The Copper Scroll

  “And then something unexpected happened.

  “It was around Christmas 1995. Craig and I were in Syria. We were set to meet the economic attaché from the Iraqi embassy whom we were running as a double agent. He was feeding us intel on Saddam’s ties to Hafez al-Assad. We were supposed to meet him that afternoon in a bookstore on the east side of Damascus.

  “As we waited for the guy to show up, I was browsing through a wooden crate of used books, and I came across an old leather journal that caught my eye. It was handwritten in colloquial Arabic but had originally been written by a rabbi. The first entry was dated December 9, 1924. The last entry was June 9, 1967. How the bookstore got it, I have no idea. Why the store was selling it rather than burning it, I have no idea. Clearly the store owner hadn’t ever read it. But there it was. I didn’t ask any questions. I just bought it and stuffed it in my briefcase until after our meeting with the Iraqi.

  “But when I got back to the safe house we were using, I showed the journal to Craig. What immediately caught his attention, as it had mine, was the rabbi’s description of a network of ancient smuggling tunnels south of Damascus, running under the Golan Heights. According to local legends, the tunnels were dug in the first century BC by local merchants trying to smuggle goods in and out of Palestine without getting hit by Roman taxes. According to the rabbi’s journal, Arab groups were using the tunnels by the late 1920s and early 1930s to smuggle arms and explosives into Palestine to fight the Jews, and as you read through the journal, the rabbi wrote urgent letters to Jewish leaders in Jerusalem, warning them of the old smuggling routes. Then we came to a passage on page 55, in which the rabbi explains that the routes run through territory that used to be home to his great-great-grandparents, an area known to locals as Sechab.”

  Erin paused the audio file. Bennett looked at her in disbelief. She’d done it. This was it. This was the clue Mordechai had been talking about.

  36

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 15 – 6:40 a.m. – JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  Erin pulled up the PDF file.

  She scrolled down to page 55, found the passage to which Donovan referred, and read it aloud, translating from the Arabic.

  “Sechab runs right along

  the edge of the Syrian border,

  near a place some local Arabs

  call Tel Shihab.

  It’s a sacred place to my family.

  My grandfather calls it Kochlit,

  and speaks of it with

  almost mystical reverence.”

  Erin hit Play again. Donovan actually read the passage aloud, and then continued his analysis.

  “Dr. Mordechai, I have to tell you, no sooner did I finish reading that than the hair on the back of my neck began standing on end. I knew those names. I’d heard them before. Finally I realized where. After you told me the story of the Copper Scroll, I went back to the States and did as much research as I possibly could, and I remembered line 64: ‘In the tunnel which is in Sechab, to the north of Kochlit, which opens towards the north, and has graves in its entrance: a copy of this text and its explanation and their measurements and the inventory . . . item by item.’

  “Now, as I understand it, scholars long believed the name Sechab referred to plots of land owned by the religious commune that wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls and thus was a place where the group could easily have hidden the Temple treasures without attracting undue attention. Some said the plots were in the Qumran area, where the other scrolls were found. Others said it had to be farther north, perhaps near Tiberias. But the truth is, no one was ever sure where Sechab was. In my research, though, I found a quote by Father Bargil Pixner. As you no doubt recall, Pixner was a member of the original team of archeologists from L’Ecole Biblique and the American School of Oriental Research who discovered the Copper Scroll, and he said, and I quote:

  “‘They [the Essenes] had treasures hidden away and I think that those [hiding] places are the ones mentioned in the Copper Scroll. [I have deduced that] they must have owned these areas in order to have had access to them [to hide the treasures]. These hiding places were called Kochlit, monastic centers of the community. One Kochlit was in Qumran itself, although it was not called Qumran since this is an Arabic word, but was called Saccacah, a place mentioned in the Bible. A second [Kochlit] was on Mount Zion, and a third one, in my opinion, was in an area of the Yarmuk River, south of Damascus.’

  “On the map on page 60 of the journal,” Donovan continued, “you’ll see the Sea of Galilee on the west, the Golan Heights dead center, and the Yarmuk River to the east, running down the mountains and through a place called Wadi Shihab. The river, as you can see, supposedly leads to a waterfall, which lies just to the north of Tel Shihab.”

  “Stop the tape,” Bennett said.

  Erin did. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Scroll through the PDF file a bit farther,” he said. “I want to find that map.”

  Sure enough, on page 60, she found the map drawn by the rabbi. She started the recording again.

  “To be honest, Craig and I couldn’t resist the temptation to verify the map. So under the guise of needing more intel for our project with the Kurds—Operation November Thunder—we requested updated, high-resolution satellite photography of the Golan Heights and the Yarmuk River. Sure enough, using thermal imaging, we could clearly see traces of a tunnel running from a cave on the Israeli side of the Golan, through the mountain, across the demilitarized zone, and winding up in a cave at the base of the waterfall. The opening of the cave is not that far from a forward Syrian monitoring post, but since the cave itself is inside the DMZ, we doubt it’s ever been explored by the Syrians, much less the Israelis.

