Razak pretended to be offended, then burst out laughing. “Ah yes, perhaps you are right,” he said.
Once they had finished eating, Razak turned his attention back to the transcription. “And what about the rest of this... what does it all mean?” He read the second part of the transcription: “ ‘To reclaim God’s testimony from beneath Abraham’s altar, to restore the holy Tabernacle.’ ”
Barton was hoping to avoid this part of the discussion. “Ah.” He paused. “Abraham’s altar is most likely referring to Mount Moriah.”
“Where the prophet Ibraham was told to sacrifice Ismaeel, son of Hagar,” the Muslim stated flatly.
“Okay.” Barton let the interpretation slide. Though the Torah clearly stated that Abraham was to sacrifice Issaac, the son of his wife Sarah, Muslims traced their lineage back to Ismaeel—the son born to Sarah’s hand servant, Hagar. It was yet another example of the two religions trying desperately to claim as its own the Old Testament’s most revered patriarch—the man credited with monotheistic faith and complete submission to the one true God. After all, that’s what Islam literally meant, Barton thought: submission to the will of Allah.
“And this reference to ‘God’s testimony,’ ” Razak added. “Sounds as if it is a physical thing that is ‘beneath Abraham’s altar.’ I don’t understand.”
A shiver ran down Barton’s arm. “I’m still trying to determine what that means,” he lied. “I’ll need to do a bit more research.”
Looking skeptical, Razak nodded. “I trust you’ll let me know what you discover.”
“Of course.”
“So where do we go from here?”
Barton thought about it. Oddly, his thoughts kept drifting to Father Demetrios—the visit to the Sepulchre’s lower crypt that had supposedly belonged to Joseph of Arimathea. It got him thinking again about the chamber beneath Temple Mount, how it lacked some of the features typical in first-century crypts. “Actually, I think we’ll need to go back to the crypt. There’s something I may have overlooked. When do you think we can get back in there?”
“Let’s hold off on that until tomorrow morning,” he suggested. “I received a very interesting call late this morning from a good friend in Gaza who heard I was involved in this investigation. He says he has some information that might help us out.”
“What kind of information?”
“I’m not sure, actually,” Razak said. “He wouldn’t say over the phone.”
“Which means it’s probably good stuff.”
“That’s what I’m hoping. Anyway, I was going to take a drive...to go and see him this afternoon. If you’re not too busy, maybe you should come along.”
“I’d like that. What time?”
“I just have something to attend to first. Won’t take me long.” Razak looked down at his watch. “Can you meet me in the parking lot outside the Jaffa Gate around two?”
“I’ll be there.”
Razak reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet.
“Please, Razak,” Barton insisted, motioning it away. “Let me get this. You run ahead and I’ll see you at two.”
“Thank you, Graham. That’s very generous.”
Opposite the cafe on El Wad, a forgettable young man was seated on a bench reading a newspaper and sipping coffee, enjoying the mild afternoon. Occasionally he inconspicuously glanced over to the archaeologist and Muslim delegate. The small headphones plugged into his ears, seemingly connected to an iPod, were transmitting the amazing conversation that was taking place to the IDF’s Jerusalem outpost.
32
******
Vatican City
Bringing up the skeletal scans in full-screen view, Giovanni Bersei scrolled down the grid of miniature images, pausing occasionally to enlarge and analyze a bone in more detail. “That’s great, Charlotte. Looks like you got the ribs right too. Not easy. All we have to do now is ask the computer to assemble the skeleton,” he clicked the menu options.
Charlotte Hennesey stood behind him as a small window popped up:
PLEASE WAIT WHILE YOUR SAMPLE IS PROCESSED.
25% complete...
43% complete...
71% complete...
He turned to her. “No errors so far. Not bad for a first try.”
98% complete...
100% complete.
Twenty seconds later, the screen flashed back a three-dimensional image of the skeleton. The program had scrutinized each bone’s smallest detail to re-create the condition of joints and cartilage attachments, providing an accurate picture of the fully reassembled skeletal frame. It had even maintained the minute, awful detail resulting from crucifixion—the gouges on the ribs and damage to the wrists, feet, and knees.
“Extraordinary.” Bersei eyed the on-screen image—an assembled version of what lay on the workstation behind them. For a moment, he was again awestruck by the amazing capabilities of computer technology. “That’s probably just the way our man looked prior to interment into the ossuary.”
“What about the flesh?”
He held his hands out as if trying to slow a speeding car. “One step at a time.”
“Sorry. Too much coffee.”
