5

Ismael huddled in the enclave he’d carefully selected on the monastery’s south side, meticulously scanning the hills to the north, trying desperately to ignore his mounting frustration.

The ambush had taken three days to set up—flying into Addis Ababa, then on to Adwa where he’d rented a Land Rover and driven here over impossible roads in the dark. He had been in place twelve hours, all the while wondering if the boy’s information had been wrong. What if it had been another monastery in the region, one that also began with the world Debra— as it turned out there were many in northern Ethiopia.

He turned the binoculars to the monastery. The Christian church was built solidly, using huge squared rocks and brown plaster formed in a large cross. A single brass bell hung still, high over the entrance, in its round perch. It could as easily be a fort as a church.

Light flashed in the corner of his vision and Ismael jerked the binoculars up. His heart froze. Nothing. Only bare boulders, like potatoes piled— There! A brilliant reflection. Ismael pulled back, afraid they might see him.

They had come! Praise be to Allah.

He snatched up his rifle and shoved it in the space he’d prepared. The silencer struck the rock and he cursed under his breath. “Slow down. Patience.”

Ismael eased his eye to the scope, scanned the rocks again, and stopped when he saw them move. The Jews were strung along the hill, like a row of desert rats, hunched behind their rocks.

He had them now.

Rebecca studied the monastery through the glasses one last time. The small valley was vacant except for the odd robed monk or servant walking for the well or plucking tomatoes from a small garden on the north end. Taking the monastery would be like attending a bar mitzvah. Part of her felt sorry for the helpless men who walked down there, unaware of the storm about to blow their way.

After narrowly escaping the roadblock, she had led the team on an uneventful passage aboard the Antiquities freighter, down the length of the Red Sea, to the sleepy port of Massawa in Eritrea. The 150-kilometer trip south to this valley in two rented lorries offered no excitement either. Even the border crossing provided little more than a ten-minute respite from an otherwise monotonous journey. It was as if Ethiopia had fallen asleep and forgotten that there was anything worth protecting within its borders. If indeed there was.

Looking down at the sleepy monastery known as the Debra Damarro that the old blind priest had insisted held the relic, Rebecca fought off a nauseating wave of doubt. The isolated structure, though built like a fort, seemed too inconsequential to hold anything remotely as powerful as the one relic that could change history simply by its discovery.

To think that God’s holy Ark was hidden here, in a Christian monastery— a monument to that man who had rejected the Jews in his heretical claim to be God—was ironic at least. Blasphemous, more likely.

“The poor dolts will soon be dead,” Avraham said beside her.

Rebecca lowered her binoculars and looked down the line of soldiers crouched behind the knoll. They had exchanged their shovels and picks for machine guns and knives. Any one of them could probably take the monastery alone. Professor Daniel Zakkai stood behind them, the only man without a gun.

“There won’t be any killing unless we meet resistance,” she ordered. “We don’t need to draw attention.”

Avraham looked at her, taken aback. “You can’t be serious. There’s not a soul anywhere near. We don’t need prisoners.”

“No. We won’t have the innocent blood of monks on our hands.”

“Christian monks aren’t any less guilty than the Arabs, or don’t you know your history? Wasn’t Hitler a Christian? We should kill them—anything less would be a tactical error.”

“There’s never enough killing for you, is there, Avraham? Give your gun to Moshen.”

Avraham blinked.

“You heard me. Please, we don’t have all day.”

Now the man grew red in the face, but he didn’t hand his weapon over.

Rebecca faced the monastery. “Samuel, take Avraham’s gun. If he refuses to give it to you, shoot him in the leg.”

“You’re an insolent little . . .” Avraham stopped short at Rebecca’s glare. Samuel took his rifle.

“This is a military exercise,” Rebecca said. “I’m your commander. A soldier follows his commander without question. Until you accept that fact, I will keep you in check. We’re going in hot; the last thing I need is an unruly man with a gun in hand.”

Rebecca ignored his scowl and addressed the others. “Here’s how this works. I want three men on the north, three on the west, and two with me on the road to the south. Moshen and Jude will set up a post on the crest of the road. Once we’re in the monastery, no one leaves the valley. Unless the monks decide to bring out guns, nobody shoots. The nearest village is five kilometers to the west, but there’s no telling how far a shot will carry in these hills.”

“What about their radio?” Michael asked.

“If you find one, destroy it.”

“Caleb must not be harmed,” Zakkai said.

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, of course. Caleb.” Before leaving they had learned that, evidently, this Caleb was the same person who as a boy fifteen years ago had sparked a worldwide controversy with his power to heal.

Rebecca had been too distracted mourning her mother’s death at the time to notice.

“If all goes well, we’ll find whatever there is to find and be gone by morning. If it takes us longer, we should be prepared to hold the monastery for as long as necessary.”

