The depth was going to present yet another problem. The computer graph had shown depths ranging from seventy-five to a hundred fifty feet. Stay time even at seventy-five feet was going to be limited, and the temperature, if it was as cold as he expected, compounded the stay-time limitation. He could not know, from just one seismic shot, how wide the cave really was, or what the sides looked like, or whether or not there were stairs, terraces, or even side caves. He did know that the diving rule for multiple dives was always to make the deep dive first. Then he would have to calculate residual nitrogen, establish a surface stay and recovery time, and calculate how long he could stay at the shallower depth on the second dive. For depths of a hundred ten feet, which was the recommended maximum, no-decompression stay time would be only sixteen minutes. Because of the expected temperature, he had to cut that back to probably thirteen minutes. Then at least an hour and a half back on the surface to let his body eliminate cellular nitrogen. After that he could make a fifty-foot or shallower dive to survey the sides of the cistern. Because of residual nitrogen, he would only be able to stay down on the second dive for about forty-five minutes.
He had seen three car rental agencies on his seemingly random walking tour, and he had borrowed the use of a phone at an antiques shop to make a reservation with one of them for a four-wheel-drive vehicle, for pickup Wednesday noon.
The final objective for his Sunday walkabout was to find a camping supplies shop. He would need to set up a base camp at Masada from which to mount the dives, and after considering the empty and exposed terrain around the fortress, he had settled on using the rim cistern itself. It was not a place into which any tourists were likely to stumble, certainly not without a flashlight. The downside of this choice would be the need to hump the four heavy air tanks up that slope. The Yadin reports had mentioned a road, created by the army, cutting in from the coast north of the mountain and reaching up to the western plateau, where the ruins of the main Roman siege camp lay. If that was still there, he could maybe find a hiding spot near that for the vehicle. Then he would only have to haul the heavy tanks up the four hundred feet of the siege ramp instead of up the twelve hundred feet on the other side. Either way, he would need some tarps, a portable camp stove, water and food for forty-eight hours, and things like a sleeping bag, a camp shovel, toilet paper, and a first-aid kit. The usual stuff.
By three he had located a trekking supplies shop after consulting a tour agent’s brochures. He placed a phone call from yet another tours shop. He told them what he needed and that he would be by to get it Wednesday afternoon. American Express? We can do that, Mr. Hall. We can deliver, if you want. For a small additional fee, of course. He told them to do that and gave them the name of his hotel.
Throughout the afternoon, he kept one eye peeled for any signs that he was being followed or observed. A couple of times he thought he saw a familiar face in the crowd, or the same vehicle, but he couldn’t really be sure. Until he saw that overweight American woman again, across the street from the tour shop. He turned quickly and went back into the shop as if he’d forgotten something. From the shaded front windows he watched her go into the nearest shop, come back out, then walk quickly up the street.
He sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and fanned his face, pretending that the heat had gotten to him. The pretty clerk behind the counter brought him a bottle of water, which he accepted gratefully.
Sneaky bastards, he thought. Not a guy, nor a prowling government car, but a woman who looked like and sounded like another American tourist. He’d walked for a couple of hours at a pace that no fat lady could match, and yet here she was. Right across the street. Fancy that. Probably making the call right now — I’ve been made. He shouldn’t have made that quick turn back into the tours shop. Oh, well, he thought. Stay in character. The fat lady would have a backup.
“International Planning.”
“Eyes Nine. I think I’ve been made. Eyes Thirteen is in place. Tell Skuratov.”
“He’s an operative, then?”
“I don’t think so, but…”
“What has he done all day?”
“Nothing, and he’s worked hard at it. The perfect American tourist. But…”
“But.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, got it. Go home.”
On Sunday David had refined the front end of his plan. Assuming that any tails would have had enough after watching him be a duller-than-dogshit tourist for two days, he would go on the dives to Caesarea Maritima Monday and Tuesday, renege on Wednesday’s tour, and then, after picking up the car and packing out, decamp for Masada on Wednesday afternoon, timing his drive down to arrive on the Dead Sea coast road just after dark. His plan was to hide the car near the mountain, get all the gear up to the rim cistern during the night, then go back and sleep in the car until daylight and the first tour buses began rolling in. He would drive out to the coastal road, fall in behind a tour bus, park in the lot, join the gaggle of tourists, and take the cable car directly up to the fortress, hopefully keeping clear of the staff people in the hostel. Blend in with the tourists and wander around for a while, then check out with the site guards for a hike back down the Serpent Path. That would take care of the guards’ head count, and then he would simply disappear into the rim cistern.
What about the rental vehicle? He would leave a note on the front seat of the car saying that it had broken down and that the rental agency had been notified and would be coming for it soon. He, the driver, had hitched a ride on a tour bus back to Jerusalem.
From there, well, he would have to improvise. If the cistern contained artifacts, then he would need to get out and contact Judith to start the official explorations. Either way, he ought to know what he had by Thursday evening.
He chafed at the thought of staying away from Masada for three more days, but he had to let all the bureaucratic dust from last week settle. The one thing he could not stand would be someone on his tail when he skipped town Wednesday. This was Sunday afternoon. Any way he looked at it, he had three more days to wait.
He decided to have an early dinner and then study the Caesarea dive maps and refine his calculations for the dives in the big cave. He thought again about Judith as he rode the elevator downstairs. He still had her business card in his wallet. He was assuming that she’d come running if he found something dramatic in that flooded cave, but what if she became outraged and brought ministry cops instead? Maybe you ought to work on that problem, he told himself, especially since you have three days to kill before you make your move. Like what? Like call her up, see if you can make amends for what happened down there. At least make friends again. That way, when you do call her, you’ll have a chance of convincing her to come down there and see for herself what you’ve found. He knew exactly how to make her come to him: He’d tell her that she would be the archaeologist who saved the discovery from the amateur.
He laughed as he walked out of the elevator doors, provoking some strange looks from the people waiting for the elevator. Now that’s really cynical, he thought, as he crossed to the lobby bar. You’ve tromped on her feelings once already, and now you want to set her up again. Well, maybe I just want to see her again. Yeah, right.