Out of the darkness, Bohannon heard Johnson’s voice. “There must have been three groups, right? Or were there four?”
There was quiet again.
Kallie’s spasms subsided, and she sat back, resting on her haunches. Johnson got up and crossed to the tree. Gently, he put his arm around her shoulders, helped her to her feet, and guided her to the wall where the men were sitting. Though her back rested against the wall like the others, her head and shoulders had slipped to the right and were cradled in Johnson’s arms.
Bohannon cleaned Rizzo’s wound, despite his protests that he was fine. Something, shrapnel or glass, had ripped into his right bicep, nearly halfway through his arm. No arteries were cut. Bohannon couldn’t tell about anything else. They got the bleeding stopped and wrapped the arm in a huge wad of antiseptic-covered gauze.
“Yeah,” said Bohannon, his answer, like his thoughts, moving in slow motion, “there must have been three different groups out there. The Shin Bet squads, but I don’t think we ever saw them. Then there were the guys who came up behind us. I think they were connected to the guys with the roadblock.”
Bohannon’s lips stopped as his mind tripped back. Sataf Roundabout . . . down the road . . . a car behind them . . . over the hill . . . the road blocked . . . then light, fire, explosions all around them. Everything was noise. His mind replayed the noise over and over again. Rizzo’s voice brought him back to the wall.
“But who shot the rockets?” asked Rizzo, propped against one of the backpacks, his eyes closed.
Silence sat as thick as the blackness. Bohannon began to think there would be no answer.
“Not rockets, RPGs,” said Rodriguez, his voice low, but sculpted with rage. “Rocket-propelled grenades. Smaller, easier to transport, as easy as shooting a gun. One of the gangs in New York got their hands on some RPGs when I was a kid. Blew apart the house of a rival gang leader. Killed four little children. That’s all, just four innocent kids. I was walking down the street, saw the smoke and fire trails, just like tonight. Nobody ever paid for that house, for those kids. Just got away with it.”
Bohannon realized that they couldn’t stay where they were for long and somebody had to make some decisions—give them some purpose—before they all became unraveled.
God, why have you given me this burden? his spirit cried. I’m no leader. I don’t know what to do.
But then, he did.
“Yes, Major. Two squads, out of sight, flanking the King’s Garden Tunnel. Another two squads at the Citadel, in reserve. One squad south, one squad north on the Soueyvet Road to close off escape. All cameras are working, all avenues of access covered.” Levin listened for a moment. “Yes, sir . . . yes, we are all tired. And I would agree with you that we need to be relieved, that we need to have a fresh squad on duty. But, sir, please, give us a few hours. Give us until daylight. I can tell you that none of us are going to leave until we apprehend these men. My squad and I would prefer to finish what we’ve started.” Again, he listened. “Yes, sir, you have my word. If we lose our edge, our effectiveness, we will immediately stand down. Yes, sir . . . and thank you, sir.”
Levin rested the handset in the cradle, wondering if his request was prudent or prideful.
“Thank you, Captain.” It was Lieutenant Stern standing at his computer. Sergeant Ehud, the rest of the squad, were also standing. “Thank you for your faith in us. None of us are willing to give up now. We’re in this with you. And we won’t let you down.”
The Hawk leaned against his chair, too tired to sit. What had he ever done to deserve men like these? It was just past midnight. A new day. Perhaps, now, their luck would change.
Bohannon shared the bottle of water with each of them, not for drinking, but for pouring on their faces, for rubbing on the back of their necks. They needed to snap back.
He walked over to Joe, who was inspecting the riddled Toyota.
“The car is okay, Tom,” he said to Bohannon. “Nothing vital was hit. The rear gate is full of holes, and one taillight is shattered. Otherwise, it looks okay.
“But you know, I don’t think they were trying to disable the car. Otherwise, they would have shot out the tires, ruptured the fuel tank, or blasted out all the windows. I don’t think they were trying to kill us, at least not initially. I think the guys behind us were just trying to drive us into the roadblock and trap us there.”
