The Second Messiah (17 page)

A FRESH-FACED LIEUTENANT
stepped down from one of the trucks. He brandished an automatic pistol and shouted in Arabic, “Step out of the vehicle and keep your hands high.”

Josuf climbed out and obeyed, followed by Jack and Yasmin.

The lieutenant stepped closer and studied them suspiciously. “Who are you? What are you doing on Syrian soil?” he demanded.

“A mistake, sir,” Josuf pleaded. “I realized the moment I saw your patrol. I’m lost, sir.”

The lieutenant was wary. “The road is well signposted. How are you lost?”

“I can’t read, sir,” Josuf replied.

The lieutenant pointed his pistol at Josuf’s face, then swiveled the weapon toward Jack and Yasmin. “Let me see your papers. Search all of them and their vehicle,” he ordered his men, then pointed his weapon at Yasmin. “You, hand over your papers.”

Sweat beaded Jack’s forehead. He saw Yasmin stricken with fear as two soldiers came forward and searched him and Josuf. Another kept his Kalashnikov trained on Yasmin as she fumbled to hand over her passport.

The lieutenant scrutinized their documents. His eyes sparked when he saw Jack’s American passport. “So, you are an American?” he said in English.

“That’s what the passport says.”

“You speak Arabic?”

“A little.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Your passports have Israeli stamps. What are you doing in this area?”

Jack said, “It’s like the driver said. We got lost.”

“But you speak Arabic. You could have read the signs.”

Jack shook his head. “I guess I don’t read the language all that well.”

In an instant the lieutenant slapped him across the jaw.

Jack felt the raw, stinging blow and clapped a hand to his cheek. “Hey, I told you the truth. I didn’t notice any signs that said we had entered Syria.”

The lieutenant aimed his pistol at Jack’s head. “Liar. We’ll soon see if you’re telling the truth or not, American.”

“Lieutenant Farsa.”

A major stepped out of the second truck. Jack had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed him in the passenger seat. The man wore a crisply pressed uniform. His dark eyes and pencil-thin mustache gave him a dangerous look. A cigarette was balanced delicately between his thumb and forefinger and he studied his three captives. “I am Major Harsulla, of the Mukhabarat, the Syrian secret police. Who are our guests, lieutenant?”

The major’s voice was surprisingly gentle. The lieutenant handed him the three passports. “The old one’s a Bedu, his passport’s Jordanian. It seems the vehicle belongs to him. The woman’s Lebanese, the man’s an American.”

The major’s eyebrows rose with interest and he flicked away his unfinished cigarette. “American, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

The major grinned. “Well now, isn’t that interesting?” He studied the passports zealously before looking at Jack and Yasmin. Finally, his gaze shifted to Josuf. “You say you got lost, old man?”

“Yes, sir, we got lost, certainly. This is all a terrible mistake.”

The major closed the passports and tapped them in his palm. “Lost? I doubt it somehow. You Bedu know these deserts better than a blind camel.”

Josuf pleaded, “Please, sir. What I say is true, as Allah is my judge. I wouldn’t lie.”

“We’ll soon find out. You’re all under arrest.”

One of the soldiers finished searching the pickup and came back brandishing several pairs of licence plates, along with a curved Arab dagger in a sheath. “We found these under the driver’s seat, sir.”

The major examined the plates, then angrily tossed them on the sand. He held up the curved Arab knife. “What’s this for, Bedu? Picking your teeth?”

“It’s a tradition for my people to carry knives. The major must know that.”

“And false number plates too?” The major struck Josuf across the face. He staggered back, blood on his lip.

The major removed his pistol and sneered. “Your lies will cost you your life, you old fool.” He cocked his pistol and aimed at Josuf’s head. For a second or two it looked as if he really meant to shoot, then he grinned and released the hammer, decocking the weapon. “Perhaps I’ll keep the pleasure of beating the truth out of you and your friends back at headquarters.” He replaced his pistol in its holster and snapped his fingers at one of the soldiers. “Put them on board the truck. Have one of the men follow in their pickup.”

“Yes, sir.”

The major barked at the lieutenant. “Continue with the patrol. Search the area in case there are other intruders.”

“Yes, sir.” The lieutenant snapped off a salute and went to join his men in the first truck.

The major turned to Jack. “For your sake, I hope your presence here can be explained, American. Do you have anything more to say?”

“I’d like to talk with a U.S. consul, if there is one.”

The major grinned. “I doubt it. But even a consul couldn’t help. All of you could be spies. And the penalty for spying against the Syrian state is death.” He snapped his fingers at his men. “Put them all in the back of the truck. If any of these vermin try to escape, shoot them.”

TEL AVIV

ISRAEL

3:50
P.M.

THE HELICOPTER CARRYING
Lela Raul touched down at Ben-Gurion Airport with a clatter of engine noise. When she stepped out of the cabin she saw a small, cheerful-looking man wearing a flowered beach shirt, waving from the tarmac. He came over to join her. “Good to see you again, Lela. How’ve you been?”

“Ari, what are you doing here?” Lela was surprised to see Ari Tauber. They had known each other since serving together with the Jerusalem police force, until several years back, when Tauber had somehow ended up in Mossad. And as colleagues, it had transpired that both their grandfathers had even served together in the same Jewish partisan group that fought Nazis in Ukraine.

Ari took her arm warmly and led her toward the terminal. “I could ask you the same question, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know the answer. Come on, I’ve got my car outside.”

