The Caleb Collection Page 42

Rebecca caught her father’s side glance and raised an amused brow. Not too many men spoke to Solomon so directly.

  The priest drew a deep breath through his nostrils. “The Tabotat—the Ark of the Covenant—in which rests the very presence of God, was brought to Jerusalem by King David 1,006 years before . . . how do you say it in Hebrew?”

  Dr. Zakkai spoke for the first time. “1006 B.C.E.”

  “Yes. 1006 B.C.E. His son, Solomon, built the Temple as the resting place for the Ark. This he did in 955 . . .”

  “B.C.E.,” Zakkai filled in.

  “Yes. 955 and 1006. You probably believe, as do most Jews, that the Ark was taken by the Babylonians in the year 586, four hundred years later, when they destroyed the Temple. But that is your first mistake.”

  The Falasha priest drew a hand across his lips, wiping some saliva away. “In truth, it was removed from the Temple during the reign of Manasseh by a group of priests in 650 B.C.E.”

  “No Jewish priest would have ever removed the Ark from the holy place without returning it,” Dr. Zakkai said with a slight smile. “Not by choice. It is inconceivable.”

  “Yes, it is inconceivable. Unless it was the only option. You will recall that Manasseh defiled the Temple by placing an image of Asherah in the most holy place. What priest do you know that would allow a pagan idol to stand next to the Ark in the holy place?”

  “The Ark was taken out, but only for a short time,” Dr. Zakkai said.

  “The idols were not destroyed until many years later. Why does your record not tell us what happened to the Ark during this time? There is no definitive record of the Ark being placed back in the holy place. It simply disappears from your history.”

  “Yes, but King Josiah removed Asherah and ordered—”

  “Josiah ordered the Ark be returned, but there is no record of it being returned.” The old Falasha priest’s suddenly strong voice belied his frail stature.

  “The Ark never was returned. The priests, fearing that it might be defiled again, kept it hidden. It was a dangerous time. Their decision was justified when the Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians a short time later. But the Ark was not there. It had been taken already.”

  “Is this possible?” David Ben Solomon asked Dr. Zakkai.

  “Unlikely. And even if a group of priests had taken the Ark, they would’ve left a record of it. They certainly wouldn’t have taken the Ark beyond the borders of . . .” He turned to the old man. “Where do you say they took it?”

  “Israel was no longer safe. The priests took it south, down the Nile, to Aswan in Egypt.”

  “Aswan?”

  “Has it never puzzled you that very shortly after Manasseh’s reign a Jewish temple was built in Aswan, on the island of Elephantine? The only temple outside of Israel ever constructed with the exact dimensions of Solomon’s Temple?”

  Zakkai hesitated. “Yes. It is . . . strange.”

  “Yes, strange. Unless you know why it existed. It was built by the priests for the same purpose as the only other temple like it in history—to hold the Ark. Jews in Israel ceased blood sacrifice at this time. But not at the temple at Aswan. There the priests continued in the ways of the old law, without compromise. Another coincidence your scholars are pressed to explained.”

  “I’ve never heard that,” Rebecca said, glancing at the professor. There was no scholar as well versed in Jewish history as Dr. Zakkai, and in her two years with the man, he’d never spoken of the temple at Aswan.

  The old man looked at her with blind eyes. “If you had spent as much time with books as you have with a gun, you might have.”

  Her reputation as a soldier had obviously made an impression on the priest. In many Jewish minds Rebecca Solomon, daughter of David Ben Solomon, was at twenty-five nearly as much a national hero as Ariel Sharon. Not that she had won any wars, like Sharon had, but in the covert war with the Hamas and other PLO groups, she had made her mark. Assassinating a second in command to Arafat tended to make a statement. Doing it twice left a permanent mark.

  Rebecca felt divided over her reputation. On one hand, satisfied that she’d personally extracted revenge for her mother’s and sister’s deaths. On the other hand, sickened by the bloodshed. Underneath her skin she wasn’t that sort of person. She was simply a woman who wanted to discover love and life without the terror that had always stalked her.

