rebuilding of the Third Jewish Temple.
Closing the door, Razak considered that maybe his theory was wrong. He wanted it to be wrong.
Next he continued down the hall to the door that marked the threshold to the last storage room. Trying the handle, he was surprised to find that it had been locked. He tried it again. Nothing.
Puzzled, he made his way back through the mosque’s spacious prayer hall, out into the bright morning sun, and across the esplanade toward the Qur’anic teaching school. If he were to find the Keeper there, he’d insist that the room be opened for inspection.
But upstairs, Farouq’s office was empty.
Razak stood motionless for a moment, struggling with what he should do. Then reluctantly, he circled behind the desk and searched its four drawers.
Inside, he discovered a strange array of items that included a compact handgun and a liter of Wild Turkey bourbon that, since the Qur’an strictly forbade drinking alcohol, Razak fervently hoped Farouq had confiscated from someone. There was an ornate bronze casket stashed in the left bottom drawer, but it was locked. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a key ring. Snatching it up, he made his way downstairs and out the building.
Traversing the esplanade, Razak was unaware of the Keeper trailing discreetly behind him.
Negotiating his way through the El-Aqsa’s prayer hall, Razak produced the key ring, stopping at the rear corridor’s locked door. One by one, he tried the keys. Coming across a small, tarnished skeleton key, he wondered if it opened the casket that he’d found in Farouq’s desk. He continued through the set. Finally, with only two keys left and a waning sense of hope, a silver key slid easily into the lock. Praying silently and holding his breath, Razak turned it.
Clicking, the lock gave way.
Razak depressed the door handle. Beyond the threshold, the windowless room was dark. Moving inside, Razak fumbled for the light switch, leaving the door open. The room appeared empty.
The overhead strip lights crackled and slowly came to life, strobing the room with quick flashes that played with his eyes.
Then the room was aglow.
Instantly, Razak’s face slackened in bewilderment.
Along the rear wall, the nine ossuaries, each etched in Hebrew text with the names of Joseph and his family members, had been neatly arranged on the vinyl-tiled floor.
“Allah save us,” Razak muttered in Arabic.
From the corner of his eye he detected a figure in the doorway and spun round.
Farouq.
“You’ve done well, Razak.” Farouq crossed his arms, stuffing his hands into the loose sleeves of his black tunic. “You mustn’t be troubled by this. They will shortly disappear.”
The Keeper’s talent for making things vanish was starting to sicken him. “What have you done?”
“A noble deed to help our people,” the Keeper stated flatly. “Don’t concern yourself with the small sacrifices that need to be made.”
“Small sacrifices?” Razak stared at the ossuaries. “You framed an innocent man.”
“Barton? Innocent? None of them are innocent, Razak. Not when their motive is to threaten Allah.”
“Did the other council members know about this?”
The Keeper made a dismissive motion. “Does that matter?”
“You sent me to Rome to deliver a package to the Vatican—a book that led them to perpetrate this unthinkable crime. I feel some explanation is warranted. Many men died for this and an innocent man is now being detained by the police. And what exactly have you achieved?”
“Razak.” Farouq shook his head in disappointment. “You haven’t grasped the seriousness of our situation here. We’ve achieved solidarity and unity. Our people rely on us to protect both them and their faith. And a faith like ours must remain strong throughout. Here in Jerusalem what we protect isn’t just a patch of land or a sacred shrine. Islam is everything. To undermine its teachings is to take away a Muslim’s soul. Don’t you understand?”
“But this isn’t a war.”
“It’s been a war since the very beginning. Ever since the Christians and Jews decided to reclaim this forgotten land made sacred by the great prophet Muhammad, Allah grant him peace. Need I remind you that I’ve shed my own blood to protect our people and this place? A great number of people have given their lives so that men like you”—he jabbed a finger—“can still have homes here.”
Razak elected to remain silent. Undeniably a real debt was owed to men like Farouq, men who had vehemently opposed Israeli occupation. But he was tired of the rhetoric, tired of the perpetual hatred that plagued this place. He wanted answers. And Razak knew for certain that those answers would begin with knowing exactly how a book delivered to Rome had divulged the precise location of an ancient crypt concealed beneath Temple Mount for centuries.
“What was it that I delivered to Rome for you?”
Farouq contemplated the question. “If I tell you, will you feel at peace with what has happened?”
“Perhaps.”
Farouq turned toward the door. “Come with me.”
64
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