Chosen (7 page)

“The excavation is a big deal because no one has done it before?”

“Well, yes. To excavate anywhere on or under the Haram would be a dig of significance. Under the Dome of the Rock is the stone where Abraham is thought to have gone to sacrifice Isaac and where his hand was stayed. The Temple Mount itself held the two greatest temples ever built for Jews, one of which was attended by Jesus Christ himself. Today the Temple Mount, or the ‘Haram el Sharif’ as Muslims call it, holds two holy Muslim mosques, one of which is
the El Aksa Mosque, a pilgrimage site for all believers. Directly under it and eastward,” she said, gesturing toward the smaller dome, “is where I intend to dig. The work is bound to anger those who mistrust the motives of those considered a threat to the Haram.”

“Especially Hamas,” Ridge said.

Ignoring his comment, Alexana gestured for him to follow her. They quickly walked another three blocks and soon were standing in front of a store called The Bookstore of the Temple Mount Faithful. The window appeared to be made of bulletproof glass, and protective bars could be seen inside. “Look at this picture,” Alexana said, pointing.

Ridge stared through the glass at the picture of Jerusalem, then whistled as he saw the importance of it. Someone had taken a photo, airbrushed out the El Aksa Mosque and Dome of the Rock, and added a computer-generated image of the Temple as it once had looked. He glanced up at Alexana. “I bet this fuels the fire between Jew and Muslim.”

They walked away from the window, past a coffee shop where men sat drinking dark liquid out of exotic-looking, long-necked pots. “That bookstore,” Alexana indicated, “has been firebombed several times and rebuilt. With a holy pilgrimage site on one hand and the passion, the calling, that Jews have to rebuild the temple, how can the two sides not battle?”

Ridge walked beside her, studying her face. “It all pains you, doesn’t it?”

“I feel this is my homeland, despite my dual citizenship with America. This is where my heart is. Even with the peace accord that began between Arafat and Rabin, the upheaval continues. I’ve had a Palestinian friend die in my arms, shot by accident, and I’ve seen
Jewish children wounded in other street battles. It is an insane, wonderful, passionate place to live.” Her eyes begged him to understand.

Alexana glanced at her watch. “Oh my, it’s almost four. I’ve got to pick up some food for dinner. My brother and a friend are coming over. Sorry, but I must go. I hope these last few days have been helpful.”

“Oh yes. Yes, they have. You’ve been a great guide, but I think I’ve only gotten a glimpse of what I’m seeking.”

“True enough. There will be other days.”

Impulsively Ridge reached out and took her hand. “When?”

She smiled and gently pulled her hand from his. “Call me,” she said evasively. “We’ll find a time. Good-bye.” With that, she walked away. Ridge stared after her for a moment, then forced himself to turn away as well. After glancing back over his shoulder several times, he finally gave up, stopped, and watched until she was out of sight.

S
am and his dark-haired companion walked through the winding streets of Old Jerusalem, down countless stairs worn smooth by centuries of foot travel. The streets were nearly empty as cool darkness enveloped the city, making the damp streets even chillier. They passed the building that once housed the Knights of Saint John, then the towering Lutheran Church of the Redeemer.

Absorbed in conversation, neither paid much attention to the impressive buildings. Initially awkward, they had soon gotten past their shyness and talked nonstop from the airport in Tel Aviv, catching up on their personal and professional lives. Passing the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, they entered the Christian quarter of the city, where Alexana lived, and were soon knocking on her door.

“Christina!” Alexana grinned and hugged her old friend from grad school. “It’s so good to see you.” She glanced over the brunette’s shoulder toward her brother, wondering if it troubled him to see his old girlfriend. It had been five years since they had broken off their relationship, but she knew that Sam had had a hard time forgetting the woman. Then he had finally found Lydia—his someone special—but that hadn’t lasted.
Losing love twice must have made his breakup with her even tougher,
Alexana thought for the hundredth time.

“How are
you?
” Christina pulled back to admire the attractive woman she had considered a little sister ever since their days at
Columbia. “You look beautiful. And I hear that you’re making waves as a biblical archaeologist—the Temple Mount, no less!”

