Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) Read online

  “He’s a little tall,” she says.

  “Or maybe what you’re trying to say is I’m too short.”

  She sips her drink, grins. “Anyone ever tell you, Chase, that you have quite the imagination?”

  “Man’s gotta think big, or his world will always be small.”

  “Same goes for a woman.”

  “I hear you roar, baby.”

  As Magda elbows me, I make out the sound of two more people boarding the jet. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that it’s Itzy and Moshe.

  “What are you two doing?” I say.

  “Cross didn’t tell you?” Itzy says, sitting down hard across the aisle from Magda and me. “He wants us to accompany you every step of the way.”

  “Allow me to explain,” Moshe adds, sitting down beside his partner. “We’re to protect you in case an evil element presents itself.” He pats his rib cage in the place where the Uzi stock is located under his long black coat.

  Magda leans into me.

  “Cross is onto us . . . onto me,” she whispers.

  “We’ll ditch Mike and Ike first chance we get,” I whisper back.

  “Good luck with that,” she says.

  Hot Flight Attendant closes the hatch, kindly informs us that we will be taking off shortly, and to buckle our seatbelts. She collects the empty champagne glasses and, within minutes, we’re taxing along the runway and then in the air, on our way over the Atlantic Ocean to the Holy Land.

  We’re maybe four hours into the eleven-hour flight when Moshe and Itzhak get up from their seats and gather by the closed door of the cockpit.

  “Hell they doing?” I say.

  “Praying,” Magda says.

  “Now?”

  “They’re strict Jews. They never miss their prayers. Remember, they’re preparing themselves for the coming of the Messiah.”

  “He’s already been here.”

  “Don’t tell them that.”

  “But won’t the coming of the Messiah signal the end of the world?”

  “So what? It will be a day of rejoicing for the Jews.”

  Both men pull out little black leather editions of the Siddur prayer book and place them close to their faces so they can read the fine print. They begin to sway in rhythm with their recited words.

  “Why do they move like that when they pray?” I ask after a beat.

  “Abraham is said to have insisted that the Israelites sway when they pray. It’s a gesture that is supposed to capture the attention of God, maybe make Him more eager to finally make his descent upon the earth. Usher in the end of days.”

  I clear my throat. “You beginning to make the same connection I’m making, Mag?”

  “The end of days, the addition of two devout Hasidic Jews to our team. the Seventh Seal.”

  “Kind of all adds up, doesn’t it?” I note.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  We hit a sudden air pocket and drop like a stone, only to belly flop against some good air. Moshe and Itzy wobble and nearly fall to the floor, but regain their balance at the last second.

  “You feel that, Moshe?” Itzy the shorter says, his face beaming as opposed to horrified. “God is sending us a message.”

  “I feel it, Itzy,” Moshe says, his face also alight. “Right in my gut and in my soul.”

  Magda grabs hold of my hand, squeezes.

  “I hate turbulence,” she says. “Do you mind holding my hand during the rough patch?”

  Her hand squeezing mine feels like heaven. I peer out the window at the setting sun and pray for severe chop the entire way.

  CHAPTER 15

  We land on time in Tel Aviv and quickly make our way through immigration where we are issued entry stamps without questions as if Moshe and Itzhak preplanned it that way. And maybe, with Cross’ help and influence, they have. When we arrive outside in the brilliant sun of the early morning, a vehicle is waiting for us parked in the taxi lane. It’s another black Suburban, almost identical in every way to the one Itzy and Moshe picked us up in this morning. Or should I say, yesterday morning.

  Once again, Magda and I pile into the back while Moshe gets behind the wheel, grabbing the keys from on the visor. Itzy rides shotgun. Makes me feel like we never left New York.

  “We’ll head right to the safe house,” Moshe says into the rearview where his eyes focus in on my own reflected stare. “Then make a plan.”

  “Whatever you say, Moshe,” I say. “I guess, for now, I’m just along for the ride. Tell me when you actually want me to do something.”

