The Moses Prophecy

By Ric Bennett

The Moses Prophecy is a fast paced, page turning thriller from beginning to end. An ancient prophecy, stretching across the millennia, predicts the destruction of one of the holiest sites on earth in the very near future. The story starts with the search for the original breast plate worn by Aaron, brother of Moses and the first high priest of the temple of Jerusalem. Is it possible that it still exists and what are the consequences if it does?

Australian Martha Heron, a fiery and passionate biblical archaeologist, together with her partner, Tony Marsden, an antique dealer who loves a challenge, have only seven days to find this relic before the prophecy is alleged to be fulfilled.

Abdul Farsi, an Islamic assassin, is convinced that it does exist and he wants to find it first. He intends selling it on the antiquities black market for millions of dollars. Nothing will stand in his way, especially not Martha and Tony.

Roberto Trimboli, a renegade Jesuit Priest, is working with the Catholic Church to make sure that if it is found, the world will only know about it on the church’s terms for they have their own plans for it. But Trimboli and the Jesuits have their own agenda. Unbeknown to the Pope, that does not include the Vatican.

From Moses to an antique shop in London, from Washington to Tasmania’s sleepy towns of Ross and Campbell Town, then on to Israel and the city of Jerusalem. Ric Bennett skillfully weaves ancient history, facts, myths and legends into a tense and gripping story full of intrigue, suspense and emotion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ric Bennett
• Release date: Dec 3, 2014

Book preview

Prologue

Mount Nebo, East of the Dead Sea, circa 1300BC.

The man stood alone on the slopes of the mountain, leaning on the staff he had carried with him for several decades and reflecting back on the many years allotted to him by the Lord. His long white beard moved softly in the wind. Sand collected in small drifts around his feet, which were clad in calf leather sandals that were worn down from the arduous journey through the desert these many years past. Across the shimmering water of the Dead Sea, off to his left and out into the distance through the heat haze, he could see the land he had led his people to. The Promised Land, promised to the Hebrews by God. The fact that he would never walk on that land made his heart heavy, and yet, in a strange way, he was satisfied and at peace with his life. The sun beat down on his head as he reflected upon one of the last conversations he’d had with his older brother and sister, both now dead. He stood staring into the distance and listened to their voices, as they floated toward him on the wind.

‘It is done, Aaron.’

Looking at his younger brother, Aaron replied, ‘It would seem so, my brother.’

‘The story of the great flood and Adam and Eve were written two thousand years ago,’ said Miriam apprehensively. ‘I’m not sure you should have hidden that fact. And how long do you think the clay tablet will remain a secret?’

‘Dear Miriam.’ Her younger brother looked at her, exasperation evident in his voice. ‘Always the doubter, always trying to make me look less than what I am,’ he replied. ‘What I have written will last for thousands of years. My words will have served their purpose, and people three thousand years from now will have too much to worry about in their own world without wondering if those words were really attributed to me. And as for the tablet? Well, all will be revealed when the time is right. It will be for Aaron and all of his descendants to keep it safe until the prophecy is revealed. We will not be here to see what happens.’

‘It is true…I am sorry, Brother.’ Miriam held his hand. ‘We have set history on its course. I wish I could be walking this desert in future times to see what the people will do about it,’ she mused.

‘As do I, Miriam. But it will be up to the people of that time to make their own choices,’ Aaron answered, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. ‘We cannot know for certain how this event will unfold that far off, only that it will happen, but just imagine someone from that time standing right here where we are now. I’m sure they will be wondering what kind of people we were, how we knew what we knew, and yet, somehow, feeling a spiritual connection with us. You are right,’ he said, looking at his sister. ‘What we have begun here will reverberate for thousands of years to come, not just for the Hebrews, but also for a world and a people that we have no knowledge of—a world and a people whose future we helped chart a course for.’

‘Yes, but there will be much bloodshed, war, and catastrophic events that the children of Israel will have to face before the prophecy is fulfilled, Aaron,’ said Miriam sadly. ‘Man against man and nation against nation, faith against faith, brother against brother, in a world far different from the one we know at present.’

They stood silently for a while, each with their own thoughts.

‘Not so different,’ murmured the younger brother to himself.

