“What have you found out detective?” Teleksen lit up a Time Lite.
“Witnesses say a young Arab woman, dressed in plain clothes, ran into a crowd as they were leaving the synagogue and blew herself up.”
With Schomberg at his side, Teleksen walked toward the epicenter. He eyed the medical workers bagging human limbs and remnants too small for stretchers—the bomber’s ripped-apart remains, most likely.
“How many dead?” Cigarette smoke spun out of nostrils. “So far eleven with another fifty or so injured.”
He took another heavy drag. “No one saw her coming?”
“The bombs were strapped beneath her clothes. It happened too quickly.”
Ruing the time when terrorists had been easier to detect, Teleksen turned to Schomberg. “What did she say?”
The detective was confused. “Commander?”
“Sacrificial death is never without preamble.” Pinching the cigarette between the remaining fingers of his left hand, he pointed the lit end at the detective to emphasize the point. “Martyrs don’t give their lives in silence. Did anyone hear what she said before she detonated herself?”
Schomberg flipped through his notepad. “Something along the lines of ‘Allah will punish all those who threaten him.’ ”
“In Arabic or English?”
“English.”
They had reached the spot where witnesses told Schomberg the suicide bomber had positioned herself only a few meters from the synagogue’s entrance. At first, it seemed like an odd place for the bomber to detonate since the explosives were typically designed to be most effective in closed spaces, like buses or cafes. Studying the close proximity to the building’s ravaged cement facade that looked more like a bank than a place of worship, Teleksen quickly realized that it actually wasn’t a bad choice. He could see that the victims strewn across the steps had been corralled in, and the looming cement wall behind them had actually amplified the blast wave. So if the bullet-like shrapnel hadn’t killed them, the blast’s crushing shock wave would have done the job by pulverizing their internal organs and bones.
Teleksen’s cell phone rang, and he saw from the display it was Topol. He flicked the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk. “Yes?”
“How bad?” The policeman’s voice was urgent.
“I’ve seen worse. But all the more reason why we need to resolve this issue quickly. When can you get here?”
“I’m only a few blocks away.”
“Be quick.” Hanging up, Teleksen wondered how much more of this would happen before they came up with real answers for Friday’s theft.
The clutch of media vans momentarily distracted him. The Palestinian TV channel was particularly troublesome. Hatred and discontent required little stimulation. The pressure was really on.
Thirteen Israeli soldiers and two helicopter pilots killed. Now innocent Jewish civilians had died.
And for what? he wondered. The English archaeologist, supposedly the best in his field, insisted it was a relic. Teleksen knew ancient relics fetched huge prices—particularly those from the Holy Land. There was no telling what some people would do to realize them. But hijack helicopters? Kill soldiers? How could an ossuary possibly be worth that much? He had seen dozens of them in Israel’s museum galleries and they weren’t nearly as well hidden or protected. What could make this one so special? It made no sense.
His best intelligence people kept insisting that only an insider could’ve been capable of such an elaborate heist. Teleksen knew what they meant. To secrete weapons into Jerusalem was like walking on water. One would need to be able to circumvent checkpoints, metal detectors, and myriad other logistical hurdles. Few could accomplish that.
Of course, the helicopter had proven to be a tremendous tactical weapon. Was its theft intended to mock Israel’s security system? Luckily, his agents had managed to prevent the Palestinians and the media from discovering the true fate of the Black Hawk. But knowing that beyond these borders many were unwilling to cooperate with Israeli intelligence, Teleksen was deeply troubled by the fact that the thieves had so quickly reached international waters. Because if the relic had been taken out to sea...
Something rubbery beneath his left foot interrupted his thoughts and he looked down. Lifting his shoe, he realized he had been standing on a human ear. Scowling, he stepped sideways.
Was there any way out of this? Barton was supposed to be coming up with answers, but only seemed interested in peddling wacky theories about ancient history. The archaeologist was proving to be a real problem.
Then an idea suddenly came to Teleksen, and he was sure Topol would approve of it. Far from being a liability, Barton might actually be the solution.
41
******
Vatican City
Both scientists stared in amazement at the screen.
The scanned skeletal frame had been calibrated to reconstruct muscle mass with a layer of colorless skin applied. Now this new data had transformed the statue-like image into a complete 3-D human apparition.
Astonished at the final result, Bersei’s hand was covering his mouth. “What would you say is his ethnic origin?”
Charlotte shrugged. It looked like maybe Aldrich had been correct after all. “I’m not sure he has one.” Her words sounded totally implausible.