  Itzy turns and eyes me. “We’re not your bosses. My brother and I are here to make sure you’re safe, and that’s all.”

  “Oh, good,” I say, “because for a minute there I was getting the feeling you were running the whole show.”

  Magda laughs under her breath, sets her left hand on my forearm. There’s that electric jolt again that tells me I’m falling. Maybe falling hard. Chase the always in love. Or so it seems. But that’s exactly the kind of thing that can get me in trouble. Best that I focus on the job at hand. Do my best to find these codices, if they exist, then get the hell out and back to New York before some rival hunter tries to stop me.

  Stop me with a bullet.

  After an hour’s drive through a Biblical, mountainous, desert landscape littered with concrete settlements surrounded by precast concrete walls topped with razor wire, we arrive in Jerusalem. The place is a bustling, hilly place that must have been fairly lush at one time, at least, judging by the greenery that still occupies the sides of the hills along with the houses, high-rises, and commercial establishments.

  The old City Walls begin to take shape as we drive up the hill toward the Palestinian Quarter. My mind immediately turns to Jesus. His riding into the city on a white donkey through what’s now known as the Wall’s Golden Gate, just like the Old Testament predicted.

  Was Jesus acting out scripture when He entered into the city on that fateful Passover weekend back in the early first century AD? Or had scripture merely prophesied the inevitable? Whatever the case, the Muslims have since filled the gate in with blocks weighing one ton apiece. A move intended to prevent Jesus from returning and entering the Holy City through that same gate ever again. But something tells me if He ever does make a comeback tour, those stones don’t stand a chance of stopping Him, no matter how much they weigh.

  Our safe house is actually a non-descript hotel located in the Palestinian Quarter, in an alley off a road lined with clothing shops, bakeries, falafel stands, money changers, and more than a few low-class hotels and eateries. The streets aren’t maintained, and there’s garbage everywhere, despite the ugly metal dumpsters that seem to occupy nearly every street corner.

  The building the hotel is housed in is easily a century or two old. It’s built of stone and marble, with arches and keystones over the entry and doorways. Inside the lobby, the walls of which contain several varieties of framed “Visit Palestine” posters, we are immediately handed three room keys. One for the Hasidic brothers, one for Magda, and one for me.

  I check my watch.

  Nine in the morning. No point in wasting the day.

  “How much time you need to freshen up?” I say to the crew.

  “Give me five minutes,” Magda says.

  “Coffee,” Moshe says. “I need coffee.”

  “We should pray, too,” Itzhak says, glancing at the clock above the reception desk. His eyes catch the Visit Palestine posters hanging on the wall. “I can’t say I’m feeling too comfortable here,” he adds.

  “We won’t be here long,” I assure him. “Meet me in my room, fifteen minutes. Fair enough?”

  “Glad to see you taking charge.” Magda smiles.

  “This is how I start earning Cross’ money.”

  The four of us head up the two flights of stone stairs and disperse to our individual rooms. As I’m placing the key into the door lock, I’m overcome with an odd sensation. It must be ninety degrees in the shade in Jerusalem, but I f
eel a cold chill pass through my flesh down to the bone. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and goosebumps pop out of my skin. I turn quick and nearly pull the .45 from my shoulder holster. But then I notice the security camera mounted on the corridor’s far upper corner, and I know that I’m being watched. By who or what, I can’t be sure. Cross took care of these accommodations so I can only assume this hotel is safe.

  A safe house . . .

  Time will tell.

  Stepping into the room, I set my bag down on the floor and collapse onto the bed face first. The breeze from the revolving ceiling fan washes over me, and not having caught a single Z on the long flight over here, I fall immediately into a deep sleep.

  I’m back in the valley.

  A grassy plane surrounded by Date trees and foothills. It’s so hot, I feel like I’m going to melt into a puddle of blood and water. The sky is dark and lightning flashes in the distance. Jagged, bright white, electric, and violent. Emerging from the heat haze that paints the horizon, I see four horses and four riders coming toward me at full gallop.

