Buried Secrets

GUSH HALAV, UPPER GALILEE – SPRING, 33 C.E.

The rhythmic clanging of his father’s chisel was the heartbeat of the morning.

Eleven-year-old Yossi sat perched on a massive, sun-warmed basalt boulder just outside the synagogue’s construction site. He leaned forward, crushing a sprig of wild hyssop between his palms, the peppery scent mingling with the fine white dust of pulverized limestone that hung in the air.

JISH, UPPER GALILEE – SUNDAY, DAWN

A dark silhouette emerged from the mist. Ibrahim, a man with tough hands and a weathered face, approached the van.

“Ya hala… bil-akhir,” he said, his voice a low growl. “About time. The plane’s waiting.”

Samir scanned the farm.

A small, unpaved road cut through the field. Wide enough for a small plane to take off and land unnoticed, though recent rains had made the earth soft.

FRENCH HILL, JERUSALEM – FRIDAY, 3:45 P.M.

Fifteen minutes before he died, Ahmed wiped rain from his eyes and jammed the bulldozer’s throttle forward. The site was deserted. The other workers had left hours ago for the weekend, but Ahmed needed the overtime. It was a cold Friday afternoon in March 1999, and his son’s medication had to be paid for by Monday morning.

The engine roared, flooding the cab with the stench of diesel and wet earth as he drove the blade toward the final ridge of Judean limestone. He braced for the familiar jar of impact, but it never came. The machine lurched as the metal shovel punched through the rock face and plunged into a void.

A midnight breeze stirred the curtains in Dan Porat’s study. He didn’t notice the chill. He was stooped over the photographs, still damp from the darkroom. He let out a sigh, pressing his nose and the magnifying glass closer to one of the pictures.

Pizza Uri on Malkei Israel Street was packed. American Yeshiva students in sleek Borsalino fedoras and dark suits sat at one table. A family of eight filled two others.

David and Stacey squeezed into a corner table with their mushroom and olive slices.

The police sirens wailed through the darkness, competing with the chanting protestors. A patrol car and a forensics van splashed through the mud near the cave entrance.

Veingarten pulled the minivan to the side of the road. Five men in black hats waited in the dark.

He approached them and shook hands. “Thank you for leaving your families tonight. Deutsch and I will inspect the cave. Watch the road.”

Rain hammered the green Land Rover’s roof.

Dan Porat killed the engine and sat in the dark. He’d been redialing for twenty-three minutes since he got the message early Friday evening. Nothing.

Fifteen minutes before he died, Ahmed wiped rain from his eyes and jammed the bulldozer’s throttle forward. The site was deserted. The other workers had left hours ago for the weekend, but Ahmed needed the overtime.