She glanced at her watch. “You have half an hour for positions. Leave the trucks hidden until we take the monastery.”

It took Rebecca fifteen minutes to reach the crest of the road from the south where Jude and Moshen would remain at a post. With Avraham in tow and two others at her flanks she walked for the monastery. They kept their rifles shouldered at their backs.

Nothing but the crunching of their boots and the occasional call of a crow disturbed the silence. The monastery slept in the falling afternoon sun, a huge monolith, unsuspecting.

Rebecca had searched out a dozen promising sites for the Ark’s resting place with Zakkai. Finding the relic had always seemed like a long shot, but next to their failing political attempts at gathering support for rebuilding the Temple, the possibility of actually locating the Ark had inspired them all. If there was one thing God had said clearly about the future of Israel it was that the Temple would be rebuilt before the Messiah would come. There was nothing that could unite Israel behind the Temple’s rebuilding like the discovery of the Ark.

Even so the months of failure had left her pessimistic about their prospects of success. As if they were children on a treasure hunt, unable to shake the nagging thought that it was a box full of sand that they would find rather than a true treasure trove. They had traveled sixteen hundred kilometers over three days since the old man had told his tale and produced his letter. But now walking up to the monastery Rebecca couldn’t shake the feeling that this place, like so many in its wake, was filled with nothing more than old men and dust.

They approached to within fifty meters of the gate and still no one showed. Maybe they’d all gone to bed early, God knew there was little else to do in such a remote—

Whap!

The unmistakable sound of a bullet smacking into flesh jerked Rebecca from her thoughts. She instinctively threw herself to the ground and rolled to her left. To her right Peter staggered forward with a head wound.

The ground belched dust two meters to the right as a second bullet buried itself. She came up out of her roll in a full run, leaving her hat to the wind. Behind her, Avraham had snatched up Peter’s gun and drew abreast.

“No shots!” Rebecca snapped.

“They’re shooting at us!”

The shots were from behind, but she didn’t have the time to point the fact out at the moment. She ran forward, weaving, as three more projectiles spun passed her. Seven steps rose to the entrance and she took them in two strides.

Then she was inside the monastery. Avraham and Samuel flattened themselves against the wall beside her.

“No shots!” Rebecca repeated. “Samuel, guard the door. The shooter’s in the hills; keep him there. Avraham, with me.”

Rebecca turned and ran into the sanctuary where a monk stood wide-eyed, dressed in a tan tunic that hung to his ankles.

“Pardon us, Father, but I must speak to a man named Caleb immediately.”

Confusion froze the monk’s features. With any luck, they would have the monastery before anyone realized they’d been attacked. Speed was now an issue. Whoever had fired on them had done so without warning, which meant they knew too much. She would have to silence the shooter, but not at the expense of their first objective, which was Caleb. The sooner they controlled the monastery, the sooner they could deal with the shooter.

Rebecca snatched up her radio. “Michael, did you get a bearing?”

“No, sir. Peter’s down.”

“Leave him.” She lowered her radio. “Father? Quickly!”

“You are not permitted in the—”

“Listen, you old bag,” Avraham’s voice rang through the great room. “She asked you where Caleb was, and I suggest you start talking before we—”

“Shut up, Avraham! Forgive us, Father, but we are in a hurry. It’s a matter of utmost importance,” Rebecca said.

“I . . . yes, of course. He should be in the refectory at the back.” The priest lifted a trembling hand to the hall behind him.

“Thank you.”

Rebecca hurried for the hall. Avraham hesitated and then followed. She had a notion to put the butt of her rifle between his teeth, but she dismissed the thought. Another took its place.

She would send him after the shooter.

As soon as they had Caleb.

Leiah was down the hall from the sanctuary retrieving a can of margarine from the storeroom when she heard Caleb’s name echo angrily from the domed room.

“ . . . where Caleb was and I suggest you start talking before we—”

“Shut up, Avraham!”

Heat flashed up Leiah’s neck. Bandits! Someone had come for Caleb! For a moment she stood frozen, the can of margarine in her hand.

I’ve got to get him out! The thought blasted through her mind, and she tore from the room and sprinted down the hall. She nearly tripped, crashing into the study.

“Caleb!” Jason was with him—thank God. “Jason, there are men looking for Caleb. We have to hide him!”

“What? What do you mean, men?”

She looked over her shoulder at the sound of running feet and motioned frantically for the closet. “Hurry!”

“Leiah—”

“Not now, Jason!” She ran into the corner of the table, but she hardly felt it. Jason and Caleb scrambled from their chairs and ran in after her.

“What’s happening?” Caleb asked. Outside a voice yelled that the kitchen was empty.

“I don’t know! They want you!”

“Then I should talk to them,” Caleb said.

“No! I think they have guns. I don’t know what they want, but it can’t be good.”

