The Samson Effect Chapter 4

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THOMAS SCRAPED HIS cheeks against the dirt floor as the soldiers threw him and his companions into a cell. He reached up and yanked off his blindfold. Behind, he heard the heavy wooden door slam and the lock bolt the cell securely. He stood, brushed himself off, and helped Hanna to her feet. "Anyone hurt?"

Michael and Hanna both shook their heads. Thomas scanned the barren cell. He kicked his foot at a gray hairball and a half-rotted rat corpse rolled over. He looked up to see a three-inch slit at the top of a stone wall that allowed a sliver of light to provide the only illumination. A metal plate covered the slit on the door.

The box, the scrolls, and, more importantly, the parchment, had been taken from them. Michael slid down one wall and buried his face in his hands. "Hanna, Thomas, forgive me. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," Thomas said. "I don't see how you could have anticipated this, let alone avoid it."

Hanna smiled. "Your uncle's a powerful and resourceful man. He'll find a way to get us out alive."

Hours passed and the sunlight coming through the slit faded. They had not talked to anyone since being imprisoned. Thomas felt hunger pangs and assumed the others did too, although no one complained. More intense than his hunger, though, was his thirst.

Michael and Thomas stripped off their shirts, using them to wipe the sweat from their necks and faces. Hanna, struggling to show some modesty, unbuttoned her white cotton blouse down to just below her bosom. She seemed to cope with the ordeal as stoically as the men did. So well, in fact, that Thomas feared he would show cracks of stress before she did.

The light slowly disappeared, throwing the cell into darkness. Thomas's tongue felt like a swollen sponge filling his dry mouth. No one spoke for hours.

The darkness brought a perceptible break from the heat, though not enough for either man to put his shirt back on. The stench from their oil and sweat became more bearable the longer they were exposed to it. Thomas didn't feel at all self-conscious when Hanna scooted next to him and wrapped her arms around his. Her touch caused increased heat to radiate from her body, yet it still felt overwhelmingly wonderful. He clasped his hand over hers, slowly rubbing her delicate arm with his other hand. Without saying a word, she leaned over and put her head on his chest. For the first time, Thomas felt comfort in the darkness. Enough so, that he had no problem falling asleep.

The unbolting and creaking of the opening door woke Thomas. He felt Hanna lift her head from his chest, and an oil lantern bathed the cell in light. Thomas squinted, trying to make out the details of the two silhouettes behind the light. One man emerged from the light and yanked Hanna up by her wrist. Thomas leaped to his feet; but when he cried out for the man to stop, only a hoarse, cracked sound emerged.

The man threw Hanna to his companion carrying the lantern. He shouted something in Arabic while he grabbed Thomas by the shoulder with one hand and sank the other into Thomas's stomach.

Thomas collapsed to the floor, trying to suck in air, but his swollen tongue filled his mouth, making it difficult for the air to reach his lungs. As quickly as it had appeared, the light disappeared as the door slammed shut. Thomas felt Michael's hand glide over him and pull him to a sitting position.

"You okay?"

After a few deep breaths, Thomas was able to force out a response. "Fine … Hanna?" Michael's silence tore at Thomas's heart. He closed his eyes and bowed his head in helplessness.

"Thomas, we can't allow Azim to discover the Samson Effect."

"What can we do to stop him? He has everything, even the parchment."

"The parchment …" Michael pushed away his discomfort to force himself to keep his mind active. "It mentions that the priest hid the Effect in the belly of the devil."

"The devil?"

"I've wracked my brains trying to discover its meaning. All I know for sure is that the Effect must be hidden in, or around, Hebron. The priest goes on to write that early the next morning he reported to King David he had destroyed it."

The two men quit talking when their words grew gravelly. Thomas fought to stay awake, but exhaustion won the battle, and he soon slipped into unconsciousness.

* * * *

Thomas awoke as sunlight filtered through the slit in the wall and burned onto his cheek. He sat up, hungry, and his lips cracked from thirst. He looked over at Michael, still asleep against the wall. When Michael began to stir, Thomas crawled to him. He pulled himself into a sitting position and let out a sigh. "We're going to die here, aren't we?"

"I don't know, Thomas. Much more of this, and we may welcome death." They both looked at the door when they heard the bolt slide from the other side. When it opened, a woman stepped into the cell carrying a tray of food and water. Her coal-black hair flowed around her shoulders, framing her smooth face and dark complexion. Her wide, bright eyes commanded Thomas's gaze, but the woman seemed not to notice him at all. She and Michael silently stared into each other's eyes. Thomas was about to shake his friend from his trance when she set the tray down and turned to leave without saying a word.

Ice rattled as Thomas picked up the pitcher and poured crystal-clear water into two glasses. They drained the glasses and poured more. Thomas couldn't believe how quickly the water revitalized him. After his third glass, he turned his attention to the two plates on the tray.

Each plate had a slice of grilled ham and two pieces of toast. Thomas, with dirty fingers, picked up a piece of ham and tore into it. Michael picked up a piece of toast, savoring it as much as Thomas did the ham.

"Try the ham. It's got to be the best I've ever had."

"You can have mine."

Thomas bit off another piece. "You're kidding. You'll need it to build your strength."

Michael held his plate forward. "I'm Jewish, remember?"

Thomas stopped chewing. "Of course. I'm sure Azim did this on purpose." He handed his two pieces of toast to Michael. Some sense of guilt, however, kept him from eating the double portion of meat, at least for now.

Before they finished, the woman returned to the cell carrying a brown paper bag. She looked at the ham left on the plate, then at Michael. "Feeling better?"

Michael nodded as Thomas asked, "Where's Hanna?"

"She's safe for the moment. Her safety, however, depends in large part on how cooperative you'll be with my brother."

"And who's your brother?"

Michael answered before she had a chance. "Let me guess. Azim?"

She smiled. "Perceptive, but please don't confuse his disposition with mine. In many ways, we're quite different people." She stepped over to Michael and held out the bag to him. "For you."

Michael cocked his head and warily took the bag from her hand. He opened it and reached in to pull out a turkey drumstick. When he started to eat it, Thomas reached for Michael's ham.

"The reason I'm here is to tell you Azim will be meeting with you in a few minutes. Please, for your safety and that of your friends, don't refuse him."

Michael let etiquette fall by the wayside and spoke with his mouth full of turkey. "Refuse what?"

"You'll find out soon enough." The woman paused before stepping through the door. "Oh, and please don't mention the turkey to him. He'd be very angry with me if you did."

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Thomas and Michael stood before Azim with their arms tied behind their backs. He sat behind his desk scanning the headlines of the Tel Aviv newspaper. They quietly waited until Azim finally put down the newspaper and looked at them. He shook his head with a solemn expression. "So sad … the authorities believe you are dead."

He pointed to the headline: Dr. Michael Sieff And Companions Dead In Terrorist Attack.

"The story says your auto was destroyed by mortar fire and your bodies were burned beyond recognition."

Michael shook his head. "So, you can kill us now, and no one would ever know."

"I suppose that's true, but I'm hoping that won't be necessary. I do so much hate violence."

