Celeste half-expected Tulu to be standing guard outside the door. Thankfully, the coast was clear.
She continued walking across the plaza and the full length of the Western Wall to the other side, where she found two empty white chairs under an umbrella near a barrier roping off the resting area from the site of prayer. She hadn't even looked at the card until she knew they were safe, keeping it pressed against the palm of her hand inside her pocket.
Celeste sat in one chair, Silas in the other. She pulled out the card. It was charcoal gray with a black, paisley pattern and the unmistakable white ‘WA’ logo imprinted on the front.
Waldorf Astoria.
Silas scoffed. “Of course Pryce is staying at the Waldorf!”
Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Jealous, are we?”
He folded his arms and said nothing.
She smiled. “Here’s the opportunity we need to figure out what Pryce has been up to. We use this to gain entrance into his room and have a look around.”
He took the card from her and flipped it over, then frowned. “Except how do we know which room it is?”
She stared forward toward the large tent in thought. Then she took out her phone and placed a call. It answered on the first ring. “Zoe, it’s Celeste. We found a keycard to a hotel in Jerusalem, but haven’t a clue which room it opens. It looks to utilize a near-frequency chip, so I wondered if you could uplink to my phone and use the NFC embedded in it to read the card and figure out where it belongs.”
Zoe said she could, and to give her a minute to connect.
“Impressive,” he said.
“Once in a while.”
Within a minute Zoe had reported back that she found the room. Third floor, room 323.
“Thanks, Zoe,” Celeste said, then ended the call.
“Alright, what’s the plan, chief?” Silas asked. “Because I’m not sure how comfortable I feel breaking and entering. Pretty sure the Bible has something to say about stealing and what not.”
“We’re not going to steal anything. Just have a look around. Hopefully he isn’t there, and hopefully we learn something that will help us better understand what the bloody hell he’s up to. And what it might mean for the Church.”
“What could go wrong?”
The two took a cab out of the Old City and to the upscale hotel a fifteen-minute drive away. After paying the man, Celeste led them into the well-appointed building, where a doorman held the door of glass and bronze as they entered. Greeting them were vases of orange Israeli wildflowers, crystal chandeliers, English-tan leather couches, and a central seating area lit by the glow of the fading, evening sky through skylights in an expansive, covered atrium at the center.
They walked farther into the cream-colored lobby when Celeste stopped suddenly.
“There he is,” she mumbled, turning away and slowing inching toward a marble archway. She leaned against it and pointed past a small, green indoor tree to a table near a railing. Seated were Pryce, sporting a dark-blue jacket and unbuttoned pressed, white shirt, and a dark-colored man in a cream-colored suit. Oliver Tulu.
Silas rubbed his hand over his close-cropped hair, adrenaline beginning to flow in anticipation of their next series of moves.
“At least we know Pryce isn’t in his room.”
“But for how much longer?” Celeste turned to him and handed him the keycard. “Take this and get going. No time to waste. I'll stay here and monitor him and Tulu. If they move, I'll text you, and you text back to indicate receipt. Sound good?”
Silas nodded. “Sounds good. Got it.”
Silas stuffed the card in a pocket, then backed away to the central stairwell before turning toward it.
It’s go time.
Silas took the white, marble stairs two by two, quickly ascending to the third floor.
Orange sconces and a full moon shining brightly through the skylight of the central atrium lit the way as the evening sunlight quickly gave way to purple, inky darkness. He passed a couple who were dressed to the nines, him in a crisp, black tuxedo and her in a floor-length, white, strapless gown. They eyed him wearily as he passed. It was then that he remembered he was wearing jeans and a polo, and covered in Palestine dust from the dig. Probably didn't smell too good, either. He chuckled to himself, then pressed forward to room 323.
He found his target at the end of the hallway, a double set of doors with a keycard pad on the wall. He glanced behind himself, then held the charcoal card against the pad. Within a second, a green indicator light went off with a soft ping, and he could hear the lock click open. He quickly pressed the handle down, then opened the door and slid inside, quietly shutting the door behind him.
So this is the life of a thieving academic.
Envy flooded him as he walked across the cherry, hardwood floor of the spacious room of luxury. A large, modern, impressionist painting of bright flowers hung on one of the walls. A Persian rug decorated in bright yellows and dark blues and pink swirls sat in the middle of the living quarter, commanded by two overstuffed, dark leather chairs and a long leather couch. A bedroom off to the right housed a king-size bed with soft, cream-colored bedding and the sister rug underneath.
He walked to the window, overlooking the Old City of David. Underneath it was a cherry-wood buffet table with an ice bucket and half-empty bottle of 30-year-old Macallan.
He picked it up and smiled. Don’t mind if do.
He plunked two ice cubes into a glass, then poured himself three-fingers worth of the caramel-colored scotch. He took a long swig as he watched the sun make its final descent over the city. He sighed, letting the oaky liquid warm his belly. But then remembered why he was there. It definitely wasn’t to drink 30-year scotch.
