Last Journey of the Ark

By J.J. Gainer

WOW! Last Journey of the Ark is an incredible read. Mr. Gainer has done a spendid job of engaging the reader in an intriguing story line involving a fascinating subject...The Ark of the Covenant. You will enjoy this colorful journey. Great Job!!
REVIEW By DL Moody- President of Arlington Baptist
Your book is absolutely wonderful. I loved every minute of it! I laughed. I cried. I learned alot. Set up, climax and follow through of the storyline are all excellent. I would make an excellent screenplay as well (something to thing about in the future.
REVIEW by Sarajoy Porter--Editor

Now available at authorhouse.com--Last Journey of the Ark (288 pages), a compelling action-adventure with a hint of romance, inspired by contemporay events that tell how the Ark of the Covenant went back to Israel in modern times.

The heroine is a determined woman reporter from New York City who stumbles into love while entangled in dangerous and complex Israeli security issues. Ultimately she witnesses the return of the Ark of the Covenant to Israel in 1991.

So why didn't the world hear about these events? Indeed, bits and pieces of the real story have leaked out over the years. Perhaps you recall a whisper of an announcement on world news in May 1991 that the Israel Security Service--the Mossad--had quietly transported 14,314 Ethiopian Jews back to Israel at the height of the Civil War in Ethiopia.

Why would Israel believe that these modern Ethiopian Jews are truly descendants of the tribe of Dan? Why would Israel risk men and airplanes against a backdrop of civil war in Ethiopia to fly these Jews to Israel? Why would Israelis take 14,000 poor people to their tiny country and pay millions of dollars to Ethiopia for that privilege? Why would the Israelis name the operation after the very King of Israel who first placed the Ark in the second temple? Read this book to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467067522

Book preview

HOW IT BEGAN

October 8, 1988

New York City, New York

Ethel Feldman entered Heidelman’s Jewelry shop on 48th Street in New York City, humming a Broadway show tune. She was wearing her father’s heavy, black tweed coat.

Burt Heidelman stood behind a display case, cleaning the glasstop. He was a small, heavyset, bald man with a thin mustache. When the doorbell jingled, he looked up at this black-haired, green-eyed beauty.

What are you doing on these mean streets this late? he called to her.

I brought the rest of the money for my layaway, she answered, walking to the counter and handing him the cash, which she took from her coat pocket.

Good girl, Burt said with a broad smile. He put the money in his cash register. Then he bent down and reached into the display case to take out an exquisite jewelry box.

When he stood up, he opened the box to reveal a beautiful strand of Tahitian black pearls. I’ll bet your mother will love these, he said. They must be treating you all right at that magazine.

They are. You are looking at their newest senior crime reporter… she said as she playfully turned up her collar like Dick Tracy.

 . . . of the best selling magazine in the city, he finished for her. Your mother and father must be proud.

Maybe, but…

But what?

To tell you the truth, I don’t really want to be a columnist. Now, if I could be a television anchor… She let her voice drop off as she thrust the box with the pearls deep in the coat pocket. Matter of fact, here’s my résumé. She handed him a single sheet. I thought you might know someone, who knows someone in the business. She had handed out her résumé all over the city.

Burt smiled as he laid it near his register. I’ll see what I can do, he said.

He looked over her shoulder as the bell jingled again. Fear crossed his face instantly. What the—

Ethel turned to see a man with a red stocking cap pulled down over his face, with holes cut for his eyes. He was aiming a .44 Magnum at them.

Get over here, and lock that door! shouted the man. Turn your sign around. This store is closed!

Ethel froze.

The thief hustled over to her, pointing the gun in her face. "Do it now!"

Somehow, she managed to remain calm. She walked to the door quickly and flipped the sign around as the gunman nervously shifted his aim between her and Burt.

When she had finished, he waved her forward with gun in hand. Okay, stop. Face down on the floor. Don’t move.

In a flash, he unzipped his jacket and pulled out a black bag. He threw it to Burt, who caught it. Fill it up. Everything in the display cases.

Burt bent down at the first counter, reached in, and began dumping the contents into the black bag as the thief leaned over the counter.

"Hurry up, old man! the robber shouted. Or I’ll have to kill your customer!"

