There was a light drizzle that morning. The dry lands of Jerusalem had finally gotten its share of moisture, bringing the scent of spring to the ancient city. 

Harde exited the diner with a bag in his grip. It was his staple- sour pickles and a very dark and tough rye bread. The man crossed the street and entered Number 48, St. Cross Street. 

The guards at the door greeted him and he returned a polite smile. 

He walked past the lobby and entered a corridor. At the end of the walkway was a stone staircase. He ascended it and entered another corridor. The light was scarce in the confined space and the air was moist.

Both sides along the corridor were cell rooms that looked ancient. Some of the stone walls within were carved with Arabic words that praised their God. There were even strings of words that talked about finding freedom and love. From the content littered over the wall, this place had probably served as a holding cell for...