Jason hesitated only a few seconds. “Okay, Caleb, we have to get you into the tunnel and out.”

“You’re serious? We don’t even know what they want.”

“No, Caleb,” Leiah whispered. “Please, you have to go. Now!”

Jason was suddenly as urgent as Leiah. “We have to move.” He cracked the door, saw that the way was clear, and pushed it open. “The ladder at the back. You too, Leiah. Hurry!”

“No,” Leiah said. “I’m staying to hold them.”

“Don’t be crazy—”

“Go!”

Jason hesitated and then pushed Caleb towards the narrow stairway at the back of the library.

They were halfway down the ladder when Leiah’s voice drifted to them. “What do you mean, barging in on supper? You’ll wait at the front door like anyone else!”

“We are interested only in Caleb,” a woman’s voice replied. “Only to talk to him.”

Another voice rattled off in what sounded to Caleb like Hebrew.

Shots rang out from somewhere above. Caleb stopped, suddenly panicked.

“Father?”

“It was from somewhere else,” Jason said, but his voice held a tremor. “The radio, maybe. Hurry!”

They ran for the lower tunnel that exited fifty meters beyond the back wall. It had been restored as part of the reconstruction because Caleb insisted. Most of the old tunnels had been collapsed, but several, like this one, were still stable enough to repair.

“I can’t leave, Father. Where do I go?”

Jason ran ahead and ducked into the dim tunnel. “To the hills. You know them better than anyone.”

“That’s crazy! For how long? And if there’s danger, I should be here, not running off.”

“They want you; you heard them. They have guns and they’re asking for you. In my book that means you’re in danger, so you get out.”

“And when will I come back?” Caleb asked, breathless. His mind spun. This was impossible! He hadn’t even seen a gun in fifteen years, and now someone was firing above his head in the church.

“When do I come back?” he asked again.

“I don’t know. As soon as it’s safe. An hour. Tomorrow.” Jason’s slapping boots echoed in the long tunnel. “We’ll put a white rag on the fence. When you see a white flag, you’ll know it’s safe.”

“And what if you don’t put a white flag on the fence?” Caleb asked, unbelieving. “This is crazy, Father. I can’t go!”

Jason spun and grabbed Caleb by the arm. “Listen, Caleb! We’re not playing around here. Leiah’s no fool. If she says get out, it means get out. At the least to be safe. Go into the hills, and if there isn’t a white flag on the fence soon, you head for help.”

Caleb could hardly believe his ears. “Head for help? Where?”

“I don’t know. Just find help.” Muffled voices reached them and Jason spun back down the tunnel. “If we don’t move, nobody will be going. Hurry!”

They ran. Around a blind corner to a small stairwell that led to the surface. Jason cracked the storm door, looked outside, and then threw it open.

Caleb clambered past him. He glanced around. The afternoon was quiet. “No one’s here.”

“Run!”

Caleb hesitated, bent in to give his father a hug and quick kiss on the cheek, and then ran for the hills.

He turned once to see the storm door close. Then he crested a hill and the monastery disappeared from sight.

Ismael tilted his head back and closed his eyes, still furious that he’d missed the woman. He’d mistaken the one with wider hips to the right for Rebecca and had realized his error only after Rebecca’s hat had flown off revealing long black hair. His next three shots had missed, partly from her surprising speed, partly from the slight tremble his own frustration had brought to his hands.

Now they were inside and his element of surprise was gone.

Ismael considered going down to finish the job. But that would only give them the advantage, and if there was one rule he would never break it was that killing must always be done from a position of advantage. He had killed thirty-four Jews from such a position. Unsuspecting squatters not ready for a fight. Civilians mostly, because not only were civilians easier to kill, their deaths caused greater grief than a soldier’s. Soldiers were bred to die. Nursing mothers were not. That was his advantage—killing people when they did not expect to be killed.

He’d once blown the head off a woman at three hundred meters as she kissed her husband off to work. The cruelty of the strike played as heavily as the fact that the man was one of Jerusalem’s best-known bankers. Not even Israel was prepared for such sudden terror. Terror was the greatest advantage of strong-willed soldiers who understood the will of Allah.

Ismael lowered his head and cursed bitterly. He had to find a way to persuade the Jews that he’d left. That would take time. Time was something he had; it was the patience he wasn’t as sure about.

The Jew-witch had escaped him twice—both times by the length of a bullet. The thought made him sick.

“Do you know the English word for the people of the book?” his brother had once asked him.

“No.”

“Jewitch,” Hamil had said past a wide grin.

“Jewish, yes, that’s what I thought.”

“No. Jew-witch. Jew-witch. You see, even they know the truth.”

It had become a little joke between them.

Ismael spit to the side. It was no longer a joke. He was now hunting the Jew-witch who had killed Hamil.