The Sacred Blood (22 page)

He was a sentinel for Allah.

“‘Glory to Allah for taking His most righteous servant from the sacred mosque to the most distant mosque,’ ” he muttered, his unblinking eyes still trained on the gold dome.

Oh, how the
kalifah
had taken the divine words of the Great Prophet to weave the grand tale that made this place the third-most-sacred shrine in Islam. The cryptic Qur’anic reference at the onset of the sura entitled Bani Isra’il gave very little detail about what place had truly been designated the Distant Mosque. But the oral traditions in the hadith told a great story that it was this very place—the site where the grand Jewish Temple presumably once stood. How clever the caliphs had been when they’d conquered Jerusalem in the seventh century and re-created Jerusalem’s identity—al-Quds. Just as the Jewish king David had once laid claim to this site, so too had the
kalifah
. And the Jews’ most sacred place was hence transformed into the Islamic Haram esh-Sharif—the Noble Sanctuary.

“As-salaam alaikum,”
a soft voice said from over his shoulder.

Swiveling round in his chair, Ghalib studied the young man who stood in the doorway—average height, slight of stature, Palestinian by blood. But his pale complexion, green eyes, and soft features had often been confused for Israeli—one might even guess that he was a Sephardic Jew. Precisely the reason Ghalib had summoned him here. He knew him by first name alone: Ali—Arabic for “protected by God.” And as requested, Ali had shaved away his beard. The added effect was quite dramatic.

“Wa alaikum al salaam,”
Ghalib said, waving him forward. “Come, let us talk.”

Ali sat tall in the guest chair, eyes cast down at his hands in a show of respect.

“You can look at me, Ali,” Ghalib insisted. The green eyes shifted up, blazing with a familiar fire. He got right to the point: “I’ve been told that you have offered to give your life for Allah . . . for your people. You wish to be a martyr?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, without emotion.

“Tell me. Why do you believe that you are worthy to make such a sacrifice?”

Ghalib already knew the answer. He’d heard it many times before from countless young Muslims—mostly male but occasionally female—who flooded the rightist Islamic madrassas throughout the Middle East and Europe to be consumed by the radical interpretations of Islam’s oral tradition. A common thread bound them all: their lives had been stripped of hope, opportunity, and dignity.

Like many others, Ali and his family had lost their home and land to Israeli settlements funded by American Christian evangelists and zealous Jews. His older brother had been gunned down for throwing stones during the second intifada. Ali had grown up witnessing frequent Israeli raids and the destructive aftermath of rocket attacks. His family was locked behind concrete and barbed wire eight meters high—Israel’s ever-growing security barrier. They lived in a camp and relied on handouts, or
zakah,
from Hamas for their survival. And the Israelis forbade them to enter Jerusalem to pray at the great mosques.

No home. No freedom. No land. No future. The perfect martyr.

The worst thing any man could take from another man is his dignity,

Ghalib thought. “I give myself to Allah—body, soul,” Ali replied with utmost certainty.

“I am His now. And to honor Him, I must fight against what is happening to our people. I fight for Palestine. For what is rightfully ours.”

Ghalib smiled. It wasn’t the promise of countless virgins in a garden paradise that fueled this one. Just as the Merciful One had created Adam from clay, so too Ali’s spirit had been molded by the teachings. But as much as Ghalib would have loved to strap shrapnel bombs to the
shaheed
’s torso and send him into a nightclub on Ben Yehuda Street, there was a more pressing matter at hand.

“You will be greatly rewarded when the final day comes, Ali,” Ghalib said in praise of him. “In the meantime, there is something very important I would like for you to do.”

“Anything you ask.”

Reaching under the table, Ghalib brought out a neatly folded blue jumpsuit and set it in front of Ali. The embroidered white insignia on the front pocket—depicting a menorah inside a circle—brought much confusion to Ali’s fair-skinned face, as did the identification badge and security access card Ghalib placed atop it.

40.

Vatican City

The figure appeared much sooner than anticipated—a dark shadow descending from above, sweeping down the gentle curve of the staircase, faint footsteps echoing off the marble-clad grotto. From the shadows deep within the necropolis, Donovan leaned out from behind the tomb in wait.

