Ishmael drove the battered van down the dusty track connecting southern Hebron with Be’er Sheva. The main road between the two would probably be crawling with security personnel and even though these areas were inhospitable, as long as they did not break down they would be fine. Even so, with only moonlight to guide their path it was treacherous.
Ishmael traversed this road often, usually on his way to see relatives, many of whom still lived out in the wilder areas of his country, but never under such duress.
Louisa was sitting in the passenger seat, looking shaken. She had done an incredible job with the injuries received by Paul and Chris. With limited supplies, she stemmed the blood flow from Chris’ shrapnel wounds, cleaning out and cauterising the injuries Paul received to his thigh and arm.
Ishmael envisaged his assistance of the British consulate would involve the transportation of dignitaries and the delivery of important documents to where standard postal routes did not go. He never realised the job would have him dealing with British intelligence, or on the run from Arabian insurgents in his own country.
Still, the feeling of numbness at looking upon the faces of death troubled his soul, but his actions were effective. The Iranian dogs were about to kill the men he was sworn to protect and thus left him no choice.
He glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Carl smiling back. His firing pattern may have been awkward, but both he and Justin were alive.
When this was over, Ishmael promised himself he would claim a big fee from the wealthy British government and retire to the family farm. He never wanted to see the insides of a city again. All he needed to do was stay alive until then.
The van slammed through village after village, as it made its way toward the Egyptian border. Soon, the dirt tracks turned back to tarmac roads and just as the sun was coming up, Ishmael pulled in next to an old barn nestled on the outskirts of a clutch of houses at the foot of rolling hills.
As soon as the car stopped, Ishmael leapt out and pushed the van into a space to one side of the structure. Once it was in place, he and Carl carefully hoisted Chris out, supporting him as they moved.
As they crossed to a concrete wall and turned the corner, a surreal sight awaited them, the scene changing from desolation to welcoming Western civilisation in thirty short strides. Rows of single-story, cream-painted, terracotta tiled houses, each with grass-covered gardens and winding stone pathways, spread out before them. Exotic flowers lined the pavement, most of which bloomed vibrantly, further enforcing the belief that Israel lay far behind.
“What the hell is this place?” said Louisa, wondering if she was on a film set.
“It’s an experimental village.” said Paul, walking up to a house. “Just outside this place they’re building one of the world’s largest solar power plants. There’s a sports facility and a grocers at the end of the street if any of you fancy a coke or a game of squash.”
“This is surreal.” said Carl. “It’s like I’ve moved to a different continent.”
“It takes a while to get used to, but it is a good spot to hide out. The best place to hide sometimes is in plain sight. It’s too well guarded for anyone to suspect we’re not just outside contractors working here.”
Paul removed a key from his pocket and shuffled inside the building. The whoosh of temperature-controlled air was a welcome respite from the dichotomy of oppressive heat and freezing cold, marking the desert by day and night.
The living room was neat and amenable, with a decent-quality suite and a TV. The open-plan lounge spread out toward a kitchenette backing onto a fenced garden visible through French doors.
Once inside, Louisa removed Chris’ jacket and asked Ishmael if they had any medical supplies.
“We do.” said Ishmael, as he reached into a cupboard and withdrew a pair of pristine kits. “Courtesy of the Red Cross aid relief to Palestine.”
“Have you finished what we were talking about, kid?” asked Carl, taking up a perch on the edge of the couch.
“Just finishing the algorithm now.” said Justin, laying out his laptop on the coffee table.
Ishmael could not understand the blasé attitude of the pair. It was as if nothing had transpired. “So, what are you doing?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.
“I’m working on an algorithm designed to look at the examples of text we have and see if there are any commonalities.” said Justin.
“What text?” asked Ishmael, moving to the kitchen and flicking the kettle on.
“We found some text on the walls of the tomb in Talpyiot.” said Carl, allowing Justin to concentrate on his task.
Ishmael knew some Christians and even some Jews believed Jesus was once buried in that tomb. That was why so many countries believed its protection was important. However, he also knew some of the ossuaries found in that tomb had been tampered with, which surely undermined their validity. Not only that, but being a Jew meant he did not believe Jesus was the son of God at all, which in turn meant babysitting the site for almost a year had been one of the most boring things he ever did. Even after reading all the research material Paul accumulated to stave off going stir crazy, he could not remember a single mention of writings. “Text in the Yeshua tomb? I did not know it contained any.”
“It is unlike anything I’ve seen. However, Justin pointed out he had, on the Phaistos Disc.”