  “Now here’s my point, Dr. Mordechai—I am absolutely convinced the Key Scroll is hidden at the end of that tunnel. So is Craig. We know the CIA would never let us explore it. The whole place is guarded by barbed wire, land mines, and impressive electronic surveillance, not to mention ten thousand crack Syrian troops, all on a hair trigger to go to war with the Israelis on a moment’s notice. One wrong move and kaboom! But we can’t help it. We’re going to find a way into that tunnel, even if it kills us.

  “Which obviously it has. Craig and I are dead now. That’s the only reason you’re hearing this tape and reading this journal. Perhaps we died in the tunnels. Perhaps someone found out what we were up to and tried to stop us. Perhaps the Israelis or the Syrians captured us along the way and we’ve died in prison or by firing squad. It doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that someone finds the treasure. I believe it should be you. All the best. Maybe I will see you on the other side.”

  And with that, the audio file came to an end.

  Bennett was stunned. So was Erin.

  “No wonder Mordechai was so sure he was on the verge of a major breakthrough,” she said. “He was.”

  “He was,” Bennett echoed, staring at the computer monitor and wondering if Barak had heard this. Had the others? Had they read the journal as well?

  “Did you know these guys?” he asked instead.

  “Who, Harkin and Donovan?” said Erin.

  “Right.”

  “No, not personally. But I’d heard of them—rumors really. People said they went rogue. As far as I know, the Agency never did find their bodies. They just listed them as missing and presumed dead. But there was always something a bit fishy about it. I’m not sure if their files were ever formally closed.”

  “What about this brother?” said Bennett. “Do a search. If we can find him, we might be able to learn more.”

  Erin swiveled back around in her chair and typed the name Kenneth J. Donovan into a news search engine and hit Enter. A second later, a headline popped up from the Rocky Mountain News: “Local Man Commits Suicide on Thanksgiving.”

  Bennett shook his head. That had been just weeks after the firestorm. Everywhere they turned, the death toll kept rising. He got up and paced the room.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Erin.

  ?
??I’m thinking we may not be the only people who have this journal,” he replied, the anxiety showing on his face. “If we are, it won’t be for long. The original is still out there somewhere. Who knows who got ahold of it after Donovan committed suicide?”

  “If it really was a suicide,” Erin noted.

  “You think he might have been murdered?”

  “It would certainly fit with everything else we’ve found.”

  “You may be right,” said Bennett, mulling over their options. “What about sending an e-mail to Rajiv? Maybe she knew Donovan and Harkin. She might have something that could help us.”

  “Good idea,” said Erin. “Give me a few minutes.”

  “We need to move fast,” Bennett insisted. “When you’re done with that, get Natasha up. Have her listen to the tape and see what she thinks. Then print out a copy of the journal and delete the file. I’m going to get the car. I’ll meet you at the Damascus Gate in one hour. If for whatever reason I don’t show, don’t wait. Go without me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Erin asked. “Go where?”

  “To the DMZ,” Bennett said as he headed up the stairs. “We need to find the Key Scroll before anyone else does.”

  37

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 15 – 9:00 a.m. – BABYLON, IRAQ

  It was Salvador Lucente’s first visit to the new Iraqi capital.

  He had met President Al-Hassani on numerous occasions, including a weekend at Camp David with President MacPherson and at the opening session of the United Nations General Assembly the previous September. The Iraqi president had also been a guest of the E.U. leadership in Brussels twice before, and they spoke together by phone or videoconference at least once a week.

  But there was something different about actually landing at the dazzling new Babylon International Airport and being driven to the Great Tower of the People in a twenty-vehicle screaming motorcade down massive new highways, all paid for by U.S. and E.U. taxpayers.

  How quickly the world could change, Lucente realized.

  It hadn’t been that long since Saddam Hussein had brutalized these people and forced them to live in such squalor. Nor had it been that long since America destroyed Saddam’s regime and fought a brutal war of attrition with Iraqi insurgents. Who could have imagined in those dark days when the entire country teetered on the brink of civil war that Iraq would finally crush the rebellion, see order restored to its streets, and become a magnet for capitalists rather than car bombers?

  The motorcade passed a sign announcing the upcoming opening of the famed Hanging Gardens. They passed the dazzling new Iraqi Museum of Archeology and Antiquities, complete with its own IMAX theater bringing the ancient history of Babylonia to life in 3-D and THX surround sound. Lucente was stunned by how much construction was under way in the city, by how much progress had been made in just a few short years, and it suddenly struck him how powerful a force Al-Hassani and his people were rapidly becoming.

  * * *

  “Welcome, my friend. How wonderful to see you again.”

  “It is an honor to be here, Your Excellency,” Lucente responded, receiving from Al-Hassani the traditional Arab kiss on each cheek.

  “Come, come, let us enjoy the morning sunshine,” the Iraqi president insisted, leading Lucente through his private office to the balcony overlooking the city. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. Breakfast will be served to us in a few minutes, but first some coffee? Fresh-squeezed orange juice? What would you like?”

  The two men settled in, exchanged pleasantries, and ate their breakfasts, admiring the views and sharing tidbits of news about the relief efforts ongoing across the region. But when their plates were cleared, they finally turned to the business at hand.

