pattern may emerge.
Think.
Masada skeleton. Stolen.
Shroud bones. Missing.
Jake. Missing.
Courtney Purviance. Missing.
Avram Ferris. Dead.
Sylvain Morissonneau. Dead.
Hershel Kaplan. Solicited for a hit. By a woman. Maybe. Now in Israel. Was trying to sell bones?
My hotel room trashed.
My car followed.
Ferris-Kaplan-Blotnik telephone calls.
Ruth Anne Bloom. I don’t trust her. Why? Jake’s early-on admonitions not to contact the IAA?
Tovya Blotnik. Jake doesn’t trust him.
Cave 2001 bones linked to Kidron tomb bones.
Was there a pattern?
Yeah. Everything led back to Max.
Why the itchy id? Was there a piece that didn’t fit?
If so, I wasn’t seeing it.
My gaze wandered to a snapshot above the monitor. Jake, smiling, holding a stone vessel in one hand.
My mind looped.
Jake. Missing.
I dialed another number. I was stunned when a voice answered.
“I’m here.” Muffled, as though spoken into a hand-cupped mouthpiece.
I identified myself.
“The American?” Surprised.
“I’m sorry to call at this hour, Dr. Blotnik.”
“I-I’m working late.” Off-balance. Mine was not the voice Blotnik expected to hear. “It’s my habit.”
I remembered my first call to the IAA. Blotnik sure wasn’t working late that night.
I skipped the niceties.
“Have you seen Jake Drum today?”
“No.”
“Ruth Anne Bloom?”
“Ruth Anne?”
“Yes.”
“Ruth Anne has gone up north to Galilee.”
Bloom had left Jake a message saying she was working late. Working late where? At home? At the Rockefeller? At a lab elsewhere? Had she changed her plans? Was she lying? Was Blotnik lying? Had Blotnik merely misunderstood?
I made a quick decision.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Tonight?”
“Now.”
“That’s impossible. I’m-” Blotnik was clearly rattled.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Wait for me.”
I didn’t listen to Blotnik’s reply.
In the car, I thought of Ryan. I should have called and given my destination, but I hadn’t thought to do it before leaving, and I had no cell phone. Maybe I could call from Blotnik’s.
It was a night of open gates.
I should have seen that as an omen. Instead, I assumed Blotnik had anticipated my arrival.
Driving into the compound, I circled to the front courtyard and hurried down the driveway on foot. The fog was giving way to mist. The air smelled of turned earth and flowers and dead leaves.
The Rockefeller loomed like a giant black fortress, its edges merging with the velvety night. Rounding one corner, I glanced out the gate I’d just entered.
Across the way, the Old City slumbered, a place of dark and quiet stones. Gone were the delivery boys and housewives and schoolgirls and shoppers shouldering one another on the narrow streets. As I watched, a car turned from Sultan Suleiman onto Derech Jericho, its headlights white cones sweeping the haze.
I cut to the side door, an entrance used only by museum personnel. Like the gate, it was unlocked. Putting a shoulder to the wood, I pushed, and entered.
An ancient overhead fixture bathed the small vestibule in ocher. Ahead, a short corridor ended at doors giving onto exhibit halls. To the right, an iron-scrolled staircase curved upward, a backstage portal to the staff offices Jake and I had entered from the museum’s interior.
I spotted a phone on a wooden shelf beside the exhibit hall doors. Crossing to it, I lifted the receiver. The dial tone sounded like a French horn in the night-empty building.
I dialed Ryan. No answer. Was Kaplan on the move? I left a message.
Deep breath, then I climbed, hand on the rail, weight on the balls of my feet. At the top, I turned and headed down the long corridor, footsteps clicking off walls and floor.
A single wall sconce saved the hall from total darkness. To my right, handrailed balconies overlooking first- floor halls. To my left, arch-shaped recesses, all but one disappearing into inky darkness. Ahead, the access Jake and I had used on our visit to Getz.
The fourth alcove appeared softly luminous. On entering, I saw why. Pale yellow light seeped from cracks framing Blotnik’s door.
So did voices, barely audible, but sounding serene enough.
It was 1A. M. Who in God’s name could be here with Blotnik? Jake? Bloom? Getz?
I crossed the alcove and knocked softly.
The voices didn’t falter.
I knocked again, harder.
Not a hitch in the conversation.
“Dr. Blotnik?”
The men kept talking. Were they men?
Leaning in, I put my ear to the door.
“Dr. Blotnik?” Louder. “Are you there?”
Funny how your mind takes snapshots. I can still see the knob, old and going green. I can still feel the coolness of the brass on my palm.
The id’s lightning-quick, conjuring maps while the senses are still GPS’ing landmarks.
The hinges creaked as the door swung in.
The voices. The smell.
Some part of my brain charted.
Without knowing, I knew.
38
REALITY INTAKE. DATA BYTES RACING INTO MY EARS, NOSE, EYES.
Metered talk. BBC voices. Radio on a credenza beside Blotnik’s desk.
Hint of cordite in the air. Something else. Coppery. Salty.
The small hairs rose on my neck and arms. My eyes jumped to the desktop.
A banker’s lamp emitting an eerie green glow. Stacked papers sheared across the blotter. Scattered books,
