empty.”
“Why would the Jews build a temple around an empty shrine? That’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” he said. “What it had once contained wasn’t something that could ever be replaced.”
“And what was that?” But she noticed his attention had wandered, strangely enough, to the room’s faux stone block walls. “Hello?”
“My God,” he gasped. The short hairs on his neck bristled. “That’s it.”
She followed his eyes and wasn’t seeing a damn thing. “What do you mean,
Now her failure to piece these things together was starting to disappoint him. But he needed to remind himself that he was dealing with an Egyptologist, not a biblical archaeologist. “The walls, Jules,” he calmly replied. “The ceiling, the floor?” He pointed to them in turn. “Look at the shape they form. Don’t you see it?”
Her frustration was setting in too as she scanned the space again. “What? You mean the squares?”
“The cube,” he sternly whispered. “This room is a cube. The ideal of perfection used in the design of the Tabernacle’s innermost sanctuary.
She shrugged. “Okay, I get it. They were cube shaped.”
“Exactly!” He anxiously eyed the empty platform at the room’s center one last time, then stared up at the surveillance camera mounted close to the ceiling. “We need to leave. Right now.”
36
******
Egypt
It was at Inshas Airport’s security gate where the problem began. Rabbi Cohen’s returning Peugeot hadn’t aroused suspicion, but the blue pickup truck following closely behind it had.
As instructed, Cohen and his driver waited in the car, idling in front of the lowered security barrier. A mustached guard stood by them while two others circled around the truck to question the driver and inspect the sizable wooden crate stowed in its bed.
Cohen had already explained to the Egyptians that his diplomatic privileges should not be questioned. He’d shown them his passport and the diplomatic papers that he maintained as a former member of the Knesset. But the stubborn guard wasn’t hearing any of it, and the rabbi knew why. Though Egypt showed no outward hostility toward Israel, the two still remained ideologically, politically, and theologically split—bitter enemies. And Cohen was no ordinary Israeli; he was a Hasid . . . a Hasid bringing a very suspicious package onto the airstrip.
Gazing out across the runways, he could see his blue-striped jet oriented directly toward Israel, exhaust haze streaming out from its running engines. Calculations ran through his head. How long would it take to break through the barrier, load the crate, and take off before the Egyptians could do anything to stop them? The place was heavily secured. But he was willing to gamble they wouldn’t risk shooting down an Israeli jet, no matter what they suspected was inside the crate.
Cohen turned in his seat, craning his neck to see what was happening behind them.
One guard stayed with the truck’s driver, machine gun at the ready.
The second guard was circling the truck’s cargo bed, scrutinizing the crate’s Arabic markings, which suggested that its contents were auto parts. The inspector pulled out a black security wand that blinked wildly as he ran it over the crate’s lid.
This caused more commotion as the guards began screaming back and forth to one another.
Cohen gritted his teeth. No matter what the cost, he’d be returning to Tel Aviv with the cargo. He spoke quietly to the driver in Hebrew. “You know what to do if this gets messy.”
The driver nodded. He let his hand drop slowly along the seat, ready to take up the Uzi concealed there.
The inspector paced back inside the security post and came out with a second device that Cohen couldn’t identify.
“If they even attempt to open the crate . . . ,” Cohen whispered to the driver.
With another subtle nod, the driver’s hand went down further along the seat.
Back at the truck’s rear, the guard fidgeted with the device, which looked like some kind of handheld vacuum. Once it powered on, he used the thing to scan the top and sides of the crate.
Cohen’s hands curled into fists.
After a few more sweeps, the inspector finally yelled out his findings in Arabic to the mustached guard who’d taken a post at the car. Though the man’s accent was thick, Cohen could make out that he was saying everything seemed all right—then something about there being no radioactive material.
The mustached guard slung his machine gun over his shoulder and bent down along the Peugeot’s window. “We cannot be too careful these days,” he said by way of a mediocre apology. “You are free to go.”
The security gate opened and the car moved forward, followed by the blue pickup.
Unclenching his fists, Cohen breathed a sigh of relief and checked his watch—almost three p.m. The unanticipated complications in packaging the relic had substantially delayed their departure. Difficult to fault the priests (the relic’s custodians), since the meticulous protocols hadn’t been carried out in almost two millennia.
Regardless, within an hour they’d arrive in Tel Aviv, with the crate. He’d then instruct the pilot to continue on directly to Rome, where another urgent delivery would be awaiting pickup.
37
******
Vat ic a n Ci t y
Following the leisurely two-and-a-half-hour lunch, Father Martin brought Donovan to the Swiss Guard security office. There he made good on his promise to help restore Donovan’s clearances to the Secret Archives, the clerical offices of the Apostolic Palace and the Palace of the Governorate, the museums, and the various administrative
