The Sacred Cipher (47 page)

Captain Levin had never been in Central Command’s Operations Complex before, as if
he needed anything else to add to his anxiety. Wednesday morning, he was now three
days without sleep. Both he and Major Mordechai had been summoned by General Moishe
Orhlon, Israel’s Defense Minister, for a face-to-face explanation of what had occurred
since Levin first spotted these men Saturday night, more than three days ago. Levin
wondered if his military career had come to an end.

They were ushered past the sprawling, electronic operations center to a meeting room
dominated by a large table, dominated by Orhlon. The general looked like a man who
had bet his life savings on a sure thing and lost. The ashtray in front of him was
overflowing with cigarette butts, like the one dangling from his lip. To his right
stood Levi Sharp, director of Shin Bet. Levin prepared himself for the blast. But
it was Mordechai who stepped into the line of fire.

“General Orhlon,” he said with a salute. “Aleph Reconnaissance Center is my command.
We failed in our mission. Our men, they were relentless, but we failed to intercept
the Americans. We believe they have found a way to penetrate below the Temple Mount.
Their purpose is unknown, but we fear terrorism. I take full responsibility.”

Just inside the door, Levin looked at the back of Mordechai’s head and was once again
filled with respect for his commander. Mordechai had trained his subordinates in the
credo of the military: there is no excuse; only responsibility. And Mordechai had
the courage to put his butt where he held his beliefs. Levin, shaking his head, knew
he could do no less.

Unable to speak out of turn, without his superior’s request, Levin also took a pace
forward and snapped a firm salute. His eyes searched neither Sharp, to whom Mordechai
and Aleph Center reported, nor Orhlon, to whom they all reported. Rather, he searched
the far wall, stood silently, and hoped for recognition.

It was clear that, long ago, Orhlon had surrendered in the battle for fitness. He
was obese, hypertensive, borderline diabetic. The scuttlebutt filtering down to Levin
was that Orhlon probably had lung cancer. But he was no less the warrior.

Orhlon’s eyes burned into Levin’s skull. He allowed silence to dance on the table.

“You have something to say, Levin?”

“General, I am honored by Major Mordechai’s loyalty, but the responsibility for what
has happened is mine, not his. We spotted these men, what, two days ago? I should
have acted then. Everything that has happened since, sir, must be laid on my shoulders.”

Orhlon looked slowly at the two soldiers, both still at salute.

“That is exactly what I want to know,” said Orhlon. “Exactly what
has
happened since the first time you saw these men. Every detail, important and unimportant.
I want it fast, I want it straight, and I want it now,” he snapped.

Levin detected a quick glance pass between Orhlon and Sharp. “So, at ease. Sit down.
Levin, you start.”

When Johnson and Rodriguez awoke, “breakfast” was muesli and water, followed by an
energy bar. For now, they allowed Bohannon to sleep.

While they chewed, Johnson alternately consulted the maps he and Larsen had sketched
out prior to departure and the handheld global positioning unit. He was not encouraged.

“What do you think, Doc? Any idea where we are?” Rodriguez was still halfway into
his sleeping bag, admittedly reluctant to relinquish the warmth.

“I’m not sure.” Still staring at the maps, Johnson tried to process his thoughts.
“I think I know, but I’m not sure. The GPS works fine at times; then, at other times,
it just quits. At those times, there must be something between us and the surface.
Right now, I can’t get a signal. But I think we’re here.”

Johnson tapped the eraser of his pencil against the section of map illuminated by
his headlamp. When there was no response, he turned toward Rodriguez, bringing the
map with him.

Blessed with a trio of GPS positions he had recorded the previous day, Johnson took
what he knew and applied it to what he surmised. From Zechariah’s Tomb, they had progressed
in a generally northwest direction until hitting the cavern of arches. From that point
on, Johnson knew, charting direction was dubious.

“I think we’re along here,” Johnson said, tapping a triangle he had drawn on the map.
“If we’re at the southern point of the triangle, then we still have a long way to
go before we reach the perimeter of the Temple Mount area. If we’re closer to the
midpoint or the top of the triangle, then we’ve come more than halfway to the Temple
Mount perimeter. Until I get another reading, I just won’t know.”

Rodriguez looked at the map. “Even supposing we’re halfway to the perimeter, we would
still have a long way to go. We still have to clear the Kidron Valley and cross under
the Pool of Siloam. Probably another mile, as the crow flies. But I haven’t seen any
crows down here. Looks to me like we’re going to have a tough time getting this done
in three days, assuming we can even find Abiathar’s cavern.”

The words were confirmation of what Johnson feared. He had hoped this would be the
easy part, that the entry portal would lead to a clearly discernable, easily navigated
series of tunnels that Abiathar’s workmen would have used to import the materials
they needed. He expected difficulty later, once they pierced the underbelly of the
Mount itself. Like Rodriguez, he now seriously questioned their chances of finishing
in the three days allotted. He responded to Rodriguez with a scowl.

