Outside, the muezzin’s call echoed from loudspeakers, summoning Muslims to prayer. In front of the mosque’s mihrab—the small, arched golden alcove that indicated the direction of Mecca—Razak eased onto his knees, hands splayed over his thighs and bowed in prayer.
After a few minutes, he stood and circled back round the Rock’s enclosure, stopping in front of a stairway entrance to a chamber called the “Well of Souls,” where it was said the spirits of the dead convened in prayer. There he envisioned his mother and father shining in the divine light of Allah, awaiting the final Day of Judgment so as to be delivered to Jannah— Allah’s eternal garden paradise.
On September 23, 1996, Razak’s parents had been killed by two masked gunmen while vacationing on the Jordanian side of the Sea of Galilee. Many had suspected that Israeli intelligence agents—the Shin Bet—had wrongly targeted his father for purported ties to militant Palestinian groups, but those rumors were later disproven. Although that turned
out not to be the case, the killers were never found. Their tragic deaths
were a profound loss that had driven—and still drove—Razak deeper into
his faith for answers. Fortunately, his education at home and abroad had
helped him to avoid political and religious fanaticism—an easy trapping
for someone so intimately affected by Israel’s lethal politics.
Turning away, his thoughts shifted to the crypt hidden deep beneath
his feet, and the mysterious theft that had once again brought bloodshed to
this place. When he’d arrived here yesterday afternoon, he had never anticipated that a situation of such gravity would have allied him with a man
like Graham Barton.
At the mosque entrance Razak put on his shoes and made his way
outside.
He still had a couple more hours until his meeting with Barton. So he
strolled down into the Muslim Quarter and had coffee and breakfast at a
small cafe on Via Dolorosa. There, he met some old acquaintances and
caught up on all that had happened since his last visit. Naturally, the conversation gravitated to the theft, but Razak was quick to point out that he
couldn’t comment on the investigation.
By nine a.m., there wasn’t the slightest breeze as he crossed the Temple
Mount esplanade beneath a scorching sun and descended into the Marwani Mosque. Climbing through the blast hole into the crypt, Akbar—the
oversized Muslim guard instructed to watch over Barton—signaled that
everything was fine. Razak nodded and waved him out into the mosque. Graham Barton was crouched in a corner transcribing an inscription on
one of the ossuaries.
“Good morning, Mr. Barton,” Razak said in English.
The archaeologist sprung to his feet.
“Looks like you’ve been busy.” Razak eyed the small stacks of rubbings
Barton had laid out at intervals along the floor.
“Very much so,” Barton replied cheerily. “I got here early and Akbar
was kind enough to let me get a head start.”
“What have you found out so far?”
“It’s an extraordinary discovery. This crypt belonged to a Jewish man
named Yosef.” Barton pointed to a box on one end, just as plain as the others. “You’ll notice that each of these ossuaries is inscribed in Hebrew with
the names of his family members.”
Unimpressed, Razak sought meaningful information. “Yosef who?”
Barton shrugged. “That’s the problem with ancient Jews. They weren’t terribly specific when it came to names. They rarely used family names, at least for burial purposes. And the Hebrew name ‘Yosef’ was quite common back then. Anyway, you see that each ossuary is plainly marked.”
Razak eyed the inscriptions carved into the sides of the nine boxes.
“Each one says pretty much the same thing: whose remains are contained inside each ossuary. Those are his four daughters,” he indicated the cluster sitting at the beginning of the lineup. “Three sons,” his motioned to the next three, then to the one beside Yosef’s, “plus his loving wife, Sarah.” Barton drew a deep breath. “But there’s an etching on the back wall of the crypt that provides more detail.” Grabbing a flashlight, he motioned for Razak to follow and advanced into the shadowy recess, stopping by the rear wall. The cylinder of light played along the stone. “See that.” Barton illuminated a wall-mounted tablet framed with ornate stone trim. “It lists the inventory of ossuaries contained in this chamber.”
The Muslim stepped closer. “So the missing ossuary should be listed here.” Counting nine lines of text, Razak’s eyes were drawn to a deep gouge scarring the polished rock beneath the last line. Confused, he stared at it