The Phaistos Disc? Ismael had read about it at university. “The Minoan disc discovered in the early twentieth century on the Greek island of Crete? The one that remains un-deciphered?”
“You know about the Phaistos Disc?” said Justin.
Ishmael hid his anger to the comment as best he could. Tolerating European and American ignorance of the education standards of Israel was tiresome at best. Israeli children were far better educated than their Western counterparts. Not that he expected these people to understand. They did not even believe in Yahweh. “Oh, I am sorry. I should have realised I was supposed to be ignorant. No, I have not heard of it. Help me understand, oh masterful British man!”
“Er…” said Justin, embarrassed and unsure what to do. “We always thought the Phaistos Disc contained the early language of the Minoan people or some kind of trading language they developed for use in their empire.”
“So we did not think it was Indian or Sumerian at all?” said Ishmael, finishing making everyone a drink and returning to the living area.
“Well… er… I think…”
“Give it up, kid.” said Carl. “Realise when you’re licked and give the man an apology.”
“Sorry.” said Justin, averting his eyes from Ishmael’s stare.
“What the kid was trying to say, was that the text in Yeshua’s tomb bore more than a close resemblance to the text from the Phaistos Disc. He’s creating a program to match the symbols and try to get a usage pattern. Hopefully we can get a match somewhere, but without a Rosetta Stone… Oh my.”
“I take it you have a revelation?” asked Ishmael.
“I got it wrong about the ossuaries and now I’m wrong about this! Dave said disc and tablet. I thought he meant the Tablets of Testimony, but once again I was jumping the gun.”
“But we don’t have a tablet.” said Justin. “The one he was talking about is probably locked up in the Vatican somewhere.”
“Dave knew what he was telling us. So, that means the information would be somewhere where we had access to it. Security cameras!”
“He stored image information on the security camera server at the base? Clever. I’ll start scanning through the files to see if there are any stills in with the video.”
“We’re really close, Justin.” said Carl. “I can feel it.”
Base? Security cameras? Dave? None of these things matched the reasons Colonel Martin gave Paul for arriving in Talpyiot. That made Ishmael worried. Who were these people and what were they doing in his country?
Making an excuse to depart their company, Ishmael entered the rear bedroom where their communication equipment was located. Ensuring h
e did not follow official lines, he sent a message to a friend at the embassy. Giving as much detail regarding the group as possible, he requested to know everything his friend could find out about them.
Thirty minutes later, Ishmael was back in the living room, chatting light-heartedly with Carl and Justin as they continued to work. Eventually, with a happy cheer, Justin informed them he had found what they were looking for.
“These aren’t all from the same folders.” said Justin, pointing to the screen. “Some of these were trashed items. At the point of the power-down that affected the base, all the files currently in use would have been caught in the transaction buffers. If someone was accessing those files, remote a possibility as that might seem, this cache would still contain them.”
“Those don’t look valid.” said Carl, looking down the array of numbered filenames and tilde-laden extensions.
“These are files as they are when programs use them. They’re still valid, but they’ve been uncompressed.”
There were six matches in total; a schematic of the air-conditioning system in the complex, a diagrammatic view of the servers in their lab, a view of the interior of the underground car park taken from the down ramp, and two floor plans of the base making up the first five.
Opening the final image, Justin nearly leapt from his seat. There, on the screen before them, was a stone tablet. A measuring stick next to it showed it was over a meter in length and about half a meter wide. Its surface split into two sections of text, divided by a wide line carved through its centre.
“I think the lower writing is the same as the disc.” said Justin, staring wide-eyed at the screen.
“The top writing is an early form of Mayan. We’ve found it. We’ve found a translator!” said Carl, his eagerness dissipating as he looked over the files again. “Can we tell who accessed this stuff? All these other images relate to the story you guys told me of your escape.”
Justin tapped through a couple of screens before returning a string of text. “The security code isn’t one I recognise. It almost looks like it was an external entry.”
“You mean someone was sending this data off the base when the surge happened?” asked Carl, confused.
“No. It’s a code assigned to authorised access from outside the base coming in. It doesn’t make any sense.” said Justin, clearly perturbed.
“Can you figure out what it means later, kid? It would be great if you could rewrite your algorithm to break the text from the tomb as soon as you can. Then we can get the hell out of this place. I would prefer not to hang around for another firefight, if you don’t mind. I’ll give you a translation of the Mayan if you give me a few minutes. Then you can do your thing. I’m assuming the Phaistos text on the tablet says the same thing as the Mayan does.”
Ishmael quietly drank his tea as Justin typed away. Every now and again, he would make his way back to the rear bedroom to check for a response; the length of time it was taking his friend to send one only serving to heighten his trepidation.