Coming back from his reverie, he shifted his feet, shook off the sand and, taking one last look out into the distance, threw down his staff and eased himself to the ground, his bones cracking as he bent his knees. A gentle mist came down and shrouded Mount Nebo, engulfing him, and for a moment, he shivered. The wind ceased, and a peaceful contentment rested within his heart. He listened to the sound of voices rising up from the desert at the foot of the mountain. His people, people who had followed him for forty years, wandering in the wilderness till they found this place. They were getting restless again. I have completed the tasks God gave me, he thought. It is time now for my chosen leader, Joshua, to take them the rest of the way to the Promised Land. Forty years wandering in the desert is nothing compared to what my people are about to face from this day forward. A smile creased his aged face. He let out a deep sigh and lay back, resting his head on the warm sand. He looked up through the mist to heaven and, still smiling, closed his eyes.

He gave thanks, and one last breath left his ancient body. Gently, peacefully, and alone, except for God, Moses died.

Chapter One

London, November 2015A.D.

‘Tony and Martha, shalom, my dear friends, how are you both? I had a feeling I would be seeing you again soon,’ exclaimed Isaac excitedly. He appeared genuinely pleased to see them both.

‘G’day, Isaac.’ Tony greeted him with a strong handshake, clearly happy to see the old man, whom he had only ever met once before.

‘Isaac, we are very well, thank you. You don’t look a day older,’ Martha said, as she laughed lightly, giving him a kiss and a hug. He was the closest thing to a grandfather that Martha had ever known, and she loved him dearly. Even though they hardly ever saw each other, the tyranny of distance between Australia and England being the main reason, there was a special bond between them from the moment they first met.

‘Aaah, sheesh, you say all the right things to an old man, my dear,’ replied Isaac, attempting to look bashful. ‘It’s such a long schlep from Australia; let me make you some tea, and you can tell me about your trip. Why are you here, and how long are you staying? Come through to the back room, and I’ll close up for a while,’ he said excitedly. Turning the sign in the window of his Portobello Road shop to read closed, he guided them through the dimly lit, musty interior, overstocked with all manner of knickknacks and antiques. Tony spied a Hurdy Gurdy hanging on the wall to his right and remembered a time when he had full intentions of purchasing one and learning how to play it, after seeing Loreena McKennitt in concert.

Stepping into the sitting room at the back, Martha noticed that it hadn’t changed much in the few times she had visited the place over the years. The room looked like an office, living room, and kitchen all rolled into one. A couple of tired old armchairs and a cracked leather couch were facing a window that looked out into a small yard. A battered and scratched coffee table stood in front of the couch. Under the window was an old radiator that made gurgling noises, which Tony assumed meant that it was working, despite the chill in the room. Next to the only window was a door that opened out onto the tiny paved yard where a rubbish skip stood, wedged next to a gate that led into a laneway at the back of the shop.

‘Well, as usual,’ Tony replied in answer to Isaac’s question, ‘we only have a few days, and, as you would expect, I’m on the hunt for a good Dickens.’

‘You and a great many other collectors, my boy.’ Isaac smiled.

Tony carried on, saying, ‘But what about you? I thought you may have sold up and gone back to Israel by now.’

‘No, the situation in the Middle East has not improved enough for me to do that, Tony. As you know, we have our backs to the sea and are surrounded on three sides by people who would wipe us off the face of the earth if they could.’

His passion and his weary acceptance glowed in his eyes. ‘The Arab nations are well aware of the fact we have no place to go and, therefore, cannot leave. That means they have to get rid of us completely, and I tell you now, Tony, there will never, ever be another Holocaust. Israel is here to stay. Having said that, it’s not a place for an old man like me anymore; it’s hard enough living in London these days. Now we have our own homegrown terrorists, here and throughout Europe. Do you realize that in a few more years, Europe will be more Muslim than Christian?’ he asked. ‘Most of the younger ones have never even seen the Middle East and, as a consequence, have a great deal of trouble knowing who they are or where they belong. Unfortunately, they are sandwiched between two worlds. The one their parents fled from and the one they have grown up in. It’s no wonder there is trouble wherever you look these days. Multiculturalism sounds very nice in theory, but for the most part, it has never worked and never will.’ He looked at Tony with sadness in his eyes. Both he and Martha could completely understand the old man’s point of view, even if they did not particularly agree with it.