"Right. I'd need a computer to keep track of all the people you're responsible for killing."

One of the men standing next to them drove the butt of his rifle into Michael's gut. Thomas leaned toward Michael, but the other man grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place.

Michael tried to catch his breath. From his knees, he looked up at Azim. "No, you're not a man of violence."

The man with the gun raised the butt above Michael's head, but grunted and relaxed when Azim waved him off. "Do not touch these men again without my command."

Azim walked over to Michael and bent to help him up. Michael shrugged his shoulders away. "I'm fine."

Thomas pulled against his bonds, trying to break free to help Michael to his feet. In frustration, he spun around to face Azim. "What exactly do you want from us?"

Azim returned to his desk. "Ah, Dr. Hamilton. You're an old college acquaintance of Dr. Sieff, aren't you? It's unfortunate you've become mixed up in all of this." He paused and shook his head. "And I believe you're wanted for murder in the United States, aren't you?"

Thomas felt rage burn through him but stopped himself from lashing out at Azim. Instead, he stood straight and remained silently stoic.

"Very well, I have a proposition for you. We both want the Samson Effect found. Maybe we can work together and each get something we want. I, of course, will have the Samson Effect. You will have your lives and the life of the woman."

Michael smiled. "No offense, Azim, but I value a filthy swine more than I do your word." This time, the blow from the rifle butt crashed into the back of Michael's neck, collapsing him to the floor.

Azim's teeth clenched as he got up and walked over to Michael. He balled his hand into a fist and struck the man behind Michael across the cheek, drawing blood from the corner of the man's mouth. He spoke with an even, restrained anger. "I told you not to touch them without my command. Next time, it will not be my fist that strikes you."

Trembling, the man bowed his head in submission. Azim's next words barked through the office. "Delia, come."

Thomas turned toward the door as the dark-haired woman who had fed them earlier entered. She escorted Hanna into the office, bound, gagged, and stripped to her undergarments. Hanna's eyes were wide and full of terror. Thomas tried to step toward her, but the guard restrained him.

"Enough of the pleasantries. Dr. Sieff, you and Dr. Hamilton will help me find the Samson Effect, or I assure you that your friend will suffer long before she dies." He stepped to a bookshelf and pulled off a leather briefcase, handing it to Delia. "You'll find copies of all the scrolls and parchments we've found concerning the Samson Effect. My sister will accompany you on your search. Should she fail to report back to me at prescribed times, your female friend will begin her journey of terror to hell." With a wave of his hand, one of the guards grabbed Hanna by the arm and dragged her from the office.

Thomas strained against the man holding his arm but couldn't move an inch toward Hanna. Delia stood between him and the door. "Dr. Hamilton, as long as you obey my brother, you've nothing to fear. However, please don't test him. He is a man of his word. Isn't that right, Barhim?"

The man nodded and lifted his bandaged hand. Thomas saw the bloodstain where his pinky finger should have been. Barhim then stepped to Azim and whispered into his ear.

Azim returned to his desk. "All things have been made ready. Dr. Sieff, you have two weeks to find the Samson Effect. If you can't find it by then, your usefulness to me will be suspect."

"Thomas and I have spent over a year searching for the Samson Effect. You can't possibly believe we can find it in two weeks.

Azim narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps you've not been sufficiently motivated." Before Michael could respond, Azim flicked his hand in a dismissive wave.

Delia turned to Michael and Thomas. "Gentleman, I suggest we begin our search immediately." The guards blindfolded them again and led them out of the office.


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The Samson Effect Chapter 3

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"ALLAH HAS BEEN good to us."

Azim sat behind the large, handcrafted mahogany desk he had commissioned from his favorite London artisan. His sister and three associates sat in chairs across from him, nodding and uttering their agreement. He looked at his sister, concerned about her countenance. "My dear sister, what's wrong? You look sad."

Delia's eyes snapped open as she looked into her brother's eyes. "Oh, no, Azim. I'm not sad. It's just …"

As she cast her eyes down, Azim felt a surge of power rush through him. Here, his own sister, who had killed many times at his instructions, still revered, even feared, him. He reached out a benevolent hand to her. In a tender voice he instructed, "Come here, Delia. You've nothing to fear."

Delia slowly rose from her seat and stepped toward her brother. She reached out and took Azim's hand, gently kissing it and waiting for him to speak.

"Now, sister, please tell me why you're upset."

Delia drew in a breath. "It's Ricky. I don't understand why you had to have him killed."

A smile cracked the corner of Azim's mouth. "Because, Delia, we couldn't afford to have him linked to the bombing. I was assured he was strangled quickly and was quite dead before his body was placed in the building. Now there's one more murder blamed on Dr. Hamilton." He reached out and lifted his sister's chin so she was staring into his eyes. "Right now he's enjoying Allah's abundant blessings." He leaned in and lightly kissed her on the lips.

When he broke the kiss, Delia cast her eyes back to the floor. "Of course."

Delia returned to her seat, and Azim instructed one of the three men to approach him. "Rajah, you have my thanks and my praise on a job well done. Your plan to leave Michael unguarded in the city worked perfectly."

Rajah took Azim's hand and kissed it. "Allah was with me. All glory to Allah."

"Yes, Allah was with you then as he is now." Azim opened the desk drawer and picked up three bundles of American currency. "Thirty thousand dollars, and of even more value, I bestow upon you the honor of being my Right." He waited as Rajah's face brightened, and a smile escaped before he continued. "Today, you and your family shall move onto my estate and live in your own house under my protection." This time, he took Rajah's hand and kissed it.

"Your kindness has no limits. Praise be to Allah."

"Praise be to Allah, my friend … my brother."

Rajah bowed as he backed into his chair. Delia and the other two men stood and kissed his hand, repeating their praise to Allah. Once seated, Azim called Barhim forward. "Barhim, my old friend."

Barhim's hand trembled as he reached out to kiss Azim's hand. Azim could smell the fear emanating from him. As he accepted the kiss and praise, he fought to keep his anger from spewing forth.

"Look at me!" The trembling man slowly lifted his gaze. Once his eyes met Azim's, he could not control the quivering that passed through his body. "You, my friend, I'm not so happy with. You have not only let me down, you've also let Allah down, praise be his name."

"Azim, please, I'm sorry. I give you my word it will never happen again."

Azim continued as though he didn't hear the man's apology. "Because of your carelessness in executing the diversion, three of my best men lie dead at the hands of Israeli dogs."

"Azim, please …"

"Would I not be just in requiring your blood for theirs?" Azim once again reached into his desk drawer, but this time he pulled out a small boning knife and held the thin blade up to the light. He looked to see the others in the room avert their gaze. His bellowing command caused the others in the room to jump."Look at Allah's justice being carried out!"

Barhim could not stop the tears from flowing. "Please, have mercy!"

"Allah's justice … and mercy."

Barhim froze as he let the words sink in. Overcome with joy and relief, he showered Azim with praise and thanks. Azim, in a quiet yet resolute voice, commanded, "Your hand, Barhim, place it on the desk."

Barhim's smile quickly faded. "My … my hand?"

