The Sacred Blood

The Dome of the Rock was empty as Ghalib—the Waqf ’s Keeper—silently crept barefoot along the ornate blood-red carpeting lining the octagonal inner ambulatory. Beneath the qubba, or dome, the Sakhrah—the rock— glowed in ocher light, looking like the stark terrain of a distant moon.

Throughout the shrine, ladders had been erected in and around the cupola, and at key positions along the outer ambulatory. Half a dozen men busily went up and down them, running wire, installing small brackets and hardware.

Ghalib greeted each of them as he strolled by to inspect their progress. Minutes later, after completing his circle, he paused along the railing and stared at the unique impression on the rock’s surface said to be the hoof mark left behind by the blessed steed, Buraq, as it leapt from the earth to deliver the great Prophet to the heavens.

Ghalib grinned, knowing that soon the angel Israfel—“the Caller”— would be sent to this very spot to sound the trumpet that would commence the Last Judgment—al-Qiyamah. Then the Merciful One would gather all humanity in congregation and place before every man, woman, and child the book of judgment, detailing a lifetime of deeds that would determine each soul’s fate. Upon the Scales of Justice those deeds would then be weighed to foretell the outcome of each soul’s perilous walk along the razor-thin bridge, as-Siraat, across the blazing bowels of hell to the glorious gates of Paradise.

For those whose sins burdened the Scales of Justice, their path across as-Siraat would lead to a fateful end. Into the writhing, fiery pit— Jahannam—they would surely plunge. There the black hearts of sinners who shunned Allah would be met by eternal fire and agony beyond comprehension: searing heat that broils flesh, heavy chains whose weight never subsides, putrid drink that never quenches thirst, and rancid, thorny plants that would never sate hunger.

Their torment will be perpetual.

For the righteous, however, the Last Judgment would be a glorious moment when the walk along as-Siraat would deliver them to a place of eternal spiritual redemption: the garden paradise, Jannah. There loved ones would reunite in perpetual peace and delight among the angels. Rivers would flow with milk and honey; there’d be goblets of gold, countless pleasures of the flesh, and above all, the countenance of Allah Himself. And those receiving the greatest reward in Paradise would ascend to its highest level—the Gardens of Bliss—to be nearest to Allah.

The soul of the martyr is the most loved by Him.

“Taqwa,” he reverently whispered. “Fear God.”

Making his way to the shrine’s south side, the Keeper passed beneath a freestanding marble archway and descended the wide marble steps that accessed the natural subterranean hollow beneath the rock called the Well of Souls.

He stepped down onto the ornate Persian carpet covering its flat excavated floor, and the damp air in the spacious cave nipped his bones. A bright floodlight bit the shadows off the chamber’s rocky outcroppings, which curved gently upward from floor to ceiling.

On the far side of the cave, two Arab men worked diligently with hammer and chisel, chipping away stone to install mounting brackets and wiring.

“So what do you think?” he asked the foreman in Arabic. “Will it work?”

The bearded man nodded. “Yes. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Excellent.” He turned his attention to the others. “Brothers, please stop for a moment. Be still.”

The workers ceased activity. Five seconds later, the cave plunged into a perfect silence.

Ghalib closed his eyes, paused his breathing, and listened intently. Beneath the cave, the muffled sounds of digging were unmistakable—chipping, scratching—more prevalent now than yesterday. Ghalib could even sense something new: subtle vibrations tickling his bare feet.

Opening his eyes, he smiled. “Continue,” he told the men. “And may His peace be upon you all.”

The Keeper made his way back to the steps and disappeared up the passage.

54

******

At the Israel Museum, Jules struggled to keep stride with Amit as he climbed the steps leading up from the Shrine of the Book gallery. When they angled back across the open courtyard, Amit glanced at the shrine’s white dome, then over to the black monolith rising high opposite it. Each symbolized a combatant in the final battle between good and evil detailed in the Dead Sea Scrolls—the spark that would trigger the Messianic Age. The Sons of Light versus the Sons of Darkness.

“So what did Enoch find out?” Jules asked. This time around, when Amit had placed a call to Enoch in the exhibit hall’s administrative office, he’d mostly listened. So she had no clue what new information Enoch had conveyed. But the alarmed look that had come over Amit was deeply unsettling.

“Early this morning, the rabbi’s jet took him to a private airport north of Cairo—Inshas. He was back in Tel Aviv by the afternoon.”

“Inshas?” Jules suddenly slapped Amit’s arm. “That’s right near old Heliopolis!”

“Exactly. The secret of the hieroglyph revealed.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Enoch didn’t know for sure, only that when he arrived at Tel Aviv, he unloaded a rather large shipping container.”

“Really? What was in it?” She was practically jogging alongside him. “God, slow down, will you?” She tugged at his arm.

“Sorry,” he said, bringing his pace down a notch. “Enoch wasn’t able to find out. Problem is, these diplomats can pretty much come and go as they please,” Amit told her. “Even the Mossad can’t poke around too much with the big guys.” He recalled Enoch’s warning: Be careful with this guy, He’s a heavy hitter. “If you ask me, however, I’d say it’s something that would make a nice addition to the Third Temple. Remember in the transcription . . . all of Jesus’s references to the ‘Testimony’?”

“Yes.”

On the main walkway, they doubled back to the museum’s main entrance.

“The Testimony refers to the entirety of the laws God gave to Moses at Sinai.”