The whistle on the old kettle sounded like a steam train, and Martha turned off the gas. She poured the boiling water into an equally old teapot, serving it up on a tray with cups and saucers. Isaac brought out some biscuits from a cupboard over the sink.

‘How are your parents and Simon?’ he enquired.

‘They are all fine, thank you, Isaac. Simon is still at the embassy in Washington, and Mum and Dad are both well. They send their love.’

Thinking back to her childhood, she fondly remembered the first time Isaac entered into her life. It was at her brother, Simon’s, Bar Mitzvah in Melbourne, and Isaac had flown all the way from London just to attend. To Martha, he seemed old, even way back then. He was a small, thin man with a shock of snow-white hair and a gentle, smiling face. She remembered shyly shaking his hand and thinking that he had just stepped out of the pages of her favorite book, The Lord of the Rings. Not having a grandfather of her own, she immediately staked a claim to him and he her. Never a birthday went by without a card and a letter from Isaac. In recent years, she had even persuaded him to buy a laptop so that he could learn how to use email and Skype. He steadfastly refused to become her friend on Facebook, though.

Smiling at him apologetically, she said, ‘Sorry to arrive unannounced, Isaac, but we only decided at the last minute to take a break. We both had enough frequent flier points for a return trip, so we thought we would come to London, check out the Christmas lights, and do a little shopping and sightseeing at the same time.’

‘Well, I’m glad I was part of your itinerary,’ said Isaac, taking a sip of his tea. Putting his cup down, he gazed at Martha intently for a moment. Their sudden arrival had put in motion a train of thought that there would be no turning back from. Maybe this is my last chance, he thought to himself. Making the decision quickly and without further thought, he rose up from the couch and strode purposefully to the bookcase, his body tense. Knowing that the moment he had been waiting for had finally arrived, he was now much more afraid than he expected. He knew he would not be able to pull the wool over Martha’s eyes for long, but it was now or never.

Martha sensed there was something not quite right about his behavior but decided against saying anything, for the time being.

Trying to act normally but failing dismally, Isaac turned to Tony.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have a Charles Dickens for you this time, Tony, but I do have something I would like to give you, Martha.’ Isaac looked at her from under hooded brows and continued, ‘I was getting rather anxious I would never see you again, truth be told.’

He turned back to the bookcase and pulled a few books out of one of the shelves. Reaching in behind them, he withdrew a wooden box and handed it to Martha. It appeared to be quite old, about the size of a shoebox and quite heavy. Martha could tell immediately that it was made from Huon Pine, an expensive Tasmanian timber. On the lid was a carving of a Tasmanian Devil, bordered by an intricate gum leaf design. Large, heavy brass hinges hugged the back of the box, and a solid brass padlock secured the front.

‘Take it with you back to Australia, but don’t open it till you get there,’ he told her mysteriously. ‘I can’t keep it any longer, and I’m too old to do anything about it now. Who knows…it might contain a treasure map! Lots of ships voyaged to Australia, and, as you know, the coastline is littered with the wrecks of old galleons that sailed from Europe, hundreds of years before Captain Cook supposedly discovered it.’ He finished with a casual wink that didn’t convince Martha there was anything at all casual about it.

Tony could sense the old man’s nervousness. He emitted an acute anxiety neither Tony nor Martha had ever experienced, and his eyes darted intermittently toward the window.

Accepting the box with a concerned expression on her face, Martha asked, ‘Are you feeling okay, Isaac?’

Isaac ignored her question, instead saying, ‘Now, I had better open up shop again, or I’ll have customers queuing at the door wondering where I have got to. It has been an old man’s pleasure seeing you two lovely people again.’

With that, he ushered Tony and Martha back into the shop. Opening the front door, he almost pushed them out into the street, with an unmistakable air of finality.

