Chosen (26 page)

“But I—”

“Silence! You came here to destroy our hold on the Haram, to take it away from us. But you see we are stronger than you. We will not tolerate your abuse of our holy mosque any longer!”

At his signal, two men grabbed Alexana and chained her to a column in a far corner. As they dragged her into the darkness, she mustered her strength and tried to fight back. But it was no use. She was easily overpowered in her exhausted state. Alexana bit back a scream as her wounded shoulder was yanked backward and her hands bound together. She sank slowly to the cold stone floor.

From high above, voices cheered Shehab onward. Alexana closed her eyes against the nightmare unfolding before her eyes. Two soldiers dragged the jackhammer over to the column that bore the inscription. From her perspective, it looked like the light from above shone on it in a heavenly stream. Sunlight, she supposed. Awkwardly, they raised the tip of the jackhammer toward the ancient words.

“No!”
she screamed, seeing their intentions.

“You will see now,” Shehab said, “that we hold the only keys to the Haram. You will not use Christian graffiti to gain access. We will not allow it.” He nodded toward the men, giving them the go-ahead to destroy the inscription. The noise was deafening, each clang of the jackhammer echoing in Alexana’s horrified ears.

She clenched her eyes shut, praying madly. “Please God. This cannot be happening. No. No. We wanted the world to see those words. To find comfort. To find faith. Where are you? Where are you, God? Put a stop to this! Please, God, stop them!”

Alexana opened her eyes, realizing that the jackhammer had indeed stopped and her prayer had become audible, ringing through the high caverns of the stables. Dust billowed up in huge clouds that slowly settled around Shehab and his men. Shehab laughed at Alexana. She ignored him, desperately searching for the inscription with her eyes. But it was gone—blasted to bits by the tip of a single tool.

“Call out to your God all you want, Dr. Roarke. You will die with him here in the stables.” He motioned to the others and walked up the long ramp without looking back.

Within an hour the men above had used the heavy excavation equipment to pull out the long ramp and seal the huge hole. Alexana screamed as a gigantic metal plate was dragged over her only exit, abruptly cutting off her cries.

She was alone in the cold, pitch black of the stables.

And no one outside the Haram knew she was there.

W
ithin twelve hours of the takeover, the Temple Mount had been cordoned off for an entire square mile. A large portion of the Old City was evacuated as a precaution against the unlikely possibility that Israeli forces would move in with massive air strikes. Around the world, people sat glued to their television sets, aware that the decision that Middle East leaders made to rectify the situation could easily impact lives as far away as the United States.

The president himself flew in to speak with twelve other national leaders, hoping to help moderate the discussion and usher in a peaceful agenda. Other CNN correspondents covered the story in Tel Aviv while Ridge and Steve stayed on top of the progress—or the lack thereof—at the Temple Mount.

There, the troops remained at a standoff, with Palestinian police positioned in front. The renegades on the Haram seemed less likely to take potshots at Palestinians than they were to shoot at Israeli police. Still, the reprieve did not endear Shehab’s men to the policemen.

Each policeman knew that the radicals’ actions had placed the Palestinians’ tenuous hold on self-rule and efforts toward peace at grave risk. Many depended on their new jobs as policemen to support their families and enjoyed a sense of pride in their position, despite the scorn of many.

“Join us, brothers!” a soldier shouted from the Haram. “Leave
your false positions! They never intend to give us what we rightfully own! It has come to this! We must fight for what is ours, even the holy El Aksa Mosque! Or they will quietly steal it away as they do our lands!”

Many of the men shifted uncomfortably at the herald’s words. These were the questions many asked themselves each day: Was Arafat merely a pawn? Had they become pawns themselves? Most important, if it came down to it, could they actually shoot their Palestinian brothers?

Inside the stables Alexana drifted in and out of sleep. Her mouth felt like parchment and her lips were cracking. Desperately she tried to gather enough saliva to swallow, the thought alone a blessed idea, but without success. She knew she had little time left if she did not get anything to drink.

I am not doing well, Father,
she moaned in her mind, unable to speak.
Please do not let me die here.

