The Sacred Blood (11 page)

“The real question is, should this knowledge impact one’s faith or discredit Christ’s teachings . . . His mission?” Donovan added. “A physical body doesn’t negate the teachings found in the Gospels. Nor does it downplay that God’s kingdom does promise eternal peace for the righteous. But after all these centuries, the Vatican has emphasized an archaic interpretation of Christ’s physical death. So you can imagine the threat a body would pose.”

He tried his best to explain how the Vatican had for centuries speculated about a physical body and feared one might turn up. Occasionally, charlatans had attempted to blackmail the Vatican with anonymous relics lacking any provenance whatsoever. But with today’s scientific methods, Donovan pointed out, had a genuine relic been excavated, in its context from beneath the Temple Mount, the threat would then be very,
very
real. He stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, “Now we just need to figure out why these two men want the bones so badly.”

Charlotte shifted uneasily in her seat. One thought kept repeating it-self—Evan Aldrich had used those bones to save her life. Now those same bones had made him a casualty. And though Donovan was fishing for an explanation in the theological realm, there was only one thing that could logically be their true motivation.

“I think I might know what these men are after.”

17.

The Volvo idled at a scenic overlook along Camelback Mountain. The two passengers inside had just reversed roles; now Donovan was hearing Charlotte’s confession. And what she had to say—had to release—was something far more astounding than anything weighing on his soul.

Far across the valley below, beyond the unnatural green swaths of golf courses set amidst suburban sprawl, Donovan’s empty eyes were locked on BMS’s gleaming edifice, which rose high above the buildings clustered around it—an ungodly Tower of Babel forged of glass and steel, where humans challenged God on an entirely new level.

“There’s something else you need to know about what we discovered,” she said. “I’d been very sick back in June . . .”

“I gathered that,” Donovan weakly replied. “I was told you’d left behind things in your room. The drugs were for cancer, weren’t they?”

She nodded. “Multiple myeloma.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard of this aggressive disease, and he couldn’t hold back the grim expression that immediately came over him. How ironic that it attacked the
bones,
he thought.

Picking up on his distress, she quickly added, “But I don’t have cancer anymore.”

Amazed, he looked up at her. “Praise God,” he said, beaming. “That’s incredible! A miracle.”

“Yes . . . and no,” she said. “You see, that same gene I just told you about—” Her voice choked off.

“Go on,” he encouraged her. The same words he’d used countless times in the confessional.

Glancing over at him, she could tell he didn’t fully comprehend. “The DNA . . . Jesus’s DNA? It has special qualities.” The genetic synthesis was fairly complicated—something she still couldn’t completely decipher—so she needed to keep it simple. “It’s like a virus, but a good one. And when introduced into someone who’s sick . . .” She tried to envision 23 intelligently replicating system-wide at super speed to destroy the malicious cancer cells.

Donovan slumped in his seat.

“His DNA is inside me,” she said, her voice low, reverent. “It cured me. Probably minutes after it got into my bloodstream.”

Now Donovan was practically hyperventilating. On impulse, he crossed himself.

“So it seems we both have secrets.” He looked like he was going to have heart failure. So she reached over with a soothing hand and laid it on his forearm.

The fingers of his right hand went back to his quivering lips once more. The implications of what they’d uncovered in Jerusalem kept coming. “What have we done?”

“Isn’t everything God’s plan?” she said defensively, mostly to ease her guilt.

There may have been a time when he believed that. It would be comforting to think that God played puppeteer when Donovan killed Conte and Santelli. And it would offer great solace to know that the desecration of Christ’s ossuary was divinely sanctioned. But could God possibly have intended these consequences? “I don’t know, Charlotte. I just don’t know.” He looked out to the horizon. “What I do know is that we’re in this together,” Donovan grimly replied.

“Well, here’s what I’m thinking: what if these men somehow found out about my genetic studies?” It seemed impossible, given the unbelievable secrecy and security protocols she and Evan had built around the study. She pulled her hand back. “Maybe that’s why they’re coming for us?”

Sitting up, Donovan thought about this. At first, it actually seemed possible. Then he shook his head. “You saw how they got into your building. It was easy for them. Why would they have wasted time trying to come for me first?”

It was a good point. “Because I don’t have the bones?” she guessed.

“But you just told me you don’t need the bones. Your small sample can be replicated easily, right?”

“I see what you mean,” she said—a major hole in the hypothesis. “So you don’t think they actually know about the DNA?”

Based on the interaction he’d had with them in Belfast, he said, “I don’t think that’s what they’re after—at least not directly. But it’s evident that they want one of us to show them where the bones are hidden.”

Her eyes flashed with curiosity. She’d forgotten all about this. “Where
did
you hide them?”