  “Mr. President,” Lucente began at last, “as you know I have just come from Jerusalem, where I toured the areas of the worst devastation and had some very frank conversations with Prime Minister Doron. And as you requested, I insisted that he forestall any plans to build a Jewish Temple until, at the very least, we can all reengage in final status negotiations and hammer out a peace treaty between the Israelis and Palestinians once and for all.”

  “And how did the prime minister respond?” asked Al-Hassani as he began lighting up his pipe.

  “Let’s just say he was noncommittal,” Lucente explained.

  “You don’t think the aid package you offered will be enough?”

  “Frankly, I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s simple, really,” said Lucente. “At the moment, Europe is getting 60 percent of our oil from Medexco. Doron acts like he needs our aid. He’d love as much international assistance as possible. Who wouldn’t? But with oil topping 175 euros a barrel, he knows full well that he doesn’t need us as much as we need him right now.”

  “Which, I assume, is why you are here.”

  “It is, Mr. President. Our economies are choking. Unemployment is soaring. We can’t operate with oil prices this high. We have got to get oil flowing out of the Gulf states again within the next few months. My advisors tell me that’s possible, but it will take an enormous effort, and it’s one that we simply cannot take on by ourselves.”

  Lucente noted that Iraq was in a far better position to take the lead in bringing the petroleum facilities in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Iran, and the other regional OPEC players online, and doing it quickly.

  “Right now you and the Israelis are experiencing a great windfall,” Lucente noted. “But you know as well as I do that if the global economy slips into a depression, everyone loses. That’s why I have been asked by the various leaders of the E.U. to make our position very plain: you must get oil prices down below a hundred euros a barrel by summer, or I am afraid we will have to consider some unpleasant scenarios.”

  Startled, Al-Hassani stared into Lucente’s eyes. Had he heard the man correctly?

  “Mr. Foreign Minister, did you just threaten me?”

  “Of course not, Mr. President,” Lucente replied coolly. “You know how much Europe has done to rebuild your country. I have no doubt you will now help us in our time of need.”

  “Or else?” asked Al-Hassani.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” Lucente replied.

  “Didn’t you just?”

  Lucente paused a moment, then leaned toward Al-Hassani and spoke almost in a whisper. “You have a formidable military, Mr. President. Two hundred thousand troops, armed with the latest weaponry. I know. Be-cause we—NATO and the Americans—recruited them, trained them, equipped them, and helped them gain combat experience in crushing the insurgency. But do not deceive yourself. Your forces are not yet ready to face the combined forces of a unified Western alliance determined to achieve energy security at all costs. And who might your allies be? You think I don’t know about the little conclave you held here the other day? Did you think you could shuttle in leaders from all over the region without our notice? They cannot help you now. Do not miscalculate as Iraqi leaders are wont to do. Your country cannot afford a misstep.”

  * * *

  The black Mercedes headed north on Highway 90.

  If they weren’t stopped and arrested first, they would be in Tiberias in less than an hour. Natasha’s cousin had a house up there, in the hills overlooking the Sea of Galilee. They would go there first, Bennett had decided, hunker down until dark, then head for the Golan Heights. Time was not on their side, but none of them thought it wise to be seen in the mountains in daylight.

  * * *

  “We want Russia’s seat,” Al-Hassani began.

  “So does Israel,” Lucente countered.

  He could tell by the look in Al-Hassani’s eyes that he had caught him by surprise.

  “They have not made that public,” Al-Hassani noted cautiously.

  “Nor have you,” said Lucente. “Doron just told me yesterday. By now he has talked to the Americans.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Al-Hassani, “if you want our oil, we want a permanent seat on the Security Co
uncil. It can be Russia’s. It can be new. But it is nonnegotiable. We want assurances that neither the E.U. or the U.S. or the U.N. will interfere with our efforts to unify the region’s political and economic structures.”.

  “In other words, you want carte blanche to rebuild the Babylonian Empire.”

  “We have the same right to reorganize our region of the world as you had in reorganizing Europe. We are not asking for your permission. We are looking for assurances that no one will interfere.”

  “Such as?”

  “Withdrawal of foreign troops from the region. Coordination of all relief and reconstruction efforts through my office, not through the U.N. Guaranteed accession to the WTO. A few others. I will give you a list.”

  Lucente took it all in without tipping his hand one way or the other.

  “There is one thing more,” said Al-Hassani.

  Lucente waited. Al-Hassani said nothing.

  “Let me guess,” Lucente said at last. “Jerusalem.”

  Al-Hassani nodded. “The U.N. must seize control of the Temple Mount. The Jews must not be allowed to build anything there—not a Temple, not a visitor center, not a falafel stand, nothing. Ever. Period.”

  “Or else?” asked Lucente.

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” said Al-Hassani, a slight twinkle in his eye.

  “Didn’t you just?”

  38

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 15 – 9:30 a.m. – JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  “Mr. Prime Minister, we have a situation developing.”

  Doron looked up to see a very agitated Avi Zadok, flanked by the heads of the Shin Bet and the Border Patrol along with the chief of police.

  “What have you got?” Doron asked, removing his reading glasses and setting them on the desk.