Suddenly twenty feet before her, she saw a small stream of light emerge from the inky darkness. Slowly it became brighter and brighter.
I’m hallucinating,
she thought mournfully.
Dear God, save me! Surely this is not a good sign! I’m hallucinating!
But the light distracted her from her prayers.

The intensity of the beam hurt her eyes, yet drew her like a magnet drew nails.
I need the light,
she thought hungrily.
It has been hours, perhaps days, since I have seen it … How long?
She searched high above to see if the excavation hole had been reopened, if rescuers were near, but she could not ascertain the source.
It’s like a beam from heaven …

Looking back at the light stream, Alexana barely saw a figure working at its base. Slowly, the beam dimmed, allowing her vision to
clear a little.
Yes, he’s working.
All at once the image became clear. A man in rags stood twenty feet away, carving an inscription in the column with a hammer and chisel.

A second figure appeared at her side and offered her a hammered, copper ladle filled with blessed, cool water. The ladle smelled of cold metal as Alexana took it to her lips. Water, so fresh it might be directly from a mountain stream, slid over her tongue and down her throat. Before she could raise her head to thank the emissary of light beside her, he was gone.

When she looked to the column, the worker was gone as well. But there on the column was the Aramaic inscription, just as it once was. Alexana gazed at it in wonder, even as the beam of light dimmed to a dull glow and she rediscovered her thirst. Alexana repeated the words over and over, the testimony of the beggar feeding her heart and soul and giving her hope. Then she fell asleep and dreamed of the disciples and the beggar on shadowy steps two thousand years before.

“She’s gotta be inside,” Sam said, looking up to the tiny, walled-off windows that dotted the Haram’s walls. “Think about it. There are precious few of those men up there. They could not afford to send any of them elsewhere, so they took her with them. They figure that there are few archaeologists able or willing to lead such a dig …” His voice trailed away.

“So they’re just going to hole up in the Haram until she dies?” Ridge paced back and forth in front of Sam, dragging one hand through his hair.

Sam met his gaze. “They want two things: to get Sana out of the way and to destroy the inscription. It was too unnerving for them
when the Christians demanded access. I’ll bet it pushed your pal Shehab over the edge. While they’re at it, they’d like to gain control of the Haram and to boot out the moderates—”

Sam’s exposition was interrupted by rapid gunfire, and both men dove for a large stone between them and the Haram.

“What’s going on?” Ridge yelled to Steve, who had taken cover ten feet away.

“The guys on the Haram! They’re shooting at us!”

Soldiers, half crouched, ran this way and that. Men screamed as they were hit. Others yelled orders or cried out for help. A Palestinian policeman dove and rolled five feet away, shooting back as soon as he could aim again.

Periodically, Steve took in several deep breaths and stood, shooting footage of the most amazing event to hit Jerusalem since the 1967 war.

“Get down, you idiot!” Ridge yelled.

Steve ducked just as a bullet nicked the stone above him, chipping off a four-inch corner as if it were sand. Steve stared at the corner and then over at Ridge. Their eyes met. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay down!” he yelled. “But only if you haul over here and let me get you shooting a report!”

Ridge hesitated, then wondered at his hesitation. A year before he would have moved without thinking, concentrating only on getting the story and prizewinning footage with it. But there was someone who counted on him now. Someone who depended on him to live. And deep inside, he knew that God was urging him not to make foolish choices. His life was precious, and there was greater reason than ever before to preserve it.

He shook his head at Steve. “When it cools off a bit!”

Steve stared back at him, but accepted Ridge’s decision without argument. “When you’re ready,” he mouthed over the gunfire.

The three men watched without further comment as the troops fell into line, their sergeants and captains bringing order to the chaos. As one, they donned their gas masks. Glancing over, Ridge saw that Steve was getting the entire event on film.

A captain yelled out orders as three snipers stood high above, shooting at his men. Soldiers below fell even as tear gas grenades were fired and waves of men stormed the entry ramp to the Haram.

