The Caleb Collection Read online

  It made absolute sense. He had pored over history texts that spoke of Manasseh’s reign and the Jewish temple on the island of Elephantine, where Hadane had insisted the priests had taken the Ark. And he had read the accounts of the Templars who had come to Jerusalem to find the Ark only to abandon the city and take up residence in Ethiopia. He had even taken a small corner of the knight’s letter to the university and had the antiquities department analyze it. The tests had shown that it was eight hundred years old if it was a day. They’d tried to confiscate it.

  Under the lights of the priest’s story, the puzzle began to look like no puzzle at all but a clear map of history. The kind that can only make sense in retrospect. That map led directly to the Debra Damarro in northeastern Ethiopia.

  And then there was destiny. The will of God. He felt God’s will like he felt his clothes.

  Perhaps he was being too optimistic, but he didn’t think so.

  “Godspeed, Rebecca. Godspeed.”

  The camels were nasty old beasts who hadn’t been ridden in over a year, according to one of the monks. Neither Rebecca nor Michael were strangers to mean old beasts, so she forced the creatures to the front gates and cinched the reins tight enough to make a statement.

  She figured they had two hours before sunrise. She had decided to head south, away from the desert, and circle around to pick up Caleb’s trail before daybreak. The fact that she was nearly certain of his destination afforded her that luxury. And his tracks would be impossible to hide in the sand.

  As for Avraham’s insistence that the sniper had fled, she simply dismissed it. He hadn’t put a bullet through Avraham’s head because he wasn’t after Avraham. Either way it was unlikely that he would be on the south side, where two of her men waited in their hilltop post. That’s where she would go, over the hill in the dark without detection and then back north in a search for Caleb’s tracks.

  “We have enough water for three days,” Michael said.

  “We won’t be gone three days. He’s on foot. With any luck we’ll be back by afternoon. I hate camels, and this one seems to hate me. More than a day and one of us just might kill the other.”

  He chuckled.

  They led the camels up the road, keeping the animals between themselves and the eastern hills in case the sniper drew a bead and decided to take a potshot. Only after they’d crested the hill and passed the post did they mount the beasts and begin their swing back to the east.

  Rebecca’s camel evidently assumed that its yearlong respite from duty earned it the right to nip at her legs. One good kick to the teeth and the matter was settled. The camel spit in the dark as if in disgust, but plodded forward willingly enough.

  She found Caleb’s trail at dawn, five kilometers east of the monastery. The tracks were stretched, those of a staggering man. She pulled out her binoculars and studied the diminishing hills. Beyond lay the great white expanse of desert known as the Danakil Depression.

  “You will die if you go to the desert,” one of the older priests with a scratchy gray beard had told her. “The desert has no mercy.”

  “If I die, then so will Caleb. Do you think he’s dead already?”

  The man had only turned his head.

  She lowered the glasses and checked her gear. A bedroll, a small knapsack with enough bread for a few days. Some kind of jerked meat. Her bowie knife, rifle, and enough ammunition to fight off a band of Afar tribesmen if they decided she looked like the edible kind.

  In this country a gunshot would announce your presence for kilometers. The knife would be the better bet. She could take the head from a viper at ten paces with it. A Palestinian—that was a different story. Bigger target—easier kill. She’d only used a knife once. The man had been in her hands, and his blood had flowed over her fingers.

  Rebecca swallowed, sickened by the memory. A year ago, she’d sworn to herself never to kill another man as long as she lived. Her mother and her little sister had been brutally murdered, but she in turn had brutally murdered. At times she wasn’t sure if the Mossad was any better in God’s sight than the Hamas. Either way, it was all in the past. She wasn’t a killer.

  She was simply a woman who had killed out of necessity. No more.

  Yet here she was.

  She remembered the first time her father had read her the story of Samson, single-handedly killing a thousand Philistines in a day.

  “What happened to all the blood?” she’d asked.

  “When he was finished, he was red,” her father said. “Does that scare you?”

