Knowing C

By Xlibris US

Sitting with her legs all wrapped under her, dressed in diver casual, her long blond hair pinned up on the back of her neck, she was every bit a diver. The reader first meets this newest member of a group working in the harbor at Caesarea Maritima. My friends all call me by my nickname, she introduced herself. I consider you friends, so you should too. Im C.
Dr. Avnir Raban of Haifa University, in pursuing his lifes ambition of proving the existence of an archaeological site known as Stratos Tower, has convened a team of some of the worlds finest marine archaeologists exploring the harbor. C has joined her new dive partner in the quest.
C, however, has an unusual interest, not shared by Raban or her dive partneran interest in the Aleppo Codex. The Jewish community of Aleppo, Syria, has maintained the Aleppo Codex, the earliest copy of the Hebrew Bible known to exist, intact for the past five hundred years. Now, the codex, having been recently smuggled into Israel, is missing two hundred pages. Israel wants the pages back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499073669

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Knowing C

43289.png

Don Aime

Copyright © 2014 by Don Aime.

Cover design: a modification of Lily, an original painting by Sharon Westbrook (sharonwestbrook.com) courtesy of Dr. and Mrs. Allen Chatt-Ellis.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014916552

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-4990-7367-6

                Softcover      978-1-4990-7368-3

                eBook           978-1-4990-7366-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/16/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue

PART 1

Chapter 1 Out of Egypt

Chapter 2 Departure for DC

PART 2

Chapter 3 In the Beginning

Chapter 4 Caesarea Maritima

Chapter 5 C and the Sea

Chapter 6 The Crusader Fort

Chapter 7 The Sea Floor, the Roman Circus

Chapter 8 The Sculpture Garden

Chapter 9 Tiberius and Galilee

Chapter 10 Qum Rum and the Codex

Chapter 11 Ein Gedi

Chapter 12 Masada

Chapter 13 Raban’s Theory

Chapter 14 C’s Plan

Chapter 15 Remembering Lawrence: The Negev, Eilat, Aqaba

Chapter 16 Into Jordan

Chapter 17 Petra and Return

Chapter 18 A Trembling in the Rocks

Chapter 19 Hadera Hospital

Chapter 20 The Pasha’s Bedroom

Chapter 21 The Old City

Chapter 22 Strato’s Tower: Diving the Inner Harbor

Chapter 23 C Leaves for Egypt

PART 3

Chapter 24 An Invitation to Washington

Chapter 25 Athens

Chapter 26 M Street

Chapter 27 Renoir, Glock, and Rodin

Chapter 28 Home: The Huajatolla

Chapter 29 Barcelona, C and … the Codex

Chapter 30 Raban Has Evidence of …

Chapter 31 Reunion in Jerusalem

Chapter 32 A Sad Return to Caesarea

Chapter 33 Diving for Raban’s Dream

Chapter 34 The Dredge Boat

Chapter 35 Stones … Old Building Stones

Chapter 36 A Syrophoenician Discovery

Chapter 37 A Greek Lekythos

Chapter 38 A Hole Full of Rats

Chapter 39 A Merciless Hammering Above

Chapter 40 Men in Dark Suits

Epilogue

Glossary

DEDICATION

To Dr. Farland Stanley, a great Classisist and Archaeologist, at the University of Oklahoma.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author would like to thank Dr. Allen Chatt-Ellis for his many suggestions during editing as well as for making the publication of this book possible and Drs. Richard and Elaine Hull for a lifetime of friendship.

PROLOGUE

We walked toward the Plaza of the Western Wall. I was accompanying members of this summer’s team of maritime archaeologists who were visiting Jerusalem for the first time. We were working in the harbor at Caesarea Maritima, the ancient Roman city on the Mediterranean coast of Israel. The plaza comprises the last remnants of the Temple of Solomon, the holiest site in all Judaism. The other team members were new in country, full of attitude and swagger, as divers tend to be. I was the Old Man of the team, fifteen years older than the others with two dive seasons under my belt. Passing through security at the plaza entrance, a sudden emotional pall engulfed me, and I began to quietly sob. I am not a Jew. The Wall to me is archaeology. It has no religious significance. There was no reason for this transformation in my emotions. Having a great deal of attitude myself, allowing this sudden rush of anguish to become evident to the others was not an option. Slowing my pace, I dropped to the back of the group. As the others strode into the plaza, I followed along at a distance. Reaching The Wall, I covered my head, said a silent prayer while pressing my hand against one of the great slabs of limestone that formed the western most portion of The Wall. In the Jewish tradition, I wrote a note and stuck it into a crevice between the giant slabs of limestone; the ashlars that constituted the remnants of the temple. As the team exited the plaza, I moved close to one of the older divers, a wreck diver who worked along the New Jersey coast. Quietly, I described to him what had occurred. He stared back in astonishment. You know, he said, the same thing happened to me. Silently, we caught up with the others, and late on that Shabbat afternoon, we returned to Caesarea.

