They stepped back outside into the cool morning.
“Walk with me,” she said. “I’d like to pay homage to the rabbi.”
He knew to whom she referred.
They followed a graveled path through the markers to the far side, directly adjacent to the western wall. Still, no one else had, as yet, entered the cemetery. Traffic could be heard, but not seen. She stopped before one of the larger tombs, framed by Renaissance cartouches sunk deep into the ground. The side facing them was decorated with a motif of grapes and a lion. He knew who rested beneath the elaborate marker.
Rabbi Loew.
Chief rabbi of Prague in the late 16th century. Rector of the Talmudic school, teacher, author. An original thinker.
Like him.
“The most visited tomb in this cemetery,” she said. “He was a great man.”
He noticed the stones lined across the top and on every other available edge. Jews rarely brought flowers to graves, as stones were the traditional way of expressing respect. A custom that dated back to their nomadic ways in the desert when rock covered the dead to keep the animals at bay. These stones, though, were special. Many had scraps of paper beneath them, some affixed by rubber bands. Each contained a prayer or a wish left for the rabbi to act upon. He’d left one himself a few years ago.
His hope that one day he’d find the Temple treasure.
Which might soon come to be.
———
TOM ADMIRED THE CEREMONIAL HALL. FROM THE ARTICLE HE’D written years ago, he was familiar with the Prague Burial Society. Membership was restricted to senior married men of unimpeachable repute who could provide for the sick and the dead. He’d toured the building then. The first floor had once been used for purification, the basement a mortuary, the second floor a meeting room. The walls were decorated with intricate murals, the floors a rich mosaic tile. This had been an important place. Now it was a museum.
He, Alle, and Berlinger stood among wood and glass cases that displayed funerary objects. Various paintings depicted the society’s history and activities. A six-candled, polished brass chandelier burned bright.
“These objects were once used by the society,” Berlinger said.
“They’re not important,” Alle said. “Why are we here?”
“Young lady, you may talk to your father in such a disrespectful manner. But not to me.”
She seemed unfazed by the rebuke. “You’re playing games with us.”
“And you’re not?”
“You know why we’re here.”
“I have to be sure.”
“Of what?” she asked.
But Berlinger did not answer. Instead he reached for Tom’s arm, leading him toward a set of display cases that fronted an outer wall. Three tall, arched windows with a Star of David design towered above the cases.
“You might find these interesting,” Berlinger said to him.
They approached the displays, and Tom’s eyes began to search inside.
“Out the windows. Look,” the rabbi whispered.
Then the old man released his grip and turned back toward Alle.
“Come, my dear,” Berlinger said. “I want to show you something in the next room.”
Tom watched as they disappeared through an archway.
He turned to the window but discovered the glass in each was opaque. Only through small, transparent pockets here and there in the design could he see outside.
The view was of the cemetery, the tombstones, blooming trees, and emerging grass. All quiet except for movement on the far side. Near the wall. Two people. A woman.
And Zachariah Simon.
A touch to his shoulder startled him.
He whirled.
Berlinger stood a foot away.
“Would you like to hear what they are saying?”
———
ZACHARIAH STARED AT THE AMBASSADOR. TIME TO FIND OUT what was really going on. “No more games. What are you doing here in Prague? And do not tell me you came to simply talk.”
“I would say it was good I came. You discovered that I truly do understand you.” She paused. “And that I know what you are planning.”
That was true.
“But you are right,” she said. “I came to tell you that the Americans are more intent on stopping you than I realized. They have been watching you for nearly a decade. Were you aware of that?”
He shook his head.
“It is true. I have been able to divert them for a while, but eventually they will be back on your trail.”
“And when will they discover that you are not their friend?”
She smiled. “After I become prime minister, when they will have no choice but to work with me. Hopefully, by then you will have changed the world.”
What a thought.
“I wanted you to know this information,” she said. “You have to be careful, Zachariah. Extremely careful. I can protect you only so far.”
He caught the warning in her voice. “I am always careful.”