"Place it on the desk."

Once again, the quivering invaded his body and whimpers escaped his lips as he obeyed, laying his hand on the desk, palm down.

"Now, spread your fingers."

Barhim looked away as he spread his fingers apart. "No, Barhim, you must witness Allah's justice and his mercy." The sobbing man turned to see Azim place the blade against his left pinkie. Azim did show mercy, making the cut quickly. The mercy, however, did not keep him from screaming in agony.

Azim wiped the blood from the blade with a towel sitting on the desk. He then picked up Barhim's finger and wrapped it in the towel. Barhim clinched his bleeding stub in his fist and stood there, whimpering, sweat flowing from every pore in his face.

Azim handed the wrapped finger to Barhim. "The surgeon is waiting for you in his office, my friend. Take this to him and return to my side when you're ready."

Barhim didn't speak. He simply bowed his head slightly and disappeared through the door. Azim then turned his attention to the third man. Sofian sat paralyzed in his seat, afraid to break eye contact with Azim. When Azim called him forward, he reluctantly rose from his chair and shuffled to his master's desk.

Azim held his hand forward, and Sofian quickly took and kissed it as he bowed in submission. "Sofian, my friend. Today I've chosen you above all to be my Left. Your faithfulness and eagerness to serve hasn't gone unnoticed. As you've seen today, I expect unquestioning loyalty and obedience, and I reward those who serve well. Are you willing to pledge yourself to me as I seek to carry out Allah's will on earth?"

Without hesitation, Sofian stepped up to the side of the desk and knelt before Azim, clasping Azim's hand between his. "Whatever you say, wherever you send, I will serve Allah through you."

Azim stood and lifted Sofian to his feet. With a smile, he leaned in and kissed his new Left on both cheeks. When he pulled back he said, "Your first duty is to find out what Dr. Michael Sieff has discovered regarding the Samson Effect. He fooled me once; I won't be fooled again."

* * * *

Thomas settled into the room Michael had assigned to him. He put the few clothes his host had provided in the closet before freshening up in the adjoining bathroom. He was drying his face with a towel as he stepped back into the bed room. When he removed the towel, the sight of a woman sitting on his bed startled him.

"Good morning, Dr. Hamilton."

"Good morning." Thomas looked at the open bedroom door. "May I ask if you always make a habit of entering a man's bedroom unannounced?" Though he tried to sound annoyed, her beauty softened his voice.

She smiled, uncrossing her long, tanned legs and stood with an extended hand. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I knocked, but there was no answer. Before I thought, I opened the door and stepped in."

Thomas took her soft hand gently in his. "Please, Thomas."

"Okay Thomas. I'm Hanna."

"You're the stewardess on the plane."

She broke into laughter and clasped his hand in both of hers. Thomas looked at her quizzically, but before she could say anything, Michael walked into the room. "Ah, good. I see you two have met." When Hanna began laughing again, he asked, "Did I miss something funny?"

Thomas smiled. "I take it Hanna isn't the stewardess on your uncle's plane."

"Good heavens, no. She's my uncle's public relations director and closest adviser." Thomas felt his cheeks tingle. He turned to her and stammered out an apology.

She smiled. "Don't give it another thought." She looked into Thomas's eyes, neither speaking nor attempting to break away.

Michael cleared his throat. "Yes, well, if you two will follow me, we'll catch Hanna up on the Samson Effect and I'll show you both the parchment I found."

They followed Michael down a hall and into a sparsely furnished office. Other than a single bookcase and desk, Thomas only saw one rectangular folding table with a portable halogen light sitting on it. Michael instructed them to take a seat at the table while he removed a box from under his desk.

As Michael set the box on the desk, Thomas asked, "At the sake of sounding rude, may I ask what Hanna's role in all this is?"

"As you know, my uncle is financing the search for the Samson Effect. As much as he trusts me, he trusts Hanna more. This is his way of ensuring he stays in the loop."

"Which begs the question, Michael," Hanna interrupted. "What exactly is the Samson Effect?"

Michael and Thomas exchanged glances. "Go ahead Thomas, tell her."

Thomas took in a deep breath and turned to Hanna. "A little over a year ago, Michael and I found a scroll hidden in one of the caves outside of Hebron." Michael took an ancient scroll from the box and placed it before her.

She looked at it with a puzzled expression. "What is it?"

"It's an account written by King David's scribe."

Hanna's eyes grew wide. "The King David?"

"Yes. To summarize, it's David's royal edict to destroy what we call the Samson Effect. However, the scribe and the guardians of the Samson Effect thought it would be blasphemy to destroy this great gift given by God. Instead of destroying it, they hid the secret. It remained safe until the Egyptian Pharaoh Shishak came up against Solomon's son, King Rehoboam, and looted the treasures of Israel."

"Pharaoh took it?"

"No." Thomas pointed to another scroll. "This one tells us that in the invasion, Pharaoh's army killed the guardian of the Samson Effect. The scroll was written by his handpicked successor. Unfortunately, the guardian died before he passed on its hiding place."

"So, it's been lost to history since then?"

Michael and Thomas exchanged glances again and smiled. "Until now," Michael said.

Pent-up frustration spilled from Hanna. She looked to each man. "So, what exactly is the Samson Effect?"

Michael took over the explanation. "You're familiar with the history of God's people, I assume."

"Somewhat, as long as I'm not tested on it." She looked at Thomas and shrugged. "Haven't exactly kept up with my religious studies."

"But you're probably familiar with the times when the Spirit of the Lord came upon men when Israel needed deliverance. The men could do extraordinary things. Superhuman things."

"Like Samson."

"Maybe the most notable of the men. Apparently, a select group of priests and rabbis possessed an elixir, or food substance—we're not yet sure—but something that allowed the human body to perform miraculous feats. These priests would pray to God when Israel was oppressed by its enemies; and when they felt they knew God's choice of a deliverer, they would introduce the Samson Effect into his diet."

Thomas looked to Hanna. He could see by her expression that she was struggling to take in the information. She finally asked, "Why did King David order it to be destroyed?"

"The scroll tells us he blamed King Saul's insanity on the substance. While in hiding from Saul, the guardians of the Samson Effect sided with David. He ingested it and began to perform amazing feats. However, he also fell into a deep depression. Thoughts of suicide began to surface. When he set up his southern kingdom in Hebron after Saul's death, he removed the substance from his diet and eventually came out of his depression. Convinced of its maddening side effects, he ordered all knowledge of the substance destroyed and forbade its use ever again."

Hanna stood and walked to the window overlooking the courtyard. The men waited for her to process the information. She finally turned to them and said, "You said it was lost to history until now. You have the Samson Effect?"

"Not exactly," Michael said. "But we're close. The parchment I found yesterday gives its location, but I can't decipher its meaning. That's why I brought Thomas here. As a biblical archaeologist, he's at the top of his field."

Hanna smiled at both men, failing to hide her giddiness. "Well then, let's look at the parchment and go find the Samson Effect."

Michael let out a sigh. "I wish it were as simple as that. The Palestinians are strong in Hebron, and one of them knows about the Samson Effect and is determined to find it before I do."

