Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) (14 page)

“Pilate would have wanted to make an example of Jesus,” Magda surmises. “As Roman Prefect, he would have wanted the execution of the King of Jews to be viewed as a warning of how not to challenge Rome’s ultimate authority.”

“All true,” James says, turning to us both. “But there’s something else you’re both missing here.”

“What’s that?” I say.

“The top of Skull Place is seven hundred seventy-seven meters above sea level,” James points out.

“More sevens,” I say.

“Exactly,” he says. “Something tells me there is indeed something very special about Golgotha, the Skull Place.”

We exit the Land Rover.

“Listen,” James says. “This is your show, Chase, but I’m going to suggest we don’t just walk back in through the Damascus Gate and then through the front door of that bookstore. We need to take the back way.”

“Suggestions?” Magda says.

“Follow me,” he says.

James heads for Herod’s Gate, and, as ordered, Magda and I follow close on his tail. The big gray stone gate isn’t nearly as crowded as the Damascus Gate further up the hill to the west. It becomes obvious the second I step through it that few tourists enter into the Old City via this gate, while it is instead frequented by locals shopping for fresh fruits, vegetables, meats and meat parts for the family table.

At least six Israeli soldiers guard the exterior of the gate and just as many on the interior. They all seem to stare at us as we make our way through. Makes sense since we’re not dressed anything like the locals, but, instead, like something out of a Hollywood adventure movie.

James carries his pistol out in the open, and they don’t seem to give it a second thought as if they know precisely who he is and what he’s doing inside the gate. Whatever the case, we’re moving quickly along a narrow interior road like we own the joint.

When we come to a narrow alley on our right-hand side, James turns on his heels and enters into it. Rugs and clothing hang off lines that extend from one side of the exterior stone walls across the narrow length of the alley to the other. We come to a stone staircase that leads up to a landing covered by a stone arch. James takes the stairs two at a time to the top of the landing. It’s all Magda and I can do to keep up with the far older man.

The landing belongs to someone’s house, and a handful of kids are playing on it, using it for a pitch while kicking a soccer ball to one another. A woman dressed in a burka is cooking something in a round metal fire pit that’s situated next to a television satellite dish. She gives us a cursory glance like westerners pass through her front yard on a daily basis. In the background is a green-topped minaret. There comes the squeal of a loudspeaker and what follows is the call to prayer.

We move on regardless.

On the opposite side of the stone landing is a tall wall that leads up to another level of houses. A metal ladder is attached to the wall. James begins climbing the ladder, not taking it slowly but, instead, scaling it like he’s Spiderman on a mission.

I’m feeling the heat of the mid-day by now, and the alcohol hasn’t helped any. I’m sure Magda has to be feeling it, too, but we’re doing our best to keep up. At the top of the ladder is a long, narrow platform created by two stone walls joining together. James crouches as if to hide his presence as much as possible. He also thumbs the safety off on his .45, draws it from its holster. The move tells me I should at least pull mine out.

We traverse the long, harrowingly narrow, sunbaked platform for maybe three hundred feet, crossing over arches that span several congested market streets, the people and soldiers that occupy them like ants inside a colony, not the least bit aware of our presence. Or so it seems. Until we come to a place that looks down on a small square courtyard. It takes me a brief moment or two, but soon enough I realize what I’m looking at is the back of the bookshop where, just a few hours earlier, its proprietor, Mahdi, tried to assassinate us.

We duck down while James presses an extended index finger to his lips, telling us to keep quiet. Something is happening down in the courtyard. Maybe a dozen of those black uniformed bandits are down on their knees on prayer rugs, all of them armed to the teeth and all of them praying to the words being broadcast from the minaret loudspeakers. They form a circle and standing in the center of the circle is Mahdi. He’s holding something in the palms of his hand.

Magda turns to me.

“Mahdi has got the seventh book, Chase,” she says, her voice a whisper. But a loud whisper. “He had it the whole time.”

“He’s gotta be in possession of all seven books,” I say.

James turns to us.

“Quiet,” he insists.

Mahdi is chanting something in what sounds like Arabic.

“What’s he’s saying?” I whisper directly into Magda’s ear.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “It’s not Arabic. I think it’s Aramaic.”

Mahdi continues with his chant while he raises the book with both his hands, as though using it to communicate with God. Something happens then. The sky above us begins to grow dark. Raising my head, I look up toward the heavens and make out thick rain clouds that seem to be collecting directly over the bookstore courtyard.

“What the hell is happening?” I whisper.

When the sun is completely blocked, a streak of bright, laser-like light shoots down from the clouds and connects with the book. It’s like a lightning strike only brighter and far more sustained. There is no flash, but instead, a beam of bright white light that is attracted to the book.

“It’s God,” Magda says. “It’s God breaching the seal.”

Her voice is raised now, and it captures the attention of one of the praying bandits. He raises his hand, points at us. Mahdi breaks his concentration and turns toward us. The light beam disappears, and the clouds open up, once more revealing the sun.

“In the name of Ansar al-Mahdi and the Soldiers of the Expected One,” Mahdi screams, “Kill them!”

CHAPTER 27

We run.

James doesn’t double back but, instead, sprints along the elevated platform further into the Old City. We do our best to follow while gunshots ring out, the bullets ricocheting against the stone platform, the shards of shattered rock spraying up into our faces. Located at the end of the platform is a metal gate and, beyond it, a landing and what I’m guessing is a short descending staircase.

More shots are fired. The bullets strike the platform only inches from my feet. I manage to glance over my shoulder. Two bandits on my tail. Planting a bead on them, I fire, dropping the lead bandit on the spot. But the bandit directly behind him jumps over his fallen comrade, keeps coming at us, undeterred.

