The ossuary was part of Jewish burial customs. Perhaps she needed to be more specific. “How about Jewish profiles?”
“Already checked it. Nothing there.”
How could that be? It wasn’t at all consistent with their other findings. “Could it have something to do with the anomaly you found?”
“I’d say so. I’ll let you know what I find. Anything else?”
She hesitated, huddling closer to the wall. “I miss you,” she finally whispered. “And I’m really sorry that I didn’t leave on a better note. I just...I’d like to talk to you when I get back. There’s some stuff you really need to know.”
At first, he didn’t respond. “I’d like that.”
“I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget me.”
“Impossible,” he said.
“Bye.”
Bersei appeared beside her as she returned the phone to the cradle. “Everything all right?”
“Seems so,” she said, flashing a smile. “I got the DNA profile from the lab.”
“And?”
“We have the missing information we need.”
Bersei watched over her shoulder as Charlotte brought up the web browser and accessed her e-mail account. Within seconds, she’d retrieved Aldrich’s data file, and opened it for Bersei to inspect—a dense spreadsheet of data. “Okay. Here it is.” She switched places with him.
He scrolled through the data. Three columns identified a universal code for each gene sequence, a layperson’s interpretation of the coding, such as “hair color,” and a numeric value specifying those attributes. In the case of hair color, a numeric value in the third column corresponded with a specific hue on a universal color chart.
“How does it look?”
“Incredibly specific. Looks like I can plug the data right into the program.”
She smiled to herself. Thank you, Evan.
Bersei opened the imaging software and located the file containing the skeletal scans and tissue reconstruction—the ghostly marble statue awaiting its final touches: the genetic “paint.” “For now, I’m going to go with the basics. The computer will fill in hair color, but not hair style, of course,” he explained as he formatted the data file for import.
Aldrich’s discovery of a mutation had prompted Charlotte to start thinking through a long list of possible diseases. Since most attacked the body’s soft tissues and didn’t affect the bones themselves—unlike the one raging inside her own bones that was determined to leave its mark—she couldn’t even begin to imagine what he could have detected. Her extraordinary desire to see the completed picture was now replaced by a sudden foreboding.
Bersei imported the genetic data and clicked to update the profile.
For a few agonizing seconds, it seemed like nothing was happening.
Then the enhanced reconstruction flashed back onto the monitor.
It wasn’t what either scientist expected.
40
******
Jerusalem
When Ari Teleksen’s cell phone rang, he already knew the purpose of the call. In the IDF’s downtown Jerusalem headquarters, he stood at the wide plate-glass window of his eighth-floor office with its panoramic view of the city. Just a few blocks away, his gray eyes were glued to the sickening plume of thick, black smoke that billowed up from street level like the devil’s breath. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said grimly.
Just last night, he had heard the first wave of news stories reporting
that the Temple Mount thieves had stolen an Israeli helicopter. With a growing sense of foreboding, Teleksen knew that the Palestinian response had just begun.
Without setting foot in the area, he retained an uncanny ability to foresee the aftermath of a bombing and the reverberations he had felt rattle his chest only minutes ago told him that there would be many casualties.
He hastily made his way down to the parking garage and jumped into the driver’s seat of his gold BMW. After turning on the ignition, he grabbed the magnetic blue police light from the floor and stuck it on the car’s roof. Peeling out of the parking garage, he jammed his foot down on the accelerator and rocketed down Hillel Street.
As his BMW approached the Great Synagogue, the chaotic scenes on King George Street looked all too familiar—the panicking crowds being held back by IDF soldiers and police, the site’s perimeter already cordoned off by wooden barricades. A fleet of ambulances had arrived, with emergency crews racing to tend to survivors.
Teleksen threaded the BMW through the mob, a young IDF soldier waving him forward, and parked a comfortable distance away. When he opened the car door, the air smelled of burned flesh.
Even at fifty meters he could see tattered chunks of bloody tissue and bone stuck to the walls of buildings adjacent to the scene, looking like wet confetti. The blast had stripped tree limbs and cast shrapnel, pockmarking the vicinity. Almost every window had been shattered.
At first glance structural damage seemed minimal. Compared with many other scenes he’d witnessed, this one was fairly low-level. But deep down, he knew many more would follow if the rising discontent stemming from the Temple Mount theft was not soon remedied.
One of the investigators recognized him and introduced himself. The man was in his fifties, with a mop of silver hair.
“Detective Aaron Schomberg.” He couldn’t help looking at Teleksen’s three-fingered left hand.