The face was difficult to make out beneath the dim glow from the oil lamps circling St. Peter’s shrine. But Donovan had little doubt about the intruder’s identity. And he was relieved to see that the traitor had come alone. There was a sizable bag in the figure’s left hand—far too big for what he’d come to steal.

***

Father Martin knelt before the arched niche where the golden casket shimmered behind a glass door. He glanced up into the eyes of Christ’s mosaic set behind it and crossed himself.

With a trembling hand, he raised a key to the door frame and turned the lock. Slowly he pulled open the glass door.

“And what ever happened to the bones that you found in the ossuary?” he’d asked Donovan over lunch. Though at first Donovan had been reluctant to respond, he’d come back with “Just after I left Santelli’s office, I put them in a very safe place.”

That was when Martin recalled the night of Santelli’s death, when he’d found Donovan here in the basilica, after hours, creeping up from this very shrine. Donovan said he’d been praying. But Martin remembered that he’d been carrying an empty satchel. There would have been no way for him to have hidden the bones in one of the papal sarcophagi or tombs, since all were permanently sealed. He’d have needed tools, and no doubt someone to help him. But that night, there’d been neither.

That left only one possibility.

With gleaming eyes, Martin studied the golden ossuary.

The photograph of his sister’s family came into his mind’s eye, along with the haunting words: “The most efficient path to truth comes from the blood of loved ones.” Now, by the grace of God, he could spare them by giving Orlando what he wanted. He hadn’t asked to be dragged into this mess. This wasn’t his war. Donovan and the American geneticist would take responsibility for what had happened.

“You get the bones and have them ready for us,” Orlando had told him on the phone earlier that afternoon. “You’ll also need to find a way to get us into the city.”

There came a moment of doubt when Martin considered the size of the box. Could such a small vessel hold an entire human skeleton? Reaching out with both hands, Martin wrapped his fingers around the relic’s ornate lid, his movement more urgent now. He pulled the lid away and set it down on the marble tiles at his knees. The shadows made it difficult to see inside the box and he scrambled for the bag to retrieve the flashlight he’d brought along.

He leaned over the box and shined the light down into it. Reflections shone crisply off some glass vessels stored inside.
Cruets filled with ceremo
nial oils?

“What?” Despair immediately gripped him, knocking the wind out of his chest.

“The bones aren’t there, lad,” a voice suddenly called out in a heavy brogue.

Taken aback, Martin spun wildly. In the process, he slipped on the relic’s lid and it scraped along the tile, making him fall backward against the wall and hit his head. The flashlight fell out of his hand, hit the tile, and rolled away until it partially spotlighted Donovan—his face visible but blended into the darkness. The glow from the overhead lamps silhouetted his hairless skull.

“Where are the bones?” Martin demanded, scrambling to his feet.

Donovan’s muscles tightened. Martin stopped at arm’s length, the light shining up under his chin making his wild eyes more pronounced—demonic looking. “Not here; not in Vatican City,” Donovan bitterly replied. “You will never know. I promise you that.” When he’d left Vatican City, the bones had left with him. And now they were in a much safer place.

“I must, Patrick! I must know!” he ranted, stepping closer to Donovan, limbs quaking. “You don’t understand!”

“Get hold of yourself,” he replied in disgust. “There’s plenty I understand. Especially deceit. I’ve seen too much of it inside these walls. But I never expected it from you.”

Then Martin broke down. “They’ve threatened to kill my sister . . . the children. If I don’t give them what they want . . .” He dropped to his knees, sobbing.

“You have no idea what you’ve done. People have
already
died because of what you’ve said.”

Martin buried his face in his hands, shaking his head in denial, not wanting to hear the words.

“Tell me who they are. I’ll help you. We’ll find a way to protect your sister and her family. We can bring them here until we find these men.”

“Just give them the bones,” he weakly pleaded.

“I can’t. I won’t.” It took everything in his being not to lash out at him. Donovan dropped to one knee and yanked Martin’s face up into the light. “Who
are
they?” he growled in frustration.

Martin shook his head, his lips quivering. “Do you think I know?” he sobbed. “Do you think they actually told me? I have no idea who they are!” He pulled away and dropped to the floor like a wounded animal. “It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Martin murmured.