"Who?"

"Azim Ebadi."

The blood drained from Hanna's face. Thomas finally broke the silence. "Obviously this Azim character is a pretty bad guy."

Hanna stepped toward Thomas until she stood face to face with him. "Bad, Dr. Hamilton, isn't the word for him. He's evil, pure evil."

A burst of machine-gun fire outside the walled estate broke the tension in the room. Michael grabbed the phone and punched an extension. "What's going on?" He listened. "Dear God, sound the alarm now. Eli … Eli …"

Michael slammed the phone down as sirens began wailing throughout the compound. He turned to Thomas. "Grab the scrolls and parchment! I'll get the box!"

As Thomas picked up the scrolls, he asked, "Michael, what's going on?"

The two followed Michael through the door and down the hall. "I believe you're about to get your first experience with Azim."

They ran into the dining room, where a security guard met them. "Two down, and the wall has been breached."

The guard ran from the dining room into the kitchen. "Clear!" The three followed to the back of the kitchen and through the door leading into the garage. The guard jumped behind the wheel of Michael's sedan and started the engine.

As soon as everyone was in the car, the guard pushed the garage door button on the remote. The car tires squealed, and Thomas was sure the car roof was going to hit the rising door. He squinted and then sighed when the car raced safely from the garage.

The car spun to a stop as the driver lined up for the gate. Outside, Thomas watched men exchange intense fire. Without warning, one of the invaders jumped next to his window. Thomas found himself staring into the barrel of a machine gun. Before the car could pull away, Thomas heard the burst of the machine gun and saw the blood-splattered, shattered window. He closed his eyes and felt the car lunge forward.

He was waiting for the pain to hit or to lose consciousness, but all he felt was the wild bucking of the car. He opened his eyes to see the bullet-riddled, bloodstained window next to him. He whipped his head around to see the invader lying dead in the driveway. He reached to his head, finding it dry and with no wounds.

Michael grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the floorboard. "Get down. The windows are bulletproof, but certainly not indestructible."

The car accelerated and the sounds of war echoed around them as they kept their heads down, praying to find safety. Then, a new sound rolled into the chaos. Thomas heard what sounded like beating chopper blades. "I hope that's the cavalry."

Michael squeezed his shoulders. "I'm sure it is. The Israelis would have shot down anything flying into a military zone. Still, you'd be wise to keep your head down for a while."

Thomas needed no convincing. He hunched down even tighter as they continued their escape away from the attack. All he could think about now was the warm, cozy, campus coffee shop where he stretched out in his sock feet and engaged in lively, albeit not deadly, debate. He could hardly fathom just how much his life had changed in the course of a few short hours.

The car skidded to a stop. The driver turned and shouted, "Everyone out! Move!"

Thomas poked his head up with the others. The compound was nowhere in sight, but a military truck sat a few yards in front of them. Soldiers holding their rifles stood watch, guarding from assault in all directions.

Michael raised his head, confident the immediate danger had passed. "It is the cavalry. That's an Israeli vehicle."

They spilled out of the car as the driver, now bodyguard, ushered them forward. A man wearing a major's uniform jumped from the truck and stepped forward to meet them. He extended his hand and took Michael's in a quick, firm greeting. "I've been sent to take you and your friends to safety." The major turned and marched toward the truck. "Follow me, please, quickly."

Thomas gestured for Hanna and Michael to move, and then fell in behind them. Their own guard backed his way to the truck, his gun swinging left and right. When Thomas climbed into the back of the truck, he scooted to make room for their guard, but the major jumped in and yelled for the driver to go. Michael reached forward and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Wait, Eli's still out there."

The major shrugged Michael's hand off of him. "Get your filthy hoof off of me, Jewish pig."

Michael stumbled backwards, his wide eyes frozen in a mix of fear and confusion. All three looked out the window just as the Israeli soldiers filled Eli's spasmodic body with bullets. Before he hit the ground, the soldiers jumped onto the rear bumper and the vehicle sped off.


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The Samson Effect Chapter 2

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THOMAS LOOKED DOWN at the speedometer. Sixty. He caught himself weaving around cars, but he had no memory of driving from the archaeology building to where he was on Fifty-sixth Street. His mind was reeling from the explosion. He thought of turning around at every light, but he knew the bomb was meant for him. His survival instincts kept his foot on the gas pedal and his car aimed toward the airport.

He picked up his cell and dialed Michael's number. For the third time, Michael's voice mail answered that no one could take his call and prompted him to leave a message. Thomas squeezed the phone and slammed it down on the armrest. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and took in three deep breaths. "Calm down, calm down." He eased off the accelerator and exhaled through his mouth. The clock on his radio display read 6:45. The campus radio station would be playing uninterrupted classical music until midnight. He turned on the radio and pressed the first preset. Instead of Mozart, Thomas heard the excited voice of a student reporter. He reached over and turned up the volume.

"The explosion at Abbey Hall happened about thirty minutes ago. Details are still sketchy, but here's what we do have. According to Chief of Campus Police Bill Redgrove, police have not been able to determine the cause of the explosion or if there were any casualties. One witness told me a few minutes ago that she left the building about ten minutes before the explosion and that the cleaning crew was there along with Dr. Clifton Winfred, chair of the archaeology department, and Dr. Thomas Hamilton, professor of biblical archaeology. I must impress, however, there have been no positive identifications—"

Thomas reached over and turned off the radio. He picked up the cell phone and hit redial. After a few seconds, he slammed the phone down again.

He reached the airport exit and turned onto the lane leading to long-term parking. He maneuvered into the valet parking lane and asked the attendant to put the car in the garage. He took the ticket and waited for the bus to the international terminal.

* * * *

Thomas picked up his boarding pass for the chartered flight to Tel Aviv that Michael had arranged. He stood in the security line, anxious to pass through the checkpoint and board his plane. He fought to push the evening's events out of his mind so as not to appear in any way like someone security would be suspicious of. The line moved at a snail's pace, but he was comforted with the thought his charter wouldn't leave without him.

In front of him, a young woman struggled to maintain control of two young children, issuing threat after threat, but having little impact on the rambunctious children. He glanced up at one of the television screens hanging in the terminal. A CNN correspondent was reporting from the scene of a smoldering fire. When Thomas recognized the building as Abbey Hall, he tuned out the unruly children and focused on the closed-caption text scrolling across the bottom of the muted television. Then the image changed to a picture of him taken from the yearbook. Below, the text read that police were looking for Dr. Thomas Hamilton for questioning related to the explosion.

Thomas tore his eyes from the screen, scanning the crowd to see if anyone was pointing a finger at him; but everyone seemed oblivious to him, caught up in their own little world. He casually turned to see a row of monitors extending down the terminal with his picture plastered on them. He felt immediate relief when a live shot of the reporter in front of the smoldering Abbey Hall replaced his image.

When he felt someone tap his shoulder, he involuntarily flinched. He turned to see a man in a suit point over his shoulder. "Sir, they're calling for you."

Thomas turned to see a security screener walking toward him, speaking in an agitated voice. "Sir, please step over here!"

