The Blood Gospel

Reaching out, she nudged the girl’s fingers open. She had expected them to be brittle but found them eerily pliable. Surprised at the state of the body, she missed catching the object as it fell free. It dropped in the dust.

She didn’t need a doctorate in archaeology to recognize this artifact.

Jordan swore under his breath.

She stared dumbfounded at the medal, at the iron cross, at the swastika.

German.

From World War II.

Here was the identity of the grave robbers, the ones who had drilled down here with modern tools. But why was this medal clutched in the mummified fingers of a girl inside an ancient Jewish tomb?

Jordan clenched a fist. “The Nazis must have got here first. Raided and emptied this place out.”

His words clarified little. Hitler was obsessed with the occult, but what had he hoped to find in Masada?

She scrutinized the girl’s clothes. Why would the Nazis take so much care to dress a child in replicas of the first millennium, only to crossbolt her to the wall?

She pictured the girl ripping the medal off her tormentor’s uniform, hiding it, stealing proof of who killed her. Again an upwelling of sympathy for this child—and for the courage of this final act—swept through her. Tears again rose in her eyes.

“Are you okay?” Jordan’s face was close enough for her to see a fine scar on his chin.

To hide her tears, she lifted her phone and took several pictures of the medal. The girl had gone to great lengths to secure a clue to the identity of her murderer. Erin would record her proof.

Once she lowered her phone, Jordan reached to the dust, picked up the medal, and flipped it over. “Maybe we can find out who did this. SS officers often carved their names on the reverse side of their medals. Whoever this bastard was, I want his name. And if he’s somehow still alive …”

At that moment she liked Jordan more than ever. Shoulder to shoulder, they studied the small metal disk. No name covered the reverse side, only a strange symbol.

She took a snapshot of it in Jordan’s palm, then read aloud the words along its border. “Deutsches Ahnenerbe.”

“That makes sense,” Jordan said sourly.

She shot him a quizzical glance. Recent German history was not her specialty. “How so?”

He tilted the medal from side to side. “My grandfather fought in World War Two. Told me stories. It’s one of the reasons I joined up. And I’m a bit of a history buff. The Deutsches Ahnenerbe were a secret sect of Nazi scientists with an interest in the occult who went around the world seeking lost treasures and proof of an ancient Aryan race. Himmler’s band of grave robbers.”

And they got here first. She felt a sinking sense of defeat. She was used to studying graves that had already been robbed, but those thefts usually happened in antiquity. It rankled her that this tomb had been despoiled mere decades ago.

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.”