PART 1

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CHAPTER I

Out of Egypt

I T WAS BLISTERING hot as I departed the American Colony Hotel—known informally as the AC—on a bright, sunny afternoon in July. Walking down Louis Vincent Street and then Salah-e-Din Street, heading due south, I passed through the Palestinian souk—the Arab market place—and entered the Old City of Jerusalem through the Damascus Gate. Picking my way through the back alleys of the Arab Quarter, I passed the entrance to the Haram al-Sharif—a small, low wooden door in the ancient wall that led onto Temple Mount—and reached the Plaza of the Western Wall by the back way.

The plaza is a large area paved in stones sloping eastward toward the mountain on which the Temple of Yahweh, the One God of all Judaism, had once stood. According to the Bible, the First Temple, built at the peak of the mount by Solomon, son of David and Bathsheba, was consecrated in 957 BC, three thousand years ago. The King of Tyre, the Phoenician trading port on the Mediterranean coast, gave Solomon permission to cut the timber for the temple’s structure, and the Cedars of Lebanon were decimated for its construction. All that remains of the temple is The Wall. Constructed of limestone blocks, or ashlars, pressed against the mountain, and soaring a hundred feet above the plaza floor, it supports the Mount’s western approach.

Today, the pinnacle of Temple Mount is Muslim-occupied and known as Haram al-Sharif where the Dome of the Rock, the rock from which Mohammed ascended into heaven and the third most revered site in all Islam, resides. Muslims ascend the Mount by way of the little door in The Wall I had just passed. Jews pray at the base of the great wall; the Muslims occupy the pinnacle. As I passed into the plaza, the Jewish men there were dwarfed by the immensity of The Wall, almost toy-like figures dressed in black, their heads bowing continuously in traditional prayer.

The mingling of the ancient cultures, which had cohabitated in this part of the world for so long, was an assault on the senses. The primeval city’s smells, sights, and sounds were a deeply emotional experience. The Wall had become the most important of places for me. In the three years I had spent diving in the harbor at Caesarea, I had made innumerable trips to Jerusalem for a few moments there.

Maybe not depressed, but down, I was certainly anxious. The Wall was the ideal place for me today. Standing before the giant limestone slabs, I covered my head, said a prayer, and wrote a short note, which I once again stuffed in a crevice between the huge ashlars.

She should be on the return leg of her excursion into Egypt and was due to leave Ben Gurion International for the States at 3:00 a.m. this coming morning. I had heard nothing from her; she had been in Egypt for more than a week. The schedule for her return had always been a little ambiguous. We were meeting, if possible, at the American Colony Hotel sometime on the nineteenth. If not, she would go straight to the States: TWA, Ben Gurion to JFK. Only one thing was certain: if she failed to arrive at the AC, she was gone.

This was twentieth-century Israel; passing through airport security was problematical. It would certainly take three hours or more. She was a single American woman traveling alone and a sure target for Israeli security, especially since she would be boarding only hours after crossing the Egyptian frontier. The computers would be tracking her every movement. My note, now inserted into that little crevice back at The Wall, said simply, "Keep her safe."

The time between her arrival at the American Colony (AC) and her departure for the States was all the time we had remaining, possibly forever.

On my return from the plaza, I passed through the Damascus Gate, crossed Sultan Suleiman, and continued up Salah-e-Din Street, moving on toward the AC. On the east side of the YMCA, I came to the public offices of the Palestinian Authority and worked my way along Louis Vincent Street to the gate leading on to the hotel grounds. Entering, I walked through the small Arab bazaar that seemed to always to be laid out to one side of the main driveway. Carpets, brass, leather works were all there under the trees that shaded the portico entrance to the old hotel.

Originally built by American missionaries in the nineteenth century, thus the name American Colony, the two-story gray stone structure had begun its career as a school for young Palestinians. Later, the Turkish governor purloined it as the headquarters for the Turkish forces occupying Palestine. The hotel comprises a small campus with several outbuildings, all now containing hotel rooms. Surrounding the main building and under the trees in the Arab tradition is a lush, fragrant garden. Parking is in the rear. While passing through the garden on the way to the portico, you might occasionally catch a glimpse of some all too conspicuous vehicles: Mercedes limousines and white Land Rovers with a large UN painted on their sides.

I bowed toward the doorman, Abdullah, and with my right hand over my heart intoned, Salaam Alaikum.

Salaam Alaikum, he repeated with a smile. He knew me well; I spent most of my weekends, when in country, at the AC.

I walked through reception, picking up a copy of the Jerusalem Post, the city’s English-language newspaper. On the front page but below the fold was a small article with the headline, MAHMOUD ALI ASSAD MURDERED IN CAIRO.

