The Black Madonna
Praise for Gold of Kings
“A smooth blend of romance, archeology, and murder mystery. With this adventure, Bunn should win another crown.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This is an excellent book—fast-moving with plenty of action, history, and geography. Read it.”
—Sacramento Book Review
“A riveting tale. From the first page it grips and doesn’t let go. Bunn absolutely gets it right! Gold of Kings is an irresistible blend of solid action and historical facts and superb characters and great intrigue.”
—Bob Marx, preeminent treasure hunter and author of The World’s Richest Wrecks
“Bunn delivers an exceptionally satisfying read . . . a tightly plotted thriller. The author’s thorough research raises the novel above mere genre. . . . Bunn’s narration often gratifies the reader with stylistic gems.”
—The Suspense Zone
“Rich in details and riveting in action and suspense, Gold of Kings is a story that could be featured on the evening news. Through the author’s masterful storytelling ability, readers will find every page a treasure.”
—Joyce Handzo, In the Library Reviews
“Gold of Kings is an edge-of-your-seat thriller, filled with false leads and nonstop action. A global treasure hunt.”
—Harriet Klausner, The Mystery Gazette
“I have absolutely devoured Gold of Kings! This story is a positive wonder of entertainment. An animated travelog mixed with superb characterizations and accomplished writing. A powerful, powerful piece of work.”
—Phyllis Tickle, bestselling author
“A fabulous tale . . . a thinking person’s Indiana Jones.”
—Hy Smith, former senior vice president, United International Pictures
“If you are a reader of Bunn’s electric thrillers, don’t miss this one. If for any reason you have missed his previous ones, this is a great place to start.”
—Janette Oke, bestselling author
“The subject and plotline are creative. Bunn does as well in the character and relationship departments as in the thriller elements. His villain summons a dread that you can’t put out of mind. A multinational puzzle.”
—Jules Brenner, Critical Mystery Tour
“Gold of Kings is the work of a master craftsman. Davis Bunn’s skill allows us to see and feel the dangerous and exotic places he guides us through. His characters are compelling, real, admirable, and memorable.”
—Ken Kuhlken, bestselling author of Midheaven
“Fans of The Da Vinci Code should queue up for this.”
—Susan Rife, Sarasota Herald Tribune
“Gold of Kings grips you on the first page and propels you through one of the great treasure hunts of all time. Both challenging and satisfying. A magnificent read.”
—Ted Baehr, President, Movieguide
What the Critics Say About Davis Bunn
“A feast of suspense. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Bunn’s dialogue is racehorse fast. The tale zips along without any lulls and has a nicely drawn good-versus-evil plot. . . . That’s some feat.”
—New York Post
“Bunn has comfortably made the transition to mainstream readers, and his popularity shows no sign of abating.”
—John Mort, Booklist
“Davis Bunn is making a name for himself in the suspense genre with each story he pens.”
—Sherri Myers, Romance Junkies
“T. Davis Bunn pens a page-turning thriller in a story about greed, ambition, love, and redemption. Readers who like a fast-paced story will surely enjoy this latest Bunn novel.”
—Chattanooga Times Free Press
“The writing is visual, with the imaginative yet precise descriptions of a seasoned writer. The key memorable attributes are grand settings and distinct characters.”
—Christian Retailing
“Outstanding! Exceptional!”
—Romantic Times (top pick of the month)
“An emotionally charged thriller.”
—The Call-Leader
“This clever mix of politics, morality, and high-tech suspense makes for a riveting thriller. Bunn obviously knows his stuff . . . a writer of excellent thrillers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Superb writing . . . so well executed and plotted that it deserves consideration in a class by itself.”
—The Providence Journal
“Spellbinding.”
—NBC-TV
“The story is irresistible. Aside from the next morning’s demands, there’s little to stop the reader from going for an all-nighter. The story is edgy and compelling, and its realistic plot is close enough to recent headlines to keep you wondering whether Bunn himself will get sued, kidnapped, or worse.”
—Ganett News Service
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Published by Howard Books and Touchstone Books,
divisions of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
The Black Madonna © 2010 T. Davis Bunn
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Howard Subsidiary Rights Department, Simon & Schuster, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2009045234
ISBN 978-1-4165-5633-6
ISBN 978-1-4391-6489-1 (ebook)
HOWARD, TOUCHSTONE, and their colophons are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Edited by Dave Lambert
Interior design by Jaime Putorti
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.
