The Fallen Angel

by Daniel Silva

  “There’s a very good chance that you and I are going to be the last Jews to ever set foot here.”

  “If that bomb goes off, we definitely will be.”

  Lavon quickened his pace.

  “Where are we exactly?” asked Gabriel.

  “If we were on the surface, we’d be passing through the Gate of Darkness heading directly toward the eastern façade of the Dome of the Rock.” Lavon paused and then turned his headlamp toward a pair of columns in the stonework. “Those are Doric,” he said. “They’re Herodian, no question about it.”

  “Keep walking, Eli,” Gabriel said with another nudge of the pickax.

  Lavon obeyed. “At the end of this passage,” he said, “there’s a cistern that was discovered by Charles Wilson, the other great British explorer of ancient Jerusalem.”

  “As in Wilson’s Arch.”

  Lavon’s headlamp bobbed in the affirmative. “According to Wilson, the cistern is ninety-three and a half feet long, eighteen feet wide, and thirty-five feet deep. After that, we should see a series of steps.”

  “And if the steps are there?”

  “They’ll take us up closer to the surface. From there, we should be able to find our way into the network of cisterns and aqueducts. We know it’s all connected because of the Warren’s Gate incident in 1981. We just have to find the right connections.”

  “Before the bomb explodes,” Gabriel added darkly.

  They walked a few more paces. Then Lavon froze.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Lavon stepped aside to reveal a coarse gray wall blocking the end of the passageway.

  “Something tells me that isn’t Herodian.”

  “No,” said Lavon. “In my expert opinion, it’s Palestinian, circa two thousand and ten.”

  “How thick is it?” the prime minister asked.

  “They won’t know until they start hammering,” Navot said. “And if they start hammering . . .”

  “The Palestinians will be able to hear them on the Mount.”

  Navot nodded.

  It took the prime minister only a few seconds to arrive at his decision. “Tell them to break down that seal. But if they don’t find that bomb by two-thirty, I’m going to order the arrest of Imam Hassan Darwish and go in heavy from the top.”

  “Israeli troops and police on the Temple Mount?”

  The prime minister nodded resolutely.

  “If you do that,” Navot said, “you’ll start the third intifada while the eyes of the world are on us because of the pope.”

  “I realize that, Uzi, but it’s better than the alternative.”

  Navot ordered Gabriel to start hammering.

  Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet . . .

  And they’d barely made a dent.

  At that same moment, Imam Hassan Darwish was standing atop the western retaining wall of the Temple Mount, staring down at the empty plaza below. Security alerts were common in Jerusalem, but the Israelis blocked access to the holiest site in Judaism only when they believed an attack was imminent. It was possible the closure was the result of an unrelated threat, but Darwish suspected otherwise. Somewhere, somehow, the plot had been compromised.

  Turning, Darwish headed across the esplanade toward the Dome of the Rock. As usual, only females and old men had been allowed into the Haram for Friday prayers; Darwish bade good afternoon to a few of them with the customary greeting of peace before descending into the Well of Souls. There he passed through a locked door and followed an ancient flight of steps downward into the heart of the Holy Mountain. A moment later, he was standing in one of the largest cisterns on the Temple Mount, listening to the sound of distant tapping.

  It could mean only one thing.

  The Jews were coming.

  For five minutes, they beat against the wall without a break, Lavon with the sledgehammer, Gabriel with the pickax. Gabriel broke through first, opening an aperture in the brickwork about the size of a fist. He removed the lamp from his hard hat and shone the beam into the void.

  “What do you see?” asked Lavon.

  “A cistern.”

  “How big?”

  “Hard to say, but it looks to be about ninety-three and a half feet long and about eighteen feet wide.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Steps, Eli. I can see the steps.”

  The head of security for the Jerusalem Islamic Waqf was a forty-five-year-old veteran of both Fatah and the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade named Abdullah Ramadan. Imam Darwish called him on his mobile and told him to come to the cistern beneath the Dome of the Rock. He didn’t have to explain the meaning of the tapping sound.

  “Warren’s Gate?”

  “It could be,” Darwish answered. “Or it could be one of the new ones they’ve found during their illegal excavations.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Take three of your best men down there and find out if they’re trying to gain access to the Haram.”

  “And if they are?”

  “Punish them,” said the imam.

  The prime minister stared at the clock on the wall of the cabinet room. It was ten minutes past two. He looked at Navot and asked, “How big is that damn hole?”

  Navot posed the question to Gabriel and then relayed his answer to the prime minister and the rest of the room.

  “Not big enough.”

  “How much longer is it going to take?”

  Again Navot relayed the question.

  “They’re not sure.”

  “Tell them they have to work faster.”

  “They’re working as fast as they can, Prime Minister.”

  “Tell them, Uzi.”

  Navot passed along the prime ministerial order to pick up the pace. Then, after hearing Gabriel’s response, he smiled.

  “What did he say?” the prime minister asked.

  “He said he’s working as fast as he can, Prime Minister.”

  “Are you telling me the truth, Uzi?”

  “No, Prime Minister.”

