smell of her perfume.
There had been no formal invitation for anyone to visit that day, but
Barton knew his inspection of the crime scene would have the police and
IDF breathing down his neck. Of course, they’d want to know every iota
of his findings.
Descending into the Wohl’s subterranean gallery, he moved past the restored mosaics and ritual baths of a lavish, excavated Herodian-era villa. The IAA had recently launched a huge digitizing campaign to catalogue
its enormous collection—from vellums to pottery, pagan statuary to
ossuaries—creating a database with every relic’s historical profile and 3-D
images. Internet-based tools needed to be developed to allow the field archaeologists to decrypt ancient inscriptions. Having pioneered similar programs in the UK, Barton had been the ideal candidate to head up the
initiative. It was here where he had begun piloting the digitizing program
to establish a good workflow before continuing through the Israeli museum network, ending with its most famous Israel Museum. Heading to the rear of the gallery, he made his way into a featureless
square room painted in a dull white satin, his temporary office. Waiting
for him there were the two men who had visited him only yesterday to
ask for his help in the investigation—the Jerusalem District police commissioner Major General Jakob Topol and the IDF’s head of domestic
intelligence, Major General Ari Teleksen. Each had claimed a metal folding chair on the guest-side of his makeshift desk.
“Gentlemen.” Barton put down his briefcase and sat opposite them. Teleksen was in his late fifties, thickset, with the face of a pitbull—
heavy jowls and puffy eyelids. He sat with his arms folded, making no effort to conceal the two missing fingers of his left hand. As Israel’s most
celebrated veteran counterterrorism agent, he retained a coldness befitting
someone who’d seen far too much. Olive fatigues and a black beret displayed the IDF’s insignia—a golden Star of David bisected by an intertwined sword and olive branch, the epaulets on each shoulder marking out
his rank. “We’d like to hear the results of your preliminary analysis.” His
voice echoed off the bare walls.
Barton stroked his chin as he gathered his thoughts. “The explosion breached the rear wall of the Marwani Mosque. The blast hole was very precise, very clean. Definitely professional.”
“We know that,” Teleksen impatiently replied, spinning his bad hand. “But for what purpose?”
“To access a hidden burial crypt.”
“Crypt?” Topol was staring at him. Clearly the junior of the two, his uniform more befitted a commercial jet pilot—a powder-blue collared shirt with rank-marking epaulets on each shoulder, and navy blue pants. Centered on his policeman’s cap lay the Israeli police insignia—two olive leaves wrapped around a Star of David. Middle-aged with a thick frame, his face was angular with deep-set eyes.
“A crypt,” Barton repeated, as he pulled out one of the rubbings he’d taken. “See here. There was a tablet on the wall that listed all of their names.”
The eyes of both lawmen leapt to the rubbing.
“What was stolen?” Topol’s voice was gruff.
“I’m speculating, but it seems to have been a burial box. An ossuary.”
Teleksen threw up his disfigured left hand. “Burial box?”
“A small stone vessel about this big.” Barton outlined the ossuary’s dimensions in the air. “It probably contained a disassembled human skeleton.”
“I know what a burial box looks like,” Teleksen replied. “What I’m interested in here is motives. You mean to tell me that we’ve lost thirteen IDF men for a box of bones?”
Barton nodded.
Teleksen made a dismissive motion. “Feh.”
Topol coolly looked back at the image, pointing at the Hebrew names. “So which one did they take?”
Knowingly, Barton pointed to the defaced image on bottom. “This one. But as you can see, it’s now illegible.”
“I see,” Topol said, clearly trying to mask his puzzlement. The night of the theft, when he had personally first visited the scene with his detectives, he specifically recalled the strange image that had been there—a carved relief depicting a dolphin entwined over a trident. Such an odd symbol wasn’t easily forgotten. Yet on Barton’s rubbing, the symbol was gone. If the thieves hadn’t done this, then who had? “What do you think the motive could have been?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Barton drew breath. “The theft seems to have been coordinated by someone who knew exactly what the box contained.”
“Motive, shmotive. What good would a box of bones be to anyone?” Teleksen interjected, making no effort to