Rodriguez looked at his brother-in-law. There was steely resolve in his eyes. “They were after the scroll, Tom. The Prophet’s Guard. That’s why they didn’t try to wreck the car. They know we have it with us. If Shin Bet nailed us, the ‘bolts’ never would have gotten their hands on the scroll. So they had to act fast, stop us, and get the scroll before the Federales showed up. Which means there are more of them out there waiting for us to show ourselves again.”
“But who were the other guys?” Bohannon asked, rubbing the back of his head. “I was all set to agree with you, but think about it for a minute. The Guard wants the scroll back. They don’t care about us, except we have the scroll. And they will protect the scroll at all costs. We saw that in New York. So who was protecting the scroll tonight? The guys with the guns and the roadblock? Or the guys with the RPGs who took out the guys who were trying to take us out?”
Bohannon put his hand on Rodriguez’s shoulder and led him to the huge trunk of the cypress tree. “Joe, if the Israelis spotted us, if they believe we intend to pull off some terrorist plot to destroy the Temple Mount, that would be one adversary. But what if the Waqf, or the Northern Front, or some other radical Muslim group also found out about us? That would be a second adversary. Both of those would do everything in their power to keep us from returning to the Temple Mount. Different reasons, but the same objective. The Guard doesn’t care about the Temple Mount. They care about the scroll. The Guard would have protected the scroll at all costs, even if it meant wiping out some of their Muslim brothers.”
“Or wiping out a couple squads of Shin Bet commandos,” said Joe. “We don’t know how many RPGs they had up on that hill.”
“What we do know,” said Tom, “is that now we have three different groups out for our blood, the scroll, or both. We have a car that’s obviously been identified and will draw cops like a magnet.” Bohannon looked at his watch . . . 12:15 AM. “We don’t have many hours of darkness left, and our original idea of getting lost in the Muslim Quarter just got thrown out the window. We’ve got to get ourselves underground quickly; there are no intermediate steps anymore. We need to get into that tunnel, unseen, in the next few hours or it’s all over. We can’t take Kallie any farther, and Rizzo needs a doctor. We’ve got to get them out of this, and fast.”
“Tom, I think I may have a way for us to get into the city. But what about Kallie? What if they know who she is?”
Bohannon and Rodriguez squatted down in front of the rest of the team. Bohannon, particularly, wanted to look into Kallie’s eyes, find out what he saw there. He was surprised. Kallie was panicked, she was feeling the effects of shock, she was pale, but her eyes were clear and angry.
“Okay. This is what we’re going to do . . .”
34
Rodriguez was driving a truck on a circuitous route to Jerusalem.
Earlier, he had dropped Kallie and Rizzo at one of the many roadside bus stops. With Rizzo’s wounded arm wrapped in bandages and covered by a jacket, they had gotten on the late-night bus from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. Carrying two of the backpacks, now mostly empty, they would take another bus from Tel Aviv to Beirut. If all went well, before midday they would be out of Israel. By late that afternoon, they would be registered in a Beirut seaside resort hotel, Rizzo would have seen a doctor for his arm, and their only concern would be buying some toiletries, a bathing suit, and a good book, and then waiting for Bohannon to call while watching Israeli TV to see if Kallie was a wanted woman.
Kallie would arrange for two one-way tickets, first-class, open reservation, from Beirut to Manhattan. She had the key to Doc Johnson’
s apartment in her pocket. If they were looking for her, she wouldn’t hesitate. Get on a plane and out of the Middle East immediately, dragging Rizzo with her.
Bohannon and Johnson, meanwhile, were in the black SUV. Avoiding all main roads, they planned to zigzag through the farm country to a small village, southwest of the outskirts to Jerusalem, where they would find a place to conceal the Toyota. Bohannon and Johnson would then walk out of the village, one kilometer east, and be waiting in the shadows by the side of the road when Rodriguez rumbled to a stop. At least, that was the plan.
The truck was slow. That couldn’t be helped. It was an ancient something-or-other, but all discernable markings had worn off long ago. Joe had found it in the machinery barn and jumped the wires easily. Better fortune was that the truck bed was more than halfway full, tobacco packed into burlap sacks. But the best fortune of the night hung in a corner of the building: a half-dozen sets of well-worn farmworkers’ clothing—overalls, straw hats, and sleeveless shirts, plus dirty, stained kaftans and keffiyeh.