  The prime minister smiled in spite of himself and looked at the clock.

  It was 2:12.

  By 2:15, the hole was about a foot in diameter, and by 2:20 it was large enough to accommodate the shoulders and hips of a slender man. Gabriel shimmied through first, scraping the skin from his arms in the process, followed a few seconds later by Lavon. After returning the kippah and hard hat to his head, he stood stock-still for a moment, speechless with awe. Before them was the cistern, and beyond it, rising into the darkness, was the first flight of Herodian stairs.

  “There’s only one reason for this cistern to be here,” Lavon said, dipping his hand in the water of the long, rectangular pool. “It was a mikvah. They would have cleansed themselves ritually before heading up to the Temple.”

  “This is all very interesting, Professor, but we need to keep moving.”

  “At least let me take a few pictures.”

  “We’ll stop on the way out.”

  Lavon skirted the edge of the pool and raced up the first flight of ancient steps, the beam of his light bouncing over the walls and ceiling of the arched passage. At the top, he froze again. “Look at this!” he said, pointing to a few lines of ancient Hebrew chiseled into the wall. “It says that gentiles are forbidden to enter the courts of the Temple. Why would there be a sign like this if there wasn’t a Temple to begin with?”

  It was a logical question, but at that instant, Gabriel’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was wondering why four large Arab men with flashlights were coming toward them down the next flight of steps. Then the first bullet came scorching past his ear, and he had his answer. It seemed the neighbors had heard the pounding. It was hardly surprising, thought Gabriel. Blood never sleeps.

  45

  JERUSALEM

  IT LASTED JUST FORTY-FOUR SECONDS, but later, Uzi Navot would swear it seemed like an hour or more. From his limited vantage point, it sounded as though Gabriel and Eli Lavon were under attack from an Arab legi
on. What struck Navot most, however, was the sound of Gabriel’s breathing. Not once did it break its normal rhythm. Nor did he speak except to twice tell Lavon to keep his head down.

  The recordings would indicate that Gabriel did not begin to return fire until almost twenty seconds into the engagement. After his first shot, there was an agonized wail that seemed to rise from the very depths of the Well of Souls. Five seconds later, Gabriel fired a second shot, after which the intensity of the opposing gunfire decreased sharply. His third and fourth shots were fired with double-tap quickness, and once again there was a scream of pain from somewhere in the passage. Two more shots followed in rapid succession. Then the gunfire ended, and there was only the sound of an Arab man pleading for mercy.

  “Who sent you down here?” Navot heard Gabriel ask calmly.

  “Go to hell!” a voice shouted back in Arabic.

  Navot heard another shot, followed by a scream.

  “Who sent you?” Gabriel repeated.

  “The imam,” the Arab replied through gritted teeth.

  “Which imam?”

  “Darwish.”

  “Hassan Darwish?”

  “Yes . . . it was . . . Hassan.”

  “Where’s the bomb?”

  “What bomb?”

  “Where is it, damn it?”

  “I don’t know anything . . . about a bomb!”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes! I swear.”

  Navot heard one more shot. Then there was nothing but the sound of Gabriel’s steady breathing.

  “Are we still in business?” asked the prime minister.

  “For the moment,” replied Navot.

  “I suppose that answers the question about whether there’s really a bomb somewhere up there.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister, I suppose it does. But we now have another problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Gabriel Allon is inside the Temple Mount with only Eli Lavon for protection.”

  “Do you know what’s going to happen if they get their hands on them?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister,” Navot said, staring at the CCTV images of the crowds pouring out of the al-Aqsa Mosque. “They’re going to tear them both to pieces.”

  “Should we order them out?”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  They had just entered the first aqueduct. It was 2:23.

  It was no wider than a phone booth and scarcely tall enough for them to walk fully upright. Here and there, rivulets of water wept from tiny seams in the walls, but otherwise the bedrock was as dry as the bones of Rivka. Lavon navigated by compass. Softly, he counted their steps.

  The channel wound its way through the limestone in a serpentine pattern, which meant they had only a vague idea of what lay ahead. Despite the fact they were now only a few feet beneath the surface of the Mount, they could hear no sound other than their own footfalls and Lavon’s steady counting. At two hundred paces exactly, they reached the next cistern. Lavon paused and looked around in wonder. Then he raised a forefinger to his lips to tell Gabriel to keep his voice down.

  “Do you recognize it?” Gabriel whispered.

  Lavon nodded his head vigorously. “The T shape is consistent with a cistern that Warren found here,” he answered, his voice a hoarse whisper. “It was probably dug during the time of Herod. The stone quarried from this spot might very well have been used for the Temple itself.”

  “Where are we on the Mount?”

  “Just outside the entrance to al-Aqsa.” He pointed down the length of the horizontal portion of the T. “There should be another small T-shaped cistern right over there. And then—”

  “The Great Sea?”

  Lavon nodded his head and then led Gabriel across the upper portion of the ancient cistern. At the opposite side was the mouth of another aqueduct, narrower than the last. As he expected, it bore them into the next cistern. This time, they made their way to the foot of the T and entered the next aqueduct. After a few paces, the vast cathedral-like chasm of the Great Sea opened before them.