“Well, we haven’t started yet. And it doesn’t outshine what you’ve been up to. Sam and I have been keeping track of you. We were so worried last summer when we heard over the BBC that you were tangling with Hobard. Suddenly my most scholarly friend is playing Pirates and Treasure Hunter. But wait … we have so much to catch up on! Please, sit down, and Sam will get us something to drink. Dinner will be ready soon.”

The two women seated themselves on Alexana’s couch as Sam obediently went to get them warm beverages. “Nice place!” Christina raised an eyebrow. “Spacious,” she teased, looking up at the loft that had been made into a bedroom, then down at the narrow kitchen that stood beside the bathroom. The living room measured only about ten by fifteen feet.

“I was lucky to get an apartment with its own bathroom!” Alexana exclaimed. “Could you see me traipsing down a hall to share one with five other apartments? By the time I get home, I want a tub all to myself.”

“It’s wonderful,” Christina assured her warmly. “Cozy, but wonderful.”

“It’s all I really need, as often as I camp out at dig sites.”

“I know the feeling. By the time I get home, I can’t believe how much room is in a real bed and I usually stick to the space I’m allotted on a ship bunk. I’ve had dry-land quarters for the last year, and Mitch still can’t get me to take more than that three-foot section of our king-size bed!”

The two laughed, then quieted as Sam came in, suddenly aware that their conversation might make him uncomfortable. He and
Christina had parted amicably, but even years after their breakup, things were still a bit awkward at times.

“I sure appreciate your having me over for dinner,” Christina said, pushing a wave of dark brown hair over her shoulder.

“No problem,” Alexana assured her. She took a sip of hot tea from a mug painted with the traditional blues and golds of Palestinian pottery. “If I know my brother, by the time he gets you out to Caesarea, I won’t have a chance to see you again. I assume you’re only staying for a brief consultation visit.”

“Afraid so. Mitch and I have a ton of work to do on
El Espantoso
at Robert’s Foe, and we still want to search for
La Canción.
We’re close—I can almost
feel
her when we dive in a certain harbor we’re searching off the coast of Mexico. He’ll have my hide if I stay too long, but he realizes I can’t pass up the chance to see another Greek mariner. Especially here.”

Sam sat down in a wicker chair beside the couch, smiling. “It sounds like you finally found a man who can understand your obsession with work.”

“Just a little better than you. The difference is that he’s a sea lover through and through. Except for this Caesarea dig, I bet you’ll spend most of your career deep in the sands of Israel.” She looked at him fondly. “I have to admit, though, that our run-ins with Hobard made Mitch and me think long and hard. We both came to the decision that work would never come between us—that our marriage would be priority over everything else. We think God really worked through that whole, awful situation to show us what’s really important in life.”

Sam smiled at her frankness and nodded. “I agree, as we decided five years ago: A relationship marked by separations halfway around the world would not be a good idea.”

“I’m hoping to drag him away from Caesarea for the Solomon’s Stables dig,” Alexana interceded.

“If she can convince Hoekstra,” Sam said, knowing full well that his sister could sweet-talk the older man into anything. Robert had been like an uncle to the two since they were toddlers; without kids of his own, he doted on them.

“Do you have the rest of your team pulled together?” Christina asked.

“No. I was given the news that I would be supervisor just a few weeks ago. Even with the peace process under way, Israel has been in even more upheaval than usual. I assume you heard about the Beit Lid massacre. If things don’t smooth out soon, I might never get a chance to dig; you can imagine the uproar there will be once this news gets out.”

“I wouldn’t want to be you. So you’ll pull them together once you get the go-ahead?”

“I’ve contacted four out of the twelve I’d like. I’m going to keep the team small, at least at first. So far, everyone I’ve contacted is busy on other projects. I just want them to get permission for a leave of absence once we get the all-clear sign.”

“Do you think they can all get out of their current assignments at a moment’s notice?”

“There will be the usual ruffled feathers here and there. But I’m banking on this project’s importance to smooth the way.”

“You know my sister,” Sam said. “Somehow everything always falls into place for Sana.” His tone held a note of envy, but also one of pride.

“Except for finding love,” Alexana sighed. “Sometimes I think God will never decide it’s the right time for me.”

“Well, you are accomplishing good things for the Kingdom,” Christina said. “Look at your work at Kinneret and Hazor—you’ve opened up whole new excavation sites.”