Thomas's heart raced, and his body went into flight mode. He fought his instinct and stepped out of line, following the screener to a table. "Sir, please remove your shoes."

Thomas smiled. "My shoes? Sure." He leaned down, slipped off both tennis shoes, and handed them to the screener for inspection. A second screener asked him to empty his pockets while using a wand on him. Apparently convinced he posed no threat, the screener gave Thomas back his shoes and led him through the security checkpoint.

Thomas retrieved his items, stuffed them into his pockets, and found a chair to sit in while he slipped his shoes on. With his trembling hands, it took him three attempts to tie the first shoe. As soon as he finished, he grabbed his keys and wallet and set off at a fast pace to the chartered flights gate.

As he approached the gate, he once again saw his image on CNN. He dropped his head and walked past the television. When he looked up, his gaze locked onto an armed security guard who smiled and nodded to him as he passed. Once again, he let out a sigh when he passed by the guard. His confidence strengthened as he realized his gate was just around the corner.

His body stiffened when he heard someone call out, "Sir, stop!" He turned to see the security guard power-walking toward him with his hand on his gun. His fight-or-flight instinct kicked in again, but this time he ran. His intellect told him he had no chance to escape and running would make matters worse, but he ran anyway.

Thomas prepared for a Good Samaritan to jump to the guard's aid, but, surprisingly, people simply stepped aside to let them pass. He skidded around the corner, right into the burly arms of two waiting men. After one slapped a giant paw over his mouth, the men manhandled Thomas past his gate. Before his mind could register what was happening, the men burst through a nearby door and dragged Thomas down a flight of dimly lit stairs. At the landing, they passed through another door before coming to a stop.

One of the men turned to look at Thomas. "If you want to make it out of here and see Michael tonight, you'll do as we say. Understand?"

Thomas's wide eyes moved from one man to the next. When he nodded, the guard removed his hand from Thomas's mouth. Thomas recognized the Israeli accent. "Michael sent you?"

"We were sent to make sure you arrive in Israel safely."

"But how are you going to get me on the plane? After 9/11, this airport will be locked down until they find me."

"In less than fifteen minutes the search will be called off, and you'll walk to the plane unmolested."

Thomas looked at each man. Part of him believed them, but the other part knew he'd be tackled and shackled the moment he stepped into the open.

No one spoke for the next ten minutes until one of the men placed his hand to his ear and then turned to the other. "All clear."

The other man opened the door. "Dr. Hamilton, if you'll please come with us."

Thomas paused and then stepped through the door, bracing himself for a gang tackle. The stairway, however, was empty. He followed the men to a door marked "Boarding" and walked through to the outside. A small private jet with stairs leading into the cabin sat a few yards away. As he walked toward the plane, Thomas felt a chill run through him. Workers were busy driving luggage to the airliners parked at the gates and refueling planes. It was as if nothing had happened, as if there was no breach in security at all.

When they arrived at the steps, the two men stopped. The man with the earpiece looked at Thomas. "This is as far as we go."

Thomas stared at him and cocked his head to one side. "But how—"

The man held out his hand to stop him. "Don't worry about it. Just enjoy your flight."

Thomas turned and climbed the steps. As he ducked into the cabin, the first things his eyes saw were the firm legs of the woman who greeted him. As his eyes slowly rose, he saw that they were connected to a slim, beautiful woman wearing a white blouse and a dark navy jacket. Her chestnut-brown hair was pulled into a bun, revealing a creamy neck with just a hint of bronze.

"Would you like something to drink?"

Thomas looked around the flying office before nodding. "Vodka, straight."

The woman smiled and walked to the bar. In a few moments, she was back with a shot on the rocks. Thomas took the drink and sipped it, waiting for the plane to take off. Behind him, he heard a commode flush, water run, and then a man in blue khakis and a polo shirt stepped through the door and took the seat across the table from him.

He extended his hand. "I'm Ambassador Benjamin Ben Hur. I pray that you're comfortable."

Thomas shook the man's hand. "Yes, thank you."

The ambassador pushed the button and spoke into a speaker. "We're ready to take off."

Almost immediately, Thomas heard the whine of the jet engines and felt the plane starting to roll. The woman took her seat next to the ambassador, and the three buckled their seat belts. Within minutes, the plane was climbing and soon leveled out.

The ambassador was reading over papers from his briefcase. Thomas finished off his vodka and set the glass on the table. "Excuse me, Ambassador, but what just happened back there?"

The ambassador peered over his glasses at Thomas. "What do you mean?"

"Without trying to sound flippant, you know very well what I mean. How did you get the police to forget about me?"

The ambassador put down his papers and smiled. "I assure you, Dr. Hamilton, they haven't forgotten about you. As for arranging your way through airport security, let's just say my position carries with it certain privileges."

"And why would an ambassador choose to exercise those privileges for me?"

The ambassador turned to the woman and nodded. "Of course, Ambassador." She unbuckled her seat belt, walked to the front of the plane, and disappeared behind the cockpit door.

"Michael is my nephew. I know of his pursuit of the Samson Effect. In fact, my money is funding his search for it. I understand you and he are very close to its discovery."

"Your nephew hasn't told me what he's found yet, only that he's convinced it'll lead to the discovery." Thomas picked up his glass and swirled the ice around. "If the Israeli government is involved, he must've found something conclusive."

"The Israeli government is not involved. This is something between him and me, and now you."

Thomas leaned back in his seat. "May I ask you what you intend to do with the Samson Effect if we discover it?"

The ambassador responded without pause. "My only concern is to keep it out of a certain Palestinian man's hand." His eyes bore deep into Thomas. "Can you imagine what would happen if a band of terrorists found, then used, the Samson Effect?"

Thomas didn't respond; he didn't need to. Both men knew what would happen if the discovery fell into the wrong hands.

* * * *

When he stepped off the plane, Thomas turned to see the hatch close behind him. He reached into his pocket for the only thing he had brought with him aside from the clothes on his back: his cell phone. As he walked away from the plane toward the terminal, his pulse quickened when he spotted the Israeli soldiers patrolling their post. The two soldiers closest to him had not taken their eyes from him since he had landed. He patted his pockets for his passport, which he knew sat in his bank's safety deposit box.

He pulled out his cell and hit redial just as a black sedan pulled up to him. The backseat door flew open and a familiar voice ordered him inside. The moment he closed the car door, the sedan took off.

"I trust you had a good flight, my friend."

A surge of relief washed over Thomas. "You have no idea."

"Let me guess; in the last twelve hours, you managed to sneak out of your country as a wanted man." Michael grew serious. "I'm sorry about Clifton. I never would have believed he, or you, would be in danger in the U.S."

Thomas rubbed his jet-lagged eyes. "I think I'm still in shock at all that's happened. I didn't even get a chance to go home and pack. No passport, no clothes, no money … nothing."

"It's a good thing you didn't go home. At last report, the police have been to your apartment and apparently found evidence you've been planning the bombing for some time."

Thomas strained against his seat belt as he turned and leaned toward Michael. "What? How could that be? It wasn't me who did that."

"I know, and so does my uncle; but as it stands now, if you go back home, you'll be arrested for murder."

