The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies)

by Terry Brennan

  Joe, Tom, and Rizzo left the building and turned toward Tell and the ramshackle van on the right. Annie hefted the duffel bag in her right hand and moved to the right, following the three men. Tell had thrown open the back hatch and was stuffing their bags into the storage space. Annie handed her bag to Tell, waiting for some word or protest from Reynolds. But the challenge never came.

  Traveling west on the Ben Gurion Highway, the two vans remained fairly close together for the first ten minutes, driving in the right lane at the same excessive speed as all the other vehicles on the road.

  “Where will we separate?” asked Tom.

  He was sitting in the front passenger seat—Joe, Rizzo, and Annie in the back. Tell, the driver, pointed into the distance.

  “A farther bit, I think, and then I slow a little,” Oskar Tell’s accent was a heavy German-Israeli guttural, “then a little more. Soon, you see, we will have good separation, yah? The closer we get, the cars will all come,” his left arm waved to the right, “and we be lost, fast.

  “Don’t be to worry,” said Tell, “when we reach exit, other van will be disappear. Then I call Tobias and tell him I must need petrol. We be fine. No one see.”

  Tell turned his full attention to the growing traffic as he guided the van onto the ramp. Rounding the banked curve at speed, the aged van swayed on its creaking springs and seemed ready to lose its adhesion to the concrete roadway. Tell held tightly to the steering wheel until the curve flattened and the van settled back into a more upright posture.

  Tom peeled his fingers off the dashboard handle he held in a stranglehold and looked left at the driver. “Handles like a sports car, eh?”

  Sam Reynolds looked in the right side mirror, then swiveled in his seat to look out the back window. “I don’t see them behind us.”

  “No problem,” said the driver, his heavy accent rolling his consonants. “Lots of traffic. And Oskar is slow driver. Don’t worry. He’s slow, but here he’ll get.”

  The first van had just pulled up in front of the international terminal when the radio crackled.

  “Tobias?”

  “What do you want? I need these passengers to unload.”

  “Is my tank is empty. There is no petrol out of airport. I stop now and fill.”

  Tobias shook his head and looked at the man on his right. “Needs petrol.” He pulled the radio mike off the dashboard hook and pulled it close to his face. “You be better get them here on time or Abner will have your head with schnitzel. Lose this job you can’t afford.”

  “Is okay, Tobias. I be there. Don’t be to worry.”

  Tobias switched to Yiddish. “It is working.” Then switched back to English. “Not to foul this up, okay?”

  Tobias hooked the microphone back on the dashboard. “My cousin is good man,” he said, looking at Reynolds. “But sometimes”—he shook his fist—“is not so smart.”

  Oskar Tell navigated the ramshackle van past the entrance to the International Departures terminal and continued along the loop that circled the Ben Gurion Airport complex. At the end of the main terminal building, a service road ran alongside a large, gray metal warehouse. Reaching the end of the service road, the van turned right and pulled alongside the commercial aviation terminal … the place where high rollers parked their private and executive jets. Waiting in the crowded parking lot on the side of the commercial terminal was a white panel truck, Excelsior Aircraft Catering lettered on its sides.

  Tell steered his vehicle perpendicular, stopping as his van came abreast of the truck, obscuring it from the view of anyone in the commercial terminal. “Quickly … out.” Tom jumped out of the front seat, sliding open the side door, as a tall, thin man came around the white truck and pulled open its rear doors. With the precision of circus acrobats, Joe, Rizzo, Tom, and Annie grabbed their gear from the van and jumped into the back of the catering truck. The doors slammed shut just as Tom remembered he failed to thank their driver.

  Reynolds paced back and forth in the exit lounge, looking at his watch with every passing loop. “Never should have let that driver out of my sight without getting his phone number, or his cousin’s.” He held an iPhone to his right ear, waiting for a response from the van rental company. Reynolds stopped. “What do you mean you can’t give me his phone number? I don’t care if it is company policy. You’re the company. Change the policy. This is an emergency. I—”

  Deirdre felt badly for Reynolds. He was a nice guy. He was a huge help to Joe and Tom. Almost lost his job. Now he was going to get in trouble again. Too bad. She leaned over and caught Reynolds’s elbow as he passed by on another circuit of the seating area around Gate 21A in the international terminal. He almost lost his balance turning to look in her direction, a question crossing his fretful face.

  “They called the flight,” said Deirdre. “Boarding has started.”

  Tall, self-assured, calm in crisis, the State Department veteran looked at Deirdre as if she had popcorn blowing out her ears.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Deirdre, pointing in the direction of the gate. “Where are they? Could something have happened to them just coming to the airport? In a few minutes, we’ve got to go. Or miss the flight. What do we do?”