“We really just scratched the surface,” Alexana said modestly. “The teams on those sites now are accomplishing even greater excavations. If I had my druthers, and if Solomon’s Stables weren’t looming on the horizon, I’d be at Caesarea.”

“No doubt,” Christina said, smiling. She sniffed the air delicately. “Something smells fabulous. What’s for dinner?”

“Something light,” Alexana said, assuming her best stuffy, nasal chef’s voice. “A lovely baked chicken, spiced ever so delicately with rosemary, and pita bread with melted goat’s cheese over fresh, garlic-marinated tomatoes.”

Sam’s stomach rumbled as if on cue, and the three laughed, each feeling as though they were sharing good, old times.

Hundreds of miles away, in Damascus, Ridge and his cameraman, Steve Rains, walked into an upscale house in a finer part of the city. As they passed through a dark passageway, they called out so as not to surprise anyone. Suddenly six guards in uniform rushed them, threw them to the wall, and began to yell in Arabic. Steve’s camera crashed to the ground, and both he and Ridge winced at the sound of heavy plastic cracking and metal crunching.

“I’m Ridge McIntyre from CNN!” Ridge shouted as he was roughly searched. “I have an appointment with Fathi Shkaki!”

“Who is this?” a man asked loudly in rough English, pointing his Uzi at the base of Steve’s skull.

“Steve Rains! My cameraman!” Ridge stared over at his friend,
who looked as concerned as he felt himself. Steve’s normally ruddy complexion was as pale as his blond hair.

One of the guards searched their pockets and pulled out their wallets to review their identification. He nodded at his companion. “Proceed. Fathi Shkaki is expecting you.”

Steve bent and gingerly picked up his camera. After briefly examining it, he shrugged at Ridge as if to say, “With any luck, it will work.” They passed through a room elaborately decorated in Middle Eastern fashion—with oriental rugs, brass lamps, spare furniture—then into a wood-paneled library that smelled of stale cigarette smoke.

Across from them sat an obese, older man, dressed in a cardigan and wearing thick glasses. Nodding at them, he finished his conversation and hung up the phone. He then took a drag from his cigarette, held it for a moment, and forcefully blew out the smoke. “My friends from CNN. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Ridge said, pushing the confrontation in the hall out of his mind. He and Steve had been through worse for an interview of this scale. “Do you mind if we tape this?”

Shkaki shook his head, and Steve quickly set up his camera. He turned to Ridge. “Looks like the damage is superficial. We should be okay.” Ridge nodded.

“Ready?” Steve asked.

“Ready.”

“Rolling. Three, two, one.” Steve focused on Ridge for the introduction.

“We’re here with the Islamic Jihad leader, Fathi Shkaki, who lives in Damascus and has done so since he was deported to a refugee camp in 1988. Since 1989, Shkaki has been directing the Islamic
Jihad from this city. The group is best known for its suicide attacks in Israel and the occupied territories.”

Ridge paused uneasily as two guards silently entered the room, then he forged on.

“Two days ago an attack at the Beit Lid bus station resulted in the deaths of twenty soldiers and five civilians.” Ridge glanced over at Shkaki, to make sure he was not overstepping his bounds, but the man was grinning and nodding his head, as if celebrating Ridge’s words. Ridge felt a chill but continued. “Although Shkaki disclaims direct responsibility for the attack, he
has
agreed to speak with us about how it might have been planned.”

Ridge gazed steadily at the camera until Steve said, “… and cut.” He then sat down across from the grinning terrorist and tried to ignore the smile he found to be so extremely distasteful. Steve refocused and began the count again. “And three, two, one …”

“How do you plan a bombing like Beit Lid? How was the target chosen?” Ridge began quickly, warming to the interview.

“We send men to a potential target and study it carefully,” Shkaki said, as if lecturing to a crowd of students. The man’s English was quite good, Ridge noticed. He nodded, urging the man to continue. “Beit Lid was an obvious choice. At the appointed time, the mujahedin went from Gaza to Tel Aviv, and from Tel Aviv to the military bus station. They coordinated themselves: The first man was to enter the shop and detonate the bomb strapped to his body; the second was to stay outside, wait for the soldiers to run out, then rush into the crowd and blow himself up.”