The Moses Stone (29 page)
“Well, I’m ready to leave here and get back to the comforts of civilization,” he said.
Angela frowned and put her hand on his arm. “I know how you feel—I don’t like this place very much either. But before we leave here, I would just like to take a quick look in one or two of the caves, if you don’t mind.”
“Do we really have to?”
“Look, you could go back to the car and get the air con started, if you like, but I’m going on up. I’ve read about the caves and the Dead Sea Scrolls, and so much of my work has involved this area, but it’s the first time I’ve ever been able to visit an ancient Judean site. We’ve come all this way, and I’m desperate to have a look inside a couple of them, just to see what they’re like. I won’t be long, Chris, I promise.”
Bronson sighed. “I’d forgotten how determined you can be,” he said with a smile. “I’ll come with you. It’ll be good to get out of the sun, even if it is only inside a cave for a few minutes.”
53
Yacoub held his mobile phone to his ear and listened as Hassan provided a running commentary while he shadowed Bronson and Angela around the old settlement. Although he was used to the high temperatures in Morocco, Yacoub was finding the heat oppressive, even though he was wearing the lightest jacket and trousers he’d been able to find. He would have preferred a
jellaba
and
keffiyah
, but that style of dress would have marked him as an Arab, and in Israel that was something he wanted to avoid, because of the attention he might have attracted.
jellaba
and
keffiyah
, but that style of dress would have marked him as an Arab, and in Israel that was something he wanted to avoid, because of the attention he might have attracted.
“They’re acting just like tourists,” Hassan reported. “They’ve walked around the ruins, but now it looks like they’re going to leave.”
There was silence for a few seconds; then the man spoke again. “No, they’re not heading for the parking lot. It looks as if they’re walking up to the caves.”
“Right,” Yacoub said. “There was a reference to Qumran on my tablet, so it’s possible they think the relics are hidden somewhere here. Follow them; and try to get close enough to hear what they’re saying. If they go into a cave, follow them in unless it’s really small. You’re just another tourist, and they don’t know your face, so there should be no danger.”
“And if they find the relics?”
“That’s obvious,” Yacoub said. “You kill them and then you call me.”
“It’s not very deep,” Bronson remarked, as they stood up cautiously just inside the entrance to one of the caves close to the Qumran plateau. “It’s more like a crack in the rock than a cave.”
The entrance was about three feet wide and five high, but the cave itself only extended a matter of perhaps fifteen feet into the rock, and was completely empty.
“No,” Angela agreed, “but there are some here that are a whole lot bigger than this. Let’s take a look in one more. Then we’ll go.”
“Fine by me,” Bronson said, leading the way out again.
Once they were outside, he looked around, then pointed farther up the slope. “That looks like it could be bigger,” he said, indicating a much wider oval opening in the rock face perhaps eighty yards away. “Do you want to try that one?”
Angela looked up the hillside, and nodded. They were both finding it hard to talk in the oppressive heat.
As they set off, picking their path slowly and carefully across the hillside, Bronson glanced behind him. A man was making his way up the slope toward them, apparently heading for the one of the caves. There were actually numerous people visible at Qumran and on the surrounding hillsides, and nothing in particular to distinguish this lone tourist from any of the others swarming over the site, but the figure still concerned him.
When they’d emerged from the first small cave, the man had been heading directly toward them, or toward the cave itself, but now he had changed direction and was walking toward the larger cave Bronson and Angela were aiming for. Either that, or he was on an intercept course with them. Whichever it was, Bronson decided to watch him.
Angela reached the cave entrance first and stepped inside, Bronson following a few seconds behind, after taking a last glance down the slope. The man was over fifty yards away, still ambling, apparently quite innocently, toward them.
Motioning Angela to keep quiet, Bronson stepped back to the entrance and peered out, being careful to keep himself in the shadows. The approaching figure paused about thirty yards away and, as Bronson watched, he slipped a mobile phone into his jacket pocket.
