The man of science and reason in him couldn’t believe what he was
envisioning. Yet everything in his gut told him it made sense. The second
book of the Pentateuch (the Torah), Exodus, described the Ark of the Covenant as a cubit and a half in height and width, two and a half cubits in
length. Most believed the cubit God was referring to then probably hadn’t
been the same one conveyed to Noah for construction of his
ark. Since Moses was an Egyptian, he’d have employed the Egyptian royal
cubit. In modern terms, that put the Ark’s proportions at about three quarters of a meter high and wide, and under a meter and a half long. Indeed, the crate Amit had seen Cohen’s cronies wheeling out of the
museum could have easily held it.
It took him less than a minute to cut through the Kidron Valley and approach the gate where tour buses entered the Old City to drop their loads
outside the security gates—the Dung Gate. Unfortunately, the very short
ride from the Rockefeller Museum and the rabbi’s significant head start
practically guaranteed that he’d already made it inside.
Instead of drawing attention by heading through the gate, Amit hung
a left where a brown road sign pointed to the City of David in English and
Hebrew. He immediately steered to the curb.
When he got out of the car, a pair of Palestinians huddled on stools over
a backgammon board began yelling at him in Arabic, pointing to the car,
gesturing in impolite ways for him to move it.
With no time to argue with them, Amit tossed the key ring onto the
game board and told them, “It’s yours. Take it.”
Then he set off for the gate.
66
******
Rabbi Aaron Cohen’s mind was stretched to the limit. Things had gotten very sloppy, and any semblance of his original plan had long since vaporized. The killings were to be expected. Sacrifice was always required. The fact that the assassin assigned to eliminate Amit Mizrachi had not reported back to the museum, however, was deeply troubling. Could the archaeologist still be alive?
Then he thought back to the Muslim who’d snuck into the tunnel and managed to report to someone on the outside about what he’d seen beneath the Temple Mount—the event that put everything into fast-forward. Whom had he called? What would the response entail? Too many possibilities.
But if there was a destiny for the Ark, it certainly was in the Lord’s hands now. After so many, many centuries, the Testimony was back in Zion—ready to fulfill the great prophecies put into motion two thousand years earlier by Jesus.
“Unload the truck,” Cohen instructed his foreman.
The man, dressed in a blue Israel Antiquities Authority jumpsuit and white hard hat, looked warily over the rabbi’s shoulders at the six IDF guards standing watch at the archway. They were all busy talking and smoking. “What about the soldiers?”
“Don’t worry about them,” Cohen said. “They’re clueless. If they cause any problems, you do whatever it takes to hold them back.”
The anxious foreman had no more questions and began shouting orders to the men gathered around the side of the flatbed truck that had backed in beneath Wilson’s Arch.
Cohen watched as another crewman rolled a forklift closer, raised the fork, and eased it under the first pallet. The machine’s engine rumbled heavily, its frame groaning under the extreme weight. Then came loud beeping as the machine reversed in a slow arc and maneuvered to set the pallet down on the ground. The process repeated as the second batch of stone was unloaded.
Once the forklift spun back into its parking spot and the engine was shut off, Cohen said to the foreman, “Unpack them and bring them straight inside, understand?” He pointed to the pallets.
“Right away.”
“I need to get ready. I’ll meet you there.”
Pacing over to the white delivery van, Cohen opened the passenger door and retrieved his black garment bag and tote. Then he headed down the steps and into the Western Wall Tunnel.
67
******
“Sorry, Commander,” Enoch said, jogging over to Amit outside the Dung Gate with a lit cigarette dangling from his right hand.
“If this was Gaza, I’d have you reported to the
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he said with a sardonic grin.
The image of Enoch that would be forever stuck in the back of Amit’s head—a painfully thin, timid kid—did not match the man who stood before him. At least thirty pounds heavier, and none of it flab, Enoch was an intimidating fellow. In fact, it looked like he could bench-press a car. His face had filled out too—more handsome, yet the same bony nose and undersized chin.
