The Hadassah Covenant Page 29

  “Were any aircraft dispatched to the site of the car bombing? That would give us an easy ID on the blanket shape. . . . ”

  In fifteen minutes the site of the kidnappers’ lair had been narrowed down to within a two-block area of central Baghdad.

  Encrypted satcom messages flew out of Room 3E099 to military commanders in the Green Zone, less than two miles away from the site in question.

  In the middle of an Iraqi night, thickly muscled men bolted from their cots and started pulling on black camouflage, then checking their weapons.

  And not far from them, a frightened little girl with hauntingly beautiful eyes cried herself to sleep on a blanket crudely lettered with threatening Arabic words.

  She was alone . . . in every sense of the word.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The Independent Online Edition, 17 April 2005

  Thousands of previously illegible manuscripts containing work by some of the greats of classical literature are being read for the first time using technology which experts believe will unlock the secrets of the ancient world.

  Among treasures already discovered by a team from Oxford University are previously unseen writings by classical giants including Sophocles, Euripides and Hesiod. Invisible under ordinary light, the faded ink comes clearly into view when placed under infrared light, using techniques developed from satellite imaging.

  The Oxford documents form part of the great papyrus hoard salvaged from an ancient rubbish dump in the Graeco-Egyptian town of Oxyrhynchus more than a century ago. The thousands of remaining documents, which will be analyzed over the next decade, are expected to include works by Ovid and Aeschylus, plus a series of Christian gospels which have been lost for up to 2,000 years.

  —DAVID KEYS AND NICHOLAS PYKE, “EUREKA! EXTRAORDINARY DISCOVERY UNLOCKS SECRETS OF THE ANCIENTS”

  * * *

  MASADA, SOUTHERN ISRAEL—THE FOLLOWING MORNING

  Why do I have to go through with this?” exclaimed Prime Minister ben Yuda, repeating his wife’s inane question. “You should know better than anyone why I have to do this. Because I have to keep up business as usual. Because I can’t afford to have anyone think these charges are tying me to my office. Because Masada is one of Israel’s most symbolically important places, and to cancel now would offend every voter who has ever lost a loved one in wartime. And maybe, above all, because I simply refuse to let the jackals take me down!”

  “You’re right,” Hadassah answered in her most placating tone. “I do know those things. But in a national crisis, I’m just saying the people expect you to be in the capital, directing things.”

  “I will be directing things. I am directing things right now,” he said, the veins bulging on his neck. “Now, admit it, Hadassah. You’re just breaking my knuckles because you know the media is going to descend on you like vultures. And, my dear, I can’t help that. I didn’t exactly cause this, you know.”

  “You act as though I did,” she said mournfully.

  “It feels like you did, that’s all,” he answered, his voice softening. “I know you’ve done your best. I just feel so powerless. It’s like some hoary old figure out of the distant past sat up out of his grave and grabbed me around the neck. I mean, think of it—my cabinet, my whole government, maybe the future of the Middle East, is now depending on whether Mordecai, a man who lived twenty-three hundred years ago, managed to produce offspring.”

  “You don’t have to oversimplify it for my sake, Jacob. There are more logical steps than I can count between you and Mordecai.”

  “Well, count them if you want to. But the fact remains that if Mordecai did not marry Leah, then neither you or Ari have any claim to being the new Exilarch, and only a new Exilarch can negotiate with Iraq for the claims of the exiled Jews or persuade the hidden Jews to come out of hiding to save themselves. Ergo—my troubles have only just begun.”

  “I know. I love that a story so old and historical has such a hold on the present.”

  “Oh, Hadassah, please spare me the Oprah Book Club blather.” But the bite was taken out of the words by his look of both pride in her and frustration with the current juxtaposition of events.

  “Look, I just feel that her story spoke to me,” she tried to explain. “That’s all. I feel like we’re sisters, almost.”

  Her cell phone rang with her personalized tones: the opening fanfare of the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love.” She had the unit to her ear before her shoulders had even registered the motion.

  “Hadassah?” It was Ari, with the buzz-saw noise of distance in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “Paris, my dear cousin. I have honeycombed the world in my unceasing efforts to get you and your husband off the hook.”

  she raised her eyebrows—hopefully the banter meant there was good news. “Right. As if you had no self-interest in the matter.”

  “Listen. I’m at the Louvre. I know that sounds a little obvious, but that’s where all the Persian antiquities are stored. I can’t tell you more until it happens. But make sure you’re reachable. Where are you?”

  “We’re leaving shortly for Masada. The three-thousandth anniversary or something.”

  “That sounds like a security nightmare. Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stay away from the edges.”

  “Well, just make sure you stay in cell range—either that or let Mossad know how to contact you. Because I think I’m on to something.”

  THE LOUVRE MUSEUM, PARIS—LATER THAT DAY

  Ari Meyer descended the endless marble steps two at a time, mentally marking off the decades with each step. Mathematically, he estimated that it would take nearly sixty years per step to account for the journey back in time—from the twenty-first-century main floor, to the sheer ancientness of not only the museum’s catacomb displays, but the very antiquity of the Louvre’s bowels themselves.