Those words sent a chill through Ethel. Where had she heard them before? She remembered reading about a string of robberies in the city in which the robber had worn a red knit cap. He usually hit jewelry stores, and in all but one instance, he had left everyone in the shop dead. That killer had said those same words just before he’d left a man for dead in a previous robbery, but the man had survived and repeated those words to the police. Now, she realized that she couldn’t just lie there. This guy was going to kill both of them if she didn’t do something—but what?

Between backward glances from the killer, she reached into her coat pocket with her right hand, closed her fingers around the pearls and slid her right hand in front of her on the floor. Slipping her left hand into her other coat pocket, she felt around until she located her father’s toenail clippers. She’d found his clippers earlier and wondered how they’d had come to be in his pocket. Slowly, she moved her left hand up to meet her right. With the pearls and the clippers hidden in her hands, she quickly clipped several pearls from the strand. As quietly as she could, she rolled the pearls across the tile floor until they were scattered behind the killer.

Okay, now the safe, said the killer impatiently. "Hurry up, old man!" But as the killer stepped back from the counter, he stepped on some of the pearls and lost his footing. "Hey!" he shouted as he fell backward. His hand slammed into the hard corner of a display case, and he dropped the gun, which slid just out of his reach as he hit the floor. Ethel jumped to her feet, grabbing the gun.

The gunman stood up with a startled look. Now, lady, you don’t want to shoot me, he said as he inched to the door. Ethel trained the gun on him, but she didn’t shoot. The killer moved steadily toward the door.

But Burt reappeared over the counter, his pistol aimed at the killer. She won’t shoot you, but I will. Just take one more step.

The killer froze.

* * * *

Later that evening, Ethel opened her apartment door and went straight to the answering machine. The first call was from her mother. What’s this I hear from Burt about you confronting a killer? Call me.

The second call was from the police. Ms. Feldman, we need you to come in tomorrow and look at our lineup. Ask for Detective James, 31st Precinct.

The third call was from a stranger and completely unexpected. "Ms. Feldman, my name is Arye Bemporad. A friend of a friend tells me that you would like to be a television anchor. I’ve checked out your credentials, and I’m very impressed. NYU graduate in broadcast journalism, top of your class. Fluent in Arabic, Hebrew and Amharic. Most Americans have never heard of Amharic. Very personable and pretty. Sounds like the perfect skill set for us. I’m the managing director of Channel 2 News, Jerusalem. We have an opening for a television anchorwoman. Give me a call." Arye left an international number.

In 1984-85, Israel had helped a people group from Ethiopia to migrate to Israel. This group spoke Amharic.

Ethel broke into a smile. She had no idea what time it was in Israel, but she intended to find out.

CHAPTER I

October 13, 1988

6:00 P.M.

Ethel climbed the stairs to the familiar brownstone house carrying a large, cumbersome package. She was dressed in her favorite skirt and open-collared blouse, with her black hair falling softly on her shoulders. She knocked at the door and waited the few seconds it took for her mother to look through the peephole before she opened the door.

You okay? her mom asked as Ethel stepped inside the house.

Ethel returned her mother’s searching gaze, looking into green eyes much like her own.

The years had been kind to Salma Feldman. Even with the tiny crow’s feet around her eyes and the occasional gray strands in her otherwise black shoulder-length hair, Salma looked like Ethel’s older sister, or so people often said.

What’s this about you stopping a murderer?

I’m perfectly fine. I really don’t want to talk about that now, Ethel said.

You could have been killed.

It was risky. I know that. But it was a calculated risk. He was probably going to kill us both.

You weren’t risking your life to get a story for your crime column, were you?

You think I would do that? Ethel asked.

Her mom didn’t answer.

Thought you wanted to be a broadcast journalist, her mom said.

Ethel’s eyes lit up. I do want to talk about that, but first, where’s Dad?

Resting. He asked for me to wake him when you arrived.

In a few moments, Ethel’s mother came back from the bedroom pushing the wheelchair, in which a thin, frail man sat with a blanket covering his lap and a yarmulke covering the thin spot on his head. The outline of a weak smile shone on his face.