Rodriguez was behind the wheel, looking every bit the nondescript farmer on his way to market. Johnson and Bohannon were now in the back of the truck, lying on top of the tobacco sacks, wrapped up in their robes, pretending to be asleep.
But only a few hours of darkness remained.
He was not happy being awakened at such an hour. He was even more disturbed by the report he received. Mahamoud’s wife was at the door to the mosque. She wanted to know where her husband was. Her children, hanging onto her skirts, were crying. She had called Yazeer’s home, she told the porter, and Yazeer’s wife didn’t know where he was, either. She wanted the Imam. She wanted to know where Mahamoud was and why he wasn’t home at such an hour.
The Imam looked at his watch . . . 2:10 AM. Why didn’t that idiot go home? Could he and Yazeer be out celebrating their great victory? He would take a finger from each if that were the case. Mahamoud had many vices. In that way, he could not be trusted.
The Imam turned to the porter. “Tell her to go away, to go home. We will find Mahamoud and send him home.” Stepping away from the door, he reached into a drawer for his cell phone. The number was well known.
“We may have a problem,” he said with no preamble. “Neither Mahamoud nor Yazeer have returned home. I will check on Yazeer’s men, discreetly. But I am concerned. Call me the moment you have news. In the meantime, I will begin to sound the alarm.”
Leonidas, on the other end of the call, said nothing. He already knew all of the answers. Making the Imam wait longer to receive the answers would make them all the more valuable. Life in Jerusalem was about to get more interesting.
Rasaf was again alone in his car. The mutilated and multicolored Subaru was nearly invisible in the mottled shadows of the overhanging trees. He looked at his watch in the dull ash-glow of his hand-rolled cigarette . . . 2:33 AM. His men had been gone for thirty minutes. No bother. This was a good crew: disciplined, respectful of a leader. They had handled themselves well at the roadblock.
He had made his decisions, but he was less sure of himself now than he had been on the hill. The Effendi had been correct. Northern Front did try to intercept the Americans. But now? Who could be sure of what would happen next?
Rasaf staged his team at obscure, high points dotted along the Kidron Valley and instructed them to watch. The Americans had been here once; they would return. They were looking for something, something to which the scroll had led them. It was also clear they didn’t know exactly where it was or exactly how to get it.
Treasure? wondered Rasaf. Gold from the Temple, jewels from Solomon? It must be something very valuable. Good, let them search. Let Shin Bet search; let Northern Front search. Rasaf knew what he wanted, and he knew where it was. It was coming to him. He would not allow it to slip through his fingers.
Rodriguez drove the truck along the Ma’ale Ha Shalom to the Derech Ha’ofel, coming north to the Old City. At 3:12 AM, they rounded the curve below the southeast corner of the Temple Mount area. No other vehicles were on the road. Rodriguez felt naked and exposed. Well into the distance, he could see the gleaming gold of the Dome of the Rock. He didn’t know if they would make it. The truck’s engine was wheezing and sputtering with each increase in altitude. They had decided to drive up the Ha’ofel, past the Gihon Spring, then loop back to the south, turning onto the Jericho Road just south of the Lion’s Gate. At the junction with the road leading to the Church of the Ascension, a smaller road cut off to the right from the Jericho Road. Here, just above the Valley of Jehosephat, Rodriguez pulled into a narrow wadi under a grove of heavy-limbed trees and cut the engine. All of them were watching, furtively, looking for evidence that the area was under heightened surveillance. But the main reason for bypassing the area around Gihon was more practical than tactical. It would be easier to carry the sacks downhill, rather than uphill.
Rasaf lifted his nose to the breeze in the wake of the lonely truck’s passing. “Tobacco, rich, too. Those farmers will do well.”
“Stern, come on. Talk to me. At least let me know you’re still awake.”
“Nothing, Captain. And unfortunately, I am still awake.” Stern turned in his chair, facing Levin. “Nothing on the roads, sir, and nothing in the streets. It’s been totally silent for over an hour. One farmer’s truck struggling up the causeway. Never stopped. It’ll be light in”—he looked at his watch: four twenty—“just over an hour. If they are going to make a move on the tunnel, it will have to come very soon.”