Thomas slumped into his seat, wondering how in the world this could be happening to him. Michael put his hand on Thomas's shoulder. "Don't worry, my friend. Arrangements have been made. You will be relatively safe with me."

Thomas's head whiplashed to his friend. "Relatively? You don't inspire much confidence."

"Well, you'll be safe from U.S. and Israeli authorities. The Palestinians, now, that's another issue."

Thomas looked out of his window as an armed Israeli waved the car through a gate. Once on the road to Hebron, Michael caught him up on the parchment he'd found and told him about Caleb's murder. He promised to show Thomas the parchment as soon as they arrived at his home.

After a few moments of conversation, Michael nodded at the window. "This is Hebron."

Thomas looked out at the ancient desert buildings and dusty footpaths that ran throughout the city as a throng of people milled about the various shops. All around, he saw soldiers walking among the people and armored vehicles patrolling the streets. Puzzled, he turned to Michael. "The soldiers look Israeli to me. I thought you said it was Palestinian soldiers who stood by when you and Caleb were attacked."

"I did. Even though the Palestinians control most of the city, Israel maintains a strong police presence to keep the peace. What happened to Caleb and me demonstrates just how powerful our enemies are."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the attack was well-planned. A diversion was set up to draw the soldiers away while Azim and his men tried to get the parchment. The Palestinian guards were lookouts to let him know when the Israelis were on their way back."

Thomas shook his head. "But how did he know you'd found the parchment? Sounds like he was waiting for you."

"There are a lot of things I don't know about Azim, but this I do know: he's both intelligent and dangerous. If we let our guard down at all, it will mean our lives."


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The Samson Effect Chapter 1

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Hebron, Israel

THE FAT MAN'S skin glistened in the noonday sun. Dirty children ran around him, some kicking a ball, others darting up to the merchants' stands, fingering through trinkets until the bearded owners shooed them away. All around the fat man came the sounds of honking cars, children's playful screams, and men calling out for buyers to purchase their wares. The fat man was burning up in his long-sleeved shirt and khaki pants, but better to suffer the burning temperature than have his pinkish white skin fry under the oppressive rays of the sun.

He removed his hat and mopped his brow with his sleeve, then continued his shopping expedition. As he passed by the street vendors, his eyes caught one particular object being peddled by a thin, wrinkled man. He walked to the booth and picked up a piece of parchment, worn in the weather of time. The ancient Hebrew text was remarkably well preserved. As he glanced over the parchment, he interpreted some of the words he knew from his limited vocabulary. King David, Mighty Strength, and Lord's Protector. The symbol he saw at the bottom sent chills through his overheated body.

The fat man forgot his discomfort as well as his shopping errand as he fumbled with his cell phone. The old man behind the merchandise asked, "You like? Fifty dollars." The fat man held up one pudgy finger, prompting the old man to wait.

When the call connected, the fat man could hardly control his excitement. "Doctor, I may have found it … Yes! Yes! Please come quickly; there may be more here." The fat man gave directions and then disconnected the call. His eyes darted from left to right as he found a seat in the shade of the thatch-covered booth. His hands clung to the parchment.

"Fifty dollars. Very old, very valuable. Fifty dollars."

The fat man smiled, nodded, and held up one finger. His hands trembled as he scanned the parchment. Behind him, the old merchant shouted and a twelve-year-old boy came running. The old man leaned down and whispered into his ear. The boy nodded and ran off into the crowd of shoppers.

The fat man looked at the old merchant, who returned his gaze with a smile. He turned to see the boy run up to an armed Palestinian soldier and gesture wildly with animated hands. The soldier looked at the fat man and then took out a radio and spoke into it.

The fat man began to perspire more. He glanced at his watch and then down to his cell phone. "C'mon doctor, hurry up."

Two more soldiers joined the other and the three stood there staring at him. Behind, he saw a cloud of dust rising in the air and made out the doctor's black sedan racing toward him. He slumped in his chair and exhaled a pent-up sigh.

A few minutes later, the sedan pulled to a screeching halt. Dr. Michael Sieff flew from the driver's door. He was the complete opposite of the fat man: slender, tall, and he had a rich, deep color that betrayed the hours he spent working in the sun. The only physical trait the two men shared was their thick, black, curly hair. Michael left the car door open in his haste and ran up to the fat man. "Caleb, what did you find?"

Caleb extended his hand and gave Michael the parchment. The doctor read it with lightning-quick expertise and smiled. "This is it, my friend. Yahweh must have led you to it." He reached over and patted Caleb on the shoulders.

"Fifty dollars. Very rare."

Michael looked to the old merchant and smiled. "I'll give you twenty." After haggling back and forth a few times, they agreed on thirty-five American dollars. As Michael reached into his pocket for his wallet, he heard a hissing crack and felt something flick onto his face. He turned to the wooden post next to him and rubbed his fingers over the hole.

He spun around to Caleb. "Quickly, get in the car—" His words lodged in his throat. Caleb was slumped in the chair, staring at him with wide eyes and blood from the bullet hole in his forehead running down his face. Michael froze. "No," he whispered. Another bullet whistled past him, waking him from his trance.

He thrust the parchment into his pocket and ran toward his car. A spray of bullets from a machine gun cut off his path, forcing him to dart into the throng of people doing their daily shopping. The machine gun sent panicked people screaming and running in all directions. Michael turned to see his assailants, but the chaotic crowd made it impossible. He heard another stuttering crack of gunfire and ran deeper into the crowd.

At the far end of the row of merchants, he saw two men dressed in Western suits point in his direction and begin wading their way through the crowd. He turned, only to find two more men brandishing guns and moving toward him. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his eyes, looking for any hope of escape. By now, the crowd around him began to thin as men, women, and children ran for safety from the flying bullets, clearing a path for his assailants. Beyond the market, the soldiers stood rigid, watching the unfolding action but not attempting to intervene or join in the action.

Michael knew he was out of options. There was nowhere to run, no place to hide from these murderers. He bowed his head and raised his hands in defeat. The armed men encircled him, training their sights on him. Michael slowly looked up and turned in a circle to see the open barrels of eight machine guns staring back at him. He almost laughed aloud, knowing one wrong move from him would mean his death, but these idiots would also take out at least half of each other in the process.

As he finished his circle, a smiling, pepper-gray-haired Palestinian led a small, well-dressed band of men into the circle of guns. He walked up to Michael with a smile etched on his face. "Dr. Sieff, my apologies if any of my men may have gotten a little excited. I meant for them to know I only wanted to talk with you, not kill you."

The smug look on the Palestinian's face infuriated Michael. He looked off into the distance to see the soldiers watching, content to keep their distance. He twisted out his own smile. "No offense taken, Azim." He nodded at the eight machine guns trained on him. "Mind calling off your dogs?" The gunmen grunted and shoved their weapons closer to him.

Azim ordered his men to ease back and he stepped up to Michael. As if it was an afterthought, he smiled and said, "Oh, I'm sorry about Caleb."