Dad, Mom, I’ve got something for each of you.

For you, Dad… She began unwrapping the large package, revealing a framed pen and ink sketch of Jordan Hall at NYU, where her father last taught his Semitic language studies. She lifted the sketch in front of her father. His smile grew stronger.  . . . I had this specially commissioned just for you. While I was on campus, I saw Dr. Ibraham and Dr. Davidson. They told me to tell you that they miss you terribly.

A tear of gratitude slipped down her father’s cheek. Happy 25th anniversary, Dad. She put her cheek next to his and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

Mom, for you, I got this. She reached into her purse and presented a white velvet jewelry box. She handed it to her mom.

Her mom’s eyes blinked with excitement. She sat on a sofa in breathless anticipation and opened the box.

Ethel walked around behind her and fastened the pearls around her neck. Her mom ran her hand over the pearl necklace. Ethel took a seat across from her. Burt had given Ethel another strand of pearls. After all, Ethel had saved both their lives.

Are you sure you can afford these, dear?

Mom—

Okay, her mom said, changing the subject. I got good news today. Your father’s doctor said that his disease has stabilized. He also told me that researchers have developed a genetic test.

I know about the genetic test, Ethel said. They both fell silent. Her mom lifted her daughter’s hands into her own. When Burt told me what you did in his shop, I nearly fainted. You’re so brave for risking your life like that. Why won’t you get a simple genetic test?

You and Dad are the brave ones, not me. She referred to the marriage of her parents, a Jordanian Arab to an Israeli Jew.

Her father, a Jewish orphan living in Israel, had won a prestigious Israeli scholarship to attend Harvard. Her mom’s family in Jordan sent her to America to attend Swarthmore. They met and fell in love and married in Boston. In America, they could love each other without worrying about the climate of hate between Jews and Arabs in the Middle East.

We love each other, her mom said simply.

Ethel smiled. Then, her face turned serious. Dad was only a few years older than I am now, when he first started having symptoms. If I have… Ethel’s voice wavered slightly.  . . . this disease, I may only have a few good years.

Ethel had seen the effect of Huntington’s chorea on her father. Only a few months after he became the youngest full professor of Semitic languages in the school’s history, he came down with the first symptoms. This dreaded disease reduced him from an extremely able scholar and a vibrant man to his present condition. He went from someone who spoke Hebrew, Arabic, Amharic and English to someone who could barely utter a few words. He could not feed himself, and he needed help to go to the bathroom. Ethel worried that he might manifest early symptoms of dementia at any time. At night, she wept for him.

Ethel now realized one reason why her father had asked her, when she was seventeen, to add the study of Amharic to her course work at NYU as an elective. In part, his motivation sprung from the announcement that Ethiopian Jews, who spoke Amharic, had been airlifted to Israel in 1984. This was the year she’d started college. She took three years of classes from her father. She found that she had an ear for Amharic, which wasn’t surprising, given that she’d learned Arabic from her mother and Hebrew from her father. All three languages were Semitic in origin. But perhaps her father’s main motivation was that he had somehow sensed his fate and wanted her to become another repository of these languages.

Most of the time, Ethel did what her parents asked. But now, she needed to do something that they might not like.

I’ve made a decision.

What decision? her mother asked, looking concerned.

"Mom, Dad, I’ve been offered a job as a television anchor for Channel 2 News in Israel—Jerusalem to be precise. I think I’m going to take the job. And then, remembering that she wanted to sound confident, she said, I know I’m going to take it."

Israel, Jerusalem? It’s too dangerous, her mother said.

No more so than New York City. I’ll have the best time slots on the air for news—5 p.m. and 9 p.m. The news show is the number two watched news show in the Middle East. I intend to make it number one.

You’re a city girl. You’ve never even been to Israel. Now you propose to live there? We won’t get to see you, her mom said.

Yes, you will. The station in Israel has an arrangement with WNCB in New York. WNCB will run a lot of my stories.

What about coming home? her mom asked.

With the WNCB connection and all, my manager says I’ll come back three or four times a year.

But Israel—

I’ll be careful.

Like in Burt’s store? Her mom looked critically at her.

That was different. I’ll never do anything like that again.