Donovan didn’t like the way this sounded.

“They’re already here, in the city. When I don’t give them the bones tonight ...”

Adrenaline surged through Donovan and he lunged at Martin, seizing the lapels of his jacket, shaking hard. “You let them in here? Are you insane!”

“It wasn’t only the bones they wanted,” Martin whispered, his body flaccid. “They wanted her too ...Charlotte.”

Stunned, Donovan shoved Martin back against the wall. Wasting no time, he sprang to his feet and raced up the steps into the basilica.

“It’s too late!” Martin screamed after him. “You can’t save her now!” His next words went unheard by Donovan. “God forgive me.”

41.

Jerusalem

“Why are we going here?” Jules asked as Amit turned the Land Rover off Jaffa Road and its headlights swept across Jerusalem’s Central Bus Station—a modern eight-story pile of Jerusalem stone and glass. “Are we skipping town?”

“I need to check my e-mail,” he told her, “and I’m not about to go to my apartment to do it. Suicide bombers like to target buses. So security here is super tight. Lots of cameras, police, metal detectors.”

“Good idea.”

“Thanks.”

“And you’re still not going to tell me what you’re thinking?” The stubborn Israeli had raced her out of the Old City saying barely a word. And he’d given her no clue as to why the Temple Society’s tribute to the hypothetical Third Temple shrine had spooked him.

“If I tell you what I’m thinking right now, trust me, you’ll think I’m completely nuts,” he told her.

“Too late for that,” she grumbled.

Winding through the underground garage, Amit parked the Land Rover close to the elevator. He waited a good minute with the Jericho grasped firmly in his hand, making sure no one was following them inside. Once he was satisfied that the area was secure, he locked the pistol in the glove box.

“Let’s go,” he said, jumping out. “There’s an Internet café upstairs that one of my students told me about.”

Along the shopping concourse, Amit strode quickly to Café Net, with Jules double-timing her steps to keep up with him. At the counter, he paid seven shekels for fifteen minutes of Web surfing. While he settled in at a terminal close to the front, Jules perused the pastry and sandwich selections at the display case running along the opposite wall.

By the time Amit had fussed with the access code and gotten the browser up and running, Jules had returned with a tray holding a café au lait and omelet ciabatta for each of them.

“Might as well get something to eat while we’re here,” she said. She set a mug and a plated sandwich in front of him.

“Good thinking.” Famished, he immediately went for the sandwich.

“So what exactly are you looking for?” Her tone was more conciliatory now. It was obvious that Amit was putting together the pieces of a very intricate puzzle.

It took him a moment to finish chewing before he said, “Yosi always sends me an advance copy of his transcriptions,” Amit explained. “To keep us both out of trouble, he sends them to my Yahoo account.”

“Sneaky,” Jules said.

“Smart,” Amit corrected. “Yahoo affords some pretty sophisticated fire-walls and encryption. Not to mention my name is not attached to my account. So it’s all fairly anonymous.” He clicked on his in-box and the screen filled with unread messages. “And this transcription would have been very easy for Yosi—quick. So if we’re lucky . . .” He cast his eyes heavenward.

She swallowed her first bite of the ciabatta. “Any stuff in there I’m not supposed to see?”

He shook his head.

“How about this one?” she inquired, pointing to a new message with the subject line enlarge your penis—1 inch in 3 days. “Are you sure your account is anonymous?”

Amit chuckled. “I guess the secret’s out,” he said. “Junk mail.” But the smile dissolved quickly when he scrolled down and spotted the message from Yosi, the subject line stating one ominous word in caps: “URGENT.” “Ah. Here we go.”

Jules leaned closer.

“Listen to this.” Amit quietly read aloud Yosi’s message: “ ‘In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like this. So many have tried to extrapolate meanings from the Qumran texts, seeking connections to the Gospels—contradictions, perhaps.’ ” His voice began to waver slightly. “ ‘But as you know, only ambiguous interpretations exist. If these scrolls truly date to the first century, and I have no doubt they do, what you have discovered will’ ”—he had to pause to clear his throat—“ ‘challenge everything we know.’ ” But the last sentence stumped him, because it stopped abruptly.