There were now three men in the mouth of the cave behind Uziel. He knelt beside Michel and helped him lift the clay vessel from the loosened dirt.
“How do you know there’s a scroll in here?”
“There’s always a scroll in these pots.”
Uziel gave him a look.
“And I peeked.”
Uziel laughed — more giddy with excitement than from the comment.
The two men carried the container carefully, the other workers standing aside as if in reverence of its contents. Twenty minutes later, they had the receptacle open and the scroll sitting on a work table that was shielded from the elements.
They put on clean work gloves, then Michel glanced at Uziel. “It’s big, like I told you.”
“I can see that.”
They held their breath as they began to slowly unroll it. After exposing three feet, they paused and Uziel hunched over the parchment. This was why he was here: to read, and translate, the Hebrew or Aramaic.
“Remarkably well preserved,” Uziel said. His eyes moved from right to left, line to line, when Michel nudged his left shoulder.
“What is it?” Michel asked. “What’s it say?”
Uziel kept reading. “This is … it’s different.”
“Different? How so?”
He carefully unrolled another foot and continued moving across the document. “Extraordinary.” He stopped and looked up. “Clear the table, give me more to read.”
“Tell me,” Michel said, staring at the black ink block letters. “What does it say?”
Uziel soldiered on, his lips moving as he spoke the Hebrew aloud. Ten minutes later, having reached the end, he reached for the chair behind him and sat down heavily.
“I swear it,” Michel said. “By the hand of Christ, I will strike you with my walking stick if you don’t tell me what it says.”
“Christ is an interesting choice of words.” He made eye contact and his elation turned to concern. “This could change history, my friend.”
PART 1
“Our military and intelligence personnel go face to face with the world’s most dangerous men every day. They have risked their lives to capture some of the most brutal terrorists on earth and they have worked day and night to find out what the terrorists know so we can stop new attacks. America owes our brave men and women some things in return; we owe them thanks for saving lives and keeping America safe …”
“Sometimes people don’t want to hear the truth because they don’t want their illusions to be destroyed.”
1
The waitress set the glass of Board Meeting brown ale on the table in front of FBI profiler Karen Vail. Vail took a long sip and said, “Notes of dark chocolate and coffee. I’ve definitely developed a taste for this. It’s very … stimulating.” She winked at her fiancé, DEA special agent Roberto Hernandez.
“You mean like an aphrodisiac?” Robby asked. “Beer?”
Vail leaned close to him, her lips tickling his ear. “When we get home, after I pull your pants off, I’m going to take your—”
Two gunshots echoed off the facades of the neighboring buildings. Vail and Robby pulled their pistols in unison and ran toward the exit of the storefront bar.
“That was nearby,” Vail said as she hit the glass door. So much for a romantic night out.
“Anything?” Robby asked, swiveling in an arc, eyes scanning the nighttime cityscape.
The vapor from their now-rapid breathing trailed off like apparitions, carried on the breeze that found its way down the collar of Vail’s sweater. She had left without pulling on her coat, and the chill made her shiver involuntarily.
A shrill scream off to the right in the vicinity of 14th Street NW sent them sprinting down the block. They turned the corner — and saw a body laid out on the sidewalk, the blood pooled next to it dripping over the edge of the curb.
“Call it in,” Vail said as she continued on toward the injured man. She pressed two fingers against his carotid and shook her head. “Let’s secure the perimeter, hold the scene for Metro PD.”
Robby brought the phone to his ear and craned his neck to find the street signs so he could report their location.
Vail hovered over the body but could not resist the urge to check the identity of the deceased.
C’mon, Karen, let Metro do their jobs. This isn’t your case. This isn’t your jurisdiction.
She gently patted the man’s jacket with the back of her hand, then moved on to his jeans. In his front pocket Vail felt a wallet. She forced two fingers against the denim and extracted the smooth black leather bi-fold. Her heart skipped a beat as she splayed it open and saw an FBI shield. Agent Harlon Filloon.
Whoa. Was he killed because he’s a federal agent? Was he working a case? Or is it just a coincidence?
“Robby.” Vail held up the credentials so he could see what she had found, then folded them and slid them into her pocket.
He nodded as he finished the call and then reholstered his phone.
“Something’s not right.” She rose from her crouch and glanced around, her Glock now tight in her grip, following the direction of her gaze.
She moved toward the street corner a few yards away and heard feet slapping against asphalt. Fleeing suspect?
Vail pressed her back against the building’s masonry wall as Robby headed toward her.
“What’s up?”
“Footsteps. Running. Could be nothing.”
Glock out in front, chest high, elbows locked against her ribcage, she swung left, around the corner of the edifice—
And saw a man sprinting across Irving Street, approaching a row of brick townhouses. “Hey!”
He turned, their eyes met, and that’s when she saw the handgun glint in the amber glow of the streetlight.
“FBI, don’t move!”
He twisted his torso and something flew from his hands as he brought up the pistol. But Vail and Robby fired first.
One or both of them scored a direct hit — and a concussive blast blew them both back onto their buttocks, glass and shrapnel flying past, and against, them. Vail shook her head, opened her eyes, and looked up into a fog of detritus floating down toward her. She rolled onto all fours, her hearing diminished. Robby—
She swung her gaze around and saw him on a knee, slowly pushing himself upright. “You okay?”
“I think so.” He staggered toward her, slipping on shards of glass littering the asphalt.
Car alarms blared as people scurried out of the nearby buildings, running this way and that, trying to escape a formless threat.
As Vail made her way toward the area where the perp was standing when they shot him, she became aware of her phone ringing — and vibrating violently in her pocket.
Vail stopped and brought the handset to her face.
“Agent Vail, this is Director Knox.”
A call from the FBI director? On a Saturday night?
“Yes sir,” she said as she caught a glimpse of Robby starting to sift through the rubble. “Can you speak louder?” I just escaped being blown to bits and my hearing’s a bit muffled.
There was a pause, then, “We’ve got a situation I need you to handle.”
“Does it have anything to do with the gunshots? Or the bomb that just went off?”