  She thought about it. “No. As long as it wasn’t Samson’s blood.”

  He’d chuckled. “God isn’t in the business of killing Jews, Rebecca. Remember that.”

  “What about the Holocaust?” she’d asked.

  She would never forget the look that darkened his face. “That was Hitler, not God. First it was Philistines, then it was Hitler, and now it’s Palestinians. Never forget that either.” He slammed the book closed.

  It was the end of the lesson.

  “Let’s go,” she said softly.

  Michael nodded beside her.

  She nudged the camel and they headed into the hot sun.

  First the Philistines, then Hitler, then the Palestinians, and now Caleb, she thought. When will it end?

  10

  Ismael adjusted his rifle between the large boulders he’d spent the night behind and brought his eye to the scope. From his hole he had a clear view through a side window into what appeared to be the kitchen. The soldiers inside had walked by a dozen times, and right now one had stopped so that his head was framed perfectly in the window. He could see the man’s face as if he were within arm’s length. A bright red scar sliced down his right cheek, and Ismael imagined putting it there himself. He could have taken the man’s head off at anytime, but doing so would be tipping his hand. The woman had to come out of the monastery at some point, and Ismael had no intention of delaying the moment unless he absolutely had to. Rebecca’s first step out into the sun would be her last.

  During the night he had carefully considered his options. He had a full bottle of water, retrieved from the well behind the monastery before the sun rose. He’d brought enough food to survive for a few days—mostly honey bars and seeds. If, by some impossible feat, they did slip out of the monastery and make it to the lorries parked behind, he would simply take out their tires. And if they made a run for it on foot, he would take a horse from the corral he’d seen in the small village five kilometers down the road and hunt them at his leisure. He still had the Land Rover, of course, stashed a mile or so down the road, but off the road it would be useless. He would use it only when the killing was done. Now it was simply a waiting game, like waiting for a fox to emerge from its den.

  A hiss cut the still air and Ismael froze. A snake . . .

  “Perimeter’s clear. He’s gone.”

  A radio! An Israeli was just below him! The realization sent a chill through Ismael’s skull. He hadn’t seen a thing. The soldier was good.

  A reply came, but Ismael couldn’t make it out.

  “He may have followed Rebecca to the desert . . .”

  Rebecca was gone?

  More words were spoken, but Ismael couldn’t hear them over the thumping of his heart. She had gone to the desert? It was impossible! It occurred to him that he was in a very precarious position, maybe twenty meters from a soldier, and yet his mind had been snapped away by the Jew-witch already.

  He’d seen tracks in the sand last evening, but they had been made by sandals, not by boots. He spun his glasses to the corral behind the monastery where three camels had slinked about the day before.

  Two of the camels were gone.

  It came to him then, crouched behind the rock in his perfect killing perch. The one the boy had called Caleb—the one the Jews needed to find their relic—had escaped, and somehow Rebecca had gone after him without his knowing. They had gone to the desert. A tremble swept over his limbs.

  T
he air was suddenly very quiet. Swearing steadily under his breath, Ismael pulled himself back and ran behind the hill. He would have to follow, of course. He would have to get the horse and follow. Going on foot would be impossible. It was still morning. How long had she been gone?

  He broke into a run, working his way into a small ravine that led away from the monastery towards the west. It would take him at least an hour to reach the village where he’d seen the horse. Then he’d have to take the animal—he doubted they would just give it to him. By the time he picked up Rebecca’s tracks she would have as much as eight hours’ lead on him.

  Eight hours! Ismael bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. The Jews were like snakes—the moment you had them within your grasp they slithered out of reach. In Palestine it was Jerusalem; here it was Jew-witch. You had to exterminate them like you would exterminate a nest of vipers.

  And now this viper was headed east on a camel while he ran west on foot.

  Ismael spit blood and leaned into his run.

