happened.”
The Bedouin went to clutch at his arm to drag him, but Jack said, “Calm down, Josuf. What the heck’s so important?”
Josuf’s words came tumbling. “It’s Professor Green, Mr. Cane. He’s been murdered and the scroll is gone.”
PART THREE
11
QUMRAN
ISRAEL
THE BELL HELICOPTER with Israeli police markings descended with a swirl of dust as it came in to land.
As the swish of the blades died, Inspector Lela Raul climbed out of the passenger seat. She was in her late thirties with chocolate brown eyes, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail.
She noticed a group of journalists gathered nearby, a couple of TV camera crews among them, all of them being herded back by the police.
Three police Fords were parked a short distance away and half a dozen officers from the local police station stood around, chatting and smoking cigarettes. Lela Raul walked toward them, slipping on a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. A herd of Bedu goats grazed on a distant slope and all around her were parched cliffs and craggy hills.
A second later an Israeli Air Force F-18 screamed up the valley, then shot skyward and climbed like a bullet, sending out a shock wave followed by a massive clap of thunder. It scattered the distant goats and echoed through the surrounding Dead Sea cliffs. Air patrols were common this close to the Jordanian border.
Lela looked back toward the journalists and camera crews. She saw that one of the policemen talking with them was a plump sergeant with a beer gut. He had a pencil clenched between his teeth and a notebook in his hand. He peeled away from the crowd, took the pencil from his mouth, and tipped his cap respectfully. “Inspector Raul, thanks for coming.”
“Sergeant Mosberg. I see the media jackals are already picking over the carcass.”
Mosberg smiled. “Bad news is always good news for some. There’s a lot of interest, even a few foreign correspondents drove out from Jerusalem. Murder and archaeology don’t often go together, I guess. The body’s over there, in the nearest tent.”
A hundred yards across the landscape, Lela saw a collection of canvas walk-in tents. Two policemen stood guard outside the nearest. Off to the right, two SUVs and a blue Opel passenger van were parked beside a pair of temporary portable cabin buildings and toilets, a row of shovels and picks stacked against one of the walls. Lela saw a group of civilians of mixed ages standing outside one of the cabins, watching her arrival.
Mosberg said, “In case you’re wondering, they’re all part of the archaeological team. You probably know our forensic pathologist, Yad Hershel. He’s almost finished his examination. Are you familiar with this area, Inspector?”
Lela nodded. “I think you could say that. I lived in a nearby kibbutz and grew up trudging these hills. Tell me about the victim.”
“Your chief didn’t tell you?”
“Most of it, but I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
Mosberg took a pipe from his pocket. He cupped his hands, lit the pipe with a cheap plastic lighter, and took a couple of puff s. “The stiff’s an American professor named Donald Green. He was the director in charge of this archaeological dig.”
Lela followed the sergeant as he walked toward the tents. “How did he die?”
“A little before six A.M. he was found with a knife buried in his chest.”
Lela asked, “Anyone’s knife in particular?”
“Turns out it belonged to one of his fellow crew, an American named Jack Cane. He claims he loaned it to Green when the professor was examining an artifact that Cane discovered.”
Lela raised her eyes. “What kind of artifact?”
Mosberg pointed across the valley. “He found a leather scroll contained in a clay vase right over there, near the bottom of the cliffs, to the south of the dig location known as Area A. Qumran is sectioned into areas. The campsite is in Area B3, for example.”
Lela nodded. “I know what you’re talking about.
The Bedouin went to clutch at his arm to drag him, but Jack said, “Calm down, Josuf. What the heck’s so important?”
Josuf’s words came tumbling. “It’s Professor Green, Mr. Cane. He’s been murdered and the scroll is gone.”
PART THREE
11
QUMRAN
ISRAEL
THE BELL HELICOPTER with Israeli police markings descended with a swirl of dust as it came in to land.
As the swish of the blades died, Inspector Lela Raul climbed out of the passenger seat. She was in her late thirties with chocolate brown eyes, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail.
She noticed a group of journalists gathered nearby, a couple of TV camera crews among them, all of them being herded back by the police.
Three police Fords were parked a short distance away and half a dozen officers from the local police station stood around, chatting and smoking cigarettes. Lela Raul walked toward them, slipping on a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. A herd of Bedu goats grazed on a distant slope and all around her were parched cliffs and craggy hills.
A second later an Israeli Air Force F-18 screamed up the valley, then shot skyward and climbed like a bullet, sending out a shock wave followed by a massive clap of thunder. It scattered the distant goats and echoed through the surrounding Dead Sea cliffs. Air patrols were common this close to the Jordanian border.
Lela looked back toward the journalists and camera crews. She saw that one of the policemen talking with them was a plump sergeant with a beer gut. He had a pencil clenched between his teeth and a notebook in his hand. He peeled away from the crowd, took the pencil from his mouth, and tipped his cap respectfully. “Inspector Raul, thanks for coming.”
“Sergeant Mosberg. I see the media jackals are already picking over the carcass.”
Mosberg smiled. “Bad news is always good news for some. There’s a lot of interest, even a few foreign correspondents drove out from Jerusalem. Murder and archaeology don’t often go together, I guess. The body’s over there, in the nearest tent.”
A hundred yards across the landscape, Lela saw a collection of canvas walk-in tents. Two policemen stood guard outside the nearest. Off to the right, two SUVs and a blue Opel passenger van were parked beside a pair of temporary portable cabin buildings and toilets, a row of shovels and picks stacked against one of the walls. Lela saw a group of civilians of mixed ages standing outside one of the cabins, watching her arrival.
Mosberg said, “In case you’re wondering, they’re all part of the archaeological team. You probably know our forensic pathologist, Yad Hershel. He’s almost finished his examination. Are you familiar with this area, Inspector?”
Lela nodded. “I think you could say that. I lived in a nearby kibbutz and grew up trudging these hills. Tell me about the victim.”
“Your chief didn’t tell you?”
“Most of it, but I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
Mosberg took a pipe from his pocket. He cupped his hands, lit the pipe with a cheap plastic lighter, and took a couple of puff s. “The stiff’s an American professor named Donald Green. He was the director in charge of this archaeological dig.”
Lela followed the sergeant as he walked toward the tents. “How did he die?”
“A little before six A.M. he was found with a knife buried in his chest.”
Lela asked, “Anyone’s knife in particular?”
“Turns out it belonged to one of his fellow crew, an American named Jack Cane. He claims he loaned it to Green when the professor was examining an artifact that Cane discovered.”
Lela raised her eyes. “What kind of artifact?”
Mosberg pointed across the valley. “He found a leather scroll contained in a clay vase right over there, near the bottom of the cliffs, to the south of the dig location known as Area A. Qumran is sectioned into areas. The campsite is in Area B3, for example.”
Lela nodded. “I know what you’re talking about.
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