  Three black horses and one white horse.

  The white horse is in front.

  I try to turn and run, but I can’t. I’m cemented in place. Suddenly, the rider is within view, and she pulls back on the reigns, stops the horse only feet away from me, the animal coated in sweat, its muscles pulsing, snot spitting out its nose and mouth.

  The pale rider on the pale horse is Vanessa Gabor.

  The other three horses arrive, and the rider’s identities are revealed — Magda, Moshe, and Itzhak. The latter two are laughing and holding the reigns to their mounts with one hand and tattered copies of the Siddu in the other.

  “Seek the three sevens,” Magda says.

  “When the earth opens up,” Vanessa says, “we will all die.”

  “We will all see God,” Moshe says. “Jesus will break down the stone walls and enter through the Golden Gates.”

  “We will enter into heaven,” Itzhak says. “We are the chosen people.”

  “Remember,” Magda says again, “the three sevens. Or the world ends.”

  Jolting awake.

  I have no idea where I am. I shake my head, and it slowly comes back to me that I’m in Jerusalem. The sounds of the old city fill the second floor room, and my skin is covered in a sheen of sweat beneath my clothing.

  What a dream I had.

  What did Magda mean by the three sevens? Are Moshe and Itzhak actually looking forward to the end of the world? Judgement day? As the chosen people, they will see paradise while the rest of us sinners take a fucking powder? Is that why they’re here? Not to prevent judgment day, but to make it happen?

  Take it easy Chase. It’s your imagination getting the best of you. The writer’s imagination . . .

  Bounding up from the bed, I pull out my laptop, log into the hotel internet, bring up Google. I type in, “Israel, Valley, Judgement Day, Apocalypse.” I am immediately directed to a new article about massive oil reverses in the Megiddo-Jezreel Valley and the Golan Heights. The article refers to the reserves as a “bonanza.”

  I sit back and think.

  “The Megiddo Valley,” I whisper to myself. “How do I know that name?”

  Then, it comes to me. From my New Testament courses back at Providence College. The Megiddo Valley and Armageddon are synonymous. In fact, the article points to the fact that Moses predicted that one day the Israelites would poke their toes in pools of black oil.

  I type “Megiddo Valley” into the Google search, hit Enter. There’s a photo of Tel Megiddo, the mountain upon which many bloody battles have been fought in ancient times. This is also the spot the Book of Revelations claims the final battle between good and evil will occur.

  Armageddon . . . Judgement day . . . The day Christ returns to earth . . .

  I close the laptop, sit back in the chair.

  “The seven codices,” I whisper. “The seventh book bound with the seventh seal. A seal that, if broken, will usher in the end of days.” I recall Vanessa in my dream. Seek the three sevens. I see Moshe and Itzhak holding their tattered Siddu prayer books. Is Vanessa talking about the codices themselves? But then, she was talking to me in a dream. There’s nothing real about the three sevens. It’s something that I’m making up in my subconscious.

  A knock on the door.

  CHAPTER 16

  Open the door.

  Magda steps in. No Hello. No Hope I’m not disturbing you. No smile. Her face is all business. She’s wearing a military green T-shirt, tan cargo pants, and black combat boots. Her long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She looks ready for action.

  She’s got a map of the city in her hand. While she’s spreading it out on the bed, Moshe and Itzhak enter the room and immediately press their backs against the far wall.

  “Don’t mind us,” Itzak says, planting a smile on his face which looks silly between those hanging curling locks and that oversized black Stetson. “Go about your business like we’re not here.”

  Just like my dream, the two of them are holding their tattered black, leather bound prayer books. I ignore the Hasidic brothers and concentrate instead on Magda. She’s using her index finger like a pointer. Taking a couple of steps towards her, I gaze over her shoulder.

  “The bookshop is located here, in the Old City, through the Damascus Gate. On Al–Wad Street, maybe one hundred feet before the Via Dolorosa.”