Once more, the Arabs were decimating themselves by their political infighting. I quickly scanned the story: The Mubarak government announced that Assad, a middle-level Hamas operative, had been murdered by a bomb while driving on a Cairo street. Two bombers, one possibly a woman, riding a small motorcycle attached an explosive device to the door of the deceased’s vehicle while he was stopped at a traffic signal.

The Egyptian government, the article continued, announced it had evidence the assassins were part of the militant Arab group, Hezbollah.

There was only minor collateral damage, as the bombers had used an exceptionally efficient explosive device. The two assassins escaped on a dark, fast motorcycle.

The Red Crescent, the Arab equivalent of the Red Cross, rushed those injured to Ain Shams University Hospital.

The Muslim Brotherhood, who certainly had to stick their finger into this pie, posted to its Web site a claim that the Mubarak government was covering up its close ties to the Israelis, pointing out that using motorcycles and bombs in assassinations was a signature technique of the Mossad. All this, the brotherhood claimed, were compliments of funding provided by the Great Satan, the United States of America.

*

Casually ambling down the hall while approaching my room with newspaper in hand, I reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked. Startled, I crossed the threshold, looking quickly about. There, on the opposite side of the room, were her cargo shorts, T-shirt, and boots. I locked the entrance and cautiously approached the bathroom door. Standing to one side, I knocked lightly. These were precautions inbred in anyone who worked in this part of the world.

You back? I inquired quietly.

Yes, she replied through the door. It’s amazing what a good hot bath will do for a girl when hot water is so hard to come by.

She sounded relaxed and happy.

I arrived about thirty minutes ago, she continued. Abdullah let me into the room. Egyptian security was super tight coming up out of Sinai. It must be the TWA thing. I could hear bath water splashing about on the other side of the door. Thank God to finally get a bath, she added.

I’m certainly glad you’re back, I whispered.

I lay back on the bed, a little relaxed now that she was home, or at least home away from home. I started planning the couple of hours’ escape we would have.

How was Egypt? I inquired a little louder this time to overcome the splashing of the water on the other side of the bathroom door.

Oh, it was just stuff for The Firm, not as much fun as being here.

"The Post says there was something of a dust up while you were there."

Yea, really, you know how Cairo is. You could set off an atomic bomb on one side of town and not know it on the other. My god, eighteen million people after all. What happened?

Paper says Hezbollah got into it, a bomb, somebody of some importance is dead with some collateral damage. Same old thing all over again.

Will it never end? she asked through the door.

It has been going on for time immemorial. Doubt it will end anytime soon. What route did you use coming back?

Came across Sinai and the Negev. You know, ‘Through the Land of Canaan and the Wilderness of Zin’ using the Mediterranean Road.

"Well, you could have come by way of Somalia. Would have been about as dangerous, or did your Bedouin buddies give you a Get Out of Jail Free card?"

We had an Egyptian Military escort. That is common for the tourist buses along there these days. Whisked us across the desert and handed us over to the Israelis. It was a quick trip from the border to Jerusalem. I desperately needed this bath.

There are such things as airplanes, you know! I tried to be sarcastic.

Who wants to fly to Athens or Frankfurt and change planes just to get from Cairo to Jerusalem? It would take more time by air than a quick dash across Sinai.

The excursion was over; she was home, and that was all that mattered.

Calling room service, I asked for a couple of margaritas. Certainly, we’d have dinner before the dash down the No. 1 Highway to Ben Gurion International. The TWA thing was troubling. A TWA 747 just out of JFK and bound for Paris had exploded two nights before, and no one had a clue why. She was flying TWA tonight, 747 bound for JFK. It was a little scary sending her back home just now. She was back in Israel, safe for a few hours anyway. Once she was in the States, she should be OK.

I had been lying on the bed for what seemed an eternity. Damn, she’s taking long enough in there, I thought. Just then, there was a quiet knock at the hall door. I slid off the bed and checked the eyepiece; it was Abdullah himself. I opened the door. Two margaritas, sir. I returned his knowing smile as I took the margaritas from him. I pushed on the bathroom door, and it opened easily. The interior was humid and cloudy; the mirrors were fogged up. I handed C the margarita. She took the glass, drinking it straight down.

I wondered how long it would take you to get in here. She smiled up at me wickedly. Lithely emerging from the tub, she splashed water everywhere. Wrapping her arms around my neck, she soaked my clothes in the process of proffering a kiss.

Glad to be back? I queried quietly.

Glad to be back, she whispered into my ear.

She disengaged the stranglehold.

You’re drenched, she feigned astonishment. You need to remove those wet clothes. She backed away while rubbing herself scruffily with a magnificent fluffy white American Colony bath towel. She dumped towels from the rack on to the floor. There seemed to be a never-ending supply of fluffy white towels at the AC.

