The Sacred Blood

chromosome set here that really matters. For fun, let’s call these two the ‘builders.’ Easy to spot because it doesn’t even look like a human chromosome.” He tapped twice on the monitor— first on subject’s unbanded chromosome pair, then on Hennesey’s identical pair. “So since the builders can single-handedly manufacture all the other chromosomes in the genome, I’d say that’s where the magic is. Your Hollywood starlet,” he joked. “And hypothetically speaking, since the builder chromosomes are present in both your male and female specimens, either sample would suffice.” He shrugged.

Either sample. Cohen’s smile grew even wider.

Outside the Genetic Studies building, Cohen’s driver had kept the Buick Lucerne sedan running. The rabbi ducked into the back seat. “Has the jet returned from Rome?”

“Twenty minutes ago,” the driver replied. “They’re refueling now. I’ve

already informed your pilot that we’ll depart immediately for Inshas.” “Excellent. Take me directly to the airport.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cohen sat back in his seat and let down the window to invite in the

sweet Mediterranean air sweeping across Tel Aviv. It brought back memories of his first visit to Israel when he was fifteen—two years after he’d

first been brought into his grandfather’s secret circle, which set his life

in motion. The teachings had been so detailed, so indelibly inked into

his subconscious, that even then he’d felt a connection to this land—an

innate familiarity. And by this afternoon, a different breeze blowing across

ancient sands would meet him at the Nile Delta—the brother-land of his

ancestors. The land that gave birth to Yahweh’s gift—a family legacy.

27

******

At the Rockefeller Museum, located directly outside the Old City’s northern wall, Amit and Jules waited patiently in a blank corridor lined with administrative offices. Amit knocked a second time on Jozsef Dayan’s office door—still no answer. He reached down and tried the door handle. Definitely locked.

“Strange. I’ve never seen this door closed. He practically lives here.” The guy had no kids and his wife had lost a tough battle with cancer only four years ago. The old man had been using this tiny room to fill the lonely void ever since.

“Where are the scrolls?” Jules asked.

“I left them with him, inside.”

“Don’t you have a key?”

He shook his head.

“Maybe your friend took off with them.”

“Not a chance,” he said without hesitation. “We need to get in there.” The archaeologist squatted along the door frame to assess the lock, then

withdrew his keys from his cargo pants.

“I thought you didn’t have a key.”

“Not exactly.”

Amit pinched open the key ring and slid off two small matte-black tools

that looked to Jules like they’d been lifted from a dentist’s surgical tray. “Just keep an eye out,” he instructed. Though security was tight at the

museum entrances, and particularly in the galleries, Jozsef ’s lab, like his

gentle personality, lacked any fancy protocols. When Amit was in the IDF,

the main barriers to entry at a Gaza safe house would be masked kids with

Uzis who’d drunk too much from fundamentalist Islam’s spiked punch

bowl. But once they’d been taken out, the door locks had been a lot less

sophisticated than this one. Still, he’d give it a go. Inserting the flat tension

wrench into the brushed aluminum lockset, Amit turned it clockwise. Jules tried to play hall monitor, but she was more preoccupied with

what Amit was doing. She snuck glances as he snaked the second tool

into the keyhole alongside the first—a hooked-end thing that would have

looked at home in her late grandmother’s crochet basket.

Amit twisted the hook along the jagged innards of the housing, fishing

for the tumbler’s smooth pin pairs. He popped them up sequentially, click,

click, click . . . Five seconds later, he palmed the handle and gently turned.

Clunk. He signed to Jules, who answered with raised eyebrows. “Where did you learn how to do that?” Jules asked.

“Standard IDF field training— at least when you’re stationed in hostile