You promise? her dad grunted. His words startled Ethel. She lifted her head from her mom’s bosom and smiled at him.

I promise, she said, looking him in the eyes. His chin rested on his shoulder, but he managed to look directly at her. Tears rolled down his cheek. His hands shook uncontrollably.

The threat of this disease is as much a blessing as a curse. I may have limited time to achieve my goals, so I live every day as if it’s my last good one, Ethel said with conviction. I took this opportunity because I might not have another chance.

You have a 50 percent chance that you don’t carry the gene, her mom said.

And a 50 percent chance that I do.

Her father understood, even though, unlike her, he had no family history and could not have anticipated his disease. Since there was nothing she could do about it—no medication, no surgery that could prevent its onset—if she had the gene, she chose to make this threat a positive motivator.

Her father knew she’d gotten her desire to excel honestly from him. He did not doubt that she would become the best journalist in the Middle East—because despite what she said, even danger would not stop her.

Then, go after… Her father grunted.  . . . it! Then, he added, But be careful.

Thanks, Dad. That means the world to me. Ethel beamed and kissed her father, Jacob, this time on both cheeks. Salma, her mother, looked on with a tentative smile.

CHAPTER II

September 1990

Nearly 2 Years Later

The short, olive-skinned young man, wearing traditional Arab dress, picked up the phone, but he said nothing.

It’s time! said the voice at the other end.

He hung up the phone, turned and walked into the living room of the stone house. The time to show his bravery had come. The time to put fear in the hearts of his enemies had arrived.

He dropped to his knees facing Mecca. After a few minutes of prayer, he rose and headed to the door, but he paused to lift a photo from the table. In the picture, a distinguished-looking Arab gentleman with thick white hair and weathered features stood beside a fourteen-year-old boy. Now, seven years later, the young Arab in the photo held fast to this remembrance of his father, while the pain swept over him once again. A tear rolled down his cheek.

A rarity for that time and place, his father had been a successful farmer who managed to tame the hostile soil south of Jerusalem. Like his crops, he also managed to raise good children in a climate where hate usually prevailed. As a village leader, or mukhtar, he helped other villagers with their problems. He seemed to have it all.

Maybe it was a jealous neighbor who told the authorities that they saw his son throwing stones at the Israeli soldier. The Israelis descended on the village that very day. They did not raze the family house, as they often did to punish such an offense. Instead, they did something infinitely worse. They destroyed his father’s cisterns, leaving his farm without water and worthless. Soon, the desert reclaimed his land, and the villagers lost respect for him. Three years later, he died. When his wife died, not long afterward, his daughters scattered.

The young man put the picture down, feeling renewed confidence that what he was about to do was a good thing. He strode out of the family home and started the junker of a car, turning on the headlights as he pulled away. His job required him to leave for Jerusalem before dawn. Since he was an Arab citizen of Israel, he expected no problems with entering the city.

He parked his car in the same spot as he did six days a week. The Arab shop owner let him run the bakery as he chose, and the two men split the profits. But today, he left his half of the profits in the register. At 3 p.m., he locked the bakery door, climbed into his car, drove to a side street, and waited. His jaw clamped tight, and his eyes formed narrow slits.

The special tour bus passed the corner. He started his car, pulled behind the bus, and followed. When the bus slowed to the curve, he gunned the old junker as he reached beneath the seat to find the trigger.

With the trunk full of deadly cargo, he sped toward the bus full throttle. Now, he grinned. He tasted bittersweet revenge. As the car plowed into the bus, he depressed the trigger. Instantly, a powerful explosion killed him, along with twenty-three Jewish passengers. Seven years of pain was released in one horrifying outburst.

CHAPTER III

OCTOBER 7, 1990

Ethiopia, Near Yeha

A blast of cold air buffeted his gleaming white robe as Eremyes climbed from the cave, but his face did not flinch. The fierce mountain winds of the morning chilled his body; nonetheless, he felt radiant within.

Eremyes was a tall, gaunt man. His dark skin contrasted with his white turban and robe. His face was lined with a scruffy beard and the wrinkles of old age. But Eremyes had keen eyes that hinted at great intelligence and wisdom.