He took another mouthful, then set the glass down. He walked over to a desk. It was clean, not a paper or book on it. He opened the drawers. Nothing.
He frowned and put his hands on his hips. Then walked over to the couch and chairs, looking underneath each of them. Again, nothing. He opened all of the cupboards and drawers of the buffet, finding them empty. Same for the entryway closet and another small cabinet with a golden bowl of fruit on top.
Then he turned to the bedroom. It was slightly humid and warmer than the living room, as if Pryce had finished with a shower before he met his assistant for a drink. On his bed were the aged maps of the Old City and schematics of the Temple Mount he had seen earlier on Pryce's work table. He shuffled through them, looking them over for any clues as to his professor's intentions. They were interesting, but revealed nothing.
What are you hiding, Pryce?
He realized something was missing. The book.
He spun around to a large chest of drawers. He walked over and opened them, then rummaged through his clothes. Nothing there. He opened the drawers to two oval nightstands, which was another waste.
This was taking too long.
An armoire in the corner caught his attention. He shuffled over to it and opened its doors. He was greeted by several pressed shirts and pants. And an electronic safe.
Silas cursed. Of course. He took out the keycard, but no luck. There was a digital number panel on the front, with the user controlling the PIN number to lock the safe upon shutting the door. There was no way he was cracking that, especially not in the five or so minutes he had left.
But then he realized the safe was too small to fit the book anyway. Perhaps it was hidden away somewhere else. But where?
He turned around and faced the bedroom, scanning it for possible hiding places. He looked at the bed, then down where a cream-colored skirt reached the floor, obstructing his view. He quickly knelt on the floor and lifted the skirt.
Bingo.
He pulled out a package stuffed at the back near the center of the headboard. It looked like a red, woven mat of some sort. And there was something wrapped inside. His heart raced forward as he unfolded the package.
There it was. The mystery book, as well as a leather-bound journal tied tightly with a leather strap, dusty and well-traveled.
He instinctively looked toward the door and waited, literally holding his breath. Nothing.
He exhaled, then set aside the journal for now. He turned to the book, then carefully pulled back a thick, dark-colored cover and started flipping through it, its heavy, ancient pages whispering with each turn. Beautifully, richly colored marginal images of reds and blues and greens accented the text. It was definitely an ancient, foreign language, but struck him as familiar, like the Afroasiatic language family originating in the Middle East he saw while studying with Pryce at Tell-es Sultan. While he wasn’t a linguist by any means, the script looked to be far older than even a few centuries ago.
He pulled out his phone to take some pictures of the book for later. He would send them to Zoe for analysis while he and Celeste—
It was off.
Panic settled quickly into his gut. He had forgotten he turned it off after the low-battery alert episode at the tent. What if Celeste had been trying to warn him?
He quickly pressed the power button, willing it to come back to life.
Come on, come on.
It did, the white screen with a black Apple logo indicating the startup process.
His heart was pounding in his ears, his breathing quick and panicked. It was now that he really needed his little, blue pills.
A screen appeared asking for his PIN number. He quickly typed it in, then he was brought to the home screen.
That’s when a flood of texts came through from Celeste.
Pryce and Tulu paying.
Tulu has left.
Pryce finished paying, leaving the table.
Silas, what’s your ETA?
Pryce is taking stairs.
Why no reply? WHAT’S GOING ON??
Not good. How long ago were these warnings?
No matter. He had moments to act. His phone's juice was just under twenty percent. And Pryce could come back any time. He switched his phone to camera mode, then started snapping pictures of the book. He had no idea what he was capturing, but figured Zoe could sort through the images later, translating what he took and finding more to fill in the gap, maybe even the book itself.
He looked back at the bedroom entryway, still no sound.
He tossed the book back on the red, woven cloth, then looked at his phone. It had been four minutes since the texts came flooding in. But he needed the contents of that journal. He huffed and grabbed it, then quickly unwound the leather strap and started flipping pages and taking pictures without even reading its contents. It was too full of notes and research to capture it all. He just fired at will and hoped he was catching something useful.
Alright, time to get the heck out of here.
He carefully wound the strap back around the journal, placed it on the mystery book in the center of the rectangular mat, then wrapped it and slid it back to its hiding place.
He stood, breathing hard and sweating.
There was a sound, muffled and knocking. At the door.
Pryce.
Within seconds, he would be inside.
Silas acted quickly to position himself for Pryce’s entrance.
In one second, the outside keypad pinged softly, in another, the door opened and in stepped the tall, gangly Southern man, head down.
He closed the door and suddenly snapped his head toward one of the overstuffed leather chairs in the center of the room.
Where Silas was sitting, sipping a tumbler of 30-year-old scotch.
His eyes widened, but he didn’t react like one would expect, with an adrenaline fight-or-flight, chest-clenching yell of surprise or anger.
Instead, he said ten words, slowly, deliberately: “Grey, what the hell are you doing in my room?”