Michael couldn't control the muscles in his face from tightening. He felt the blood and heat rush to his face. Tempted to wrap his fingers around Azim's neck in spite of the men who would love any opportunity to riddle his body with bullets, he instead hacked up the vilest substance he could and spit it on Azim's leather shoes. For the first time since their encounter, the smile faded from Azim's face. With lightning-quick reflexes, Azim grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him down as a knee sunk into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Michael collapsed to the ground, struggling to suck in air. A leather shoe appeared next to his face and wiped itself clean on his cheek. A few moments later, he felt himself being jerked to his feet, supported on each arm by two of the machine-gun-toting dogs.

Azim grabbed Michael by the chin. "Dr. Sieff, I was hoping we could be civil toward each other, but now I can see that'll be impossible." He squeezed his fingers around Michael's chin, and then let go. "Now, the parchment, please."

Michael rolled his eyes, still struggling to take breaths. "I … I don't know what you're talking about."

Azim never broke his gaze, but a slight nod of his head sent one of his men rifling through Michael's pockets. The man pulled out a parchment and handed it to Azim.

Azim finally broke his gaze from Michael and read over the parchment. His expression remained chiseled with angry disappointment. "What is this?"

Michael silently stared at him.

"This is nothing more than a fragment of a recipe."

Michael's breath had started to return to him. "I didn't have a chance to look at it before being shot at." Icy contempt shot daggers from his eyes. "I hope the life of a good man was worth it."

Michael saw the blood vessels building on Azim's forehead and neck. In an even, graveled voice, Azim said, "The Samson Effect is mine. I warn you, stay away from it or you'll be reunited with that good man."

Azim gave the order and everyone retreated, leaving Michael alone. Shoppers cautiously returned to their activities, and children once again began playing in the streets. The soldiers resumed their watch, and Michael heard merchants crying out for buyers.

He dusted himself off and made his way back to the car. Knowing it was futile to ask for help, he opened the rear door and walked over to Caleb. He struggled to carry his friend, but managed to place him in the back seat. Once done, he slipped behind the wheel and started the engine. Michael looked in the back seat and removed his hat, pulling the parchment from it. He shook his head as he looked at Caleb. "Forgive me, my friend."

* * * *

New Hampshire

Dr. Thomas Hamilton choked the tennis racket with both hands and swung. The ball met the racquet's sweet spot, and Thomas knew he had just won match point. The ball rocketed from his back swing, flew across the court, and fell just out of reach of his opponent's diving attempt. He jogged to the net and shook hands with his opponent.

"Good game, Justin."

"Yeah. Congrats. Sure you don't want my job?"

"Me, coach the boys' tennis team? No way. I'm very content with my graduate students."

Justin wiped his brow on his shoulders. "You do have a plush setup, don't you?"

Thomas smiled and nodded. "Works for me." They began walking down the net to the sideline. "Next Friday?"

"I'll be here."

Thomas reached the sideline and headed to the bench where he had left his towel and duffel bag. A woman in sunglasses wearing white capris and a powder-blue top waited for him with a towel in her hand. Either she's having another crisis or she wants something from me, Thomas thought. He reached for the towel. "Thanks."

"Nice game. In fact, you seem to be a little more intense than usual."

"I'm always intense." Thomas wiped his face and neck with the towel. "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong."

She smiled at him. Thomas reached over and removed her sunglasses. "You're wrong."

"I am, huh?"

Thomas slid the sunglasses back on her face and put his racket away. He smiled, knowing she was probably right. "Okay, I admit I want to be in practice when Michael and I meet this summer. I've never beaten him in tennis, not once. Came close many times, but he always found a way to pull out a victory."

"I'm sure you're exaggerating just a little."

Thomas zipped up his duffel bag and started walking with her toward the coffeehouse where his last class for the day was meeting. "No, I'm not. From college on, he's always been able to beat me in every sport: tennis, running, cycling, you name it. I've never beaten him!"

They walked in silence for a few moments. Thomas could feel her amusement bubbling up. How many times had he sworn to himself he wouldn't discuss this with her again? With every silent step, he felt her enjoyment increasing.

He sighed. "Ellen, do you know what it's like being the bookish friend of a guy who can do anything?"

She abruptly stopped and removed her sunglasses, unmasking her lovely, wide, round eyes. "Bookish? Thomas, you always place in the top five in the marathon every year, you play pickup games with the basketball team …" She put her hands on his shoulders and looked reassuringly into his eyes. "You just beat the men's tennis coach."

Thomas had to admit he felt confident his first victory over Michael was looking pretty good. Ellen took a step back from him and put the end of her sunglasses between her teeth. As she looked him up and down, he felt a blush tingle across his cheeks. "Trust me, there ain't nothing bookish about you, Dr. Hamilton." She squeezed his solid biceps playfully and smiled. "And bookish definitely doesn't describe the tall, blond professor who makes every freshman girl's heart race, as well as most of their female teachers'."

Thomas smiled and started for the coffeehouse again. "I knew there was a reason why we're still friends."

"At the sake of ruining that friendship," she said in a mock tone of concern, "I believe I've identified your problem."

"Problem?"

"My professional opinion is that you're suffering from an intense case of sibling rivalry."

"What? I don't have a brother."

"True, but would you say Michael is as close to you as any brother could be?"

"Has been since college."

"You wouldn't believe how many patients I have who suffer from the very same thing."

Thomas held out his hands. "Okay, okay, you win. Thanks for the shrink job." They reached the sidewalk leading to the front door of the coffeehouse. Thomas hugged Ellen and started down the sidewalk.

"But I haven't told you how you can cope with it."

Thomas pointed to his watch. "Later, I promise."

"Oh, wait. I forgot why I came to see you. I need a favor."

"Yeah? What favor?"

"Please, please sit in on my 105 class on Monday. Jeff is taking me away for a long weekend—"

"Ellen, I don't—"

"I've canceled my other classes, but I have to give my 105 class their test. We're behind schedule as it is."

"Can't you get a graduate student to sit in?"

"Not all of us have that luxury."

Thomas hated psychology. He searched his mind for a legitimate excuse to use to turn her down, but he ran into a brick wall. "Just sit in and administer the test?"

She ran up and threw her arms around him. "Thanks. I owe you!" She let go of him and, without waiting for a response, floated away.

Thomas sighed and stepped into the coffeehouse. The student server behind the counter had his coffee waiting for him. He stirred in the cream and joined his six graduate students who were stretched out on oversized chairs and a sofa in the corner of the room. He sat down in the armchair across from the couch, kicked off his shoes, and propped his sock feet on the table. The waitress passed by with a scowl and bumped his leg with her knee.

"I've told you a thousand times, Doctor, people put their food on that table."

He smiled. "And for the thousandth time, I'm sorry." He took a sip of his coffee and turned his attention to the students. "Where did we leave off on Wednesday?"

A wiry man with kinky red hair leaned forward. "You were telling us the characters in the Old Testament were all completely loco."

"Not all, and not simply loco. I was saying many of the characters, if living in our time, would be diagnosed with some sort of mental illness. For example, Moses showed signs of clinical depression and anxiety. On numerous occasions, he went to the Lord, overwhelmed with his responsibilities and asked God to take his life.

