Rabbi Gabrielle Ignites a Tempest by Roger Herst Page A

key.
    "All right, then," Tim immediately resorted
to his original plan. He withdrew the knife he had brought from the
workroom and handed it to the standing monk. With his index finger
he pointed to a spot on the pulley line. "Cut here."
    The monk hesitated until Tim swung his hoe
over his partner's head. Reluctantly, he began slicing into the
hemp. The line was thicker than Tim had anticipated and the short
blade less than ideal for the task. The possibility of more guards
arriving threatened to end this laborious process, but Tim
convinced himself that the monk was doing his best, at least until
he was forced to rest hands that were unaccustomed to such labor.
Tim immediately commanded his partner to switch places and, when he
hesitated, his cooperation was ensured by a mild blow to the
shoulder of his cohort.
    The larger, athletic monk brought more
strength to the cutting process. While the hemp line resisted until
the last strands, it finally succumbed. Tim quickly gathered and
coiled approximately forty meters, sufficient to lower himself to
the ground outside.
    "Tie this end to the frame," he commanded the
standing monk, taking the knife into his own hand. But the man had
clumsy fingers unaccustomed to such work and could not fashion a
knot capable of holding Tim's weight. Tim had no alternative but to
relinquish altogether the hoe while he relieved the monk and tied a
common cinch knot himself. The monks could have seized the moment
to attack him, but being thoroughly cowed, they remained
passive.
    After testing the knot for strength, Tim
abandoned the hoe completely. Before climbing to the parapet, he
evaluated his adversaries. Would they strike while he climbed the
ladder? Or sabotage the line as he rappelled off the wall? More
likely, he decided, they would run to the chapel for help. With a
little luck, that would give him enough time to reach the ground.
After a moment's hesitation, he tossed the knife over the wall like
a baseball player tossing a ball into the outfield.
    Nothing was said as he climbed the ladder,
the coiled line on one shoulder. Once on the parapet, he uncoiled
what was left and dropped it over the stone wall. Then, placing the
secured end behind his back and taking hold with both hands, he
prepared to leap into the darkness, estimating that it would take
less than two minutes to reach the bottom. His weight shifted
backward, his knees bent, he took a deep breath for reassurance,
and pushed off, planting one foot below the other. With the line
held taut by one hand behind his back and the other feeding it out,
he began his descent.
    He was several meters from the ground when
someone flipped the main electrical switch, illuminating the
monastery with lights blazing from many windows. Above him, Tim
could hear movement on the parapet. No voices, but the bell now
rang without stopping to signal a general alarm. Above him, the
shadows of hooded monks appeared. Their lanterns cut wide swaths
into the darkness. A searchlight suddenly shot a long shaft of
light into the morning sky, but could not be maneuvered to focus on
the monastery's outer wall.
    Tim's right foot touched the ground and in
another instant was met by his left. Abandoning the rappelling
line, he took his first step to freedom, looking for the path he
knew would descend the hillside to the parking area and the dirt
track leading to Jericho.
    "Timothy!" The familiar voice of Father
Benoit howled from atop the parapet, shattering the inviolate rule
of silence. "I know what you have taken. You won't get away with
it." The priest's shriek revealed a visceral, almost animal,
hostility.
    Tim could hear monks pounding flat spaces on
the wall with the palms of their hands to condemn this violation of
their sacred silence. Tim called back, "I've left you all the rest,
Benoit. Do what you want with it. Enjoy your days in an Israeli
prison."
    "You know what I'm talking about," Benoit
howled in unconcealed rage. "You have no right to it. I'm