  “A large Jewish community grew up around the temple in Aswan,” Hadane continued. “Two hundred years later the temple was destroyed in war and the Jews vanished from the region. Many wonder where they went. I’ll tell you. They traveled further down the Nile to Lake Tana in Ethiopia and built a simple tabernacle in which they placed the Ark of the Covenant. The caretakers on the island were my ancestors. We have carefully guarded this secret for two thousand years. And to this day we are the only Jews who still practice blood sacrifice.”

  “If you have the Ark, why would you hide it?” Rebecca asked. “Why not just bring it back?”

  “Did I say I have it? We have guarded the knowledge, not the Ark. And if the Ark’s location were known, how many would cross oceans to defile it?”

  “So, according to your story, where is the Ark?”

  “Today? Yes, I will come to that. For many centuries the Ark remained in obscurity on the remote island. If you go today, you will see many signs of its history. Relics which date back to Solomon’s day: candlesticks, incense bowls—only recently have they come into focus among archaeologists. But the Ark was removed once again in 1200 . . . how do you say it?”

  “C.E.,” Zakkai said.

  “Thank you. You know of the Crusades. The Knights Templar besieged and took over Jerusalem in 1099 C.E. For nearly a hundred years the knights lived on the Temple Mount, rarely leaving it. Do you know what they were doing up there?”

  “They were digging,” Zakkai said.

  “Yes. They were looking for the Ark. Their tunnels are still under the Mount today, but the Muslims won’t let you explore them. They are sealed.”

  The room grew still. In reality, Rebecca and Zakkai had examined the Temple Mount in far more detail than anyone knew. Modern imaging technology was proving itself in their hands. If the Israeli authorities found out, it would be prison. If the Palestinians found out, it would be riots and bloodshed at the least. Either way the explorations hadn’t yielded anything of value. Not yet.

  “It’s not my business if you want to crawl around under the Mount,” the priest said. “But you won’t find what you’re looking for. Neither did the Templars. But they did find artifacts. And they found a letter written by one of the priests during the reign of Manasseh. The letter speaks of the escape route they planned on taking. The route leads south towards Ethiopia.”

  Rebecca glanced at Zakkai, who stared at Hadane, thoroughly interested now. “You . . . you have this letter?” Zakkai asked.

  “No. I don’t know where it is. But the Templars understood from the letter that the Ark had gone south, down the Nile, to Ethiopia. They left Jerusalem suddenly, if you recall. What you may not know is that they came to my country and for many years lived in good favor with the king. They built many large monasteries on which they placed their unmistakable crosses. The historians can’t understand why the Templars were in Ethiopia,” the priest said with a smile. “As I said, many don’t even know they were in Ethiopia. But we know.”

  He sighed. “Sadly, the Ark was taken from our island and moved to a church in Axum in 1200.”

  “Saint Mary’s of Zion. So you, too, believe that the Ark is in Saint Mary’s as the Ethiopian Orthodox insist?” Zakkai asked.

  “No. But it was.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Because I am a guardian of the knowledge—a Falasha priest to whom has been entrusted this knowledge. The Orthodox might have taken the Ark, but they could not hide its location from us.”

  The priest stopped and for a few moments they all just stood there. Solomon finally turned around and stared out to th
e Temple Mount.

  “So now you are going to tell us that the Ark is in such and such a place,” he said. “A church in Addis Ababa or in a grave in Lalibela. Either way, it’s still nothing but a story from an old man who’s telling only what he’s heard. We really can’t pick up and travel fifteen hundred kilometers every time an old rabbi tells us another theory.”

  “You are an impatient man,” Hadane said.

  “I am a realist.” Solomon turned around. “As I said, thirty years ago I would have already packed my bags and would be at the airport, catching the next flight to your country. But after a thousand hopes and a thousand blows, I’ve become a realist.”

  “But still, you search for the Ark.”

  “Because I see no other way,” Solomon bit off. “And to be truthful, I’m not sure it makes any sense now. We’re no closer to building the Temple today than we were when we started. Meanwhile more secular Jews flood our country, diluting the call for the Messiah’s coming. At this rate you won’t be able to tell a Jew from an Arab twenty years from now.”