"And then there was King Saul, who was loco." He turned to the redhead and nodded. "Here was a man eaten up by paranoia, killing his own priests and driven mad by the thought that his most loyal subject, David, was trying to usurp his throne."

He paused to let the students comment on his theories, but each one stared back silently. He guessed they were either engrossed in his narrative or afraid a comment would bring them too close to the brink of blasphemy.

"Then there was Samson. He exhibited the classic signs of antisocial behavior: the classic bully, always picking a fight and alienating himself from both his enemies and his own friends. When things didn't go his way, he'd go out and kill someone, often innocent strangers. He also displayed cruelty to animals, on one occasion setting foxes on fire."

He looked around the group and his eyes rested on Angela, the most contemplative and well-spoken of the group. "What do you think about my assessment of these characters?"
Angela thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose our culture may have marked them with some sort of mental illness, but I don't think we have enough information for an accurate diagnosis." She wrinkled her eyebrows as if she were about to ask a question but then relaxed.

"You had a question, Angela?"

"Well, I was just wondering what all this has to do with the dig we'll be on in a few weeks."

Thomas grinned and sipped his coffee. He leaned back in the armchair and started to put his feet on the table, until he remembered the waitress. "Fair question. In my opinion, the best way to find out about ancient civilizations is by letting them tell their story and learning as much as we can about them. Otherwise, we're often tempted to tell their story for them and interpret even the most insignificant find within our own paradigm."

He looked around the group and smiled when he saw nods of understanding from them. His cell phone interrupted their conversation. He answered, spoke for a few moments, and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. "This is our host for the dig next month. Let's wrap up class for the day. I'll see you Monday in our regular classroom."

The students picked up their drinks and books and left to enjoy the weekend. Only Ricky Lettle remained at the counter to finish the sandwich he had started. Thomas returned to the phone. "Michael, calm down. What's wrong?"

* * * *

A few minutes later, Thomas stood across his boss's desk. Dr. Clifton Winfred pulled his glasses from his face and chewed on one end of them. Thomas waited, wondering what was going on behind his boss's squinted eyes. He placed his hands on the desk and leaned toward Winfred. "Well?"

Winfred leaned back in his chair and slipped his glasses back on. "Let me make sure I understand this correctly, Dr. Hamilton. You want me to approve an open-ended sabbatical starting immediately, find someone to take over your classes for the rest of the semester, and cancel the first Israeli dig the university has been able to schedule in over twenty-five years?"

Thomas pushed himself away from the desk, pursed his lips, and nodded. "That's about it."

Winfred looked away and shook his head. "Thomas, you're putting me in a very difficult position. You know I have the utmost professional respect for you, and as a friend, I'd do anything for you—"

"Then approve my request."

"Give me something—anything—to help me say yes."

Thomas rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hands. "I told you, Clifton, I'm not in a position to tell you what I need to do. I was hoping you'd just trust me."

"It's not a matter of trust. The department, the university, for that matter, is under an extremely tight budget this year. I don't have the leeway I normally have; you know that."

Thomas paced back and forth in front of the desk, rapping its surface with his knuckles. "I know, Clifton, but …" He stopped and looked over Winfred's shoulders at the open office door. He walked over, closed it, and on the way back, grabbed a folding chair and set it at the side of the desk. He sat and leaned toward his boss. "It's about the Samson Effect."

This was the only subject about which Thomas knew Clifton had no patience. Thomas held his breath, already wishing he could suck the words back into his mouth. He braced himself to go yet another round with his boss. Every second of Clifton's silence drained Thomas's hope at an agonizingly sluggish pace. Clifton pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Please, Thomas, not this again. You're too good of an archaeologist to waste your time on this Holy Grail crusade."

Thomas leaned back in his seat. "Michael just called. He found an ancient text he believes will lead him to it. With his expertise in biblical languages and mine in biblical archaeology, he's confident we'll be able to find it soon. That's why I need to get to Hebron as soon as I can."

"Didn't you hear a word I said? So far, your fetish with this Samson Effect has been innocuous, but I'm not about to let you soil the reputation of this department, not to mention the respect you've earned as an accomplished archaeologist."

"Oh, come on, Clifton. You've seen the evidence Michael and I have found already. If you're honestly concerned about the university's reputation, what do you think will happen to it when someone else makes the discovery?"

"I'm sorry Thomas, but the answer is no."

A sound at the door grabbed their attention. Thomas held out a hand, gesturing for silence, and stalked to the door. He reached out and took hold of the shade covering the window. He looked to Winfred, then back to the door. With one quick yank, he rolled up the shade. A student with curly black hair leaned forward on the other side with his ear pressed against the window. When the shade rolled up, he turned and locked eyes with Thomas.

The student shook off his shocked state and bolted down the hall. Thomas flung open the door and raced into the hallway just in time to see the student fly through the outside doors and into a waiting car. When he heard the tires squeal, Thomas turned and saw the department secretary poking her head through her door.

"Everything all right, Dr. Hamilton? Sounds like you and Dr. Winfred are going at it again."

Thomas looked down the hall and then back to the secretary. "Everything's just peachy."

The secretary raised an eyebrow. "Well, whatever's going on, good luck." She hefted her purse to her shoulder and locked her office door. "See you Monday."

Thomas slipped back into Winfred's office and closed the door behind him. "Who in heaven's name was that?" Winfred asked.

"Ricky Lettle, one of my graduate students."

"What was he doing listening outside my door?" Winfred asked with a harsh edge to his tone.

"I don't know. Who all did you mention the Samson Effect to?"

Winfred furrowed his eyebrows. "Absolutely no one. I'm not about to have my name tarnished because of your foolishness."

"Well I sure haven't mentioned it to anyone. Michael and I have kept this low key to protect our own search for it."

"I seriously don't think you have anything to worry about. You two are the only ones I know foolhardy enough to commit yourselves to this."

Thomas sucked in a breath. "I'm going, Clifton. Michael's arranged to have a private jet take me to Israel tonight."

"You better think long and hard before you leave your students, Thomas. Tenure or not, you won't have a job when you return."

Thomas threw up his hands and chuckled. "Fine, Clifton. The Samson Effect exists. I really don't care which university I'm with when I make the discovery." He walked out of the room without waiting for Clifton's reply.

Thomas left the building and walked to his car. It was Friday evening, and the campus was dead. He pulled out of his parking spot and turned onto the deserted, tree-lined campus drive. As he turned around the first bend in the road, an explosion rattled the car. He looked into his rearview mirror to see a billowing fireball rise from the archaeology building.

Thomas stomped on the brakes and skidded to a stop. He flung open his car door and gawked at the fire, feeling its heat from where he was standing. Confused and in a daze, he thought about Dr. Winfred, then about the student he found outside the chairman's door. He picked up his cell phone and punched the numbers 9–1–1. His thumb paused over the send button. After a few moments of hesitation, his thumb glided to the cancel button and pressed down. He tossed the phone in the passenger seat, sat behind the wheel, and took off. The fire began to fade from the rearview mirror as he made his way to the airport.


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