The Sacred Cipher Read online

  Bohannon looked up from his pancakes. “So how did the Jews get all of these huge, perfectly matched building stones under the Temple Mount without anybody getting suspicious?”

  “They didn’t!” Rodriguez held a chunk of omelet suspended over his plate. “That’s what you figured out, right Sammy?”

  “Bingo! Go ahead . . . fill in the blanks, Joe.”

  “Okay. The primary building material in Palestine is the one thing they have in abundance, limestone. The Jews needed to enlarge a cavern in a limestone hill,” said Joe, “and they needed to cut limestone blocks to build the temple. One plus one equals two. There was no need to sneak huge blocks of stone through a tunnel and under the Temple Mount, and there was no debris. Once the location was identified, they just cut the stone blocks they needed right there, enlarging the cavern as they went along.”

  Rodriguez and Rizzo slapped high fives across the table, grinning at each other like prospectors who just hit paydirt. “You da man, Sammy.”

  But Larsen must have been wearing his doubt like a spring jacket. “What is it, Winthrop?” asked Bohannon.

  Winthrop Larsen could have been anything that he put his mind to. More importantly, Winthrop Larsen could have been nothing at all and still lived a life of privilege and wealth that few other Americans could imagine. Winthrop’s most endearing trait, though, was his unflinching honesty and candor, and the analytically questioning mind upon which that discovery of truth was most often based. Spawned from New England shipbuilders and traders, Larsen was as stable as Vermont granite, and often nearly as immovable.

  “Gentlemen, these are theories,” Larsen admonished. “Plausible, perhaps even likely, but theories nonetheless. Sammy, that was a fine analysis, but it’s not verifiable truth. If we’re thinking about going to Jerusalem to find out whether the temple in this message actually exists—and we all have to admit that’s where this discussion is going—then we need to base our decisions on the most complete gathering of facts possible.”

  Larsen could see that his deductive process was about as welcome to these guys as a toothache. They clearly wanted action.

  “So, I have a theory of my own to propose.”

  “All right, Winthrop,” hooted Rizzo, “now you’re gettin’ with the program.”

  Larsen acquitted himself well at Yale, not only as president of the honors society, but also as captain of the rugby team and an Ivy League champion sculler. Throughout his life, Winthrop remarked that the nicest compliment he had ever been paid was that he “was just a regular guy.” Now he found himself enjoying the camaraderie of these other guys more and more.

  “If we accept that Elijah and Abiathar could have quarried their limestone from under the Temple Mount while at the same time enlarging their cavern, that still leaves the problem of the monumental engineering feat that would be required to dig out, and stabilize, a cavern big enough to construct a temple the size of Solomon’s or Herod’s that existed on the Temple Mount . . . huge, imposing structures, right?”

  Heads nodded in reluctant agreement.

  “Wrong!” Larsen snapped. “First of all, trying to construct an exact replica of Solomon’s Temple would be a challenge since no one has any idea what it looked like. Drawings from the Middle Ages portray it as a massive citadel or cathedral. But, historically, this is not very believable. Today we are used to massive monumental structures. The ancient Levant was a much more modest place. Palaces, public buildings, cultic areas, and fortresses were the size of today’s smallish cabins. Towns were the size of moderate Beverly Hills estates. The ancient city of Jerusalem, the City of David, was so small an area that it took a thousand years to convince the Christian world of its location.”

  Larsen’s listeners devoured every word.

  “An Israelite temple of Yahweh, contemporary with Solomon’s, was uncovered at Tel Arad. It’s slightly larger than a modest master bedroom. In the days of Ezra, the prophet, the crowd who saw the original Second Temple wept because it was so disappointing in comparison to Solomon’s Temple. Now, their disappointment may have been with its grandeur, rather than its size. But when Herod refurbished the Second Temple, which was most likely also refurbished in the Hasmonean period, he not only built a much larger one, but he supposedly erected the new temple around the older one, while it was still being used, and only dismantled the older temple when the newer one was complete.