  Abu Ismael stood and looked out of his fifth-story office window at the sprawling city of Damascus. It was a paradoxical blend of the old and the new. An ancient city in the heart of Syria, struggling to burst into the twenty-first century. Like a mother in childbirth—a breech birth.

  Clay walls baked brown by the beating sun stood within spitting distance from shiny glass walls sealed to keep their conditioned air from spreading to the desert. A Mercedes beeped at a donkey that forced it to a crawl.

  Damascus.

  A knock rapped on the door and Abu turned. He was in one of the glass buildings, of course, and his office was decorated with plush corded curtains and thick burgundy rugs from the Turks. The huge marble map on his wall could easily buy one of the mud flats in the city.

  “Come.”

  The door flew open and his wife and daughter streamed in like kites with their long colored skirts.

  “Morning, Papa!” His daughter held his grandson in her arms.

  “Good morning.” Abu smiled and stretched his arms out. “Good morning. How are my delightful ladies?” He kissed each one on the cheek and quickly turned his attention to baby Abu, whom he pried out of his daughter’s hands. “And how is the little general doing?”

  “The little general is still pooping his pants every hour,” Mishana said, tossing her bag on a guest chair.

  His wife chided her halfheartedly. “Remember where you are, Mishana.”

  “How could I not? My father is the most important man in all of Syria, and I am in his filthy rich office”—she plopped in a stuffed velvet seat— “sitting in a chair made for kings.”

  “Ha! If the king heard you say that, you might find yourself in a cement cell,” his wife replied. “I would watch my tongue if I were you.”

  They were modern Arabs, no less devout than more traditional Arabs, but, as Abu had once said, lifted by the grace of Allah above most.

  He handed his grandson back to Mishana. “I’m sorry you can’t stay, but I’m expecting company.” He glanced at the clock. “They are due now.”

  “Of course,” his wife said. “Mishana insisted you needed Abu to brighten your morning. We’re shopping.”

  “Ah, my ever concerned daughter. Is it bringing Abu or shopping that really interests you?”

  “Neither. It’s seeing you,” his daughter said.

  Abu smiled and took her face in his hands. “As smart as your father,” he said and kissed her forehead.

  They laughed and gathered their bags. His wife turned at the door. “Any word?”

  “No.”

  She dipped her head and closed the door.

  She referred to Ismael, of course. Abu had made the mistake of telling her that their son had gone into northern Africa on a mission. Ismael’s leaving the family to support the Hamas cause had never met her resistance, but Abu knew it broke her heart. Ismael had always been a fanatical zealot, and fanatical zealots who threw themselves into the line of fire rarely lived long. Never mind that the people would sing your praise in the streets for a day; your mother would weep for a year.

  Abu paced to the window and stared at the southern horizon. Ismael had made contact two hours ago, by satellite phone. They had made a mess of the first attempt at the roadblock, an event that Abu had already suspected as his son’s handiwork based on the news stories.

  Now Abu had learned that his son had gone after them alone. It wasn’t necessarily flawed thinking—he might have done the same. Less chance of detection. Taking an army into Ethiopia would be impossible.

  But the fact that Ismael hadn’t yet succeeded was a cause for concern. There was no evidence that the Ark actually existed down there, but the monastery did, exactly as the boy had said. From the first, Abu had known that, for Ismael, the mission was more about killing Rebecca Solomon than the relic. Now Ismael was down there in the desert, and the Jews were in a monastery digging around. The thought of what they might actually find made Abu’s stomach feel light.

  The buzzer sounded. “General Nasser is here, sir.”

  “Send him in.”

  Abu’s concern had prompted this meeting.

  If the army was the most powerful branch of the Syrian forces, General Nasser’s air force now played a close second. In fact, a full two-thirds of the country’s military budget had gone into upgrading their air power since the Gulf War. Iraq’s overwhelming defeat had made a case for technology and, more pointedly, for airborne technology.

