voice came from somewhere out of the darkness inside.
Before the door shut and enveloped him in temporary blindness, Feldman spied Hunter seated at a small table next to a very attractive young woman in glasses. She wore a pin-striped business suit with a scoop-neck blouse. Her intelligent face was framed with a straight dark, banged hair style cut at the nape of the neck and set off with the perfect makeup of a runway model. Behind her was a wall of flickering TV monitors.
His eyes adjusted quickly to the blue light.
“Jon,” Hunter began, “let me introduce you to Erin Cross, WNN's expert on Middle East religious history and antiquities, and Robert Filson, senior news editor, who you just met.”
Feldman smiled and shook hands. Robert's was soft, damp and weak. Erin's was cool and firm. As she stretched across the table to Feldman, the low-cut neck of her finely tailored blouse effected a rather unavoidable presentation of cleavage.
“It's a pleasure to meet the famous Mr. Feldman,” she said in an interestingly textured voice, smiling, her dark lipstick contrasting sharply with her milk-white skin.
A phone on the wall lit up and Hunter warned everyone to ignore it. “It's Bollinger again,” he snorted impatiently. “We'll fill him in when he gets here, but no more interruptions for now.” He snatched the plug from its socket.
Filson arched an eyebrow, but Hunter was oblivious and launched immediately into his explanation. “Last night, after I dropped Cissy off, I went back to headquarters to work on a few things. Like everyone else, I guess the weight of all this wasn't sitting well with me and I wanted to review the footage we shot at the beginning of the quake. I was trying to pinpoint the location of that lightning storm when these guys and their teammates”—he gestured to Erin and Filson—“showed up a little after daybreak.
“They've got a ham radio in here, and on their ride up from Cairo they got a report out of Turkey about the epicenter of the quake being here at Bethlehem, exactly where I'd figured on a map to be the site of that electrical storm.”
Feldman interrupted. “Well, where's all the damage around here? I didn't see a thing coming in, and Jerusalem's a mess.”
“That's the least of the weirdness,” Hunter replied. “Once we connected both the lightning storm and the quake to Bethlehem, we made the unanimous decision to check things out. And it's paid off. Big. Look at this.” He gestured toward a monitor and everyone turned.
“This is selected footage from a bunch of stuff we shot earlier this morning here in King David Square,” Hunter explained. “We're in the process of editing it down right now.” He picked up a remote control from the table and started a video clip. “Okay, now take a look at monitor C.”
There appeared on the screen the remains of an old, rock-walled enclosure, about waist-high, rectangular, approximately fifty meters long by twenty-five meters wide.
“This is an archaeological
tel
known as David's Wall,” Hunter explained, using a Hebrew term for “excavation site” that he'd picked up earlier from Erin Cross.
Feldman did not quite understand, but he didn't want to interrupt.
“David's Wall is about a stone's throw from here on the west side of the plaza,” Hunter went on. “There are all kinds of excavations going on around this area.”
The camera turned a corner and arrived at an open entranceway into the enclosure. Isolated in the middle of the courtyard was a water-filled cistern carved from solid rock, about two meters in diameter, from which people were carefully ladling water into jugs and bottles and miscellaneous containers. “Okay, now we're inside the wall,” Hunter narrated, “and you're looking at the ancient, sacred Well of David.”
Feldman had been expecting something with a little more drama to it, and he shifted impatiently in his seat. But Hunter was not to be rushed.
“Erin,” Hunter addressed the
Before the door shut and enveloped him in temporary blindness, Feldman spied Hunter seated at a small table next to a very attractive young woman in glasses. She wore a pin-striped business suit with a scoop-neck blouse. Her intelligent face was framed with a straight dark, banged hair style cut at the nape of the neck and set off with the perfect makeup of a runway model. Behind her was a wall of flickering TV monitors.
His eyes adjusted quickly to the blue light.
“Jon,” Hunter began, “let me introduce you to Erin Cross, WNN's expert on Middle East religious history and antiquities, and Robert Filson, senior news editor, who you just met.”
Feldman smiled and shook hands. Robert's was soft, damp and weak. Erin's was cool and firm. As she stretched across the table to Feldman, the low-cut neck of her finely tailored blouse effected a rather unavoidable presentation of cleavage.
“It's a pleasure to meet the famous Mr. Feldman,” she said in an interestingly textured voice, smiling, her dark lipstick contrasting sharply with her milk-white skin.
A phone on the wall lit up and Hunter warned everyone to ignore it. “It's Bollinger again,” he snorted impatiently. “We'll fill him in when he gets here, but no more interruptions for now.” He snatched the plug from its socket.
Filson arched an eyebrow, but Hunter was oblivious and launched immediately into his explanation. “Last night, after I dropped Cissy off, I went back to headquarters to work on a few things. Like everyone else, I guess the weight of all this wasn't sitting well with me and I wanted to review the footage we shot at the beginning of the quake. I was trying to pinpoint the location of that lightning storm when these guys and their teammates”—he gestured to Erin and Filson—“showed up a little after daybreak.
“They've got a ham radio in here, and on their ride up from Cairo they got a report out of Turkey about the epicenter of the quake being here at Bethlehem, exactly where I'd figured on a map to be the site of that electrical storm.”
Feldman interrupted. “Well, where's all the damage around here? I didn't see a thing coming in, and Jerusalem's a mess.”
“That's the least of the weirdness,” Hunter replied. “Once we connected both the lightning storm and the quake to Bethlehem, we made the unanimous decision to check things out. And it's paid off. Big. Look at this.” He gestured toward a monitor and everyone turned.
“This is selected footage from a bunch of stuff we shot earlier this morning here in King David Square,” Hunter explained. “We're in the process of editing it down right now.” He picked up a remote control from the table and started a video clip. “Okay, now take a look at monitor C.”
There appeared on the screen the remains of an old, rock-walled enclosure, about waist-high, rectangular, approximately fifty meters long by twenty-five meters wide.
“This is an archaeological
tel
known as David's Wall,” Hunter explained, using a Hebrew term for “excavation site” that he'd picked up earlier from Erin Cross.
Feldman did not quite understand, but he didn't want to interrupt.
“David's Wall is about a stone's throw from here on the west side of the plaza,” Hunter went on. “There are all kinds of excavations going on around this area.”
The camera turned a corner and arrived at an open entranceway into the enclosure. Isolated in the middle of the courtyard was a water-filled cistern carved from solid rock, about two meters in diameter, from which people were carefully ladling water into jugs and bottles and miscellaneous containers. “Okay, now we're inside the wall,” Hunter narrated, “and you're looking at the ancient, sacred Well of David.”
Feldman had been expecting something with a little more drama to it, and he shifted impatiently in his seat. But Hunter was not to be rushed.
“Erin,” Hunter addressed the
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