  “So,” said Larsen, looking over the expectant faces, “how big was Solomon’s Temple? How big was Zerubbabel’s Temple? How big does Abiathar’s Temple have to be? Think small . . . small, elaborate, and decorated with gold, certainly.

  The temples that adorned the surface of the Mount were surrounded by courts and other buildings. But to build a temple under the Mount, the space need not be massive, not by modern standards anyway.

  “They would have needed some cedar—poles, planks, beams—but that would not have aroused any suspicion. And they certainly needed a good amount of gold and silver, but that could have been smuggled inside of sacks.”

  Larsen dropped his gaze to the table and scratched the stubble on his right cheek while his listeners waited patiently. Looking up, he took a deep breath.

  “Gentlemen, I will be the first to admit that we are building theory upon theory. But I believe we have built a strong enough theoretical case to suggest a high level of probability that a Third Temple could possibly exist under the Temple Mount.”

  Larsen weighed the magnitude of his next words in the time it took to drain his cup of coffee. “I think there is only one way to know for sure. I think somebody has to go to Jerusalem and poke around under the Temple Mount . . . without getting shot.”

  21

  In normal circumstances, Johnson would have been in heaven. He found comfort in the dusky richness of old leather that mingled with the smell of oil soap and wood polish. The warming scents of a library, a thick, rich carpet under his feet, a battered but friendly leather chair waiting to wrap itself around his tired bones.

  But these were no normal circumstances. The five members of “the team” had converged on Rodriguez’s office that cold, gray, rainy Saturday morning.

  A few hours ago, they had cleaned off the desk, covered it with a large, topographical map of Jerusalem, then huddled around the desk, intensely investigating the map and sharing theories and suggestions.

  Johnson wondered whether his compatriots also wrestled with personal doubts and fears. He seemed to be getting inexorably drawn into a task he did not feel equipped to undertake. Academic research? . . . An archaeological dig? . . . These he could handle. A search for the Third Temple of God? At that, Richard Johnson’s heart grew faint. Johnson had found no peace in atheism, Eastern mysticism, or New Age mantras. To now put himself into the middle of an age-old religious conflict seemed . . . well . . . sacrilegious, like he was daring God to prove himself. And how did the others feel? Rodriguez, a lapsed Catholic; Larsen, raised a proper Episcopalian but now properly nothing at all; Rizzo, God only knew what; and Bohannon, a Bible-believing Christian with many unanswered questions. Was this ill-conceived quintet really thinking of taking on this investigation themselves, an investigation that could trigger seismic change for two of the world’s great religions? Were they worthy? Were they capable? Were they crazy?

  Johnson caught a questioning look pass from Rodriguez to Bohannon.

  “Tom, whaddaya think?” Rodriguez asked.

  “I know what I think,” said Johnson, jumping in quickly. “We call the State Department the first thing Monday morning—the office here in New York—and ask for the man in charge.”

  Johnson plunged forward, not allowing an opening for debate. “We get an appointment to see him, tell him the story, show him the scroll, the letter, and the message, and get him to set us up for a meeting in Washington with someone who will know what to do with this information.”

  Feeling the irritation of sleepless nights and annoyance at Doc’s interruption, Bohannon cut off Johnson’s
argument. “Look, Doc, if—”

  “Stop, Tom,” Johnson flared.

  Bohannon felt the burn at the back of his neck, heat rising through his cheeks, wrapping around his temples.

  “This is an international diplomatic bombshell,” Johnson continued. “If everything we’ve discovered is true, and there is a Third Temple sitting under the Temple Mount as we speak, and the world finds out about it before the State Department can huddle with the Israelis, the Palestinians, the Saudis, the Egyptians, the Jordanians—and probably the Syrians and Lebanese—well, when people say ‘All hell will break loose,’ they’re speaking about this situation.”

  “C’mon, Doc . . . you’re not lecturing to a bunch of undergrads, now,” Bohannon complained. “You’re blowing this up a bit—”

  “No, no,” said Johnson, throwing up his hands and forestalling budding objections, “you’ve got to be crazy to even think of continuing with this search. We were in this to find out what the scroll said, then we were in it to find out if its message was possible. But now, gentlemen, this is all beyond us. Do you think you can ignore the fact that two of us have nearly been killed in the last few weeks in what appears to be purposeful attacks?”

