81
Like a miser counting pennies, the crescent moon stingily cast a jaundiced light upon the choppy sea. Its lantern extinguished, the small fishing vessel steadily made its way towards the barren chunk of limestone in the distance. Calypso’s Point. The captain, a wizened salt who spoke no English, stood at the helm. Amply compensated for his services, he cared nothing about the peculiarities of the voyage.
C?dmon glanced at Edie, only the pale oval of her face visible in the inky darkness, both of them garbed in diving suits with matching black hoods.
‘You know, maybe we
Seated across from her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the top of his thighs. ‘Until MacFarlane actually steps foot inside Jerusalem, there’s little that anyone can do to stop him. While the intelligence agencies will do all in their power to prevent a terrorist act from occurring on the Temple Mount, they won’t be able to act until they have material proof that MacFarlane intends to commit the unthinkable. I am no longer bound by such dictates.’
‘Yeah, but short of killing Mac —’ She slapped a hand over her mouth. A second later, she lowered it. ‘That’s what you’re intending to do, isn’t it?’
‘In order to destroy a snake, one must decapitate it.’
‘But what if the snake turns around and bites you?’
Rather than answer the question, he said, ‘I think you should return to Valletta with the captain.’
‘I told you already, you’ll have to knock me unconscious to stop me from going with you to Calypso’s — What’s happening?’ she hissed, clearly startled.
‘No need for alarm. The captain has just cut the engine.’
‘So this is our stop, huh?’ She stared at the forbidding promontory that loomed above the small vessel.
C?dmon peered up. The limestone cliff rose approximately six hundred feet from the sea. ‘Yes, I know. It has a Gothic aspect.’ He stepped over to the side of the boat, his neoprene booties smacking softly against the deck. Edie followed in his wake, dashing any hope he had that she’d had a change of heart.
‘Right. Let’s get on with it,’ he said, swinging his leg over the side. A second later, he plunged into the cold sea, grateful they had only a short distance to swim.
Treading water, he watched as Edie joined him, proving herself an able swimmer.
A few minutes later, shivering from the cold and breathing heavily from their exertions, they emerged onto a spindly strip of beach strewn with chunks of rock fallen from the cliff face. C?dmon could see that the fishing vessel had already begun its homeward voyage, the captain not bothering to confirm whether or not they had landed safely.
Removing her hood, Edie jutted her chin at the imposing cliff. ‘Without climbing gear, I don’t know how we’re going to get up that sucker.’
‘I have it on good authority that there’s a narrow trail not far from here.’ That authority being none other than the hotel barman, who claimed to have ascended the cliff on many a youthful outing. Something of a local rite of passage.
C?dmon swung a rubberized rucksack off his shoulder. Opening it, he removed yet another water-tight bag, from which he removed a coil of wire, a sheathed diving knife, a green laser light, two torches, the GPS receiver, the map and two pairs of trainers. Inventory verified and double-checked, he unzipped and removed his diving suit. Like Edie, he wore black hiking gear beneath his suit.
‘Guess it’s time for the final reckoning, huh?’ Although Edie attempted a brave smile, she fell woefully shy of the mark.
‘Yes, I’m afraid the time has come.’
Pulling back his arm, his right hand balled in a fist, he delivered a quick, precise blow to the side of Edie’s head.
Instantly, her eyes rolled back in her head, C?dmon catching her as she pitched forward in an unconscious heap. KO’d by the ghost fist that she never saw coming.
Very gently he laid her on some saltwort, using the empty rucksack as a pillow for her head. He then placed a torch in her limp hand. If he didn’t return before she came to, or if he didn’t return at all, she would be able signal for help.
Still on his knees, he leaned forward and softly kissed her on the lips.
‘I’m sorry, love. You gave me no choice.’
82
Unable to stop what had become almost compulsive behaviour, Stan MacFarlane again glanced at the innocuous-looking shipping container on the other side of the tower room.
Before permitting the Ark to be packed for transport, he’d spent hours gazing upon it. Awestruck. For someone accustomed to the severe austerity of a Baptist church, the Ark had about it an almost pagan beauty. From the fierce pair of winged cherubim mounted on the gold lid to the strange and incomprehensible symbols incised on all four sides, it spoke of an ancient and holy heritage. A time when Moses led the Hebrew children to the land promised to them by God.
Anxious, he pushed his folding chair away from the camp table and reached for the pair of night vision goggles. He walked over to the opening on the other side of the circular room. The tower had once been used by the Knights of St John to monitor sea traffic. Tonight it served the same purpose, Stan watching for the luxury yacht that had set sail from Israel earlier in the week. Owned by Moshe Reznick, Knesset member and co-founder of the Jerusalem-based Third Temple Movement, the yacht would briefly anchor in the bay, pick up its precious cargo then return to Haifa. From there, the Ark would be transported to Jerusalem. Stan and Gunnery Sergeant Boyd Braxton would accompany the Ark on its sea voyage. The rest of his men would fly into David Ben-Gurion Airport, Christian tourists making the pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
The yacht was due to arrive within the hour.
There were many who would argue that the rediscovered Ark should be placed in a museum, but there was only one place for it, the place ordained by God, the yet-to-be-built third temple in Jerusalem. Once constructed, this would stand for a thousand years. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel. Stan’s allies, the Third Temple Movement, were Jews who fervently believed in the prophecies of Ezekiel, certain that from the ashes of the great Battle of Gog and Magog, a new Messiah would emerge.
While some Christians despised the Jews for having killed Christ, Stan knew that Jesus had himself been a Jew. As had been his parents. And all his forebears. Each and every member of the original Church had been a Jew. The Jews were the Chosen People, the custodians of the first and second temples, the original guardians of the Ark of the Covenant. And in the great battle to come, the Jews would prevail, fulfilling the destiny envisioned for them by Ezekiel.
Hearing a high-pitched chime emanate from his laptop, Stan lowered the night vision goggles and walked back to the table.
Seating himself in front of the laptop, he quickly pulled up the message and opened the attachment.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he whispered, examining the architectural blueprint for the third temple forwarded to him. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’
Based on the precise description given by the prophet Ezekiel — cubits converted to feet and inches — the temple would be constructed on the same parcel of sacred land where the first and second temples once stood. When completed, it would rival the beauty of even Solomon’s fabled marvel.
Only two more days.
Two days until Eid al-Adha. The Muslim day of sacrifice. There would be two million Muslims gathered at Mecca. And when those two million infidels learned that the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem had been destroyed,
