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  I could have told you that, Dan thought, but kept it to himself. He’d give anything to make this right for her, but that was impossible. So the least he could do was be there when the hurt hit.

  “Stand back a little. I’m coming in.”

  Dan slid down onto his back and entered the opening feet first. A tight squeeze but he managed to wriggle through with only a few minor scrapes and scratches.

  Carrie stood a few feet away, her back to him, playing her flashlight beam along the walls.

  “You’re right,” he said, coughing as he brushed himself off. “A lot cooler in here. Almost cold.”

  Quickly he flashed his own beam around. Not a cave so much as a rocky alcove, maybe a dozen feet deep and fifteen wide, with rough, pocked walls. And no doubt about its being empty. Not even a spider. Just dust—dry, powdered rock—layering the floor. Only Carrie’s footprints and his own marred the silky surface.

  What do I say? he wondered. Do I say anything—or let Carrie say it first?

  As he stepped toward her, Carrie suddenly moved away to the left.

  “Look. I think there’s a tunnel here.”

  Dan caught up to her, joined his flash beam to hers, and realized that what he had thought to be a pocket recess near the floor of the cave was actually an opening into another chamber.

  Carrie dropped to her hands and knees and shone her light through.

  “See anything?” Dan said, hovering over her.

  “Looks like more of the same. Tunnel’s only a couple of feet long. I’m going in for a look.”

  Dan squatted behind her and gently patted her buttocks. “Right behind you.”

  Carrie began to crawl, then stopped, freezing like a deer who’s heard a twig break, then quickly scrambled the rest of the way through.

  “Oh, Dan,” he heard her say in a hoarse, quavering voice just above a whisper. “Oh-Dan-oh-Dan-oh-Dan-oh-Dan!”

  He belly-crawled through as fast as his elbows and knees could propel him and bumped his head on the ceiling as he regained his feet on the other side.

  But he instantly forgot the pain when he saw what lay in the wavering beam of Carrie’s flashlight.

  A woman.

  An elderly woman lying supine in an oblong niche in the wall of the chamber.

  “It’s...” Carrie’s voice choked off and she cleared her throat. “It’s her, Dan. It’s really her.”

  “Well, it’s somebody.”

  A jumble of emotions tumbled through Dan. He was numb, he was exhausted, and he was angry. He’d been preparing himself to comfort Carrie when she discovered she’d been played for a fool. Entering the cave was supposed to be the last step in this trek. Now he had one more thing to explain.

  The scroll, the careful and clever descriptions of this area of the Wilderness were one thing, but this was going too far. This was...ghoulish was the most appropriate word that came to mind.

  “It’s her. Look at her.”

  Dan was doing just that. The woman’s robe was blue, its cowl up and around her head; short, medium build, with thick strands of gray hair poking out from under the cowl. Her wrinkled skin had a sallow, almost waxy look to it. Her eyes and lips were closed, her cheeks slightly sunken, her nose generous without being large. Even in the wavering light of the flash beams, she appeared to be a handsome, elderly woman who might have been beautiful in her youth. She looked so peaceful lying there. He noticed her hands were folded between her breasts. Something about those hands...

  “Look at her fingernails,” Carrie said, her voice hushed like someone whispering during Benediction. Obviously she shared his feeling that they were trespassing. “They’re so long.”

  “I hear they continue to grow...the nails and the hair... after you’re dead.”

  Carrie stepped closer but Dan gripped her arm and held her back.

  “Don’t. It might be booby-trapped.”

  Carrie shook off his hand and whirled to face him. He couldn’t see her face but the anger in her whisper told him all he needed to know about her expression.

  “Stop it, Dan! Haven’t you gone far enough with this Doubting Thomas act?”

  “It’s not an act, and I wish there was more light.”

  “So do I, but there isn’t. I wish we’d brought some sort of lantern but we didn’t. This is all we’ve got.”

  “All right. But be careful.”

