Then, imagination turned instantly to cold reality when she caught a fleeting glimpse of a modern-day gladiator disappearing into the shadows. Though she wanted to believe her eyes were tricking her, there was no doubt. Salvatore Conte.
38
THURSDAY
******
Temple Mount
Just after nine a.m., Barton negotiated his way past Akbar, and through the blast hole. Razak was already in the crypt standing with arms folded, wearing neatly pressed chinos and a white collared shirt. If Barton didn’t know any better, he could have sworn that the Muslim was trying to make some kind of peace with this place. “It’s getting bad out there.”
“Yes.”
Barton dusted off his trousers. “Tell me, how did Farouq react when he saw his car?”
Razak cringed. “Not well.” That was an understatement. Last night, Farouq had berated him when he saw that his prized Mercedes was beyond repair. “I shouldn’t have let you go! Completely irresponsible! You should have known better, Razak. And for what? What did you gain by going there?” It was like being a mischievous teenager again. “Luckily, he has insurance, which, believe me, isn’t so easy to get if you’re a Palestinian.”
“Did you tell him what we discovered?”
Razak shook his head and held a finger to his lips, pointing toward Akbar. He drew Barton by the arm toward the rear of the chamber. “I don’t think he’s ready for that just yet,” he whispered. Last night, Razak had barely slept, trying to figure out who’d sent the sniper. He could only guess that the Shin Bet was looking to tie up some loose ends. Now, there was a good chance that he and Barton might share Taheem’s fate if they didn’t move quickly to find answers. “Remember what we discussed—you mustn’t tell anyone what we heard or what happened yesterday. We don’t know what the consequences could be.”
Barton nodded.
Razak let go of his arm. “So what brings us back here?”
The archaeologist collected his thoughts. “As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve given the concept of a crypt considerable thought. There are certain facts that simply don’t add up.” Barton moved to the center of the room, his eyes roving the walls. “I have been thinking about Joseph of Arimathea— his status, power, and money. I’m troubled that this crypt lacks many of the features I’d have expected to see in the tomb of a wealthy family.”
“Such as?”
“Refinement, for one. There’s nothing here to suggest position or wealth. It’s just an ordinary stone chamber—no ornate carvings, no pilasters, frescos, or mosaics. Nothing.”
Razak inclined his head, trying to remain patient. To a Muslim it wasn’t striking. “Perhaps this Joseph was a man of humility?”
“Maybe. But remember how I explained to you that the body was allowed to decompose for twelve months before being placed in the ossuary?”
Razak nodded. “Hard to forget. But I hope there’s a point to all this.”
“Believe me. In ancient Jewish crypts, you’d expect to see at least one small niche called a loculus—a small tunnel about two meters deep.” He envisioned the tomb Father Demetrios had indicated in the bedrock beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. “Where the body would have been laid out.”
Razak eyed the walls. “I don’t see one.”
“Precisely,” Barton agreed, striking a finger into the air. “Which made me wonder about this crypt’s design. With ten ossuaries, many trips in and out of here would have been required. At the very least there would have been one visit to place the body here after each family member’s death, another to practice the sacred rituals of the tahara, and then a final trip to transfer the expiated bones to the ossuary. That’s a minimum of three visits per body.”
“Okay.”
“And when I studied these remains the other day,” Barton motioned to the ossuaries, “I had a feeling that this family all died at once.”
Razak’s brow furrowed. “How could you tell?”
“Granted, I’m not an expert when it comes to forensic anthropology. But these remaining skeletons seem like they came out of a family photo.” He eyed the nine ossuaries. “The age gaps show a very normal progression with no apparent overlap—an old father, a slightly younger mother, and none of the children making it past their late twenties. One would expect a large family to decease in a more random pattern where at least some of the children reach their later years.”
“That is odd.”
“Furthermore,” Barton’s eyes canvassed the space, “do you see any sign of an entrance?”
Razak scanned the solid earth surrounding him on all but one side. “Looks like the only way in and out was that opening covered by the brick wall.” He pointed to the blast hole.
Barton nodded. “Exactly. And look at this.” Moving toward the blast hole, he motioned for Razak to follow. “See?” Barton spread his hands, indicating the depth of the wall. “This wall’s about half a meter thick. But look here. See how these bricks”—he tapped the side facing them—“are the same style as those bricks?” He tapped the other side of the wall facing into the mosque. Then he pointed out into the cavernous, arched room and Razak’s eyes followed. “And it’s the same brick that was used to construct this entire room. Coincidence? Perhaps not.”
Razak was getting it. “Wait a second.” He moved in closer, bending at the waist. His head circled all the way around the inner circumference of the blast hole. Sure enough, the walls had a purposeful design to them. “You’re saying both sides of the wall were erected at the same time?”
“Absolutely. Sealed away from that room,” he said, pointing out into the Marwani Mosque again, “during its initial construction. Look at the opening that led into this chamber before the wall was erected.” Barton paced back and spread his hands to emphasize the width where carved bedrock transformed to brick.