“Best I not tell you that. For your own safety,” he insisted. He could see she was disappointed. “But I promise that if we get through this, I’ll show you.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “So where do we go from here?” Donovan sighed. “We can’t stay here, that’s for sure. Apparently they can track us everywhere we go.” “Why not just call the police? I mean, they murdered—” She felt her throat close off. The tears came again. He shook his head. “These men are professionals. We don’t have names, a plausible motive. Nothing. They won’t be found. The real

investigation that needs to be done . . . well, I think we’d agree that they just wouldn’t believe our story. Police won’t matter. We’d be sitting ducks,” he soberly replied. Looking up at her watery eyes, he could see she agreed. “Until we figure this all out, we need to be in a place where even if they know where we are, they can’t get to us. Someplace with very, very tight security.”

“We’d need to hire bodyguards. Lots of bodyguards.”

“No need,” he said, grinning. “Someone’s already done that for us.”

Obviously he had an idea. “Share, please.”

He simply replied, “I’ve been on sabbatical long enough.”

18.

The Temple Mount, Israel

Sheikh Ghalib Hamzah ibn Mu’adh al-Namair claimed the leather armchair at the head of the teak conference table. The arched window behind him had been cranked open to allow a gentle breeze to freshen the cramped meeting room, but more important, to give the Waqf ’s assembled council members the necessary vantage to set eyes on the brilliantly sunlit Dome of the Rock, situated across the esplanade—visual reinforcement of their duty to protect the sanctity of the Haram esh-Sharif.

To further emphasize that duty, he’d slotted the early evening meeting immediately following Asr—the fourth of the five daily prayers that preceded the setting of the sun. And Ghalib had insisted that those now present recite the silent prayer inside the Dome of the Rock. He felt it would better set the mood.

Ghalib sat back tall and rigid, with forearms aligned perfectly on the chair’s armrests. Loose, wiry hands hung from the sleeves of his bright white tunic. Beneath a white prayer cap, or kufi, wisps of jet-black hair framed his wide, bony face and blended seamlessly with a patiently grown and meticulously groomed beard and mustache. An ever-present sneer favoring his right cheek gave a permanent crook to his lips. He was only thirty-eight, remarkably youthful for such a post—a testament to the fact that youth tended to preserve the fight in a man.

“As-salaam alaikum,”
he said, greeting the dozen prominent elders and Muslim clerics gathered around him. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and said, “Praise to Allah, the merciful and the beneficent. May He guide us and watch over us.” Then he tipped his head back and opened his eyes. It wasn’t only the stuffy room that needing airing. “I’m well aware that some of you have voiced concerns about my appointment here.” His caramel irises swam in pure white orbs resting behind taut eyelids, passing over the innocent with no regard, tightening accusatorily on the known dissenters.

And some dissension was expected. As a star pupil of the right-wing Wahhabi brand of Islam, Ghalib was a highly vocal fundamentalist with strong ties to Islamic militant groups, a regular teacher at universities throughout the Arab region, and hailed as the next great voice in Palestinian liberation.

“So let us talk,” he said. “Voice our concerns. Discuss our ongoing mission to preserve Islam and its sacred shrines.” His head tipped right as his accusatory stare went directly for the man who most opposed him. “Why don’t we start with you, Muhammad?” The turbaned sixty-two-year-old shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat. “The Israelis continue to dig beneath the Haram while the Waqf sits idly by . . . watching, waiting,” Ghalib said in a sharp tone. “What do you suppose we are waiting for? Do you believe that your prayers will stop the bulldozers?”

“Of course not,” Muhammad said defensively. “You know that is not the case.”

Ghalib spread his hands. “Then defend your case.”

Another dry cough. “Ever since the theft in June . . . since your predecessor was indicted as an accomplice,” he reminded Ghalib, “our power has been greatly diminished.”

Ghalib’s crooked lip tilted higher. His predecessor, Farouq bin Alim Abd al-Rahmaan al-Jamir, was still in custody with the Israeli authorities and facing severe charges for conspiring to commit a theft that left thirteen Israeli police and soldiers dead. Though Israel’s only state-sanctioned execution had been the May 1962 hanging of Nazi SS leader Adolf Eichmann (who’d been captured hiding in Argentina by Mossad agents), many high-ranking Israelis in parliament insisted that Farouq should be put to death for treason.

Ghalib shook his head, his lips turned down. “Your power has not changed. But your
will
has surely weakened.” He knew what made the man soft and sympathetic. Though Palestinian by blood, Muhammad was Israeli by passport. It was evident that it wasn’t just the cover of his immigration documents that had changed from green to blue. And unlike his suffering brethren, Ghalib knew, righteous Muhammad lived on the prosperous side of Israel’s separation fences that cut away the West Bank and Gaza with hundreds of kilometers of poured concrete, steel, and wire.