  Dan fought a sick, anxious dread that coiled through his gut as he watched her approach the body. And it was a body. Had to be. Too much detail for it to be anything other than the real thing.

  But whose body? What sort of mind would go to such elaborate extremes to pull off a hoax. A sicko like that would be capable of anything, even a booby trap.

  Of course, there was the possibility that these actually were the earthly remains of the mother of Jesus Christ.

  Dan wanted to believe that. He dearly would have loved to believe that. And probably would be fervently believing that right now if not for the fact that the scroll that had led them here had been proven beyond a doubt to have been written less than a dozen years ago.

  So if this wasn’t the Virgin Mary, who was she? And who had hidden her here?

  Carrie was standing over her now, staring down at the woman’s lifeless face.

  “Dan? Do you notice something strange about her?”

  “Besides her fingernails?”

  “There’s no dust on her. There’s dust layered everywhere, but not a speck of it on her.”

  Dan stepped closer and sniffed. No odor. And Carrie was right about the dust: not a speck. He smiled. The forger had finally made a mistake.

  “Doesn’t that indicate to you that she was placed here recently?”

  “No. It indicates to me that dirt—and dust is dirt—has no place on the Mother of God.”

  As he watched, Carrie sank to her knees, made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head in prayer with the flashlight clasped between her hands.

  This isn’t real, Dan thought. All we need is a ray of light from the ceiling and a hallelujah chorus from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to make this a Cecil B. DeMille epic. This can’t be happening. Not to me. Not to Carrie. We’re two sane people.

  Impulsively, gingerly, he reached out and touched the woman’s cheek. The wrinkled flesh didn’t give. Not hard like stone or wood or plastic. More like wax. Cool and smooth...like wax. But it wasn’t wax, at least not like any wax Dan had ever seen.

  He heard a sob and snatched his hand away...but the sound had come from Carrie. He flashed his beam toward her face. Tears glistened on her cheeks. He crouched beside her.

  “Carrie, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I feel so strange. All this time I thought I believed, and I prayed to her, and I asked her to help me, to intercede for me, but now I get the feeling that all that time I didn’t believe. Not really. And now here she is in front of me, not two feet away, and I don’t know what I feel or what I think.” She looked up at him. “I don’t have to believe anymore, do I, Dan? I know. I don’t have to believe, and that feels so strange.”

  One thing Dan knew was that he didn’t believe this was the Virgin Mary. But it was somebody. He played his flashlight beam over her body.

  Lady, who are you?

  Another thing he knew was that Carrie was heading for some sort of breakdown. She was teetering on the edge now. He had to get her out of here before she went over. But how?

  “What do we do now?” he said, straightening up.

  He felt her grip his arm as she rose to her feet beside him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’ve found her...or someone...or something. Now what do we do?”

  “We protect her, Dan.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  Carrie’s voice was very calm, almost matter of fact. “We take her back with us.”

  TWELVE

  Tel Aviv

  “What’s the matter, baby?” Devorah said from behind him, casually raking her
sharp nails down the center of his back.

  Kesev sat on the edge of the bed in her apartment. They always wound up at Devorah’s place, never his. They both preferred it that way. Kesev because he never allowed anyone in his apartment, and Devorah because when she was home she had access to her...props.

  He’d met her last year. An El Al stewardess. She could have been Irish with her billowing red hair, pale freckled skin, and blue eyes, but she was pure Israeli. Young—mid-twenties—with such an innocent, girlish face, almost child-like. But Devorah was a cruel, mischievous child who liked to play rough. And when it came to rough she preferred to give rather than receive. Which was fine with Kesev.

  Their little arrangement had lasted longer than any other in recent memory. Probably because her job took her away so much, she’d yet to grow tired of his black moods and long silences. And probably because Devorah had been unable to find a way to really hurt him. Kesev absorbed whatever she could dish out. She considered him a challenge, her perfect whipping boy.

  So Devorah seemed happy with him, while he was...what? Happy? Satisfied? Content?