“Oh, shit,” Bronson muttered, as the man pulled a semiautomatic pistol out of his belt, extracted the magazine from the butt to check it, then replaced it and cocked the weapon. “There’s a man heading this way with a pistol.”
“A policeman?” Angela asked hopefully.
“Not in a million years,” Bronson said. “Not carrying a weapon like that.”
He looked around the cave. There were two short side passages, one on either side of the entrance, each one partially blocked by fallen rocks. Either of them could be a death-trap, but only if the approaching man knew somebody was hiding in them.
“Quickly,” Bronson said, pointing to his right. “Go into that passage and hide behind the rock-pile.”
“Where will you be?”
“Down there, deeper in the cave. I’ll make some noise and try to attract his attention. As soon as he’s passed you, get out and go back to the car.”
“No, Chris.” Bronson could hear the fear in her voice. “I’m not leaving you here.”
“Please, Angela, just do it. I’ll feel happier knowing you’re safely out of the way. And I’ll follow you down as quickly as I can.”
Bronson turned and strode deeper into the musty darkness. He didn’t have a gun, but he did have a flashlight, something he’d remembered to buy in case they did go into any of the caves. Now he switched it on, thankful that he had it with him. Behind him, he heard Angela’s quick footsteps and glanced back to see her vanishing into the side tunnel.
And then the brilliant oval of light that marked the cave entrance was partially obscured as a figure stepped inside.
54
Bronson moved further back into the darkness.
The cave seemed to extend some distance into the hillside, maybe thirty or forty yards, the gap between the walls narrowing sharply as he retreated further from the entrance. The floor was a carpet of rutted and uneven rocks, loose stones and patches of sand, the walls cracked and fractured slabs of tortured stone, and with frequent blind-ended passages just a few feet long. And it was hot. Really hot, the air still and almost heavy with the heat.
He looked back toward the entrance. The figure seemed to be motionless, just inside the cave, possibly waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. But as Bronson looked, the man turned and took a couple of steps toward the passage where Angela had taken refuge. Quickly, Bronson kicked out, sending a few stones tumbling across the rocky floor, and switched on his flashlight again.
“That’s interesting,” he said, deliberately raising his voice as he shone the beam of the flashlight deeper into the cave. “Let’s just check that out.”
At the sound of his voice, the figure paused and swung round, his attention clearly drawn by the beam of light and Bronson’s voice, and took a few silent steps further inside the cave.
Bronson saw the figure drawing his pistol, the unmistakable black shape a sinister extension of his right arm. The good news was that the man had moved away from Angela’s hiding place, but the bad news was equally obvious—he was heading straight toward him. Knowing that his options and freedom of movement were becoming more restricted, Bronson took another step deeper into the cave and the narrowing darkness ahead.
He shone the beam of his flashlight around the end of the cave, looking for inspiration and either somewhere to hide or some kind of a distraction. But there were few hiding places and none that he liked the look of.
“That could be it, you know,” he said loudly, keeping up the pretense that Angela was with him. “Stand here and hold the flashlight steady.”
Bronson placed the flashlight on a rock, illuminating a small group of rocks on one side of the cave that almost looked as if they’d been piled up like a cairn.
Then he walked across in front of the flashlight beam, closing his eyes as he did so to preserve his night-vision. His action cast a huge shadow across the rock walls at the end of the cave and would, he hoped, ensure that their unwelcome visitor believed he was on the far side of the flashlight, looking for something in the gloom beyond.
But that wasn’t where he was going to be. The moment he was clear of the beam he ducked down and turned back toward the cave entrance. Pressing himself close to the rock wall, he watched the approaching figure, now perhaps only fifteen or twenty feet away from him.
The man’s attention seemed fixed on the flashlight beam, still shining on the pile of rocks. He was moving slowly and carefully toward the light, keeping to the center of the cave, and obviously taking great care not to make any noise.