  “We’re not ignoring anything.” Tom heard his voice rising, powerless to quiet it. “We’re still not sure what we’ve got . . . if it’s true.”

  “These people don’t need true, don’t you understand that?” Johnson challenged. “Look at what happened just recently. An earthen bridge leading to the Temple Mount was washed away by severe weather. When the Israelis tried to repair the bridge, the Muslim community erupted. Claimed the Israelis were trying to undermine the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque. There were riots in the streets of the Old City.”

  Johnson got out of his chair and stood over the map, pointing his long, bony finger directly at the Dome of the Rock. “That, gentlemen, is a ticking dirty bomb,” he said with emphasis, his finger thumping on the position. “Something stupid or inconsequential could set off a feeding frenzy of violence that would shock the world and threaten peace for all of us.”

  Bohannon buried his head into his hands, shaking it back and forth. “Another doomsday prediction? Is that what you have for us?” Jackhammers pounded at his temples. “Look, Johnson, you were wrong about Swinton, and you’re wrong about this, too.”

  Tension shimmered through the room. Bohannon raised his head. The others were still, staring at him. Johnson, standing next to the desk, oscillated at the wavelength of rage, purple fury painted on the flesh above his collar.

  Bohannon could taste the air, that metallic scorch that followed on the heels of lightning.

  “Still the bully, Mr. Bohannon?” Johnson, his voice hollow, tremulous, looked like he wanted to step toward Bohannon but didn’t trust himself to lose his grasp on the desk. “Strike first, think later—is that not the journalist’s mantra?”

  Bohannon’s heart clutched his throat. Old wounds—and a new betrayal—lay like a shroud over the window to Johnson’s soul. Oh, God . . .

  “What,” Johnson asked, his voice trailing down to a whisper, “would the resident madmen of the Middle East do if, because of some inadvertent slip one of us makes, one morning next week they tuned into Fox News and discovered that the Third Temple of the Jews was ready and waiting for ritual sacrifice, and the coming of the Messiah, and none of the governments of the Middle East had any idea this was going to hit the radar screen?

  “Moving forward with this now, on our own, would be madness.”

  Johnson set both hands on the desk in front of him, covering a significant section of the map, and tried to hold his emotions in check. He was determined. The others must understand. They must see his logic, must accept his argument.

  “Taking this information, traveling to Jerusalem, attempting to gain access to the underbelly of Temple Mount, searching for a hidden temple—gentlemen, this is a death warrant. Trained, covert operatives would be putting their lives in danger trying this same stunt. But there’s a more important consideration than our lives, than the lives of seven million Israelis and countless followers of Islam.”

  Johnson steadied his voice. “We may be pushing the button for the end of the world.”

  Johnson waited for Bohannon to erupt once again, for a barrage of objections. But none came forth. Johnson figured he knew why.

  Ever since they had unlocked the code and deciphered the meaning of the scroll, Johnson wondered in the back of his mind about the discovery of the Third Temple, and what that would mean to the eschatological history of the world. He expected the others were wondering the same thing.

  For more than two decades, Johnson had wandered through the world’s religions, looking for something that made sense, that had some meaning for him, that struck a supernatural chord. He hadn’t found it yet. But he picked up enough knowledge to know that the temple had something to do with the Antichrist, Armageddon, and the end of the world. He didn’t know exactly what, but he did know that this was very explosive information and that it needed to be handled by experts.

  This was not the time for a bunch of amateur archaeologists to go bumbling around Jerusalem and start World War Last.

  Johnson looked at his compatriots, who appeared wilted like last week’s lettuce. Only Larsen entered the void. He took Johnson’s arm and led him out of Rodriguez’s office.

