Secret of the Scroll (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) Read Free Page A

saw this painting of an old C-47 in the desert. Boy, I haven’t been in one of those jewels in many a year.”
    A retired multi-engine Air Force driver, Sam had been the point man in organizing this trip to Israel and Jordan .
    I glanced at my wife. “I’m glad it was just a painting. If it was real, she’d probably want to buy it.”
    Jill smiled. “A C-47 would look nice in the backyard.”
    I should point out that I am also a retired Air Force officer, but not a flier. I spent my time in the OSI –Office of Special Investigations. I pursued such evils as overpriced wrenches and stolen toilet paper, plus chasing down drug-pushing airmen, communist spies and terrorist groups that posed a threat to Air Force personnel and installations. Jill was the pilot in the family. She had held a commercial license for many years, once running her own charter service.
    Just then two scruffy looking boys came racing across the plaza on bicycles, jabbering away in Arabic and paying no attention to where they were going. One of them cut just in front of the tour group and the other skidded to a halt, nearly colliding with Jill.
    “Idiot!” I shouted.
    I stepped around Jill in a move toward the boy.
    She grabbed my arm as he stood there, glaring. “Cool it, Greg.”
    “Damned juvenile,” I muttered. As I spoke, the boy peddled away at full speed.
    During my OSI days I was noted for a volatile temper. Retirement and Jill’s patience had mellowed my disposition. But my troubles with the Nashville cops, plus the burden of no smokes, had begun to trigger old habits. As a voice called out at the front of the group, I caught Jill casting me an unhappy glance.
    “Okay, people,” our tour guide said. “You have about twenty minutes to look around, shop, whatever. Then we have to be back on the bus. We’ll drive through some of Tel Aviv, then head toward Jerusalem .”
    Jacob Cohen gestured to the southeast with the long olive wood walking stick he referred to as his “staff.” Ever quick with the pun, he had introduced the stick at the start of the trip with, “Thy rod, my staff–a little Twenty-third Psalm humor.” Originally from New York , Cohen had lived in Israel the past twenty years. He looked a typical bearded synagogue worshiper. Unlike most Israelis, however, he was a Messianic Jew, a member of a congregation that believed in Jesus Christ as the promised Messiah. He was also a walking encyclopedia of the Bible.
    I remembered something I needed to take care of and moved over to where Cohen stood with two of the younger women. They were gazing at the towering spire atop the Franciscan Monastery of Saint Peter.
    “Jake, you were going to give me the name of your Messianic Jewish friend in Nashville ,” I said. “You’d better do it now before I forget.”
    He rummaged around in his shirt pocket. “Sorry about that kid on the bike. Some of them don’t have much respect for their elders.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. “Okay, it’s David Wolfson. Here’s his name and phone number.”
    “You said he was a computer nut? I might get him to give me some advice on an upgrade.”
    “He’s good with advice. Another ex-New Yorker. Funny thing, his father was an Orthodox rabbi. They had a pretty heavy falling out when Jake turned Messianic. He inherited some of his dad’s biblical curiosity, though. He’s into all this Bible codes stuff.”
    I gave him a puzzled look. “Bible codes? Never heard of it.”
    “It has to do with the letters in the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible. Supposedly concerns hidden messages God placed in the text. It’s too far-fetched for me. I guess it came natural to David, though. He was a computer hacker in college. Then he went legit and signed with the National Security Agency.”
    Jill grabbed my arm. “You look calmer, thank goodness. Let’s head on toward the bus. Look at Wilma over there at that van. I’ll bet she’s buying more knickknacks.”
    A dusty gray