Need to be more careful. Last time we almost flooded the hotel, she complained. Abdullah didn’t speak to us for a week. She pranced out of the bathroom partially wrapped in a bath towel followed by the humid fog, which clung to her as she moved.

We don’t need to waste any time, do we? she asked coquettishly. Then crashing on to the bed with a small leap, she beckoned for me to join her.

No, I guess there isn’t any time to waste, is there? I avoided, considering the reason there was no time, and began to shuck my wet clothes.

She almost purred as she wrapped herself around me.

CHAPTER II

Departure for DC

A FTER AN INTENSE hour of reunion, food became a demanding necessity for both of us. While there are many things that make the American Colony a great hotel, undoubtedly, the most important is the restaurant, real Western and American cuisine: steak, potatoes, and most importantly, by special arrangement between the Palestinian Authority, the Israeli government, or maybe God and Allah, scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage for breakfast. After spending a week or two out on site surviving on shawarma, falafel, and what we Americans call Lincoln Logs , a trip to the AC’s restaurant is an experience to be treasured. Making a quick pass through the shower, I slipped into slacks and shirt while C maneuvered into one of her ‘Little Black Dresses. We headed through the vaulted reception area toward the AC’s restaurant.

C is one of those women who draw attention wherever they go, and this evening was no exception. We passed through the low ceiling of the dining room to the quiet acknowledgment of several tables, which, as usual in the Middle East, contained mostly men. The maître d’ found us a small table and brought a complementary bottle of wine. Someone at the hotel had picked up that this was going to be the last trip for the season. Wine from one of the Mount Carmel Wineries is especially good, so you would never turn down a bottle especially when it was compliments of the hotel.

I guess you’re going to indulge in Angus, potatoes, and all that. C smirked at me across the table.

Certainly, I replied, and you’ll be doing tabbouleh, hummus, grape leaves, or something like that, I’m sure. Remember, I continued, it could be eleven hours to JFK from Ben Gurion, west bound, and into the jet stream. Knowing TWA, you might be eating ham and cheese even on the Tel Aviv run.

I’ll make it and keep my girlish figure too. She smiled mischievously.

Fine, I’m still a beef eater. You need all the protein you can get down there on the bottom of the Mediterranean.

Let’s start with hummus, pita bread, and lebna, C suggested.

I’m in. Once I had been there, the Middle East had always permeated my bones. I enjoy the food. I was relaxed; she could do just about anything she wanted, which was what she usually did anyway.

Dinner finished, the steak had been exceptional, and we picked up the pace. The trip down the No. 1 Highway to Ben Gurion was ahead of us. C changed into sweats and Nikes, something comfortable for the long haul up to the Arctic Circle then down to New York and JFK. Usually about now, she would break out a sleeping pill or two; but tonight, she wanted to stay as alert as possible. She was flying business class, which would help. All this compliments of The Firm, I was sure. C travelled light; she was experienced at it. Six weeks diving in the Middle East all packed in a duffel bag and a dive backpack.

*

It was a cool dark morning; the hotel night patrol was eyeing us watchfully from the gate. Americans moving about at this time of morning needed to be taken cautiously. Out in the garden, I unlocked and started packing the little rent-car.

Awash in sadness, no longer was I anxiously awaiting her arrival, as I had been only hours before; she was leaving, and I had no idea if we would ever meet again. There was emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

I wasn’t going to display my emotions … My mind was set on that. This was our little thing. What happened in the field stayed in the field. When it was over, it was over. Unfortunately, I knew that I was kidding myself. I knew I would miss her greatly.

At least you won’t have to worry about the morning call to prayer. I tried a little levity. One of the drawbacks to the AC is the mosque next door where the Imam broadcasts the call to prayer every morning at 4:00 a.m. My attempt at humor was eclipsed by my sadness.

Our stuff was stashed: her duffel and dive gear, my duffel, and backpack. We were ready to leave. I would see her off at Ben Gurion then head up the No. 6 and the No. 2 Highways until I came to the turn leading along Rothschild Road toward Kibbutz Sdot Yam, eventually arriving at Caesarea on the Mediterranean shore. I would probably be in the harbor diving before noon. The only sure thing was that I would need a lot of sleep this coming night. There wouldn’t be anyone to pursue around the kibbutz sculpture garden anyway.

We left the hotel for Ben Gurion International by the back route; first, down Louis Vincent Street, then toward Ramallah on Bar-Lev, finally making the hairpin turn just west of Jerusalem on Yigael Yadin passing below Hebrew University perched high on Mount Scopus turning toward Tel Aviv on the No. 1 Highway. We were soon out of East Jerusalem, the area under partial control of the Palestinian Authority and into that part of Jerusalem controlled by the Israelis. As soon as we made the turn back toward the No. 1, the green jeeps of the Israeli Defense Force (IDF) with their troopers brandishing their ubiquitous