Bronson needed to keep his attention there, looking toward the far end of the cavern. He picked up a couple of small pebbles and gently lobbed them behind him—an old trick but effective. They bounced across the floor of the cave somewhere near the stationary flashlight.
The figure kept walking, approaching slowly, and Bronson could clearly see the pistol held ready in the man’s right hand.
Then there was a sudden scraping and clattering sound from the cavern entrance as Angela came scrambling out of her hiding place, heading toward the mouth of the cave.
The man spun round, raised his pistol and pulled the trigger.
The sound of the shot was thunderously loud in the confined space, and Bronson had no time to check if Angela had been hit: he was already moving, fast.
Even as the unidentified figure fired his weapon, Bronson started running. He pushed himself off the wall of the cave and barreled straight across the rocky floor, smashing into the man’s stomach with his shoulder. The man gasped in surprise and pain and crashed down to the ground, the pistol spinning from his hand and landing with a clatter somewhere beyond him.
Bronson gave him no chance to recover. As they struggled together on the rock-strewn floor of the cave, he pulled his right arm free and smashed his fist into the man’s solar plexus, driving the remaining air from his lungs. Then he brought his knee up—hard—into his groin. That wasn’t perhaps the best of ideas, as Bronson’s kneecap scraped against the rocks as he did so, sending stabbing pains shooting up his right leg.
But the man he’d attacked tensed, his hands grasping between his legs, so Bronson knew he’d incapacitated him, at least for a few seconds.
He scrambled to his feet and looked down at the bent figure lying moaning on the floor. The pistol. He knew he should grab the man’s weapon, seize the advantage, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. Sprinting to the back of the cave, he grabbed his flashlight and walked back to the groaning figure. He shone the beam all around him, looking for the telltale gleam of metal. Nothing. Then something caught his eye, something glinting dully, and he crossed over to investigate.
It
was
the pistol, but it had fallen between two rocks, into a near-vertical crack that was little wider than the weapon itself, and he couldn’t slide his hand in far enough to even touch it. To get it out he’d need to either move one of the rocks—which might not be possible—or find something like a length of wood he could use as a lever. And he didn’t have time for that, because the man he’d attacked was already up on his knees.
was
the pistol, but it had fallen between two rocks, into a near-vertical crack that was little wider than the weapon itself, and he couldn’t slide his hand in far enough to even touch it. To get it out he’d need to either move one of the rocks—which might not be possible—or find something like a length of wood he could use as a lever. And he didn’t have time for that, because the man he’d attacked was already up on his knees.
As the man got to his feet, Bronson aimed a punch at his jaw, but missed as his target swayed backward. Then he heard an ominous click and saw the flash of steel as a switchblade snapped open. Bronson backed away as the man stabbed the knife toward his stomach, then swung at his assailant with the only weapon he had—his flashlight.
When he’d looked in the shop that morning, he’d seen several different kinds, but Bronson had always believed in buying quality whenever he could, and the one he’d chosen was a heavy-duty aluminum tube that held three large batteries. And at that moment he was delighted he’d spent the extra money.
The flashlight crashed into the side of the man’s head and he collapsed face-down on the ground. Amazingly, the flashlight still worked, although Bronson could feel that there was now an impressive dent in one side of it.
He looked at the unmoving figure for a few seconds, then reached down and seized his shoulder, rolling the man onto his back. He shone the flashlight beam at his face for a moment, then nodded slowly.
“Now why am I not surprised?” he muttered.
He made one more unsuccessful attempt to retrieve the man’s pistol from the crevice in the rocks, then walked out of the cave.
Angela was waiting about twenty yards away, hidden behind a rocky outcrop, a cricket-ball-sized stone clutched in her right hand.
“Thank God,” she said, standing up as Bronson appeared. “Are you OK?”
He put his hand on her shoulder, then brushed her cheek gently where it was streaked with dirt.
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