you brought him directly here, didn’t you? You had him touch the—”
Without warning, the rabbi’s hand flew through the air to connect firmly with Charlotte’s cheek.
“Silence!” he yelled.
What had happened to Joshua was a horrible thing. The smell of burning flesh still lingered in Cohen’s nostrils. He’d pulled the terrified boy away from the Ark almost instantly, yet the damage had already been done. A scream like no other had come from Joshua’s lips and he’d covered the boy’s mouth with his hand to suppress it. Joshua’s fingers had been broiled, curled into a tight claw. Yet while the rabbi sat there cradling him, he could actually see the flesh regenerating ever so slowly. By the time he’d composed himself and brought Joshua downstairs for presentation to the geneticist, the boy’s pain had already subsided; the hand was still on the mend. Gazing into his son’s eyes, he’d known immediately that another wound—a much deeper, irreparable wound—had been inflicted. The rabbi himself suffered as well as the extreme disappointment of a broken son—a broken legacy —returned. He’d asked Devora to cover the hand so that it wouldn’t detract from the message he needed to relay to Charlotte.
“After patiently waiting for centuries,” he replied, “nothing falls to chance. Unnecessary risk is unacceptable.”
Charlotte held a hand against the hot fire rushing into her cheek. She noticed that during this whole exchange, the rabbi’s wife had been standing in the shadowed corridor, listening. The rabbi himself, however, had not picked up on this. “And injuring your own flesh and blood is a necessary and acceptable risk?” she added. “You couldn’t have used yourself as the guinea pig?”
He stepped up so close that his nose practically touched hers, ready to strike again. His eyes were wild.
“You’re no savior,” she raged on. “You’re a coward—a coward who sends assassins to kill the innocent. A coward who is willing to sacrifice his son to save his own skin. How do you think God feels about that?”
“Abraham was ready to sacrifice his son. Even God sacrificed His own.” He drew a cleansing breath and withdrew. “Enough of this,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “The time has come.”
“
Cohen ignored her question and directed his attention to his entourage. Pointing to the relic, he said, “Place it back in the crate and load the truck. You know what to do with her. We’ll leave immediately.”
The men came at her quickly, overpowering her, binding her hands behind her back, then gagging her mouth.
61
******
In the fire stairwell Amit set down his shoes and peeked out through the fire door’s small glass window. The red glow of the exit sign hanging above the door’s other side gave him about two meters of muddled visibility through the corridor extending left and right. But he heard the commotion before he saw what caused it.
First came a crate set on a dolly that a man was wheeling toward the elevator adjacent to the fire door. Another five armed men trailed closely behind, and between them was a very pretty woman bound and gagged. For Amit, the sight of her raised a whole new set of questions.
Finally came the morose master of ceremonies wearing all black and bringing up the rear.
Definitely not a favorable scenario for playing hero. But the rabbi
The compulsion to use the element of surprise was short-lived as he tried to imagine what Jules would say. Probably something along the lines of “Settle down, cowboy.”
The elevator doors opened and the bright light from its interior spilled into the dark hallway. Amit shrank back against the wall and listened as they all crammed into the elevator alongside the dolly. Once he heard the doors clatter shut and the gears engage high up in the shaft, he waited a few more seconds near the tiny window. Then he swung open the door, staying low and thrusting the gun forward. He was greeted once more by silence.
At the end of the dark corridor, however, he could see light coming from the conference room—the last door on the left. Instinct told him to check the room and see if anything had been left behind.
Easing the fire door closed, he slipped quietly down the hall in his socked feet. His two outstretched hands were wrapped around the Beretta, his left index finger hooked firmly around its cold trigger.
As he neared the folded-back doors, he slowed to a shuffle and took cover behind the closest one. He peeked through the thin gap separating the doorjamb. That’s when he spotted two people moving about inside, tidying up the room’s center. He noticed both of them immediately. The woman was Cohen’s wife, the Temple Society’s not- so-pleasant receptionist. Amit second-guessed his recognition of the boy’s face when he saw that he was actually up and about, not stuck in a wheelchair.
Now a new opportunity presented itself. If he tried to simply follow the rabbi and his posse, there was a very good chance he’d get only so far. Amit could risk losing them altogether and not be able to pick up the trail until it was too late. But if he could somehow get advance information on what Cohen’s plan entailed . . .
Maneuvering around the door, Amit inspected the room more thoroughly to make sure it was only the two of them. Next, he stormed in with the gun trained on the rabbi’s son.
“Don’t scream or I’ll put a bullet in your head,” he said in a calm voice.
62
******
“Hello, Mrs. Cohen,” Amit said wryly. “A pleasure to see you again.” He held the gun straight out, trained on Joshua’s head. The wife’s arms dropped limply to her sides, the right hand still clutching the cloth she’d been using to buff the crate’s grimy streaks off the tabletop. “I see that your husband returned safely from Egypt.”
The woman remained silent, well composed. Her eyes, however, looked weary, lifeless.
“Seems he didn’t come back empty handed,” Amit said. “Care to tell me what he has in that crate?”
After studying the archaeologist for five seconds, she responded: “Why should you care?”