“One can never be too careful.”
He caught the smile on her lips.
He’d already plugged the leak within his inner circle. But he wondered. Had Béne Rowe sold him out to the United States? He’d been told Brian Jamison worked for Rowe. Twice, in Jamaica, Rowe had made Jamison available, touting his abilities. Rowe either was a party to the American lie or had been duped himself.
“And what of Thomas Sagan,” she asked. “Is he proving helpful or a problem?”
This woman was informed.
“He has proven to be a problem.”
“I assume you know he is a journalist who once covered the Middle East. I remember reading his stories. He was regarded as one of the best in the region. Not a favorite, though, of those in positions of power. He took both sides to task.”
“How do you know so much about Sagan?”
“Because, Zachariah, I know who destroyed him eight years ago.”
“Destroyed?”
She nodded. “See, there are things that you do not know. The supposedly fabricated story that brought about Sagan’s downfall? I read it yesterday for the first time. It dealt with Israeli and Palestinian extremists. Explosive information, detrimental to both sides. And all false. Sagan was set up. The sources he quoted were actors, the information fed to him, all designed to end his career. Like the subject of the story itself, a bit extreme, but the tactic worked.”
“There are people with that capability?”
“Certainly. Their services are for sale and they are not ideologues. They work for any and all sides.”
Unlike himself.
“Do what you have to with Sagan,” she said. “Handle the problem. I am on my way back to Israel. I came here to meet with you one last time. You and I shall never speak again. You know that once you have accomplished your objective, you cannot be a part of what happens after. You are David to my Solomon.”
From Chronicles. King David had wanted to honor the Lord with a permanent monument to take the place of a roving tabernacle. He possessed ample slaves from his many war victories, along with gold and silver, and planned to build the greatest temple then known. But God told him that he’d spent his life in violence. He was a man of blood. So the privilege of erecting the temple would pass to his son, Solomon.
“You are a man of blood,” she said to him.
He considered that a compliment. “Which is necessary.”
“As it was to David. So finish this last battle, start your war, and allow Israel to reap the reward.”
———
TOM STARED AT THE MONITOR. BERLINGER STOOD BESIDE HIM. They’d descended to the basement of the ceremonial hall. What had once been a mortuary was now some sort of security center. A bank of eight LCD screens hung from one wall, fed by cameras located throughout the Jewish quarter. Berlinger had explained that this was where they kept an eye on things. He saw that the Old-New Synagogue was monitored in two views. Easy to see how his presence had been s
o quickly detected.
“I know who destroyed him.”
That’s what the woman had said.
No one else occupied the windowless room. Berlinger had excused the man on duty when they’d entered. Alle had been taken to the Old-New Synagogue for prayers.
“She went willingly,” the rabbi said. “Though I gave her little choice. I thought it better that only you see this.”
He wanted to flee the building and confront the woman. She was the first person, other than the man in Barnes & Noble, who’d ever uttered those words.
He stared at Berlinger.
Who clearly knew more than he was saying.
“You believe me, don’t you?” he said. “You know who I am.”
The rabbi nodded. “That is right. You are indeed the Levite. But you are in grave danger.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
BÉNE FOLLOWED FRANK CLARKE AS THEY NEGOTIATED THE EVERTIGHTENING tunnel. Thankfully, he’d never been claustrophobic. He actually felt comfortable within closed spaces, away from a world that demanded he act like one person, but be another. Nobody watched him here. Or judged him. He was just himself.
“You told me the Tainos cared nothing for gold,” he said. “So why have a mine?”
“I said that they didn’t value gold. For them, it was decoration. So when the Spanish asked about the mine, it meant little to reveal its location. It was much later that this place became special.”
Frank kept walking, the dry, rocky floor brittle beneath their wet boots. Luckily the route was a straight line with no offshoots. No evidence of bats or any other creature could be seen or smelled, the unique entrance ensuring that the cave stayed pristine.
He spotted something ahead, just beyond the reach of Clarke’s light.