  Only a decade or so earlier, in the midst of renovations that had added the famous crystal pyramid and underground turnstiles, the French government had discovered battlements and buried structures that dated back to the time of Christ. To Ari, it only added to the Louvre’s mystique—the difficulty of telling which represented the most stunning work of art: the pieces on display or the building itself.

  Another fact Ari would pretend not to know: that the world’s largest museum did not contain the world’s most extensive collection of Persian artifacts merely because it was the biggest or best museum, or because it had become the famous setting for the fictional decoding of an ancient mystery. Rather, it contained nearly a whole floor of hidden Persian objects and archives deep within its foundations, somewhere between the floors tourists knew best and its prehistoric foundation layers, because the French had been for decades the colonial patrons of modern Iran. As a result, French archaeologists had an easy time negotiating unfettered access to the world’s greatest ruins in exchange for coveted modern luxuries like running water and paid-off royal debts.

  Indeed, what Alexander the Great did not cart off in those early years of the overthrown empire, the French had managed to ship away on large steamboats, all for the filling of the Louvre’s nearly inexhaustible stacks.

  Ari Meyer lost count of his decades somewhere around the last ten steps. Upon reaching the subterranean landing, he simply rounded off and gave himself an even thirty-five hundred. Then he turned into a barrel-vaulted, unlit doorway with the confidence of someone with an idea.

  “The Marduk Love Letters,” he said to the half-shadowed face of the after-hours Chief Archivist. “I would like to see them.”

  The archivist did not move but cocked his head with an air of suspicious curiosity. “We are most pleased, of course, to address the needs of a valued diplomatic friend. I only wonder why there is such a hurry that we need do this at such a late hour.”

  “Actually, mon ami, it is a matter of the gravest urgency,” Ari responded. “And you will have the eternal gratitude of the government of Israel if you would p
lease guide me hurriedly—no, swiftly—to the room where they are contained.”

  “All right, sir. Please come with me. . . . ”

  Ari could hardly contain his excitement. The sense of advancing history intensified with their descent through the rows of ancient racks. The idea had struck him like a long-delayed revelation. The Letters, one of the most cryptic and speculated-about cuneiform documents of all time, outlined an odd, unexplained love between a high palace official in the time of Artaxerxes and some kind of lowbrow woman within the palace. Over the decades, even centuries, these letters had acquired a dedicated following of scholars enamored with their secrecy, their eloquent, florid language, their oddly phrased and incomplete dialogue, and their abundance of references to palace staff, hidden beneath layers of encryption and misdirecting clues.

  Today Ari had a secret weapon. The Mossad had acquired, through the most secretive of intelligence circles, the working prototype for a device developed for the CIA by scientists at Johns Hopkins and the Rochester Institute of Technology. It was a device roughly the size of a hand-held scanner that emitted a rare form of infrared light through a classified ultraviolet filter, all finely calibrated according to the parameters of the latest satellite imaging technology. Back in Jerusalem, the Mossad had already developed a full-scale laboratory model. But for his work, Ari had laid his hands on one of the few miniature-sized originals in existence.

  They had arrived at the room in question: a vast square space fringed by wall-hung displays.

  “Here,” said the guide, pointing to a large unrolled scroll.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” Ari answered, smiling in anticipation. He waited till his escort had left, then pulled out his infrared wand and turned it on before the ancient scroll. New lines and phrases appeared, completely changing the letter’s theme.

  As he began to translate the illuminated text, his practiced eye discerned right away that the document was written not only in the proper ancient vocabulary but also in a bold, masculine hand. . . .

  My lady, I love you.

  I write these words so that I can say at the end of my life that I expressed the feelings which threaten to burst me apart. Even if I only express them to myself. You see, I am not sure I will ever show you this.

  In fact, I am mortified to even imagine these words ever falling under your gaze.

  However, I write it for you. I know that this is strange, illogical, and maybe even pathetic.

  I know that this message may be dangerous, highly inappropriate, uncalled for, and perhaps even distressing to you. I know that it comes at perhaps the worst time of your life, therefore raising the prospect of my trying to take undue advantage of a woman in a vulnerable state. Yet I would disagree with that assessment of things. I must be truthful. First to myself and then, if my courage survives, to you.

  Should I say it again? I truly do love you. Now, give me time, for it will be long—if ever—before I gain enough courage to say such things out loud. But here, in this place, I can.

  I believe it’s important that you know I didn’t say these things out of trifling affection. The fact is, I do not love you merely as a friend, a colleague, a confidante, or even a maid of honor. I love you as a ravishing, desire-provoking, sweat-causing, stammer-inducing beautiful woman. A woman of G-d. A creation of the Almighty, who has infinite worth, value, and contribution to offer the living G-d and His people. And has found herself locked away due to circumstances far indeed from her control.

  When did it start? My beloved daughter would tell me it was the first moment I saw you, although I must admit I was completely unaware. Or at least consciously. I am not even sure you noticed us that day. It was the day you first came to the harem, along with your fellow candidates. Probably one of the most confusing, bewildering moments of your life. Our mutual friend Hathach the chamberlain stood alongside, and he had already surmised that you were one of us.