  “What are we waiting for?” I say.

  Magda straightens up.

  “It’s as good a place as any to start our search.”

  “Are you suggesting or telling?”

  “Very funny.” She goes for the door.

  “Wait,” I say.

  She stops, her hand on the old brass lever.

  I pull out my .45, thumb the mag release, check the load, slap the magazine back home, safety on.

  “Now I feel better,” I say.

  Itzhe slaps his Siddu.

  “This is all the fire power I need,” he says. But then, opening his coat and issuing his machine pistol a quick glance. “The Uzi is for backup.”

  “Power of God beats bullets every time,” Moshe says.

  “God is a bullet,” I say.

  Magda opens the door, and we pile out.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Damascus Gate is an ornate, gray, stone entry that’s about five stories high and maybe five hundred feet in width. It sports a large arched entry with huge, old, leather covered wood cathedral doors. With its two wall-mounted ramparts, it reminds me of an old castle. And from what I’m told, that’s what the seventh-century builders had in mind when they constructed it over the old stone gate that existed during the time of Jesus.

  The place is crowded, if not overcrowded, with vendors occupying both sides of the dark, narrow entryway. The entry is shaped like an S. You walk through the gate, go left, then go right and come out on the main, cobbled road. Open air restaurants and coffee shops are located on the right and more vendors on the left selling everything from candy to pharmaceuticals to spices. The place is as busy as an ant colony and has been for ages.

  With Moshe and Itzhak watching our backs, and our every move lest we decide to lose them by taking off down one of the many blind alleyways, Magda and I proceed toward the road that splits off to the left.

  Al-Wad Street.

  “There it is,” she says, pointing directly at a shop covered with an old brown awning that’s so torn and ratted it looks like it’s been there since Jesus walked these roads.

  She stops in front of the shop.

  The exterior walls of the place are hidden behind bookcases stuffed with old volumes of one kind or another. By the looks of it, Bibles, Old Testaments, New Testaments, Siddus, Korans, bound Torahs, and more. Books on travel in Israel, none of them new but used and as ragged as the awning that protects them. A little red paperback catches my eye, the spine of which reads, The New Testament.

  Seek the three sevens . . .

  I
pull it off the shelf.

  “Found something you like?” Magda says.

  “Something I think I need,” I say. “I’ll explain later. We going in?”

  Unlike a lot of the shops we’ve passed, this one has a door that separates it from the outside. The door is heavy and wooden, and I can bet it’s there not to keep out the noise or the dust, but to act as a protective barrier for some valuable antique books the owner is surely housing on the inside.

  Magda opens the door, and we step inside. All four of us.

  The big, rectangular room is dim and smells of must, mold, and age. Bookshelves cover every square inch of wall space, and even the shelves themselves are stuffed with volumes both vertically and horizontally. Electric metal lamps shaped like acorns hang from the wood beam-supported plaster ceiling by thin black chains. Dull electric light oozes out of their green, red, and clear glass. There is the distinct odor of burning incense in the air. It combines with the sweet smoke that can only come from a hookah pipe.

  The place seems abandoned until I spot something in the corner. A man dressed in a long bone-colored robe. He’s wearing a knit kufi skull cap, and the flesh on his face is hidden behind a long, salt and pepper beard. He’s got the metal tip of the hookah hose in his mouth, and he sets it down before slowly standing, exhaling the blue smoke through his mouth and nostrils.

  “I am Mahdi,” he says, his voice low-toned and surprisingly British accented. “How may I be of service to you?”

  “You’re English?” Magda says.

  “I was born and raised in London,” the man says, his hands hidden under the long sleeves of his tunic. “I moved back to Jerusalem after the first Intifada in 1993 to be closer to my people.” His eyes shift from Magda and me to the Hasidic brothers who are both standing at the front of the store, one man planted on each side of the door as if guarding it. And they are.

  I clear my throat.