1867.
Shortly after Saladin’s twelfth-century recapturing of Jerusalem, this opening to the lower structure of the Temple Mount platform had been blocked off. But now, a sizable breach had been made in its center, and light spilled out from the burrow.
He crouched down and peeked inside, where a second crew was busy clearing debris. Though the men wore the same uniforms as the crew in the main hall, they were not under the employ of Israelis. These men were one of Cohen’s many teams.
He couldn’t help but smile when he saw how far they’d already penetrated beneath the Mount.
Deep beneath the Temple Mount esplanade, their ear-pounding jackhammers still had Cohen concerned about what might be heard above. This secret dig, however, was in close proximity to the Large Hall, so he was certain that the noises would be easily confused with the sounds of the renovations taking place there.
A vibration against his chest startled him. He dipped into his breast pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and checked the display’s caller ID: an inside line at the Rockefeller Museum. Fortunately, the Israeli crews had installed signal-relay boosters throughout the tunnel to make outside communications more efficient. Flipping it open, he loudly said, “Hold a moment.”
He moved away from the archway and further up the tunnel. “Yes, what is it?” he finally asked.
Through the static, he listened to what the man on the other end had to say. News of a remarkable discovery in Qumran.
“Is it . . . authentic?” he asked, a slight tremor running over his fingers.
The caller said he believed it was.
“And who found it?”
The caller told him, and his hand shook even harder.
“Who did Mizrachi ask to handle the transcription?”
Cohen didn’t like this answer either.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
9
******
Jezreel Valley, Israel
Cresting the massive earthen mound crowned by fortified ruins, Amit parked his Land Rover and hopped out onto the dusty trail. He took a moment to admire the lush expanse of the Jezreel Valley spreading for kilometers around the tell until it broke like waves against the distant rolling mountains. The unassuming plain had hosted countless battles in antiquity as empires had fought to control this busy interchange where trade and communications were channeled between the East and the Mediterranean.
For centuries, the mound had been used as a strategic stronghold. Its sinister name derived from the Hebrew Har Megedon, or “hill of Megiddo.”
Armageddon.
Designated in Revelation as ground zero for an apocalyptic showdown between the forces of good and evil.
Armageddon’s past tenants included a host of Old Testament kings, among them Solomon and Josiah. All had left their mark somewhere within Megiddo’s summit, the tell’s visible foundations a mere veneer covering over twenty successive settlements hidden beneath.
Winding through the maze of ancient foundations, Amit stopped beneath a cluster of fragrant palms and peered down into a deep, neatly cut excavation trench staked along the rim with yellow flags. Below, a small team of archaeologists was busily working their way deeper with trowels and brushes, one micro-thin layer at a time.
On hands and knees, sporting a wide-brimmed pink sun hat, he spotted world-renowned Egyptologist Julie LeRoux. It was the imprint of the Egyptian pharaohs that had brought her here—Thutmose III, to be precise, he recalled. Recent digs had uncovered a treasure trove of relics left behind during the king’s occupation in the late fifteenth century b.c.e. Julie had flown in from Cairo the very next day. It had been almost four months since her arrival.
“Hey, Jules. Reach China yet?”
Without diverting her attention from dusting a partially exposed, orblike artifact lodged in the earth, she called out with a fine-tuned French accent, “Monsieur Amit? That you?”
“The one and only.”
Something about Jules had always managed to make Amit swoon. Three kids and forty-three years had done little to affect her athletic, trim form. Her face—wide-eyed, cheeky, and insolently youthful—was arguably not her best physical asset. But the radiance it emanated was infectious. Funny that she seemed so content, so happy, seeing as her marital record bore a striking similarity to his own—though the number of her failed attempts to substitute a spouse for archaeological mysteries had only reached one.
“Where is your shovel?” she said.
A jab only an archaeologist could appreciate. Jules considered shovels sacrilege—a tool relegated to only the impatient and the irreverent. He shrugged with a boyish grin. “Seem to have forgotten it.”
“Pity. Why don’t you come on down here and let me teach you a thing or two?” She motioned to a tall aluminum ladder leaning against the rim of the pit.
“So what brings you to Armageddon?” Jules asked.
Helping her dust the artifact, Amit was now able to decipher the orb—a clay decanter covered in hieroglyphs. The coincidence tickled him. “Egypt, actually.”