He glanced at his watch. After their all-night vigil, he’d sent his assistant ahead. He stayed behind to talk with the guardian. Now his assistant waited for him. Eremyes walked briskly. When they met, neither man spoke. Both seemed lost in their thoughts.

Today was the Feast of Tabernacles, and both men had stood praying beside the Ark of the Covenant for the last twelve hours. When Eremyes worshipped before this 3,500-year-old antiquity, his spirit soared. But this vigil ended all too soon, leaving him emotionally drained and awestruck by the power, majesty, and beauty of this incredible sight, yet anxiously looking forward to next year.

Unfortunately, he doubted that he would ever visit the Ark of the Covenant again. This sacred trust must soon end. The guardian and Eremyes agreed that the Ark must soon be returned to Israel. How would the others take this news? Eremyes did not want to think about that problem now. He would rather think on the magnificent golden chest that he had just seen for the thirtieth time.

* * * *

West Bank, Israel

October 8, 1990

5:00 A.M.

Ready? asked the tall, handsome, young Arab man with black hair and hazel eyes, wearing stylish glasses and standing by a water well. He opened the door of the tan Land Rover. The driver, a middle age, Bedouin man with darker, leather-like skin had an eager look in his eyes. Both men were dressed casually.

Yes, sir, replied the driver, Hassiem.

The handsome Arab man, Abdul Ali, climbed into the Land Rover.

I’ve contacted our people in Jerusalem. We should have a crowd of a thousand or so by 9 a.m., said Hassiem.

The cleric? asked Abdul.

He’s scheduled to arrive at 9:15, Hassiem answered.

Okay. Let’s go.

Hassiem started the engine and turned on the headlights. The Land Rover moved around the water well and headed due south.

What about Temple Mount police? asked Abdul.

They expect a religious gathering, Hassiem replied, and Abdul smiled.

On top of a Jerusalem hill, known as Temple Mount, there stood the third most sacred symbol of Islam: the Dome of the Rock.

The sturdy Land Rover bounced around as it tackled the hilly landscape of the West Bank, near the Jordan River.

Will they get the point? Hassiem asked, glancing at Abdul and then back to the road. ‘They’ referred to an organization named ‘Temple Mount Now!’ or TMN. This organization yearly demonstrated for the rebuilding of a Jewish temple where the Islamic Dome of the Rock now stood.

I plan to reinforce the message.

How?

With this, Abdul replied, waving a slip of paper. Did you call Mrs. Feldman?

Yes, I left an anonymous tip on her answering machine suggesting that she be at Temple Mount about 9:35.

This note’s for her. Put it on the windshield of the news van at precisely 9:45.

Hassiem dropped the note in his shirt pocket. Fifteen minutes later, the Land Rover turned right onto the highway and headed for the Jerusalem checkpoint.

A few minutes later, Hassiem swung the vehicle onto a narrow path between rolling hills and stopped. He flashed his headlights. Moments later, an engine sputtered then roared to life. A small pickup truck with a camper body covering the truck bed pulled from the darkness of the woods.

Three men sat in the front seat. Hassiem and Abdul did not speak to them. Hassiem and Abdul climbed into the back of the camper. The rich aroma of Middle-Eastern coffee filled the air. Several polystyrene coolers and a large thermos bottle were secured in the corner of the camper. Moments later, the truck turned onto the highway in the same direction that Abdul and Hassiem were traveling.

Our men will retrieve your vehicle at noon.

Why so early? Hassiem sounded concerned. We need to return to the West Bank immediately after the—

No. I thought we discussed this. Let’s wait to go back in the evening with other workers, Abdul said.

As you wish, Hassiem said.

Do we have a place to hide?

There’s a safe house—Muslim Quarter. Not far from Temple Mount, answered Hassiem.

What happens if they catch us at the border? Abdul asked.

We’ve hidden guns and grenades in these. He pointed to the polystyrene coolers. The driver can create a distraction.

The Israelis will kill him, said Abdul.

Allah be praised, Hassiem said.

A few minutes later the old pickup truck crawled to a stop behind a few other vehicles. The sun peered over the horizon. Abdul reached under his jacket. He handed Hassiem a small manila envelope.