“Perhaps we should begin to conserve our water,” Rodriguez floated, picking up the
pencil and tapping it against the map. “Doc, let me ask you another question. The
night we were on David’s Tower, you were talking about the power, the presence you
felt here in Jerusalem.”

“Yes, the sense of an emanating presence was, well, I felt I could almost touch it,”
Johnson replied.

“What about now, now that we’ve come down here?”

How could Johnson explain what he was feeling? In some ways, it felt like anxiety,
an emotion with which Johnson was well acquainted: a heavy, pushing weight on his
chest; labored breathing; an invasion of his consciousness, pushing other thoughts
to the fringes. In other ways, it felt like euphoria: a lightness of being; a sense
of peace; elusive, but somewhere in his psyche, a sense of joy.

He could feel it, but he didn’t understand it. And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to
describe it.

“Yes, it’s stronger. It’s definitely stronger. And it gets even stronger the closer
we get to the Mount.”

Johnson turned his light toward Rodriguez’s face and saw the question in his eyes,
a question neither one was prepared to ask.

“I don’t know, Joe. I really don’t know.”

Dampened by the rain, dispersed by the Imam’s henchmen, the demonstration on the Temple
Mount ended without major incident. The amulets now rested on the table in front of
the Imam. They did little to ease his growing concern, though his lust for revenge
had been satisfied.

Da’ud stood before him, eyes downcast, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly
uncomfortable. There had been no information for more than twenty-four hours. The
Americans appeared to have vanished. Most likely, they discovered an entry point and
were now underground, perhaps under the Mount itself.
Impossible
, his mind declared. “We cannot allow this to happen.” Rage began to rise again.

“Da’ud, gather fifty men, trustworthy, competent, obedient men. Gather them immediately.
Separate them into five groups, and take them into the Stables.” The Imam began to
pace behind the table, considering his strategic possibilities. “Position one group
under the Dome of the Rock; position another group under the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Station
them in a way to protect the buildings from all sides. They are to protect those shrines
with their lives, if necessary.”

He didn’t look at Da’ud; his eyes were off into some distant place. “Direct the other
three groups into a systematic search of the tunnels. Find these men and kill them.
Find them before they can even attempt their plot.”

Abruptly, he spun on his heel, strode to the table, and swept up the amulets in his
hand. “Find them,” he shouted with uncontrolled violence, his outstretched arm pointing
to Da’ud, the amulets, speckled red, dangling from his hand, “before this fate becomes
yours as well.”

Initially, the tunnel in which they slept led them in a general northwesterly direction,
without incident, for more than an hour. The tunnel was easily passable. They were
making good progress. Bohannon was encouraged.

But then conditions changed, significantly. The tunnel had been gently sloping downward
since they entered, but suddenly the slope became more severe with each step. Bohannon’s
boots twice skidded on the damp floor. Fifteen feet in front of him, Johnson gave
a yelp, lost his footing, and landed heavily on his backpack. He was easily convinced
that Rodriguez, the strongest and most athletic of the trio, should take point.

Rodriguez quickly perfected a safer way to descend this slippery slope. Each of them
was wearing the spelunking gear they had purchased: shirts with padded elbows; pants
with padded knees; thin, form-fitted thermal gloves with textured palms; and hard
hats with attached spotlights. Rodriguez leaned his body into the rough wall on the
right, using his padded right elbow as a fulcrum, and pressed his boots against where
the left wall met the tunnel floor. Supported by both sides of the tunnel, Rodriguez
inched himself forward, followed by the other two, who tried to mimic his every move.

After half-an-hour of painstaking progress, Bohannon was worn out by the contortions
necessary to navigate the tunnel and wondered where this plunging slope would take
them.

“Whoa!”

Rodriguez’s exclamation stopped Bohannon and Johnson dead in their tracks. Bohannon
had been concentrating so heavily on his footing and on maintaining his leverage against
the walls he hadn’t even noticed that Rodriguez was stopped in the middle of the tunnel,
standing upright on a flat, level surface. “Joe, what’s wrong?”

Rodriguez turned his head to look back up the tunnel. “C’mon down and see for yourselves.”

Bohannon didn’t like the disgusted tone in Rodriguez’s voice, but he still took his
time to navigate the final portion of the slope, then turned to offer Johnson any
help he might need. Bohannon and Johnson both turned to Rodriguez in the same moment
and both felt their stomachs sink.

The three men stood on a flat ledge, about four feet wide and fifteen feet long. The
ledge, and the end of the tunnel, overlooked a subterranean lake. Other than the ledge
they occupied, the rest of the walls were smooth to the water’s edge. The lake was
at least two hundred yards across, and almost as long. There was no way around it.
Across the lake, in the distance, above another small ledge, were several openings
in the wall.

Bohannon dropped to his haunches and slipped off his pack. “Oh, God, now what?” It
was a prayer.