  And it was entirely empty.

  “Well?” asked the prime minister.

  Navot shook his head.

  “What are they going to do now?”

  “They’re working on it.”

  At the roof of the chamber was an opening, like the oculus at the top of the Pantheon in Rome. Through it streamed a shaft of brilliant sunlight and the sound of the amplified sermon blasting from the minaret of the al-Aqsa Mosque.

  “How far below the surface are we?” asked Gabriel in a whisper.

  “Forty-three feet.”

  “Or thirteen meters,” Gabriel pointed out.

  “Thirteen point ten meters,” Lavon corrected him.

  “If Dina is right,” Gabriel said, “the bomb would be in a chamber more than a hundred feet beneath us.”

  “Which would make sense,” Lavon said.

  “Why?”

  “Because if I were going to take down the Temple Mount plateau, I’d want to place the charge lower than this.”

  “Is there a way down from here?”

  “No one’s ever been below this—at least no one we know about.” He turned and studied the distant wall of the cavern. There were three more aqueducts, each leading in a slightly different direction. “Pick one,” he said.

  “I’m an art restorer, Eli. You pick.”

  Lavon closed his eyes for a few seconds and then pointed to the aqueduct on the right.

  At that same moment, Imam Hassan Darwish was less than one hundred feet away, in the cistern beneath the Well of Souls. In his hand was the Makarov pistol that Abdullah Ramadan had given to him before heading into the depths of the Noble Sanctuary to confront the invading Jews. The sound of the brief but intense battle had carried through the aqueducts, directly to Darwish’s ears. He had heard everything, including the sound of his own name being shouted in agony. Now he could hear the soft, muffled footfalls of at least two men approaching the chamber that Darwish had secretly carved from the Holy Mountain. It was there he had hidden the bomb that would destroy it and thus destroy the State of Israel. But there was something else inside the chamber other than explosives—a secret that no one, especially the Jews, could be allowed to see.

  He looked at his watch: 2:27. At Darwish’s instructions, the man known as Mr. Farouk had set the timing device on the weapon to go off at three o’clock. He had chosen the time, the supposed hour of Christ’s death on the cross, as a calculated insult to the whole of Christianity, but it was not the only reason. By three o’clock, the Friday prayer services in al-Aqsa would be over, and the crowds of Muslim faithful would be departing the Noble Sanctuary. But for the moment, the three hundred and eighty thousand square feet of the great mosque were filled to capacity with more than five thousand people. Darwish had no choice but to turn them all into holy martyrs. And himself as well.

  He remained in the cistern beneath the Well of Souls for a moment longer, reciting the final prayers of the shahid. Then, with the Makarov pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other, he set out along a narrow, ancient passage. It bore him downward into the earth and backward through time. It was the time before Islam and the Prophet. The time of ignorance, he thought. The time of the Jews.

  The first aqueduct terminated after about fifty feet in a small fishbowl of a cistern, so they quickly retraced their steps to the Great Sea and entered the second channel. After just a few steps, Lavon came upon an aperture in the right side that led to still another passage. The ground was littered with fragments of loose limestone. Lavon inspected them in the glow of his headlamp and then ran his hand over the edges of the opening.

  “This is new.”

  “How new?”

  “New new,” Lavon said. “It looks as though it was cut quite recently.”

  Without another word, he set off down the conduit, Gabriel at his heels. After a few paces,
there appeared a flight of wide, curving steps that were obviously carved by modern stone-cutting tools. Lavon plunged downward in a rage, with Gabriel a few steps behind, struggling to keep pace. At the bottom of the steps was an archway with a few characters of Arabic script carved into the stone above the apex. They shot past it without a glance. Then, awestruck, they came suddenly to a stop.

  “What the hell is that?” asked Gabriel.

  Lavon seemed incapable of speech.

  “Eli, what is it?”

  Lavon took a few tentative steps forward. “Don’t you recognize them, Gabriel?”

  “Recognize what, Eli?”

  “The pillars,” he said. “The pillars that were in the photograph.”

  “And where are the pillars from?”

  Lavon smiled, breathless. “ ‘The House which King Solomon built for the Lord was sixty cubits long, twenty cubits wide, and thirty cubits high.’ ”

  “What is it, Uzi?” the prime minister asked.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Eli thinks he just found remnants of the First Temple. And by the way,” Navot added, “they also found the bomb.”

  The prime minister looked up at the video monitor and saw thousands of Muslims streaming out of the al-Aqsa Mosque. Then he looked at the men seated around him and gave the order to send in the police and the IDF.

  “It’s better than the alternative,” Navot said, watching as the first Israeli forces entered the Noble Sanctuary.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  46

  THE TEMPLE MOUNT, JERUSALEM

  THE CAVERN WAS THE SIZE of a school gymnasium. Tilting his headlamp skyward, Gabriel noticed the crude light fixtures hanging from the roof and the power line that snaked down one wall to an industrial-grade switch. Throwing it, he flooded the vast space with a heavenly white light.