Jerusalem
The taxi turned off Ruppin Boulevard and climbed the steep tree-lined drive leading up to Jerusalem’s most famous complex of art and history galleries—the Israel Museum.
As the roadway crested, he stared out the window at the Knesset building dominating the nearby hillside in Givat Ram—a bland, 1960s rectangular eyesore with a flat, overhanging roof supported on all sides by flared rectangular columns. It was lit up against the night sky, making it even harder for him to imagine that its unnatural symmetry and harsh lines had been inspired by the temples of Egypt. But what did impress him was the huge power base Rabbi Aaron Cohen had built inside its unicameral hall during his tenure with the Israeli parliament.
Cohen was a powerful man whom many considered a visionary. But he was also a Zionist at heart—as pure as they came. Amit somehow knew that he was responsible for what happened at Qumran, not to mention Yosi’s coincidental death, followed by the disappearance of the scrolls. Now in his pocket he had the printed translation that might answer many questions concerning the rabbi’s motive.
Outside the museum’s entrance, Amit settled up with the driver and he and Jules proceeded through the glass entry doors.
Jules was busy watching some guests arriving by limousine, who were dressed elegantly in gowns and tuxedos. Some impolite stares came back at her. “I’m feeling a bit grungy,” she muttered. “What’s going on here?”
“Probably a private showing for VIPs. And don’t worry, you look fabulous,” Amit added.
She smiled.
He was actually feeling naked without the Jericho, so the metal detectors and security guards inside provided great relief. “We’ll be safe here for the time being,” he told Jules, recognizing one of the security guards on detail —an older, gaunt man with pure white hair.
When the guard stood and reached out for a handshake, Jules noticed his sleeve hike up, revealing some numbers tattooed just above his wrist.
“Amit, how are you, my friend?” he said with a heavy Polish accent.
“Good, David. Yourself ?”
“Another day aboveground,” the old fellow cheerily replied, as if he’d just won the lottery. When his eyes turned to Jules, he couldn’t help but whistle. “With this lovely lady at your side, you should have
Amit formally introduced his companion.
“You know we closed at nine tonight?” David said, verifying on his watch that it was already past the hour. “I don’t mean to be rude . . . ,” he said, giving both their outfits an obligatory once-over as more sweetsmelling guests in sleek black filtered through the lobby. “It’s a private function, I’m afraid.”
“We’re not looking to crash the party. Just wanted to show Jules a few things.”
Looking both ways, David leaned closer and stage-whispered to her, “He may not be on the list, but he’s certainly a VIP in my book.” He winked and motioned with his head to the inside. “Get going.”
“I appreciate that,” Amit said.
“Just don’t cause any trouble in there, eh?”
“By the way, David,” Amit said before heading in. “Tell me, were you here for the symposium yesterday?”
“Of course.”
“Yosi came, didn’t he?”
This immediately saddened David. “Sure. He was here. The poor fellow. What a shame. I guess God was ready for him.”
Amit was sure that God was surprised to see him, but he said, “Came as a shock to me too.” He let the moment pass before asking, “This may sound like an odd question, but was he carrying anything when he came in? A briefcase? Anything like that?”
David scrunched his eyes, pondering for a second, then shook his head. “Everything was going through the scanner,” he said, pointing to the conveyor-belted machine behind him. “He did have a fancy pen in his pocket that made him ring. Besides that . . .” He shook his head.
“You’re sure he wasn’t carrying anything else?”
Now David took mock offense. “I may not be a kid anymore, but my wheels keep turning.” He pointed to his brain.
Amit knew there was no chance Yosi would’ve left the scrolls in his car. He would have fretted about the humidity, the heat—not to mention the possibility that they might get stolen. And David’s story did agree with Joshua Cohen’s recollection of Yosi leaving the museum empty-handed. “Thanks, David. You take care of yourself and tell your wife I send my love.”
“Make an honest man out of him, will you?” David said to Jules, and waved them through the metal detectors.
45
******
The delivery van that had awaited Rabbi Aaron Cohen’s arrival on the tarmac at Ben Gurion International was parked behind the modern wing next to the Rockefeller Museum exhibit halls.
Adjacent to the Israel Antiquities Authority’s director’s office, Cohen’s entourage entered a handsomely appointed octagonal meeting room set below a domed ceiling. Along each wall, eight niches were furnished with seats for the Archaeological Advisory Council’s auditors. And onto the room’s central table, Cohen’s men carefully set down the heavy consignment safely returned from Egypt.
Unlike the ossuary on display in the Rockefeller Museum’s South Gallery, what was inside this crate was certainly not intended for exhibition. This was not something to be admired. It was to be respected and feared. And soon, for the first time in over three millennia, fear would return to the enemies of Zion.
“Lock the doors,” Cohen instructed his men. He pointed to the windows. “And shut the blinds.”
