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

a grim reminder of the uncertain conditions.
    After a lengthy round of hugs and kisses and handshakes and good-byes, we left Jake and the Land of Israel , finally rolling across the Allenby Bridge , named for the British general of World War I fame. On the other side it was called the King Hussein Bridge . As with the scrawny Jordan River , the bridge looked more like something from the Tennessee backwoods than an international border crossing.
    In Jordan we sat on the bus while our guide collected passports and hustled them into the immigration office. He returned in the company of a stoop-shouldered man with shifty eyes and an unsmiling face. I had encountered enough of the type to know if he’d had on a badge it would have read BUREAUCRAT .
    “Where is Mr. McKenzie?” the man called out.
    Jill and I were seated near the front. I held up my hand. He strode over, stared at me, then focused on my open passport.
    “You are Gregory McKenzie?”
    “That’s right,” I said, wondering what I had done to merit such distinction.
    He suddenly gave me an improbable smile. “Welcome to Jordan, Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “Enjoy your visit.”
    Our guide was a young Jordanian with a confident air. In textbook English he assured us this was only a routine spot check.
    I was not so certain.
     
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
    At our hotel in Amman that evening, we sat with the Gannons, enjoyed a buffet and talked about our trip. The dining room was impressive, decorated with wine-red draperies. The napkins matched the drapes and the tables were set with fine china and spread with enough silverware to handle a family reunion. I called it “sheik chic.” Exotic aromas rose from the buffet.
    “What impressed you most about the trip, Jill?” Sam asked. He was about to dig into a plate of salad greens and veggies, but he waited thoughtfully for her answer.
    “There was so much it’s hard to single out one thing. I guess I’d have to say the places in Jerusalem where Jesus once walked. Like the Garden of Gethsemane and the Holy Sepulcher.”
    “What about Galilee ?” Wilma asked.
    Jill smiled. “Like I said, it’s hard to choose between them.”
    I decided to offer my two shekels’ worth. “I was most impressed by the big restorations,” I said. “Places like Masada and Caesarea and Meggido.”
    “Why those?” Sam held out his coffee cup for the waiter.
    “I took a year of archaeology as an elective in college.”
    “That why you bought the Dead Sea Scroll thing?”
    “Jill pressured me on that.”
    She squinched her nose. “Okay, blame me. I just didn’t have the heart to wait for him to get down on his knees.”
    Sam laughed. “A real salesman, huh?”
    “He was dogged.” I pushed my chair back, knowing I had reached my salad limit. “Anybody ready for the real thing?”
    We trooped over to the main buffet, which was loaded with all kinds of hot and cold dishes. A lot of them defied identification. But one thing I knew for certain–we would find olives. We had come to expect them at every meal, morning, noon or night. Early on I had observed that the Holy Land was composed of two things, rocks and olive trees. Both were everywhere. And Jordan was no exception. I proceeded to load up my plate.
    Back in our seats, Wilma said, “We certainly can’t complain about the way we’ve been fed over here.”
    I eyed the food piled high on Sam’s plate. “The way you eat, man, I don’t see how the devil you stay so trim.”
    He shrugged. “It’s the long legs. I guess they’re just an extension of my stomach.”
    “I think all the walking on this trip, all the climbing up and down steps, has helped slim Greg down a bit,” Jill said. “Looks like he might soon get rid of that hangover.”
    That’s what she called my belly hanging over my belt.
    “Glad to hear that,” Sam said. “You were getting a bit on the hefty side, chum. But I understand. You’ve had a few bad months.”
    “That’s an understatement.