Closing the door behind his two young visitors, Isaac leaned against the counter and began to shake. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his forehead and brushed a lock of white hair from his face. A sense of extreme fear washed over him, and he wondered if he had done the right thing by giving the box to Martha. For a moment, he was overcome with guilt. He knew the shop was being watched, and the pair could be in great danger from now on. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this at my age. What the hell am I thinking?’ he murmured out loud. Casting his mind back over the previous few days, he felt certain that the Arabs suspected him of knowing more than he actually did. Nevertheless, he was aware that what he did know could get Martha and Tony killed, just as it had the young Ruth Zimmerman and her boyfriend in Jerusalem, a couple of years ago. He had to get rid of the evidence, and Martha was the only one who would know what to do with it, even if she did not realize it yet. Maybe I should have confided in her much sooner, he thought, as his heart slowly began to beat normally. He returned to the back room and bolted the door leading into the yard. Looking out of the window, he saw that the small yard was empty. He thought that maybe he was seeing things but knew in his heart that it would not be long before all hell broke loose and the world would never be the same again. Why did I hang on to it for so long? he thought. His mind wandered back to his younger days in Israel as he stared off into the distance. Most of the men and women he knew then were now gone, dead or retired into obscurity. With the passing of his old friend Ariel Sharon, the old guard, the founders of Israel, had disappeared into the history books. Israel was a very different place now than in 1948. Yes, we are still fighting for our survival, he thought, but things are so different today. I am a relic and destined to go the same way as so many other relics of ancient times—into the lost and forgotten basket, and I didn’t even make it into the history books.

An intense feeling of loneliness descended upon him, and he felt certain the premonition he’d had, that he would never witness the coming changes, was about to come true, and his thoughts began to wander further.

Many years had gone by, and Isaac had begun to think that his secret would die with him. But recent events had proven otherwise. He knew there were those in the Catholic Church who would not let it rest. The Arabs would also stop at nothing to prevent it from happening, no matter what the cost to innocent lives. Contemplating the consequences of the two organizations working hand in hand was mind-numbing. The very future of Israel was at stake, maybe even more so now than at any other time in its history, and he was not prepared to jeopardize that, even if it cost him his life. And that was a very real possibility, especially if the Jesuits also became involved. He firmly believed that their organization had harbored many spies and assassins in their relentless quest for power. His fear turned ice-cold as it ran through his veins, and he slowly shuffled back into the shop. Reaching under the counter, he withdrew a bottle of Irish Whiskey. Pouring a generous drop into an old glass tumbler, he sank back into one of the antique armchairs, facing the shop window. Taking a gulp, he felt the amber liquid slide down his throat with a slight warming sensation as it hit his stomach. He wondered what Martha would do once she opened the box and found out what was inside. He still felt a profound sense of guilt but also a sense of relief that he had given it to the right person. If anyone could be trusted with the contents, and had the knowledge to know what to do with it, it was Martha Heron. Solomon, old friend, I wish with all my heart you had not told me your damnable secret, he thought, as another sip of whiskey hit the spot.

Chapter Two

The couple stood outside Isaac’s shop, baffled by what had just occurred. Tony Marsden was thirty-six years of age, a well-built and athletic six feet two, with fair wavy hair, bright, piercing blue eyes, and a long Roman nose above a whimsical smile and wide mouth. He had an affable, friendly personality, and his Australian suntan looked out of place on a chilly, late autumn day in London. His easygoing demeanor was reflected in his casual jeans, sweater, and a warm duffle coat to ward off the cool breeze. The weather had come as a shock to him, especially after leaving the warmth of spring in Australia, just two days previously.

Tony was an antique dealer based in Melbourne, specializing in old, rare, and collectable books. He was also a self-confessed adventurer, traveling the world looking for bargains. Martha Heron was an archaeologist and avid reader like Tony. They were in Portobello Road, one of London’s many tourist attractions, famous for anything old and not so old, genuine and not so genuine, antiques and bric-a-brac. Martha loved window-shopping and browsing through the markets, using their combined knowledge of how to distinguish the old and rare from the cheap and nasty. It was something they had both become expert at over the years, especially when visiting London.