Minutes later Ari drove them in his blue Ford toward the whitewashed sprawl of Tel Aviv. Lela asked, “How are the wife and kids?”

“Sharon is still working as a medical secretary. And Nathan’s nine now, if you can believe it. Geli is hitting fourteen and as beautiful as her mother. And if I needed proof I’ve got a procession of pimple-faced teenage boys knocking on our front door every ten minutes, smelling of cheap aftershave.”

Lela said more seriously, “What’s the story, Ari? Why does the head of Mossad want to see me?”

Ari shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until my boss talks with you. I’m under strict orders to keep my mouth shut. I was on my day off, enjoying a family barbecue and a few cold Heinekens when I got the call from headquarters.”

“But you know what it’s about?”

Ari’s cheerful expression changed to a serious look. “I’ll have to refuse to answer that question on the grounds that it might incriminate me. Relax, you’ll know soon enough, Lela. Now, tell me how life’s been treating you.”

Fifteen minutes later Ari pulled into the private grounds of a concrete building in Herzliya. The blue and white flag of Israel, the Star of David in the center, fluttered on a flagpole above Mossad’s headquarters. Two uniformed armed guards stood at a barrier gate and when they checked Ari’s papers and Lela’s ID, the car was waved through.

The Ford drew up in front of the building and a guard came forward to open the car doors, a machine pistol draped across his chest.

Lela stepped out and Ari said, “Ever met the head of Mossad before?”

“Never.”

Ari grinned and clapped a hand on Lela’s shoulder. “Then you’re about to join the ranks of the chosen few. Come on, I’ll take you up to the top floor to meet God himself.”

JULIUS WEISS LOOKED
like a harmless enough eccentric. A stocky man with cold eyes and an intense stare, his abiding obsession was the security of Israel. With the title of
HaMemuneh
, or responsible one, he held the military rank of general, but as Mossad chief he never wore a uniform, preferring instead the anonymous garb of open-neck shirt and worn leather sandals.

Weiss was seated behind his desk that afternoon, reading a file, when Ari Tauber led Lela into the office. Weiss greeted her with a stare, then shut the file and came round from his desk to shake her hand. “Inspector Raul. How was your trip?”

“It would have been better if I’d known why I’d been summoned.”

A smile flickered on Weiss’s face. “Go grab a coffee, Ari.”

“Yes, sir.” Tauber withdrew, closing the door after him.

Weiss indicated a chair. “Take a seat, Inspector. My name is Julius Weiss, and I’m the head of Mossad. I have an interest in a case of yours. The murder at Qumran of an American archaeologist named Professor Green. Would you care to fill me in on what’s been happening in the case?”

“With respect, sir, the case is a police matter.”

Weiss arched a bushy eyebrow, as if unused to being questioned. “And now I’m making it Mossad’s business. An ancient scroll that was found at Qumran has also been stolen, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Any artifacts discovered on Israeli soil are the property of the state. In these circumstances, such a theft from the state is my responsibility.
I
have already spoken with your superior and he assured me of your full cooperation. I believe he told you as much?”

Lela said defiantly, “Yes, he did. But that doesn’t mean I have to like Mossad sticking its nose into police business.”

Weiss picked up his telephone handset and bluntly offered it to Lela. “Maybe I should call your boss again and ask him to repeat his recommendation to you.”

Lela met Julius Weiss’s laser stare. “What exactly do you want to know?”

Weiss slapped down the phone, his authority established. “Everything, Inspector, and leave nothing out.”

Ten minutes later, Lela finished telling Weiss everything she knew. He considered thoughtfully, studying her notebook open on his desk, reading the translated portion of the text that Jack Cane had given her. Finally, Weiss looked up and said, “Just to be clear, apart from these seemingly bizarre lines of text and the reference to Jesus Christ, nobody knows the full contents of the scroll, correct?”

Lela nodded. “Cane said they couldn’t risk peeling open the fragile leather further because it might cause damage. But he said the professor believed the document would serve as a powerful confirmation of the actual existence of Jesus Christ. Apparently, such evidence isn’t easily come by.”

“I take it he didn’t have time to estimate the scroll’s likely age with carbon dating.”

“No he didn’t. Our forensics people will carbon-date the parchment flakes they found. But Jack Cane had seen other scroll examples from the first century
A.D.
and seemed certain that it dated from then.”

Weiss sighed, placed his hands behind his head, and sat back, resting one of his ancient sandals on the desk. “And now the scroll’s gone and a man’s been murdered and the chief suspect has disappeared. Not good, is it?”

“No.” Lela thought that the worn, upturned soles of the Mossad chief’s sandals looked badly in need of repair.

“By the way, I knew your father, Inspector. We served together during the Six-Day War. He was a very brave and honorable soldier. I admired him greatly.”

“Thank you.”

Weiss stood, crossed to the window, and said without turning back, “If you’re even half the person your father was, I want you to remain on the case. But from now on, this is not just a police investigation, Inspector, it’s also Mossad’s domain. Cane’s discovery may have grave repercussions for the state of Israel.”

Lela frowned. “Can you explain?”

Weiss nodded. “I will. But at a time when I decide it’s appropriate. For now, just accept my word that the inquiry will almost certainly turn out to be a lot more profound than a simple murder.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of being kept in the dark about any aspect of a murder case.”

Weiss came back from the window and said forcefully, “What you like or don’t like is immaterial. I still want you on board, working alongside Mossad. Not only because I believe you’re an excellent investigator but because you know Jack Cane.”