  “And the Ark would change this?”

  “Yes, of course. But you don’t have the Ark. You don’t even have a candlestick. The last one we spoke to at least had a candlestick. You will forgive my forthrightness, Rabbi, but all you have are words.”

  “Father—”

  “Please, Rebecca. To him, you are nothing but a killer.” Solomon’s words cut with the kind of resolve built in a man who had battled not only the enemy, but his own people for too long. Rebecca felt heat wash over her face at the rebuke. Behind her father, Avraham, the true killer in this room, now stood with a small grin.

  “With a word God created,” the old priest said. “Perhaps words are all you need.”

  “No, Rabbi. I need a gun. A very big gun. Like the Ark. The Ark is a very big gun.”

  “Then perhaps I did make a mistake in coming here.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The priest tapped the floor with his cane and pushed himself to his feet again. His servant boy ran up and took his hand. Together they walked to the door. The old man muttered something in Amharic.

  “What did he say, boy?” Zakkai asked.

  The servant boy turned back. His eyes darted around the room, nervous, which seemed odd to Rebecca. What reason did the boy have to be nervous? “He said that he will never understand why God chooses such stubborn men. He was right not to show you the letter.”

  “Letter? I thought you said you didn’t have the priest’s letter. What letter?” Zakkai demanded.

  The priest paused by the door, his back still to them.

  Solomon turned from the window. “What letter, Rabbi?”

  The priest stepped out of the room.

  Solomon spoke in a soft tone. “Do you believe that God has chosen me, Rabbi?”

  The priest stopped. For a long time he said nothing. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “A letter from the Knight Templar who found the priest’s record when the Templars dug under the Temple Mount.” The old man turned around.

  “The knight left the letter with my ancestors nearly a thousand years ago. That is why we know the legend is true. We have proof. The Ark was taken by the Temple priests to the Nile. If this much is true, the rest surely follows.”

  “You have this letter?” Zakkai demanded. He stepped forward. “With you?”

  “Yes.”

  Rebecca exchanged a look with Zakkai and her father. Even Avraham had stepped out of the shadows. An actual letter from the Knights Templar that referred to what they had found under the Temple Mount . . . it would be incredible!

  “May we see it?” Zakkai asked. His voice had taken on a tremor.

  Raphael hesitated, then withdrew a dirty envelope from his tunic. He opened it with unsteady hands and produced a sheet of browned paper, ragged on its edges.

  Zakkai stepped forward and took the paper. He studied it for a moment and then looked up at Solomon with wild eyes. He whirled to the table and set the paper down, smoothing it with one hand. Then they were all moving for the table. The atmosphere felt electric.

  The letter was in Middle English—faded black letters on very old paper.

  I, Sir Wallace Thronburge III, am a knight in the service of the holy Ark from Jerusalem . . .

  The letter began to tell the story, precisely as Hadane had just relayed it.

  “Is it genuine?” Solomon asked.

  Zakkai stroked his beard. “It . . . it appears to be.”

  Solomon turned around, trembling now. “Where is the Ark today?”

  The old man smiled. “Now you are ready to listen. Do you wish me to start from the beginning?”

  “Forgive me, Rabbi. Surely you understand. Tell me what you know about the Ark’s location.”

  “If I tell you, you will see that the Temple is rebuilt?”

  “If I find the Ark, Israel will see to it that the Temple is rebuilt! God will see to it.”

  “I will accept that.” The old man’s lips flattened.

  He walked back in, smug and obviously satisfied with himself. He sat once again and lifted his head straight.

  “The Ark was taken to Saint Mary’s of Zion long ago, as the Orthodox Christians claim, but it was removed whenever war threatened its safety. Often for years at a time, replaced by a Tabotat replica—the kind you see throughout Ethiopia today. But then it was decided that the Ark should be removed permanently—too many from the West were beginning to suspect its existence there.”

  “Where did they take it?” Solomon demanded.

  Zakkai stood up from the letter that he still examined. “I . . . I believe it is genuine, David.”