  I thought I was admiring your poise, your uniqueness from the others. But my daughter—whom I will not mention by name because of events we both know are taking place concerning the empire—is sure she noticed something else.

  And then, of course, we met, in the passage of your time in the harem and my frequent trips to both my daughter’s harem chambers and those of Hathach.

  From the very first words that left your mouth, I realized you were a perceptive and well-spoken young woman, on whom I could rely for accurate observations of the Jewish community and their feelings toward the palace.

  I had long conversations with your chamberlain about how much you reminded him of my own daughter at the same age, when she herself had entered the harem for her year of preparation.

  I never harbored an un-innocent thought toward you. In fact, I pictured you so pure, so refined, that any untoward impulse would simply not have survived with you as its object.

  Then, of course, there is the matter of your own night with the King.

  And the morning after.

  Even as you were being escorted back to the harem, I was being summoned back to the King’s chambers. I had no idea what had taken place.

  I walked in and noticed immediately that something was wrong. The King’s expression toward me had changed; the slant of his eyes had narrowed, he suddenly would not meet my gaze, and he wore a perpetual scowl.

  “Mordecai, I spent last night with a most remarkable woman. The most beautiful, the most refined, the most intoxicating creature I have ever met. Her name is Leah. From Susa, I believe. Do you happen to know her?”

  “Leah,” I repeated, trying desperately to buy myself some time—to decide whether or not I would be candid. “I believe I have. I am, as you know, sir, a close friend of Your Majesty’s chamberlain.”

  “Yes, I do remember that, Mordecai,” he answered. “In fact, the knowledge of it has troubled me much over the last few hours.”

  “Why is that, sire?”

  “Well, as I indicated, last night was one of the most memorable in my whole life. Leah was most sensuous and, better still, intelligent and charming. She left me with memories I shall treasure the rest of my life.”

  “I am very glad to hear that, Your Majesty. . . . ” but my voice held a question mark that didn’t fit the statement.

  “Yes, thank you—but there was one exception. Right in the middle of the evening, as we exchanged some quite candid and profound disclosures about ourselves and our lives, I began to speak of a most intimate and even secret matter. I spoke to her about . . . well, you know my relations with my brother Darius were rather . . . complicated.”

  “Indeed I remember.”

  “Yes, and the most amazing thing took place as I spoke with her. I began to think of the night of my father’s murder. And all of the other secondary things that took place.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. I do remember—”

  “You do, do you? Well, then, perhaps you remember that only you and the former Queen have any knowledge of how exactly my brother died. That I was tricked by my father’s killers into ordering . . .”

  His voice grew thick and husky, then faded away.

  “Do you know what this amazing girl told me? She leaned forward and whispered into my ear, ‘Don’t feel guilty. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault.’

  “Now deep in the throes of grief, I did not fully appreciate what she had said for quite a long moment. But then, something about the tone of her voice stirred the deepest part of my brain. And I suddenly realized she was not merely referring to some general survivor’s guilt over my brother’s untimely murder.

  “She knew it, Mordecai. She knew the truth. The minute I lifted myself up to look upon her with a questioning mien, I saw a flash of dread cross her face, the wilted demeanor of one who realizes she has disclosed something imprudent in an unguarded moment.

  “So my question is, how well do you and the former Queen know this most well-informed young woman?”

  And do you know, for the first time in all my years as a Master of the A
udience, I found my words utterly lacking. I did not know how to answer. Never before has my own or my loved ones’ self-interest placed itself at odds with my duty to the King.

  Artaxerxes, though, did not seemed surprised at all by my sudden muteness. He looked away and shook his head, continuing his prepared speech.

  “Yes, that is what I thought, my dear Mordecai. Trusted and beloved advisor to my father, revered figure to the world’s largest empire, man of unaccusable, unquestionable integrity. And of course, human savior, along with his daughter, of his people . . .”

  I worked very hard not to look his way or betray any reaction whatsoever to those words. But his tone now grew cloying and cunningly playful.

  “Jewish—I was only a child at the time, but I was not misled, was I, Mordecai? Were not, in fact, your Jewish people the intended victims of a most vicious extermination plot in those days? A plot that forced you to risk your life to defy a nobleman and save your race from being wiped off the face of the earth?”

  “It was G-d who saved my people, Your Majesty,” I quickly blurted, thankful for something totally truthful I could say.

  “You know what I mean,” he said.

  I was now trapped, for as you know I would never betray or deny my faith. If I would risk everything by refusing to bow down to a Haman, I surely would not turn my back on my heritage merely to deny the King a point in conversation.

  So I answered him, “Yes, Your Majesty. Your memory indeed serves you correctly. I am Jewish. One of the exiles of Israel.”

  “And so . . . am I also correct in guessing that the young lady who has so enchanted me had knowledge of things only you know because she is . . . also of your people?”

  I allowed a long pause to fall between us while I tried to think of any other way to answer him.

  “I learned that quite recently myself, Your Majesty.” My explanation sounded pathetic and contrived—even its sound echoed flatly across the marble of the vast room.