This book is dedicated to Nicholas and Sheila Wood,
whose support and good humor
enrich our projects and our lives
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter
Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Reading Group Guide
ONE
FROM THE CREST OF THE Herodium dig, Harry Bennett could look out and see three wars.
The isolated, cone-shaped hill rose two thousand feet over the Judean Desert. Herodium, the palace-fortress built by Herod the Great, had been erected on the site of his victory against the Parthians in 40 BCE. Herod had then served as king of Judea under his Roman masters, but he had been utterly despised by the Judeans. When Herod’s sons were finally vanquished, Herodium had been evacuated. Over the centuries, the city became a legend, its location a myth.
Modern excavations had begun in the sixties, only to be interrupted by wars and intifadas and disputes over jurisdiction. Harry Bennett was part of a group excavating the original palace fortress. The current project was supervised by a woman professor from the Sorbonne. She had fought for six years to gain the license, and nothing so minor as somebody else’s war was going to stop her work.
The volunteers came from a dozen nations, to dig and learn and bury themselves in history. Most were in their twenties and tried to keep up a brave face despite the rumbles of conflict and the brutal heat. The day Harry arrived at Herodium, three Scandinavian backpackers had perished hiking above the Ein Gedi National Forest. With water in their packs. Just felled by the ferocious heat.
And here Harry was, huddled under the relentless glare of that same deadly sun, using his trowel and his brush to scrape two thousand years of crud off a stone.
Officially Harry and the other volunteers were restricted to the dig and their hilltop camp. With Hamas missiles streaking the nighttime sky, none of the other unpaid staff were much interested in testing their boundaries. But twice each week the Sorbonne professor traveled to Jerusalem and delivered her finds to the ministry. When she departed that particular afternoon, Harry signaled to the Palestinian operating the forklift. Ten minutes later, they set off in Hassan’s decrepit pickup.
The angry wind blasting through his open window tasted of sand as dry as volcanic ash. Hassan followed the pitted track down an incline so steep Harry gripped the roof and propped one boot on the dashboard. He tried to ignore the swooping drop to his right by studying the horizon, which only heightened his sense of descending into danger. North and east rose the Golan hills and sixty years of struggle with Syria. Straight north was the Lebanese border, home to the Hezbollah hordes. To the southwest lay Gaza, provider of their nightly firework displays.
All West Bank digs were required to employ a certain number of locals. Hassan was one of the few who arrived on time, did an honest day’s work, and showed a keen interest in every new discovery. On Harry’s first day at the site, he had put the man down for a grave robber and a smuggler.
The West Bank was the richest area for artifacts in all Judea. There were thousands of sites, many dating from the Iron Age, others from the Roman era, and more still from Byzantium. Many sites remained undiscovered by archeologists but were well known to generations of Palestinians, who fiercely guarded their troves and passed the locations down from generation to generation.
Hassan’s former job wouldn’t have sat well with the Israeli authorities. But people like Hassan took the long view. Eventually things would settle down, and when they did, Hassan would return to his real trade. In the meantime, Hassan hid his profession from the Israeli authorities, lay low, and remained open to a little persuasion. In Harry’s case, that amounted to a thousand dollars.
They arrived in Hebron three hours later. The city crawled up the slopes of two hills and sprawled across a dull desert bowl. Entering Hebron around sunset, in the company of a Palestinian smuggler, was an act of total lunacy.
Harry Bennett wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Clustered on hilltops to the north of the old city rose the UN buildings, the university, and a huddle of government high-rises built with international relief funding. Other hills were dominated by Jewish settlements. These were rimmed by fences and wire and watchtowers that gleamed in the descending light. The rest of Hebron was just your basic war zone.
Sunset painted Hebron the color of old rust. The city held the tightly sullen feel of a pot that had boiled for centuries. Even the newer structures looked run-down. Most walls were pockmarked with bullet holes and decorated with generations of graffiti. Harry saw kids everywhere. They bore such tight expressions they resembled old people in miniature. Looking into their eyes made Harry’s chest hurt.
