Farouq stared at the floor. “Razak. Trust requires merit. Every man needs to prove his character. You are a virtuous man. But not everyone’s like you. You and I—we trust each other. But with this Barton we have to be very careful.” He marked the point with a raised finger.
Razak raised an eyebrow. “Of course, but do we really have a choice?”
Farouq returned Razak’s gaze. Finally, the creases in his brow softened. “You could be right,” he relented, sighing dramatically. “I just wish he wasn’t an Englishman.” The Keeper forced a smile. “Take his letter and check his credentials with the police. Proceed how you see fit. I’m leaving.”
Back out in the mosque, Razak took the letter and instructed the Englishman to wait for him to return, then walked Farouq to the stairs.
“Keep a close eye on him,” Farouq reminded Razak, leering back at Barton.
Taking off his suit jacket, Razak asked Farouq if he wouldn’t mind taking it back to his office. He watched as the Keeper disappeared into the sunlight above.
After rolling up his sleeves, Razak pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number for the Israeli police commissioner who had signed the letter. Two transfers later he was put on hold and subjected to a banal Israeli pop song. Watching Barton pace in small circles in the Marwani Mosque, he shifted back and forth on his feet, holding the phone at arm’s length, trying his best to tune out the song’s headache-inducing techno beat. A minute later, there were two distinct clicks followed by a ring.
A strong, nasal voice came on. “Major Topol speaking.”
Razak did his best to filter the Arabic undertones out from his nearperfect English. “My name is Razak bin Ahmed bin al-Tahini. I’ve been commissioned by the Waqf to oversee the investigation at the Temple Mount.”
“Been expecting your call,” Topol said between sips of burned coffee from a paper cup, clearly unimpressed. “I take it you’ve met Mr. Barton?”
Razak was thrown by the man’s directness. “Yes, I have.”
“He’s good... used him before. Very objective.”
Razak refrained from comment. “I must inform you that his presence wasn’t well received. We understand the need for your department’s intervention, but Mr. Barton entered the mosque without authorization.”
“Apologies for not notifying you sooner,” Topol replied, stifling a yawn. “But Graham Barton has been authorized to act on our behalf. It’s all in the letter he’s carrying. I’m sure you’ll understand that the nature of this crime requires us to play an equal role in the investigation.”
“But he’s an archaeologist, not an investigator,” Razak challenged. “Israeli police have already analyzed the crime scene.”
“Sure, our people have been there,” Topol admitted, “but this crime seems to center on a missing artifact. We’re the police. Stolen cars, burglaries, murders, we understand. We don’t know from artifacts. So we felt the investigation could benefit from Barton’s knowledge of archaeology.”
Razak said nothing. It was routine for him to choose silence over confrontation. When negotiating, the opposition often blurted out significant information just to fill the silence. The pause allowed him to consider Topol’s argument. For the most part it seemed sensible.
The policeman lowered his voice and spoke conspiratorially. “I think we’ll both need to put aside our differences, so that justice can be served.”
“My colleagues and I share your concern. Can we trust all information will remain confidential until our investigation is complete?”
“You have my word on that. We’re looking for a quick, peaceful resolution here. Rumors are spreading like wildfire. We could soon have a much bigger problem on our hands.”
“I understand.”
“Good luck to you.”
The line went dead.
Razak returned to where the Englishman stood near the blast hole, hands folded behind his back, whistling and admiring the Marwani Mosque’s impressive interior. Barton turned to him. “Everything okay?”
He nodded and offered his hand. “Welcome, Mr. Barton. My name is Razak.”
6
******
Vatican City
At the end of the dimly lit corridor Charlotte Hennesey and Father Donovan descended two flights of switchback steps and emerged into the Domus’s modern lobby. They strode across the expanse of white marble tile, passed a bronze bust of Pope John Paul II, and exited the building into bright afternoon sunshine.
Charlotte was accustomed to the dry desert heat of Phoenix. Rome’s heat came with oppressive humidity. And then there was the Vatican’s strict dress code—arms, legs, and shoulders had to be covered at all times. No shorts or sleeveless tops. It was like high school—no tube tops or halters. For the next few days it would be khaki pants and long-sleeved blouses with uncomfortably high thread counts. Back home, she typically ended her day lying poolside in the backyard of her Spanish-style ranch, sporting a bikini. At least, when she was feeling up to it. It was quite evident that wouldn’t be happening here.
“I’m sure you’re curious as to why you’ve been asked to come here,” Father Donovan said.
“The thought had crossed my mind,” she politely replied.
“The Vatican is proficient in theology and faith,” he explained. “However, you won’t be shocked to hear that in the field of natural sciences, there are some obvious deficiencies in our capabilities.” He offered a selfdeprecating smile.
“That’s perfectly understandable.” The priest had a gentle spirit, she thought. His Irish accent was calming and she noticed that he gesticulated often, the by-product of years behind a pulpit.