  Hardly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt something approaching any of those.

  The situation was...tolerable. Just barely tolerable. Which was more than he’d learned to hope for.

  “You weren’t really into it tonight,” she said.

  “Sorry. I...I’m distracted.”

  “You’re always distracted. Tonight you’re barely here.”

  Probably true. A vague uneasiness had stalked him all day, disturbing his concentration at the Shin Bet office, stealing his appetite, and finally settling on him like a shroud late this afternoon.

  More than uneasiness now. A feeling of impending doom.

  Could it have something to do with the Resting Place? He followed the wire services meticulously and there’d been no word of a new Dead Sea scroll or startling revelations regarding the mother of Christ. Not even a ripple.

  But that was hardly proof that all was well, that all was safe and secure.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our date for tomorrow,” he said, turning to face her.

  She lay sprawled among the sheets, her generous breasts and their pink nipples exposed. Even her breasts were freckled. But she didn’t lay still long. She levered up and slapped him across the face.

  “I don’t like broken promises!” she hissed between clenched teeth.

  The blow stung but Kesev didn’t flinch. Nor was he angry. One deserved whatever one got when a promise was betrayed.

  “There is a hierarchy of promises,” he said softly. “Some promises take precedence over others.”

  “And this promise. Is this what distracts you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it involve another woman?”

  “Not at all.” At least not in the sense she meant.

  “Good.” She smiled as she clicked a handcuff over his right wrist. “Come. Let Devorah see if she can make you forget all your mysterious distractions.”

  ‡

  The Judean Wilderness

  It had taken some heavy persuasion, but Dan managed to convince Carrie to leave the cave so they could talk outside...in the light...in the air...away from that...thing.

  He felt instantly better outside. It had seemed like night in there. Even though the entire tav rock was in shadow now, he squinted in the relative brightness.

  And he was still staggering from Carrie’s words. He’d never thought they’d find anything on this trip, so he’d never even dreamed that Carrie might want to...

  “Take her back? To the US? Are you serious?”

  “We have to,” she said. “If we don’t, other people might decipher that other scroll you mentioned and find her. The wrong kind of people. People who’d...misuse her.”

  “Then why don’t we just move her from here and bury her where no one will find her?”

  She wheeled on him. “This is the mother of God, Dan! You don’t just stick her in the dirt!”

  “All right, all right.” He could see she wasn’t rational on this. “But even if we could get her back home—and believe me, that’s a big if—what’ll we do with her? Give her to a museum? To the Vatican?”

  “Oh, no. Oh, Lord, no,” she said, vigorously shaking her head. “We’ve got to keep her secret. She was hidden away for a reason. We have to respect that. Imagine if some crazy Muslims got hold of her, or some sort of satanic cult. Think how they might desecrate her. Now that we’ve found her, we have a very clear duty: We have to take her back with us and hide her where no one else can find her.”

  “You’re not thinking, Carrie. We’ll never get her past customs.”

  “There’s got to be a way. Your friend Hal says people are smuggling archeological artifacts out of the Mid East all the time. Call him. He can tell you how.”

  “Call Hal? Sure. Hand me the phone.”

  “This is not a joking matter, Dan.”

  He saw her tight features and the look in her eyes and realized how serious she was. But she wasn’t thinking straight. Finding that strange body in there, whoever it was, had jumbled up her rational processes. He had to get her away from here, get her calmed down so she could get some perspective on this whole situation...

  And calling Hal might be just the excuse he needed.

  “All right. We’ll call Hal and see what he says.”

  Her expression relaxed. “You mean that?”

  “Of course. We’ll drive back to the highway, maybe go to En Gedi...” He glanced at his watch. “It’s seven hours earlier in New York so we can still catch him in his office. And we’ll ask his advice.”

  “You go. I’m staying here.”

  “No way, Carrie. No way I’m leaving you sitting up here at night in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’ll be all right. Now that I’ve found her, you can’t expect me to leave her.”