  The general walked in without knocking, removed his hat, and greeted Abu warmly. For ten minutes they exchanged common news. First of their families and then of the city and then of the never-ending Palestinian cause. Although Syria wasn’t in direct armed conflict, the PLO was. And the PLO was nothing less than an extension of their own military, even if it was still fragmented and hopelessly underarmed.

  Nasser took a sip of tea and crossed his legs. “So tell me, what’s on your mind, Abu? Surely you didn’t invite me here to talk about Arafat’s granddaughter.”

  They chuckled.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Abu said. “What would be the worst thing that could happen in the Palestinian struggle for freedom? In strictly hypothetical terms, of course.”

  The general frowned. “The worst? I can hardly think of anything that isn’t worst. Anything short of the Jews vacating all of Palestine and going back to Europe is the worst.”

  “Of course, and we all share your sentiments. But indulge me. Realistically, the worst.”

  Nasser thought for a few moments. “The worst would be a strengthening of Israeli resolve to hold Jerusalem. Where Jerusalem goes, the whole land goes. We have gradually beaten Israeli resolve down. Their hearts are slowly being squeezed.”

  “An example in Jerusalem?”

  “Turning Solomon’s Stables into the Marwani Mosque under their noses was perhaps our greatest achievement this decade.” A soft grin spread over the general’s face. “Imagine, turning a Jewish holy place into a mosque without a single bullet fired.”

  “Solomon’s Stables. The Temple Mount. Haram al-Sharif. And what could possibly happen to strengthen Israeli resolve in this regard?”

  “The West could embrace old sentiments—increase military funding.”

  Abu waved a dismissing hand. “Israel doesn’t need more weapons. It has nuclear weapons. What Israel needs is a renewed spirit.”

  He stood, put his hands in his pockets, and fingered his car keys. It was a delicate subject he was broaching—rumors could often do more damage than the truth, and in this case, he didn’t even know the truth.

  Abu picked up his porcelain cup and sipped at the tea he’d poured. “There’s a passage in the Koran which I’m sure you know. It speaks of the Children of Israel who will twice corrupt the land. You know it?”

  “Of course.”

  “It says they will enter the Al-Aqsa Mosque, as they entered it the first time, and utterly destroy that which they conquered.”

  “Yes, it’s r
etelling the history of the mosque.”

  Abu smiled and nodded. “My son does not see it as the telling of history. He insists that it is prophecy, and as it turns out, he’s not alone. The apocalyptic reading of this passage is gaining popularity, especially among the Palestinians.”

  “So they believe that the Jews will one day try to take the Temple Mount and destroy our mosque. Let them believe it—it fuels their fight.”

  “They actually believe that the Jews already have a master plan to retake the Temple Mount,” Abu said. “It’s not plausible, I know. The Israeli government is terrified of setting foot on the Mount, much less taking it from us.”

  Abu took a deep breath. “But their Temple, Solomon’s Temple, which they claim was built on the Mount, was built for one reason. To hold the Ark of the Covenant. What would happen, Nasser, if the Ark of the Covenant were actually found and brought to Jerusalem?”

  The general blinked and for a moment Abu thought the older man had not heard.

  “That could never happen,” Nasser said.

  “No. But if it did happen?”

  “No, I mean we could never let that happen.” General Nasser sat forward. “What are you telling me, Abu? You ask me what would be the worst thing that could happen to Palestine and I can’t tell you so now you’re playing games with the Ark? You’re speaking of a nightmare.”

  Abu sat in his chair. “So then, perhaps we should have a plan to deal with this possibility.”

  Now the general’s humor left him altogether. “Stop playing games, Abu. What are you saying? Someone has found the Ark?”

  “No. It’s something my son is doing. He believes that the Ark may be found.” Abu couldn’t explain the details nor mention his involvement—not yet. There was a fine line to be walked here. “But it has made me think.”

  “If the Ark of the Covenant were found and brought to Jerusalem, every Islamic army from Sudan to Iraq would descend on Israel to protect our holy mosque. We would demolish the Jews.”