  “Doc, you make a strong argument,” Larsen said quietly as they stood in a corner of the Periodicals Reading Room. “There certainly is a lot at stake. And we may get to a place where we need to step away and let the professionals deal with the possibility of a Third Temple. But I don’t think we’re there yet. Sure, we’ve got the scroll and the secret message, and we all believe the message is real. What we don’t know is how it could be possible. How is it possible that a temple is under Temple Mount and has never been found? What do you think any government officer would do if we went to him with what we have so far . . . a half-formed theory with little factual support? We may, someday, need to face the doomsday scenario you fear, and that will force us to make some tough decisions. But making that decision now is a bit premature.”

  Larsen’s argument was logical.

  “Look, why don’t you and I look into the question of the Mount? These guys can go home to their wives and their jobs and rest for a bit. Let’s you and I see if we can put together a strong argument—a realistic, supportable argument—that eleventh-century Jews could have accomplished this amazing feat. If we can do that, along with translating the message of the scroll, maybe then we have something to take to a government official. Until then, well, I’d feel a little foolish trying to spin this yarn to the State Department.”

  Johnson knew Larsen was right.

  “Okay. Tomorrow morning, my office. But if we get closer to this thing, we’re heading to Washington, not Jerusalem. I’m too old to die now.”

  Turning away from Larsen toward Joe’s office, Johnson came face-to-face with Bohannon. There were tears on Tom’s cheeks.

  “Doc, I’m so sorry. That was rude . . . mean-spirited . . . cruel to bring up Randall.” Bohannon’s eyes were pleading. “I’m sorry, Doc. Please forgive me.”

  Johnson opened his mouth, but no words came. He offered his right hand to Bohannon. And found himself in a warm, earnest, shaking hug.

  22

  The walls and bookcases of Johnson’s Collector’s Club office were covered with huge, blown-up copies of ancient and modern maps of Jerusalem. They included topographic studies of the Temple Mount, enlarged drawings of walls, gates, and steps, plus ancient documents, like those sketched by Charles Warren, which suggested routes for tunnels and other water sources in and around the Temple Mount.

  Winthrop Larsen caressed the polished oak of the bookcases like the back of a long-lost love. He stood just inside the door and allowed the room to embrace him, his gaze absorbing every detail of Johnson’s occupancy. He lowered his books to the table with care.

  As he settled h
imself in the chair next to Johnson, Larsen caught himself fiddling with the Italian silk tie that hung incongruously around his neck. The tie mocked his familiar faded blue jeans and battered Top-Siders. Thankfully, he hadn’t worn the same color or design as Johnson’s.

  Johnson and Larsen, both with letter-sized pads of paper, began taking notes, jotting down questions, and making lists as they tried to work themselves through different alternatives. Johnson had a fistful of his favorite writing instruments stashed in a coffee mug to his left—new or fairly new Ticonderoga #2 pencils, each sharpened to a precise point.

  “The first question we need to answer is where to look,” said Larsen, who tried vainly to breathe through his apprehension, the familiar stage fright that always accompanied his deliberations with Johnson. “It’s a huge area to be investigating underground. The top of the Temple Mount is thirty-six acres by itself. The base of the mountain will be a great deal larger. Doing a random search, even if it were possible, could take us a year, and we still wouldn’t find anything.”

  Johnson looked up from his pad. “We have one advantage,” he said. “We’re not the first ones to face that problem. Abiathar and his Jews would have faced the same issue, how and where to get access without being observed. They obviously had a way in and a way to get access to their cavern. It’s possible that they used an existing tunnel or some other method of entry to get under the Mount. And it’s likely that it would not have been a tunnel that anyone else would have normally used. So it’s got to be obscure, or abandoned by the time of the tenth or eleventh century.”

  Larsen got up and crossed to the poster board taped to the front of a bookcase, upon which were pasted ancient drawings of tunnels, gates, walls, and waterways. Then he crossed the room and stood before a massive map of ancient Jerusalem with more than a dozen other views and cutaways framed around the edges. Perhaps this is what all the study was about, Larsen thought as he ran his mind over the Jerusalem terrain. Perhaps this is what all the training, all the trips, all the research has led to. Thank God it’s led to something. Perhaps now my father will find some value in my life. Perhaps now he will understand. Perhaps Richard will . . .