if he understood it himself.
“What position exactly?”
“Peace. Stability. You know what happened yesterday,” he said, referring to the bombing. “If something doesn’t change, that will be just the beginning. Already news of your arrest has started to ease tensions. Discussions are resuming. People have someone to blame—and a man who’s
not a Jew or a Muslim.”
“Very convenient.” The archaeologist knew nothing more could be done. “The real problem we’re facing is political.” Razak leaned forward. “I
know it’s terrible. But if there’s no blame, there’ll be no solution. Blame a
man and one man falls. Blame a country and the problem isn’t singular.” “This is how you’re going to let this end?”
“It will never end.” Razak rose to his feet and knocked on the cell door.
Before leaving, he paused and turned back to Barton. “I need to digest all
this, Graham. I will do my best to help. But I cannot attest to things that
I’m unsure of. I know you can respect that.” With a sinking feeling, he
made his way outside.
When Razak had entered Station Zion just minutes earlier, the sidewalks had been empty. But as he emerged out into the harsh sunlight, his eyes adjusted to a completely different scene.
Over a dozen news reporters had materialized. And judging from their frenzied reactions when they saw him, Razak knew he was the reason they were here. Shoulder-mounted cameras swung at him as the reporters came at him like a swarm, thrusting their microphones like epees.
“Mr. al-Tahini!” one reporter managed to break forward to grab his attention.
Razak froze, knowing that confrontation was inevitable and somehow, necessary. After all, he was the Waqf’s designated spokesman.
“Yes.”
“Is it true that the police have arrested the man responsible for the Temple Mount theft?”
As if by some unsigned accord, the entire assemblage of media personnel quieted down in unison, anxiously awaiting his reply.
Razak cleared his throat. “That is still unclear. As far as we know, the police are still sorting through the facts.”
Another reporter yelled out, “But weren’t you working with this man? The English archaeologist, Graham Barton?”
“It is true that I was assigned to the investigation, as was Mr. Barton whose impressive credentials were considered vital to our understanding of the thieves’ motives.”
The first reporter squared up again. “And how do you feel now that he’s been singled out as the man behind all this?”
Careful, Razak told himself. Don’t make things worse for Graham. And don’t make things worse for your Muslim and Palestinian constituents either. “Though I am anxious to come to a resolution, I feel that many more questions need to be answered before anyone should levy accusations against this man.” He glared at the reporter. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said, pushing forward through the mob.
53
******
Rome
Huddled inside a loculus high on the passage wall, Giovanni Bersei was sucking in shallow breaths, desperate to steady himself, hoping that Conte would choose the wrong tunnel and wander aimlessly into the catacomb. If he was really lucky, the assassin might succumb to the fumes and pass out. Bersei only hoped it didn’t happen to himself first. He tightened his grip around the ball-peen hammer’s handle. As if this is any match for a gun.
Minutes passed. Silence returned.
A little more time and he would consider climbing back out into the tunnel. But the idea was short lived, because a faint glow of light suddenly played along the craggy wall opposite the niche. Conte was coming.
Having searched two tunnels unsuccessfully, Conte had backtracked to the area where Bersei had stumbled over the tools. Surely his quarry hadn’t returned this way. Bersei couldn’t have navigated the mess in the dark without causing a commotion.
Pacing down the third passage, Conte felt the slightest breeze. The air here was less putrid. Maybe there was a ventilation shaft nearby.
He was beginning to entertain the very remote possibility that Bersei might have outsmarted him. However, that could only be temporary since the only door out of this place was locked.
Moving slowly through the tunnel, he detected a dim light far ahead. Daylight?
Panic overcame him. Perhaps it was a ventilation shaft, but it certainly looked wide enough to provide an escape route. Conte broke into a sprint.
About ten meters ahead, a dark form suddenly arced out from high on the wall too fast for even the mercenary to react. It cracked him hard in the right temple and landed him flat on his back, his head slamming hard against the ground with a hollow thud.
The flashlight skittered across the tunnel floor. The Glock, however, remained fast in his grasp. For him, that was pure instinct.
Dazed, Conte barely discerned a figure crawling out from the wall like a reanimated corpse. Hitting the floor, Bersei scrambled for the light.