The Hawk picked up the phone and checked, once more, on the units staged and waiting for action.
“That is very bad news, Leonidas, but thank you, nonetheless. We will provide for the families and, of course, for you. What of the Americans?”
While his voice remained cordial, the Imam’s eyes had become blazing torches. Kill my men? There will be retribution, he vowed. But first, the Americans. First, the safety of the Noble Sanctuary, the Haram al-Sharif, must be assured.
“What? No, they cannot have vanished. You are telling me,” his voice rising, “that Shin Bet has lost them, has no idea of their whereabouts?”
A moment to listen.
“No,” the Imam shouted. “No—that is not acceptable, Leonidas. Not acceptable.”
The connection severed, and the line went dead. The Imam looked at the screen: Signal Lost. No, he thought, we are not lost.
Quickly, but without a whisper of sound, he descended the curving steps and entered the porter’s office. “Awaken the faithful. Awaken them now.”
Rodriguez led the way, three farmworkers making a delivery. Each had a heavy burlap sack hoisted on his right shoulder. They began walking down the path alongside the road. To his left, from the east, Bohannon could see the first glimmer of pink.
Rasaf was getting restive. None of his men had reported. Which meant none had seen anything. Even though he was deep under the trees of the car park, he still had a clear view of the Mount and the entrance to the King’s Garden Tunnel. His men were also stationed with good lines of sight. But the blackness of the night had lost its luster. Dawn was not far off. Where were they?
Captain Levin nearly fell off his stool when the major walked through the door, unannounced. By reflex, he and his men quickly snapped to attention. “Be at your ease; stay at your stations,” said the major, crossing to Levin’s perch, welcoming hand extended. “Avram, it is a pleasure, my boy.” Levin received the earnest warmth in the major’s eyes and began to relax his alarms. “What do we have?”
The alarms reengaged. “Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said, offering the major his chair and feeling emasculated in his acceptance. “In the last two hours, only four vehicles have been on the road past the King’s Garden Temple: two automobiles traveling south; one automobile and one farmer’s truck traveling north. None of the vehicles slowed down, let alone stopped, anywhere along the Derech Ha’ofel. Since midnight, the pedestrian traffic has been almost nonexistent. A few drunken tourists, about 2:00 AM, but they
were Russian—now they are in jail.”
He turned to the major, and away from the screens. “But nothing, nothing on the Americans.”
This was it. Bohannon, Rodriguez, and Johnson had momentarily stopped in the shadows of an outcropping. Stepping out would put them in full view of anyone who might be watching, and Bohannon knew there were many who could have taken on that responsibility: Israelis, Muslims, the lightning bolts, maybe others. He looked into the faces of the other two, sweating under the weight of the burlap sacks. “Tom,” said Rodriguez, “we’re screwed. Whether we walk out from behind this rock or not, we’re screwed. We’re never going to get out of this mess except one way. And that way,” he said, pointing with his elbow, “is out there. C’mon. We’ve got to take the chance.”
Before Bohannon could react or respond, Rodriguez was walking out of the shadows, stoop-shouldered, his back bent to the weight, his feet slowly picking their way down the path. He was hiding in plain sight. The trump card was played. Bohannon, then Johnson, followed.
“Rasaf, there’s movement.”
Flicking away the cigarette, Rasaf grabbed the wireless phone. “Where?”
“On the streets to the Temple Mount.”
“Fool,” Rasaf growled into the speaker, “I don’t care about the streets to the Temple Mount. What’s happening on the road, or down by the tunnel entrance?”
“Fool,” mocked the voice on the other end, “you should care about the streets to the Temple Mount. There are thousands . . . thousands . . . of Muslims coming down every street.”
“Captain, look at the streets,” yelled Ehud, embarrassed by the volume of his alert.
Levin and Major Mordechai scrambled to the screens. The streets around the Temple Mount were overrun with Muslims. They were pouring into the huge square atop the Mount and spilling over its sides. Mordechai was already on a phone. “Dispatch all the police . . . keep the guard in reserve.”
The Sacred Cipher Page 26