Transit pass and papers. We think that these are clean. We are supposed to be carpenters.

Abdul and Hassiem climbed out of the camper. Besides jackets, they wore jeans, woolen shirts, and gym shoes. Ten blue and white buses were parked parallel to a long line of Palestinian workers. Between the workers and the buses stood twenty or so Israeli Defense Force soldiers, usually called the IDF, carrying M-16’s or Uzi’s slung over their shoulders.

Abdul, Hassiem, and the two passengers from the truck went to the end of the line to wait. An IDF soldier was gradually working his way down the line of Palestinians. The driver parked his camper so that soldiers could not see the tailgate but close enough to be within earshot of Abdul.

Carrying a thermos and sandwiches, Abdul began to hawk his food to the hungry, bleary-eyed workers.

When the Israeli soldier drew closer to Abdul, the pickup driver disappeared behind his truck. A few moments later, the Israeli soldier stepped in front of Abdul.

Hassiem relished the thought that at any moment the driver might emerge, his AK-47 blasting away at the Israelis. Maybe he would kill all these Israeli border guards.

Where are you going? The young soldier had curly brown hair and brown eyes.

To Jerusalem.

What is your business in Jerusalem?

We are carpenters.

Let me see your hands.

What?

Let me see your hands, the soldier repeated. Abdul tentatively held out his hands palms down. Another soldier not far away, put both hands on his M-16.

Turn your palms up.

Abdul complied.

Your hands don’t look like the hands of a carpenter.

Abdul hesitated for a moment. I run the office. My father usually runs the crew. He’s sick. He asked that I take over. These three men are part of the crew, explained Abdul, pointing to Hassiem and the other two men. The soldier still eyed Abdul with suspicion.

The soldier held out his hand. Where are your transit pass and papers?

Abdul calmly handed them over. The soldier looked at the forged photo on the transit pass and then at Abdul’s face. He inserted the magnetic transit pass into a portable terminal. He entered a few keystrokes, and then he tilted the LCD readout to eliminate the glare of the morning sun. Another soldier stared over his comrade’s shoulder at the LCD read out. A response took thirty seconds. The LCD readout flashed, CLEAR.

CHAPTER IV

October 8, 1990

8:30 A.M. (Later the same day)

Jerusalem, Israel

Ethel Feldman, news anchor, Channel 2 News, Jerusalem, sat at her desk, leaning forward on both elbows. She had a book in one hand and a mug of black coffee in the other. I love NY was painted on her mug. Another book lay face down on the desk in front of her.

Knock, knock.

She didn’t look up. Come in, Marvin.

Marvin Wiseman walked in carrying his camera. Marvin was a muscular brute of a man, who often wore his brown hair in a short ponytail. Most women would describe him as good-looking, despite a gap between his front teeth.

What time is it? she asked.

8:30.

She laid her book face down on the desk and took a sip of coffee. Marvin read the book titles. One was titled The Ark of the Covenant, and the other book was entitled The Third Jewish Temple.

A little light reading? He smiled.

Getting ready for today, she said, resolutely looking up at him with her incredible green eyes. Then, her face turned serious. She picked up the book on the temple.

This rabbi claims that if the Ark of the Covenant is found, most Israelis will demand that the Dome of the Rock be torn down. That’s scary, she said.

I agree. A few ultra-religious fanatics might start a war with the Muslims that no one wants. His face reddened. Let’s talk about something else. What time did you get here? he asked.

About 5:00. I couldn’t sleep—too keyed up. The guy on my answering machine sounded deadly serious.

Did you call the police?

I thought about it, but exactly what would I tell them? All he said was that we should be at Temple Mount before 9:35.

Ethel did not want to call the police. As a broadcast journalist, her job was to report the news, not create it. Even when violence occurred, unless it put her life in danger, she tried to view it from a reporter’s point of view. She did agonize whenever the world around her turned violent. Like all of us, she cared about her life, but her main reaction to violence was most often revulsion not fear.

She seemed to be drawn into violent situations. In New York City, besides the attempted jewelry store robbery, she’d also witnessed a confrontation between a taxi driver and a motorist as she sat in the cab. The taxi driver ended up dead,