The bullets whiz past my head, explode at my feet. Up ahead, James rapidly descends the steps to street level. Magda and I follow close behind. A quick glance at the sign embedded into the stone wall beside me tells me we are on the Via Dolorosa, the path that Jesus Christ was forced to walk with the weight of the heavy cross bearing on his scourged shoulders. How very appropriate that this is the same spot in which we are running for our lives.

Up ahead, two black-clad bandits face us.

James stops.

“Double back!” he shouts.

I about-face, but what I see makes doubling back an impossibility. Another six bandits block our path.

“You are surrounded,” barks a tall bandit ahead of us. “There is nowhere for you to run.”

James raises his .45 and, calling the tall bandit’s bluff, shoots him in the chest.

“Run!” James shouts. “No matter what happens to me, just keep running.”

We barrel forward while the bandits behind us open up, the bullets sparking off the stone walls and the smooth cobbles. I’m convinced we won’t make it another ten feet when something miraculous happens.

We see Jesus.

Scratch that . . . Not
the
Jesus, necessarily, but a man who is acting the role of Jesus. He has a bright purple robe draped over his shoulders, and he’s wearing a crown of thorns over his long, black hair. He’s also carrying a large wooden cross. Surrounding him on three sides is a large group of Christian parishioners who are holding cameras and rosary beads. They are deep in prayer and taking up almost every available space along the narrow road.

James stops in his tracks as Jesus comes upon the shot bandit who is lying on the ground face down. He drops his cross, the heavy wood making a loud thunk inside the stone, tube-like street.

“Medic!” Jesus screams. “We got a man down here! We need a doctor now!” The man looks just like the Biblical Jesus, but his voice and accent are South Central USA Bible belt.

James shoots us a look over his shoulder while returning his .45 to its holster. I take the hint and do the same thing, placing my piece back inside its holster under my bush jacket.

Turning, I see the bandits back-stepping, retreating. One of them eyes me with dark, if not black, eyes, runs an index finger across his throat. I guess the gesture is meant to frighten me. Turning back to James and Magda, we slowly make our way as unassumingly as possible through the congested crowd of Christians, keeping close to the wall on our left while a band of Israeli soldiers plows through the people, their assault rifles gripped in their gloved hands.

When we come to the street that runs perpendicular to the Via Dolorosa — Al-Wad Street — James hooks a quick left, ducking inside a small chapel that, according to the wood plaque mounted above the entrance, marks the station of the cross where Jesus fell for the first time. As luck would have it, the place is empty.

“We ditched those bastards,” Magda says. Then, catching the cross mounted to the stone wall above an altar, she adds. “Dear God, pardon my profanity.” She follows with the sign of the cross.

“Didn’t take you for the religious type even if you are a biblical scholar,” I say. “Not to mention the daughter of a Jew and a Palestinian.”

“Oh, I’m a believer all right and did I happen to mention my mother is a Jew for Jesus? As for me, I’m just not much of a church-goer. I like to sleep in on Sundays. But I believe, all the same, Chase. Maybe you should too.”

“Who says I don’t?” I say.

“If you two are done kibitzing,” James says, “we still gotta figure a way out of this marketplace. We didn’t ditch those creeps, I guarantee it. Not by a long shot. They are the Soldiers of the Expected One, and they are not the type to give up easily. They’re merely regrouping.”

“Ideas?” I say.

James runs his hand over his face while he thinks it through.

“In a matter of a minute or less, that Christian group is gonna float by this station to say prayers. When they do, we blend in with them, follow them up the remainder of the Via Dolorosa until we come to a gate that leads to a tunnel that will take us the hell out of the Old City.”

“What gate?” I say.

“You’ll see,” he says. Then, ducking his head out of the chapel opening, he says, “Here they come.”

Stepping outside, he digs into his pocket, pulls out a few shekels, hands them to a vendor working there. He comes back in with three, long black shawls, one of which he hands to Magda and the other myself. The third he wraps around his hat, Arab style. Taking his cue, I wrap my shawl around my head and shoulders while Magda does the same.

He glances outside once more.

“On my cue,” he says. Then, while the group of Christians approach the opening to the chapel, “Now.”

As they attempt to pile into the chapel, like the fate of their souls depends on it, the three of us squeeze back out onto the street.

“Stay close,” James says while we use the crowd of worshippers for cover, crossing over Al-Wad Street and reconnecting with the Via Dolorosa. The street is shaded almost entirely with canvas and plastic tarps tied off on the many stone arches that connect to the exterior walls on both sides of the street. The sun-shaded road grows narrow once more as it takes on elevation and what was once a stone street becomes a long, gradually ascending staircase.

We move slowly but deliberately, keeping close to James. That’s when I feel it again. The cold, if not frigid, sensation running up and down my backbone. Peering over my shoulder into the crowd, I spot her again. The small woman with the black robes wrapped around her head and shoulders, strands of her blonde, almost white, hair sticking out from under the shawl, her blue eyes piercing, her face chalky pale.

Vanessa is following me.

She is staring me down silently, but the silence is like a scream it is so powerful. Behind her, I spot two more bandits and someone else. Mahdi.

“We got company, James,” I say. “Whatever you’re looking for, find it quick.”

“Working on it, Baker,” he says. Then, after covering maybe a dozen more feet, he stops, shoots us a look. “Here. Right here.”

Magda and I make our way forward through the throngs of people until we’re standing only inches from James and an old rusted gate that leads down into a dark passage.

“This is it,” he says.

Reaching out, I grab hold of the padlock that secures an old rusted chain.