The Blood Gospel (Page 22)

He touched the center of the symbol. “That’s not their usual symbol. Normally, the Ahnenerbe are represented by a sword wrapped in a ribbon. This is something new.”

Curious, she touched the central symbol. “Looks like a Norse rune. From Elder Futhark. Maybe an Odal rune.”

She drew it in the dust on the floor with a finger.

“The rune represents the letter O.” She turned to Jordan. “Could that be the medal owner’s initial?”

Before she could contemplate it further, McKay barked, “Freeze! Hands in the air!”

Startled, she spun around.

Jordan shouldered his Heckler & Koch machine pistol and twisted toward the tomb’s entrance. Again the ground shook, rock dust shivered—and from out of the shadows, a dark shape stepped into the room.

8

October 26, 5:04 P.M., IST

Masada, Israel

“Hold your fire!” Jordan yelled, lifting up his left arm. “It’s the padre.”

He lowered the muzzle of his submachine gun and strode over to the clergyman. It was strange enough that the priest had come down here, but he noticed something even more disturbing.

He’s not wearing any rappelling gear.

Jordan stepped in front of him as the aftershock faded. “What are you doing down here, Father?”

From under the cowl of his hood, the priest regarded him. Jordan did the same, sizing the other up. Father Korza stood two inches taller than Jordan, but under his long open jacket, he was leaner, muscular, a whip of a man. The hard planes of his face were clearly Slavic, softened only by full lips. He wore his black hair down to his collar—a bit too long for a holy man.

But it was those eyes, studious and dark—very dark—that set Jordan’s heart to pounding. His fingers involuntarily tightened on his weapon.

He’s only a priest, he reminded himself.

Father Korza stared a moment longer at Jordan, then his gaze flicked away, sweeping the room in a single glance.

“Did you hear me, padre? I asked you a question.”

The priest’s words were whispered, breathless, oddly formal. “The Church has prior claim to what lies within this crypt.”

Father Korza started to step past him. Jordan grabbed his arm—but only caught air. Somehow the priest smoothly shrugged out of his way and stalked toward the open sarcophagus.

Jordan followed, noting the priest’s eyes fix to the child staked to the wall, his face unreadable. Reaching the tomb, the man glanced inside the empty sarcophagus and visibly tensed, going statue-still.

Erin approached him from the far wall. She held aloft her cell phone, plainly searching for a signal, hoping to get her photographs uploaded somewhere safe, always thinking like a researcher.

As she reached the sarcophagus, Jordan kept between her and Father Korza. For some reason, he didn’t want her near the strange priest.

“This is a restricted area,” Jordan warned.

Perlman backed him up, resting a palm on his sidearm. “You should not be here, Father Korza. The Israeli government set strict guidelines on your visit here.”

The clergyman ignored them both. He focused on Erin. “Have you found a book? Or a block of stone of such size?” He held out his arms.

Erin shook her head. “We found nothing like that, just the girl. It looks like the Germans cleared this tomb during the war.”

His only reaction was a slight narrowing of his eyes.

Who is this guy?

Jordan placed his hand on the butt of his machine pistol, waiting to see what the holy man would do next. Brusque and taciturn, the priest had obvious issues with authority, but so far he’d shown no outward signs of threat.

Peripherally, Jordan watched McKay slip a hand to his own dagger.

“Easy, Corporal,” he ordered. “Stand down.”

The priest ignored McKay, but he suddenly tensed, freezing in midturn, his ear cocked to the side. He made eye contact with Jordan, but his words were for all of them.

“You must all leave. Now.”

The last word bristled with warning.

What is he talking about?

The answer came from Jordan’s earpiece: a scream burst forth, full of blood and pain, sharp enough to stab deep into his head.

Sanderson.

From up top.

The scream cut off into a burst of static.

He touched the throat mike. “Sanderson! Respond!”

No reply.

“Corporal, come in!”

The priest moved swiftly to the entrance. Cooper and the young Israeli soldier blocked him from leaving. Weapons were raised all around.

At the threshold to the tomb, the priest lifted his face toward the roof, his whole body going rigid, like a big cat before an attack. His next words were chilling for their calmness.

“Back against the walls.” He turned and locked eyes with Jordan. “Do as I say or you will all die.”

Jordan raised his weapon. “Are you threatening us, padre?”

“Not I. The ones who come.”

5:07 P.M.

Erin struggled to comprehend what was happening. The priest’s gaze met hers. For a moment a flicker of fear broke through the pale contours of the priest’s face, long enough to drive her heart into her throat. She sensed that he worried for their safety, not his own. A terrible sadness haunted his eyes as he looked away, as if he already mourned them.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

But Jordan was clearly not giving up so easily. “What’s going on? I’ve got men topside. As does Lieutenant Perlman.”

Again that mournful look. “By now, they are dead. As you shall be if you do not—”

A gasp rose from Cooper, who stood by the door. Everyone turned. He opened his mouth, but only blood flowed out. He collapsed to his knees, then his face. The black hilt of a dagger jutted from the base of his skull.

Erin cried his name. The soldiers raised their guns as one. She stepped behind them, out of the line of fire.

Beyond Cooper’s body crouched a dark shape, a figure sculpted from shadows. Jordan fired multiple volleys, blasts deafening in the closed space. The shadow shivered back into darkness—

—but not before snagging the young Israeli soldier who was still hovering near the threshold. Erin caught a glint of steel, then he was gone, yanked off his feet and into the black tunnel.

Jordan stopped firing, plainly fearing he’d hit the soldier.

A scream, full of terror and blood, echoed—then silence.

Lieutenant Perlman lurched forward, weapon up. “Margolis!”

The priest’s black-clad arm shoved the Israeli back.

Hard.

“Stay here,” Father Korza warned, then defied his own words.