“So we found something on the drives?” asked Louisa, curling up on the couch and placing Chris’ blood-stained jacket on the floor by her side.
“Yeah, real stroke of luck too.” said Justin, ending his feverish typing. “If someone hadn’t been looking over the images when the servers crashed the night before we made our escape, there would have been no way to get this far. A lot hinges on what was written on the walls of that tomb though.” Nodding to Carl, he stood and stretched his shoulders. “I need a shower. Nobody touch that laptop until I get back.”
“Sure thing kid.” said Carl, leaning back.
“Exactly what hinges on that information?” asked Ishmael, as Justin disappeared.
“Too much to explain, Ishmael.” said Carl. “Suffice it to say, the course of modern history could change today and you’re privileged enough to be around when it happens.”
“You really think this is so big a deal?” asked Louisa.
“You bet your ass.” said Carl, grinning. “The artefacts we carry are a big enough deal, but finding the Ark, the Tree of Life, and the historical evidence for an ancient civilisation that seeded all the others will change the way we view the world around us. We’ll all go down in history for this.”
Five minutes later, the door to the bathroom opened and Justin walked out wearing a pair of oversized jeans and a GAP jumper that did not simply cover him, it buried him in soft-lined cotton.
“Are you just about ready to rock, kid?” asked Carl, trying to keep a straight face.
“Not really.” said Justin, sitting down. “But let’s get on with it whilst I can stay awake.”
“Ok then guys, here’s what I’ve got.” said Carl, handing Justin his notepad. “I think the Mayan scribes who wrote this struggled with the other language. One is a Logogrammatic language, like Hieroglyphics and the Mayan writings you see here, where each individual logogram represents the smallest indivisibly meaningful item you can have. Our other language turns out to be Ideographic, where each ideogram represents the smallest indivisibly realised thought, or idea.”
“A language based on rationalising a string of ideas?” asked Justin.
“It must have blown the Mayan’s minds to even try to communicate with these people. Ideographic languages are notoriously open to interpretation and practically impossible to implement. You’re looking at a desperate attempt to try to make a translation possible. I’m not sure, but I’m thinking the Phaistos Disc could be a child’s toy; intended to give children a basic grasp of the core concepts founding the language. So, let’s start with the writing on the disc. We’ll use the tablet to try to get a set of core ideas and phrases together from it. Then we’ll use that and see what we get from the writing in the tomb.”
Ishmael left the group to continue talking, making his way into the back bedroom one last time. Logging into the mail client he was glad to see a response from his friend. However, its bold title and urgent flag soon removed any happiness from his mind. The people in this house were liars. He had killed men, perhaps ruining his chance at eternal salvation along the way, and all for nothing. Grabbing a gun from a cabinet under the computer, he released the safety. There was only one way to make amends.
“You do not work in intelligence!” Ishmael said, striding into the living room with his gun outstretched. “I have been waiting for a response from my compatriots in the embassy. You are wanted criminals!”
“Just put the gun down and we can explain.” said Carl, as soothingly as he could.
“No putting guns down any more!” said Ishmael, his hand shaking with a mixture of fear and anger. “You made me kill to protect you. You, a criminal who plans to expose my faith as a lie, made me kill men for you! You should die like the dogs you are!”
“What the hell is going on?” said Paul, stumbling out of his room in a pair of linen boxer shorts.
Ishmael fired a round into the ceiling above Paul to prevent any further outbursts. He had to get control of the situation. “You, I no longer trust, Paul. You brought these liars and heathens into our lands. You ordered me to protect them. You are as guilty as them for my sin.”
“What sin? What the hell is going…” said Paul, as Ishmael fired a second bullet into the ceiling, sending down a light stream of dust.
“You will be silent! You will be given to Mossad for questioning with these people. I did not care that you broke into the tomb of Yeshua. I do not believe he was who you think he was.”
“That makes two of us.” said Carl, under his breath.
“But now I find that you are here, in Israel, to change my history! To challenge the very thought of Yahweh himself! You Western animals!” Ishmael said, as his id struggled to hold back his duty to his faith. “How dare you come here and tell us about my God! What right do you have? What right!”
Chris stumbled out of his room and looked out to where the noise that awoke him was coming from. “Aw hell.” he said, as he realised what Ishmael was doing. “
I don’t need this aggravation right now. I’m going back to bed. Wake me up when you’ve sorted this out, Carl.”
Before Carl could respond, another gunshot rang out, and a body flopped limply onto the tiled floor of the apartment.
Chapter 40