The streets were calm, the traffic light. Which was good, because it allowed them to make it to the city center early. It was also bad, because the Israel Defense Forces soldiers had nothing better to do than watch Hassan’s truck. Two IDF soldiers manning a reinforced guard station tracked the pickup with a fifty-caliber machine gun.
Hassan said, “This idea is not so good, maybe.”
Harry nodded slowly. He smelled it too, the biting funk of cordite not yet lit. But he would trust his driver. “You say go, we go.”
Hassan’s gaze flitted over to Harry. “You pay?”
“The deal’s the same. You get the other five hundred when we’re done.”
Hassan wiped his face with a corner of his checkered head-kerchief. “We stay.”
Harry halfway wished the man’s nerve would fail and he would turn his rattling truck around. “Better to come in twice than not go home at all.”
“You know danger?”
“Some.”
“I think maybe more than some. I think you see much action.”
“That was then and this is now,” Harry replied. “You’re my man on the ground here. I’m relying on your eyes and ears. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s just your normal garden-variety funk.”
Hassan skirted a pothole large enough to swallow the neighboring Israeli tank. “Say again, please.”
“Let’s assume for a second that you and I can do business together.”
Hassan pointed at Harry’s shirt pocket holding the five bills—the rest of his fee. “This is not business?”
“I’d call it a first step. Say your man shows up like you promised. Say he’s got the goods and the buy goes well. What happens next?”
“If the first buy goes well, you trust me for more.”
“Right. But I need someone who can sniff out traps and see through walls. There’s so much danger around here, my senses are on overload.”
The man actually smiled. “Welcome to Hebron.”
“I didn’t go to all this trouble for just one item, no matter how fine this guy’s treasure might be. I need you to tell me if we’re safe or if we should pull out and return another time.”
Hassan did not speak again until he parked the truck and led Harry into a café on Hebron’s main square. “What you like?”
“You mean, other than getting out of here with my skin intact? A mint tea would go down well.”
Hassan placed the order and settled into the rickety chair across from Harry. “There are many Americans like you?”
“I’m one of a kind.”
“Yes. I think you speak truth.” Hassan rose to his feet. “Drink your tea. I go ask what is happening.”
All Harry could do was sit there and watch the only man he knew in Hebron just walk away. From his spot by the bullet-ridden wall, isolated among the patrons at other tables who carefully did not look his way, Harry felt as though he had
a bull’s-eye painted on his forehead. Even the kid who brought his tea and plate of unleavened bread looked scared. Harry stirred in a spoonful of gray, unrefined sugar and lifted the tulip-shaped glass by its rim. All he could taste was the flavor of death.
AFTER SUNSET, THE HEBRON AIR cooled at a grudging pace. Harry watched as the city square filled with people and traffic and shadows. The café became crowded with people who avoided looking Harry’s way. Across the plaza, the Tomb of the Patriarchs shone pearl white. Beside the cave complex stood the Mosque of Abraham, a mammoth structure dating back seven hundred years.
The caves had been bought by the patriarch Abraham for four hundred coins, such an astronomical sum that the previous owner had offered to throw in the entire valley. But Abraham had insisted upon overpaying so that his rightful ownership would never be questioned. He had wanted the caves as his family’s burial site because supposedly they were also where Adam and Eve had been laid to rest. Besides Abraham himself, the caves also held the remains of his wife, Sarah, along with Rebecca, Isaac, and Jacob.
The guy who made his way toward Harry’s table resembled an Arab version of the Pillsbury Doughboy. The man waddled as he walked. His legs splayed slightly from the knees down. His round face was topped by flattened greasy curls that glistened in the rancid lights of the café. He walked up, slumped into the chair across the table from Harry, and demanded, “You have money?”
Harry kept his gaze on the square and the crawling traffic. “Where’s Hassan?”
“Hassan is not my business. He is your business. You must answer my question. You have money?”
Harry was about to let the guy have it when he spotted Hassan returning across the plaza. When he reached the café’s perimeter, Hassan seated himself at an empty table, facing outward toward the plaza, placing himself between Harry and any incoming threat. Harry relaxed slightly. It was always a pleasure doing business with a pro.
Harry said, “Let’s take this from the top. I’m—”
“I know who you are. Harry Bennett seeks treasure all over the world. You see? We meet because I check you out.”
“What’s your name?”
“Wadi Haddad.”
“Wadi, like the word for oasis?”