americans scurry away beneath the grapevines.

He fired two shots, muffled to low pops by the silencer. The Americans were beside the church wall when they toppled.

He raced toward the older one. The pouch had rolled from his grasp when he'd struck the ground. Sayyed snatched it up and bolted along the north side of the building, elated as he spotted the driveway leading back out to the street.

He didn't spot Hasan Sabouri—frozen in his tracks while pacing the Ramparts overlooking the church grounds and beyond. But Hasan Sabouri had spotted him. Drawn by the unearthly glow emanating from beneath the Lion's Gate, Hasan had thought for a split second that one of the bombs had exploded.

But no bombs had gone off, though they should have by now. He had stared at the intense white aura below in a rage, his brilliant eyes nearly opaque with fury. The bombs weren't
going
to go off. The phones couldn't trigger the detonators.
Because the power of the Eye of Dawn was no longer neutralized in the safe.

He saw exactly where the ancient stone was. Who had taken it. Who had ruined his beautiful plan.

With hatred, he watched Sayyed exchange the Eye of Dawn for a briefcase in the garden of the Church of Saint Anne. As he headed for the stairs, he watched Sayyed shoot the two men and retrieve something from the ground. It was then that Hasan spotted something equally staggering—Natalie Landau and her friend D'Amato crouching in wait.

Shock at her escape from the tunnel rocked him like a blast. Had Sayyed freed her? Was the world inside out?

But there was no time for questions. Or for lamentations.

It was time for vengeance.

Hasan scrambled down from the Ramparts, swift as a lizard. He'd watched enough.

 

 

 

Sayyed had double-crossed everyone. He outwitted us all.

And he's coming straight toward us.

Around the corner, paralyzed, Natalie felt sick.

Sick of the killing. Sick of the treachery. Sick to her stomach from running and from fear. Tension bunched every muscle in her body as she squatted with D'Amato, hardly able to breathe. She was determined that Sayyed wouldn't get away. Determined that Dana's death wouldn't be for nothing in the end.

He burst into view—a streak of royal blue shirt and dark jeans. But in a flash, D'Amato launched himself at him, bringing him down sideways and sending the briefcase skittering. D'Amato slammed a fist into Sayyed's face and heard the satisfying crunch of breaking bone. Ignoring the pain reverberating from his knuckles to his wrist, he slugged him again.

Sayyed was wriggling out of his backpack even as he swung an elbow up toward D'Amato's throat. The blow glanced off the side of D'Amato's neck, but in the instant it took him to recoil, Sayyed rolled out from under him, scrabbling for the gun in his unzippered backpack.

“No!” Natalie charged at him, but before she could land a kick, Sayyed had the pistol out and was firing at D'Amato. Missing.

“Get down!” D'Amato yelled, rolling to his knees, drawing
his own weapon. She threw herself to the ground as shots cracked through the air, horror choking her.

And then Sayyed's body bucked on the ground, blood spraying from a gaping hole in his chest. She saw D'Amato clamber to his feet, the pistol still pointed at the wounded man.

She threw herself at her kidnapper, revolted, shaking. Choked back bile as he shuddered, blood dribbling from his whitened lips. She dug in his pocket for the pouch, for the
tzohar,
trembling as she snatched back the treasure her sister had sent her from Iraq.

 

 

 

People were flooding from the church, pointing, staring.

D'Amato holstered his gun and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. “Time to get to the consulate!”

He was right, she realized, as two men ventured forward, fear in their faces. Then she and D'Amato were tearing back onto Lion's Gate Road, racing through the slippery narrow street once again.

“Cut right when we get to El-Wad, and after the Damascus Gate we'll find Nablus Road,” D'Amato called, as they skirted a woman in a
hijab
pushing a baby carriage.

And pray we find an IDF soldier on the way,
she thought wildly. Then she nearly stumbled as she realized that the consulate might not be the ideal destination. She was confused—the U.S. government had been about to hand over $15 million to a terrorist for the
tzohar
? Yet the man with Warrick had claimed it for the Sons of Babylon. He had to be Mundy.

“Wait.” She skidded to a halt, grabbing D'Amato's wrist. “Something's not right. Why were Mundy and the assistant undersecretary of Defense working together? We can't trust anybody. We can't go to the consulate—they'll take the
tzohar
from me. It has to go to the Israel Antiquities Authority. It belongs
here.
”

He'd been scanning up and down the street as she spoke. “Alright, Rockefeller Museum it is.”

“Then we need to go back and turn left on Qadasiya to Suleiman.” Natalie could have kicked herself. They would have been at the IAA already if they'd gone straight there from Saint Anne's.

Spinning, they retraced their steps, but even as they reached Qadasiya Natalie saw something that made her throat close up.

“It's him,” she gasped, stopping dead. “Hasan. He's coming straight toward us!”

From down Via Dolorosa he saw her at the exact same moment.

“Shit.” D'Amato grabbed her hand, and together they dashed for the intersection, pounding north on Qadasiya. The smell of spices and roasting meats wafting onto the street roiled through her stomach.

Natalie risked a backward glance as D'Amato tugged her through the doorway of the first restaurant they reached. Hasan was closer now, less than ten yards away, darting through the congested street like a man possessed.

He'd seen them duck inside.

 

Hasan slowed only a fraction as he reached the front window of the restaurant, elated to glimpse the glow suddenly radiating through the glass and onto the street. Even if he hadn't seen them trying to escape him in the crowded eatery, the Eye of Dawn had shown him exactly where they'd gone.

Satisfaction burned in his veins as he barged through the door just in time to see Natalie Landau racing toward the rear of the restaurant, toward the alcove where he knew stairs led down to the toilets.

She was alone.

He pushed past the waiter offering to seat him and pelted after her down the narrow steps, fueled by equal measures of rage and adrenaline. He smiled as he heard the bathroom door thud closed.

Halting outside it, he debated whether to burst through or
wait and spring on her when she exited. Spittle gathered at the edges of his lips as he made his decision.

He shoved open the door.

Her back was to him as she bent over the sink, splashing water on her face. She jerked upright and caught sight of him in the mirror and gave a small cry.

The fear in her eyes as she whirled around was his reward. He had her.

But where was the Eye of Dawn?

It didn't matter. He'd kill her first and search her body for it after. Then he noticed the glimmer of the pearl at her throat. Fatima's necklace—around Natalie Landau's neck.

“I got it back,” she said. “In this lifetime.”

“Your lifetime's almost over!” he screamed, whipping out his Glock.