  “If she is who you think she is, she’s been fine here for two thousand years. One more night isn’t going to matter.”

  “I’m staying.”

  Dan had humored her as far as he could. He wasn’t backing down on this point.

  “Here’s the deal, Carrie,” he said, fighting to keep from shouting. “Either we go down to En Gedi together or we stay up here and starve together. But under no circumstances am I leaving you alone. So it’s up to you. You decide. And make it quick. Because when night falls, we’re stuck here—I won’t be able to find my way back to the highway in the dark.”

  They went round and round until she finally agreed to accompany him to En Gedi in return for a promise to come straight back to the tav at first light.

  The downhill trip going was shorter by hours than the uphill trip coming, but it seemed much longer. Carrie hardly spoke a word the whole way.

  ‡

  En Gedi

  They lay side by side in their double bed in the local guest house. Dan’s arms and legs were leaden with fatigue as he floated in a fog of exhaustion. Here they were, in bed together in one of the world’s most ancient resorts, a green oasis of grasses, vineyards, palm trees, and even a waterfall in the midst of the barren wastelands. A beauty spot, a lovers’ rendezvous, mentioned even in the ancient Song of Solomon, and all he could think of was sleep.

  Not that Carrie would have been receptive to any romantic advances anyway. She’d seemed more than a bit aloof since they’d left the tav.

  That and the knowledge that they’d be returning to the Wilderness tomorrow only heightened Dan’s fatigue.

  Hal had been no help. As soon as they had arrived in En Gedi, Dan called him and explained that they needed a way to get a five-foot-long artifact out of the country.

  “Quietly, if you know what I mean.”

  Hal had known exactly what he meant and gave him a name and a telephone number in Tel Aviv. He’d said he was very interested and wanted to see this artifact when it reached the states. Dan had thanked him and hung up.

  Yeah. Thanks
a lot, Hal.

  Nothing was working out the way he’d hoped. He’d expected Hal to tell him to forget it—no way to get something that size past the inspectors. Instead of no way, it was no problem.

  Damn!

  Carrie had remained in a sort of semi-dream state. What little conversation she’d initiated had been whispers of “Can you believe it? Can you believe we’ve actually found her?” as they stocked up on twine, blankets, work gloves, a pry bar, a lantern, and hundreds of feet of rope.

  And now, beside him in bed, after a long silence...

  “I’ve been thinking...”

  “Great.” Dan dragged himself back from the borderlands of sleep. “Does that mean you’re giving up this ca-ca idea of bringing that corpse home?”

  “Please don’t refer to her so coarsely. Please?”

  “Okay. Just for your sake. Not because I believe it.”

  “Thank you. Now tell me: Who do you think wrote the scroll?”

  “A clever, phony bastard.”

  “All right,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Let’s humor Sister Carrie and assume that the scroll is genuine. Who wrote it?”

  “We’ve been over this already. A Pharisee. An educated man.”

  “But what of that passage where he says ‘I do not fear killing. I have killed before, slipping through the crowds in Jerusalem, stabbing with my knife. And I fear not damnation. Indeed, I am already thrice-damned.’ That doesn’t sound like a Pharisee.”

  “What’d you do, memorize that translation?”

  “No. But I’ve read it a few times.”

  More than a few, Dan bet.

  He said, “Some of the upper-class Israelites, a few Pharisees among them, got involved with the anti-Roman rebels, some with the zealots. These were a rough bunch of guys, sort of the Israelite equivalent of the IRA. They mounted guerrilla attacks, they murdered collaborators and informants and generally did whatever they could to incite revolt. These were the guys who gathered at Masada after the fall of Jerusalem. They held out for three years, then all 950 of them chose to die rather than surrender to the Roman siege. This scroll writer is patterned after that sort of zealot.”

  “He was a pretty tough cookie then.”

  “Extremely. Not the kind you’d want to cross.”