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.”

Deutsch’s flashlight swept the slope, catching the bulldozer looming in front of the gaping breach. “In there,” said Deutsch pointing to the cave entrance.

Veingarten stepped over the threshold. The air was thick and damp, with the fresh scent of death. His light found the Arab worker crumpled near the entrance. “A goy, but still a child of the Aibishter,” he murmured.

Deeper in, on a raised ledge, was the ossuary.  A white stone box, etched with grape engravings and chiseled Hebrew letters. He brought the light closer. The inscription struck hard. His mind flashed to the Mount of Olives. To his grandfather’s shattered headstone under Jordanian boots. Never again. This was one they would want to parade. The danger was not merely desecration.

He knelt, snapping photos while reciting a psalm under his breath for the dead soul.

When he rose, his voice was iron. “We guard this tonight,” he told Deutsch. “The secularists will come like thieves.”

He handed Deutsch the camera. “Two copies. One off-site. Then call more men. We need a minyan for Kaddish.”

Porat’s Land Rover stopped in the mud. Stacey leaned forward, her ponytail swaying. “Is there something significant at the find, Professor?”

“If we get to it before the fanatics.”

Veingarten and Deutsch emerged from the cave as Porat’s team stepped out of the Rover.

Porat strode forward, booming. “This is an Antiquities Authority site now. Step aside. We’re here to excavate..”

Veingarten planted his feet. His bulk filled the cave entrance. “Excavate? You mean desecrate, Dr. Porat.”

Porat had no patience for this. “You don’t understand what’s in there! If you tamper with it, you destroy history!”

Veingarten pulled out his cell phone. Within minutes, black-hatted figures materialized from the night, mud splashing as the crowd swelled. Their chants echoed off the hills, “Gevalt! Don’t desecrate the graves!”

Suddenly, a scream tore through the fog. Amos stumbled back from the cave mouth, face white. ‘There’s a dead man in there!’

The phone rang while David Fox was mid-sentence in his unfinished novel.

“David, I need a big favor. Now.” The voice was Eric’s, his contact at the U.S. Consulate.

“Eric, what’s up? Breaking protocol?”

“Listen, I just got a call from a source. A bulldozer hit a cave in French Hill. Haredim are shutting the area down. Police are on the way. You need to get there. Fast.”

“A burial cave?” David asked, already standing.

“That’s the claim. Look, I can’t leave the Consulate, I’m restricted to post. But I need eyes on the ground. You said you’d cover for me when I needed it. This is it. Besides, this could turn out to be a big scoop for you.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.” David put the receiver down and shut his laptop. He grabbed his leather jacket and press kit.

Outside, David threw the Subaru into gear. The tires squealed as he sped toward the confrontation.  It was a fifteen minute drive from his apartment opposite the King David hotel to French Hill at this time of night.

He slammed to a stop behind the flashing police vans. David shoved through the chanting crowd, his press badge flashing.

Stacey blinked twice as she recognized his walk and the same worn leather jacket. Six years evaporated. Some protesters knocked her off balance and she grabbed  his sleeve. “David?! You’re here?” But the panic took over. “They found a body. It might be a murder!”