With the attention of the snipers diverted, Ridge rushed over to Steve, who cut back and forth between his partner’s report and the action above them. Ridge swallowed hard after completing the speech he had rehearsed in his head, knowing that this news might initiate World War III if the soldiers did not successfully wrest control from the Hamas renegades. “This is Ridge McIntyre for CNN, Jerusalem,” he finished wearily.

Steve’s camera whipped back to the ramp. He stood without fear, confident that the sharpshooters above had their hands full with the men who were attacking them.

Within minutes it was over.

R
idge pushed through the crowds and, when the guards were busy, attempted to nonchalantly pass the checkpoint. Steve and Sam followed right behind him.

“You there! Stop!” a male voice called loudly in Hebrew.

Ridge did not pause to look. He waved his press pass as if it wielded the power to open the White House’s front door.

The guard apparently did not appreciate the power of the press and again yelled for them to stop. Ridge, Steve, and Sam froze as they heard several soldiers take off, running, after them. Within seconds, several M-16s were leveled at their heads.

Ridge squared his shoulders. “Where is your captain?” he responded harshly in Hebrew, staring the young soldier down. The man—who was little more than a boy—searched over his own shoulder, looking for a voice of authority to assure him he had done the right thing.

“Where is your captain?” Ridge demanded again. He knew how to say little else in Hebrew, having found that this one lone phrase generally brought about the results he desired.

Sam picked up where he left off. “This is Ridge McIntyre and Steve Rains with CNN, and they have unlimited access to the Solomon’s Stables excavation,” Sam explained in an appeasing, yet firm manner. “I am Dr. Samuel Roarke. My sister, Dr. Alexana
Roarke, was leader of the Solomon’s Stables dig. She is missing. We have reason to believe that she is below.”

The soldier studied him for several seconds, weighing his options. “You have identification?” he finally asked.

“I do,” Sam said. He looked around at the soldiers, who were still pointing loaded weapons at him. “I’m reaching for my wallet now. Everyone take a deep breath.”

He handed his ID to the young soldier. Again, the boy looked over his shoulder, but he could see no superior to summon. Speaking quietly, he dispatched one of his fellow soldiers to search for their captain while he studied Sam’s papers, apparently unwilling to take on the responsibility of allowing the threesome through.

The other soldier returned within minutes, accompanied by a commander who seemed none too pleased that American journalists were on the Temple Mount. A Palestinian patrol of eight men passed while making rounds of the Haram. It was one of ten groups Ridge had counted since they had arrived. The Israeli and Palestinian police were taking no chances of another overthrow; Ridge was confident that they would maintain control from that point on.

Behind the Israeli commander stood two Palestinian leaders and three men who were obviously CIA. “Oh, brother,” Ridge muttered. “Here comes the mighty one and his entourage.”

“Ply him with good publicity,” Steve said under his breath as they neared. “It might buy us some leeway.”

Before the man had a chance to speak, Ridge reached out his hand and flashed a smile. “Hello. Ridge McIntyre, CNN. General, can you tell me about the astounding progress you’ve made here?”

The American agents interrupted, long accustomed to the
schemes used by their country’s press. “Sorry, Mr. McIntyre. You and your friends must vacate the premises immediately. This area is secured.”

“If I could just get a comment for the camera,” Ridge said, motioning to Steve. On cue, Steve turned on the Betacam, blinding the entire group for several seconds.

It was all the lead that Sam needed. Quickly, he slid behind a column of the El Aksa Mosque and, heart pounding, ran toward the far side. The commander noticed the missing man moments later and screamed for soldiers to find him.

By the time they located Sam, he had already reached the dig site. He stood at the edge of the hole, dumbfounded, unable to go any farther. A thousand pounds of steel stood between himself and where he was sure his sister lay.

Ridge and Steve ran up behind the soldiers. Ridge fell to his knees, shouting Alexana’s name as he helplessly pulled at the monolith at his feet.

He turned to the commander, all manner of pretense gone. “Alexana Roarke! Dr. Alexana Roarke! She’s down there! And if she dies while you sit around, it will be on your head!”