make a great deal of it. What really drove the man was his sense of purpose, his belief that the work they did and the choices they made really mattered. It was his passion and genuine charisma that first attracted her to him. The fact that she thought he looked like a movie star didn’t hurt either.
Almost a year ago, she and Evan had begun dating, both very cautious about the potential work-related conflicts such a relationship might bring about. But if there could exist a natural fit between two people, Charlotte had certainly found it—like the inevitable laws of physics she found herself hopelessly drawn to him. Only four months ago, things between them seemed perfect.
Then fate decided to throw a curveball at her.
A routine blood test taken during her annual physical detected abnormally high protein levels in her blood. Further testing followed that included a painful bone biopsy. Finally came the devastating diagnosis: multiple myeloma.
Bone cancer.
At first, she was angry. After all, she was practically a vegetarian, rarely drank, and exercised like a fiend. It just didn’t make sense, especially because at the time, she felt perfectly fine.
That wasn’t the case now. Just a week earlier, she began taking Melphalan—her first round of low-dose chemotherapy. Now she felt like she was battling a permanent hangover, complete with intermittent waves of nausea.
She didn’t have the heart to tell Evan. Not yet, at least. He had already been talking about a more permanent future, even kids. None of that seemed possible now and it crushed her. Over the past few weeks, she had grown more despondent. In all fairness to him, she needed to be absolutely certain that she would be among the ten percent who actually beat this disease before she could commit to anything more serious.
A discreet knock pulled Charlotte from her thoughts.
Reaching the door in four strides, she opened it to see a bespectacled bald man barely her height, dressed in a black suit and shirt. His complexion was smooth and pale. Maybe in his late forties or early fifties, she guessed. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the white priest collar.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Hennesey. I’m Father Patrick Donovan.” His English was flavored with an Irish brogue. Smiling pleasantly, he extended a thin hand.
My Vatican admirer, she thought. “A pleasure to meet you, Father.”
“I so much appreciate your patience. I apologize for the delay. Shall we go?”
“Yes, of course.”
5
******
Temple Mount
Deep beneath Temple Mount, Razak and Farouq stood amidst the rubblestrewn floor of the Marwani Mosque. As the Keeper had indicated, the damage to the site had been considerable, yet contained. Pole-mounted spotlights had been erected to illuminate a gaping hole in the rear wall about a meter-and-a-half in diameter. On seeing it, Razak felt his stomach twist into a knot.
The first time he had seen this place was in the late 1990s. Back then, rubble and debris had completely filled the space, floor to ceiling. But that was before the Israeli government had allowed the Waqf to initiate excavation and restoration. In exchange, Jewish archaeologists had been permitted to excavate the Western Wall tunnel—an underground passage far beneath the buildings of the Muslim Quarter, connecting the southern Western Wall Plaza to the Via Dolorosa on the embankment’s northwest corner. As usual it was a compromise that wasn’t without bloodshed. Riots had broken out between Palestinians and Israelis opposing the excavations, resulting in the deaths of over seventy soldiers and civilians, including Razak’s closest friend, Ghalib, who vehemently opposed Israeli digging beneath his home that abutted the Temple Mount’s western retaining wall.
Some Muslims had clung to the belief that a demon called the Jin had deliberately filled this underground room with rubble to deter entrance. And now that its restoration was nearing completion, Razak couldn’t help but feel a malevolent presence still lurked here in the shadows.
Approaching the aperture, he ran his fingers along its jagged edge, feeling a gummy residue. He peered into the secret chamber beyond where the rubble was minimal.
Farouq appeared beside him holding a piece of masonry and handed it to Razak. “See this?” He indicated a smooth arc that ran along one edge of the brick. “The Israelis found a drill the thieves left behind, used to make cores that were then packed with explosive.”
Razak examined the brick. “How could explosives be smuggled into the heart of Jerusalem, past all the checkpoints?”
“Explosives and guns. These people were smart.” Farouq leaned through the hole and peered into the chamber. “I didn’t want to mention it in front of the others, but this seems to suggest that someone on the inside helped them. Perhaps the Jews did have something to do with this.”
Razak wasn’t so sure. “You said the police have already seen this?”
“The police and the IDF’s intelligence people. Studied it for two solid days following the theft.”
Their thoroughness didn’t surprise Razak.
“We’ve been awaiting a full report,” Farouq added. “It has yet to come.”
Both men climbed through the hole into the space beyond.
Additional pole lights illuminated the inner chamber clearly carved from Mount Moriah’s soft limestone bedrock with thick earthen pillars supporting its rocky ceiling. The walls were bare of any ornamentation. Here the stagnant air still smelled of explosives.
Razak turned to face the Keeper. “Did you know about this chamber before?”
“Absolutely not. Our excavations were contained within the mosque itself. Any unauthorized digging would have been strictly forbidden.”
Farouq’s gaze was steady, but Razak was well aware that, when it came to excavations, the Waqf had taken some liberties in the past.
Against the east wall, Razak detected a line of nine compact stone boxes, each etched in a language that