First edition books by Charles Dickens were special items Tony was always on the lookout for, and he hoped to find at least one this trip. He was well aware that most sales came via the Internet these days, but that didn’t stop him from expecting the unexpected. They had just made their way through the busy throng of people crowded into the narrow street, to one of their favorite antique shops, not far from the Notting Hill Gate underground station. A friend of Martha’s owned the shop; a lovely old Jewish man named Isaac Cohen, the very same Isaac who had just ejected them, unceremoniously, into the street.

In previous visits they had learned that Isaac could recall, as a young boy, watching his father and two uncles being taken away by soldiers as he stood at a station with his mother and his sister. All of them had just disembarked a train in Auschwitz, Poland. Isaac was the only survivor from his entire family, who were sent to the gas chambers at that particular concentration camp, during the Holocaust that saw six million Jewish people exterminated by the Nazis. Now a man in his eighties, he exuded a distinguished, grandfatherly masculinity that commanded the reverence and love of all those who came into his aura of easy assurance and respectability. Knowing his usual demeanor made what had just happened to them all the more puzzling.

‘How strange,’ remarked Martha, clearly hurt, and at a loss to understand what had just happened to them. ‘I don’t get it; did we say something wrong? We didn’t even get to finish our tea. There is something definitely not right with this picture.’ She looked at Tony in dismay.

‘No, we didn’t say anything to upset him, but I agree, something is not right,’ he replied emphatically. ‘Isaac has never been like that with us before, especially after not seeing you for so long. You know what a soft spot he has for you. He loves you like a daughter.’

Martha looked as puzzled as Tony, and they stood on the busy street, deep in thought, oblivious to the noise and bustle of all the people around them. The suddenness of Isaac’s actions had overwhelmed them both, but Martha felt particularly troubled. A fearful knowing was trying to get through to her brain, but she didn’t want to acknowledge it for fear of the consequences that would ensue. She gave a shudder and took a deep breath as Tony began speaking again.

‘I was certain he would have wanted to catch up on all the gossip from you about the Museum,’ said Tony. ‘He seemed scared to me. Even though he was pleased to see us, his eyes gave him away. I wonder what’s bothering him so much that, all of a sudden, he couldn’t wait to get us out of the shop.’

‘Okay,’ said Martha. Taking another deep breath and looking surreptitiously up and down the street, she turned to Tony with a determined expression on her face.

Uh-oh, thought Tony. He knew what was coming. Martha had her back up, and that meant trouble—usually for him.

Inquisitive, volatile, passionate, and with an exuberant personality, Martha Heron stood five feet seven inches tall with a slim, lithe body. She had large brown eyes, a sensual mouth, and a mass of exploding curly black hair that could have scored her a part in Hair, the greatest nineteen sixties musical. Even her eclectic taste in the fashions she favored came straight out of the Age of Aquarius. In the London cold of that morning, she wore a maroon ankle-length velvet skirt, black leather boots, and a brightly colored coat she had purchased in Egypt whilst on an archaeological dig, a few years previously. She exuded an effortless sophistication and had a practical and vivid imagination with a positive attitude to life’s ups and downs. Her olive skin gave the impression of a permanent suntan, and her face was open and friendly. Based purely on appearance, most people would mistake her for a fashionable hippie, trapped in a time warp. Few would actually guess that Martha held the title of Assistant Director of Archeological Studies at The Jewish Museum of Australia in Melbourne.

A major component of the Museum’s collection was the documentation of many aspects of Australian Jewish life, beginning with the arrival of Jews with the first fleet and representing in depth major episodes of migration and settlement of the Jews in Australia to the present day. Martha had been working there for three years on special assignment.

Born in Melbourne in 1978 to Israeli parents who migrated after the Six-Day War in 1972, Martha grew up with a passion for the birthplace of her parents. She studied the archaeology of the bible lands at Melbourne University and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, which culminated in her present job description. Her parents rarely spoke about the war, but at that time, in the late sixties, her father, Benjamin Heron, was one of the youngest members of the Israeli Parliament, the Knesset, and was closely associated with the Mossad, The Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations.

‘We are going back to the hotel and opening the box,’ said Martha, in a determined voice. Her body crackled with a tension that Tony had never before seen as she began to walk away from the shop without a backward glance.

‘But Isaac asked us to open it when we get back to Australia,’ he muttered to himself.

Martha heard him and turned, giving him a withering look. He knew in