  “Yes.” Her father had evidently decided the same. “Where, Rabbi? Where did they take it?”

  “It was taken to an ancient monastery in northern Ethiopia twenty years ago. A very remote monastery named the Debra Damarro, under the care of a Father Matthew.”

  Rebecca looked up at her father. Not since her last mission with the Mossad two years ago, before she’d given up her gun for a shovel, had she felt the kind of current that now rushed through her nerves.

  “Father. We should go—”

  “It’s not that simple,” the Falasha priest said.

  “Why?”

  “The monastery Debra Damarro was destroyed fifteen years ago during an Eritrean raid. It has since been rebuilt.”

  “And the Ark wasn’t found?”

  “No. Father Matthew was a very wise guardian. Before he died, he hid the Ark well and planted the key to its precise location on a pure vessel of God. A young boy. He alone holds the key to the Ark’s discovery.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  The man paused. “My brother was a very good friend to Father Matthew. His name is Joseph Hadane. He lives in the desert near the monastery. Father Matthew told him about the boy.”

  “And this boy lives?”

  “Yes. He is a young man now.”

  “What is his name?”

  “His name is Caleb.”

  “Caleb,” Rebecca said, letting the name linger on her tongue. If the priest was right, one man stood between them and the salvation of Israel, and his name was Caleb.

  Avraham spoke for the first time. His eyes were glazed. “Sir, you must allow me to lead a mission to recover the relic immediately.”

  Solomon spun. “Rebecca, prepare to leave tomorrow. Take Avraham and Zakkai and ten men. Only the very best.”

  Avraham stepped forward. “Sir, I believe it is a mistake—”

  “Yes, Avraham, I know you think you should lead. Not this time.”

  Solomon picked up the letter from the table and blinked in the candlelight. “If God wills . . .”

  He let the statement die. God’s will was too ambiguous to predict these days.

  2

  Ismael walked beside his father, the Syrian general, on the Haram al-Sharif—Noble Sanctuary to most Muslims and Temple Mount to most Jews. Ahead of them the moon’s ref
lection glinted off the Dome of the Rock. Behind them the Al-Aqsa Mosque swept across the southern end of the Mount, high above the Jews’ Western Wall.

  It was from here, on this flat rock roughly two hundred meters square, that Mohammed had been taken to heaven and given his vision of God. It was here that the Jews erroneously claimed their ancient king, Solomon, had built his Temple to God. It was here that Jesus, the great prophet whom the Christians mistakenly called God’s Son, had cried his message of change.

  It was here that mankind’s destiny would one day be decided.

  “The boy should have come by now,” Ismael said.

  “You hold his mother. He will come,” Abu Ismael said.

  Father and son walked in slow tandem stride, with hands behind their backs. “You may not appreciate his threat, Father, but I believe David Ben Solomon is the greatest enemy we face. He talks openly about rebuilding the Jewish Temple, and they can’t build their Temple without destroying ours first.”

  Abu Ismael nodded at a Waqf guard who loitered against the wall to their right. “Perhaps, but you must choose your battles, Ismael. There is a time to kill and there is a time to live. I believe it was their King Solomon who said that first, wasn’t it?”

  “Easy to say when you live in Syria, removed from our struggle, surrounded by all the comforts given to Syria’s most respected general. Perhaps you should remember that you’re a Palestinian by blood. Palestinians live in the ghettos the world forces us to call home. Here there’s no time to live. We’re dying all the time.”

  Abu Ismael chuckled. “Of course, you are dying. And sometimes I think you choose to die. Blowing up a few children does not always lead to life.”

  “Terror’s the only legitimate weapon we have. And you think that when the Jews assassinated Hamil, we did not feel terror?”

  It was a low blow, referring to his older brother’s assassination—Father had loved him dearly. For a few long steps Abu did not respond. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but under the common attire walked a man with as much power as any other in the Arab League. He not only commanded several hundred thousand troops in the Syrian army, he had the ear of the kings. His evenhanded approach to the challenge that Israel presented the Arab nations earned him that much. And his undying allegiance to Palestinian’s right to all of Israel earned him the respect of the PLO.