looked like Hebrew. He moved closer. At one end, a rectangular depression in the earth suggested a tenth box had been removed and he moved closer.
Unexpectedly, a voice broke in from the other side of the blast hole. “Gentlemen. Can I have a moment?”
Razak and Farouq whirled round to find a plain looking middle-aged man peering through the aperture. His face was pale and streaked by sunburn, topped off by a nest of unruly brown hair.
“Sorry, do you speak English?” The stranger had a refined English accent.
“We do.” Razak rapidly approached the hole.
“Marvelous.” The stranger smiled. “That’ll make things easier. My Arabic’s a little ropey.”
Farouq elbowed Razak aside. “Who are you?”
“My name is Barton.” He moved forward through the opening. “Graham Barton, I—”
Farouq threw oversized hands in the air. “You dare come in here? This is a sacred place!”
Barton stopped in his tracks, looking like he had just stepped on a landmine. “I’m sorry. But if you’ll just let me—”
“Who let you in?” Razak moved past Farouq to shield the chamber.
“I was sent by the Israeli Police Commissioner, to assist you.” He pulled out a letter on police department stationery.
“An Englishman!” Farouq was gesticulating wildly. “They send an Englishman to assist us. You see where that got us in the past!”
From the extensive time Barton had spent on projects in Israel, he was painfully aware that here the English were still best known for their botched colonization efforts in the early 1900s—a debacle that only served to deepen Palestinian resentment toward the West. He grinned tightly.
“Need I remind you,” Farouq warned, “that non-Muslims are banned here?”
“My religious affinities aren’t so easily defined,” Barton scowled. There was a time when he regularly attended Anglican services at Holy Trinity Church near his Kensington home in London. But that was a long time ago. Now he considered himself a more secular believer who shunned the establishment, but still sought a better understanding of his belief that there was indeed something bigger than himself in this miraculous universe. That search had yet to exclude elements of most faiths, including Islam, which he regarded highly.
“So what is your purpose here?” Razak demanded.
“I work with the Israeli Antiquities Authority,” Barton persisted. He was already feeling that accepting this job had been a very bad idea. The guppy was now in the piranha tank. “Ancient Holy Land antiquities are my specialty.” Biblical antiquities was more like it, he thought. But mentioning that to this pair didn’t seem smart. “I’m well regarded in my field.” Renowned, in fact, he thought. Trained at Oxford University, head curator of antiquities for the Museum of London, and a resume that read like a novella—not to mention the countless archaeological digs he’d managed in and around Jerusalem and his regular pieces in Biblical Archaeology Review. And just prior to the theft, the IAA had commissioned Graham Barton with a generous stipend to oversee a massive digitizing campaign that would catalogue the entirety of its priceless collections throughout Israel’s museums. Wisely, he chose not to elaborate on those details.
Farouq was dismissive. “Credentials do not impress me.”
“Right. But I can save you a lot of time,” Barton added, dodging the Keeper’s outright hostility. “Besides, the IDF and Israeli police have retained my services. I’ve been told you’re committed to full cooperation in order to determine what happened here. I have a letter of introduction.” His tone was more assertive now.
Farouq’s eyes met Razak’s, registering displeasure for the Israelis’ sneaky tactics.
“I was informed that the incident here possibly involved an ancient relic.” Barton was trying to peer over Razak’s shoulder.
The two Muslims were still grappling with what was happening.
“The thieves must have had very precise information,” Barton forged on, “to know the exact whereabouts of a room so well hidden beneath Temple Mount. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“A moment, please.” Farouq raised a finger and motioned to the archaeologist to move back through the blast hole.
Sighing, Barton retreated into the mosque. The tricky politics of this place exasperated him.
Razak watched him go. “Strange. I wonder if they—”
“An outrage!” Farouq’s face was close.
Razak’s voice sunk to a whisper. “Did the Israelis mention this to you?”
“Not at all. And I will not permit this.”
Razak drew a deep breath. He didn’t like the idea of allowing this Barton—apparently a delegate from the Jewish authorities—to intervene in such a sensitive investigation. After all, the Israeli police and the IDF had already spent two days inspecting the crime scene without apparent results. Now they were sending in an outsider? Perhaps Barton would not simply replicate the investigation. There was no telling what their motives could be. However, time wasn’t on Razak’s side and his knowledge of archaeology and antiquities was limited at best.
Farouq drew even closer. “What are you thinking?”
“We don’t have much time. Since Barton claims to be an expert...”
“Yes...”
“Well, it’s obvious the Israelis already know what happened here. Perhaps he can give us information. Something to start with. It’s in everyone’s interests to resolve this quickly.”
