Heart drumming in his chest, Barton replied, “Why would that be?”
“Please, let’s talk inside.” The major general motioned to the door.
Hesitantly, Barton made his way into the apartment and switched on the lights, the policemen crowding in behind him.
The apartment that had been secured by the IAA as part of his generous retainer had a roomy reception area where he invited the guests to sit. Only Topol accepted while his two cronies stood at either side of the door like bookends.
Topol got right to the point. “I’ve been asked to search your residence and I’d like your cooperation.”
Stupefied, Barton was unsure how to respond. “What? Why would you want to do that?”
“I’d rather not get into that just yet. I have secured proper authorization.” He flashed an official looking document and handed it to Barton. “You can read this while we proceed.” It was in Hebrew, of course. Topol nodded to the two bookends and they disappeared into the next room. “Can I please have everything from your pockets?”
“What is this? Am I am being arrested?” Barton hadn’t expected that the call to his wife would be a request for her legal representation. He didn’t have a clue as to his civil rights in this country. Should he protest?
“For now, we’re just talking,” Topol explained. “If you’d feel more comfortable at the station, we can go there now.”
Barton nodded compliantly.
“I received a very disturbing phone call from the Waqf.”
“Oh?”
“Your pockets, please,” Topol insisted, pointing to the table.
One way or another, the major would have his way, Barton realized. Trying not to look alarmed, he began emptying the contents of his pockets onto the table: a wallet, UK passport, keys to the Wohl, bus tickets.
“It seems some things have gone missing,” Topol went on.
The sounds coming from the rear of the apartment were less than subtle—drawers being opened, furniture being moved around. Signs that nothing was safe from Topol’s rigorous inspection.
With enormous reservations, Barton dipped into his breast pocket and withdrew the bronze cylinder, certain it would ignite the policeman’s curiosity. Lastly came the plastic sealed vellum and its accompanying folded transcription. Setting it down on the table, he tried to gauge Topol’s expression.
Eyebrows raised, the major’s head cocked slightly to one side—like a curious dog—as he eyed the vellum’s strange text, but for now, he let it go. “Since the inception of this investigation, I’ve had suspicions that an insider could have helped organize this theft. The head of the Waqf expressed similar concerns. And after hearing what he had to say earlier today, I must admit I’m inclined to agree with his assertions.” Topol recalled his late-night discussion with Teleksen the previous evening. A quick solution was essential to prevent more bloodshed.
Barton’s shoulders sank. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re implying.”
“The theft required extremely sophisticated movements of weapons and explosives.” The policemen sneered. “Not to mention skilled manpower. Only someone with high-level clearance could have handled such transactions. Someone with access to shipping. Someone extremely well-versed in Temple Mount’s history. And someone who knew precisely what treasures lay buried in that vault. The Waqf suggests that person is you.”
Barton felt suffocated. “You must be joking. I know this bombing has escalated the need for concise action, but this is—”
Topol’s hand cut the air. “An Israeli helicopter and two pilots are still missing...”
Barton saw the major’s eyes shift down when he said this. Could he have known about the meeting in Gaza? Did he know about the fisherman and the recovered debris from the Black Hawk?
“Sources indicate these pilots may have been involved in the theft . . . helped make it all happen,” Topol elaborated. “Perhaps someone on the inside approached them? Gave these people some incentive.”
Barton remained steadfast. “You know there’s no way I’m involved in this.”
The major was stone-faced. “I’ve been told you’ve made quite a name for yourself procuring rare antiquities for European clients.”
“Museums,” the archaeologist clarified.
“Quite a lucrative service you provide. Isn’t that right?”
Barton wasn’t about to get into this discussion, not without a lawyer present.
“Given the nature of your work with the IAA, you’ve also been given high-level clearance in the Old City. You’ve been moving equipment in and out at will... many times without inspection.”
“How could I have brought explosives into the city?” Graham Barton’s tone was stronger now. “There are detectors all over the place.”
“Apparently quite easily. Our chemists analyzed the residue of the plastic explosive. Seems it was missing the chemical marker that would allow it to be detected—dimethyl dinitrobutane. You see, Mr. Barton . . . those explosives were military grade. Perhaps provided to you by our missing pilots.”
One of the officers stormed into the room to momentarily break the tension. He was hauling something in a large plastic sheath.
Barton was confused as he warily eyed the package. What the hell was in the bag? It looked like something very substantial.
Still sitting, Topol removed the plastic and read aloud the model name on the black motor housing—Flex BHI