  Reynolds stood there, iPhone in one hand, watch raised on the other, shaking his head back and forth. “You’ve got to go. I’ve got to find out where they are.” He lifted the mobile phone to his ear once more when Deirdre reached out and held his arm in place.

  “You’re not coming with me?” she asked, her eyes opening wide. “Brandon’s on a flight to Ireland. I’m going to be on my own, have no protection, all the way back to New York?”

  Reynolds gave Deirdre a look that swung between fury and frustration. “I’m sure you can take care of yourself on an airplane,” he said, “just like you’ve been taking care of me for the last hour, right?”

  Reynolds bent over and jerked Deirdre’s carry-on up to his shoulder. “Look, my job is to get you on that plane. So you’re getting on, and then I’m going to find the rest of them and get them on the next plane to New York. And I’m not going anywhere until I get my job completed. So you’re getting on the plane.” Reynolds spun on his heel and marched toward the boarding gate.

  A smile on her face, Deirdre followed in Reynolds’s wake as his mutterings drifted back to her. “You’ll be perfectly safe, and all of you will be home soon. Or I’m going to get assigned to a one-man office in Tajikistan.”

  It was cold and dark in the back of the refrigerated catering truck and the four of them were perched on the edge of some low shelves that offered minimal comfort. Joe was about to ask a question when the unseen driver slid open a vent and answered it for him.

  “We’re crossing the runways, and we’ll be there in thirty seconds. Get your gear ready. I’ll back up to the jet and open the rear doors so we’re close to the fuselage. I’ll come around and grab a case of food and carry it to the open galley door. Don’t do anything until I can look around and make sure it’s safe. Then move quickly and hoist yourselves into the galley.”

  The leather seats were soft enough to sleep in, the sound-proofing perfect so the whine of the engines stayed outside. Tom was thinking about a nap when the door to the cockpit opened and Alex Krupp walked down the aisle, his wild red hair a counterpoint to the impeccable gray, pinstriped suit that hung perfectly from his tall frame.

  Krupp was a billionaire industrialist, CEO, and heir to the vast Bavarian conglomerate. But he was also Tom Bohannon’s fraternity brother and roommate at Penn State where they formed a lasting bond. And it was Krupp who helped rescue them from under Temple Mount months ago and whose estate in Bavaria was their refuge when they broadcast to the world the existence of the Third Temple of God, hidden for a thousand years.

  A broad smile on his face, Krupp stopped in the aisle separating Tom’s and Annie’s seats.

  “Yo, Mr. Krupp.” Rizzo hopped off his seat and walked up to Krupp with his hand outstretched. “Thanks for rescuing our
sorry butts again but, hey, where’s the beer and the Fräuleins?”

  Krupp sat on the armrest of a seat and grasped Sammy’s hand in both of his. “Good to see you, too.”

  “Alex, what are you doing here?” said Tom.

  “What, you think I’m going to let you have all the fun?”

  They were gathered around a small conference table in the aft section of the cabin. “So there’s nothing else I can do to help?” asked Krupp.

  “You could give us a ride back to Jerusalem,” said Rizzo. “It’s a long walk from here.”

  Tom was surprised when Krupp hesitated.

  “I can try,” said the industrialist. “It’s getting very dangerous, very quickly out there. I need to get back to Jerusalem to make sure our interests—our men and our equipment—are protected as much as possible. But I’ll send the plane back once I reach Jerusalem, if I can. The Israelis could shut down their airspace at any time. What do you plan to do when we land?”

  Annie Bohannon started to open her map case, but thought better of it. “The National Geographic crew will be there, but our arrival has been managed by Latiffa Naouri, the chief historian of the Iraqi Antiquities Commission. We worked together the last time I did a shoot in Egypt, and she’s arranged for our entry visas. We’ll be in good hands.”

  28

  11:54 a.m., Baghdad

  Four dusty and battered Land Rovers that appeared to be on their last legs pulled up beside the black Lincoln and out poured eight men—as grimy and dusty as the Land Rovers—who had just spent the better part of a month living in the desert. In their well-worn and varied work clothes, these men had the appearance of commandos more than photographers on a remote shoot.

  They joined the woman standing next to the Lincoln, all eyes staring down the runway.

  Inside the commercial aviation terminal, in a small maintenance room at the corner of the building, a tall, thin, dark-skinned man in the blue coveralls of the airport maintenance team gazed intently out a dust-encrusted window. The sun was on the far side of the building, so his vantage point gave him a clear view of the Gulfstream as it pulled alongside the knot of waiting people. Even though he had been called and told to be watchful, he doubted he could ever be of use to the leader. It was only when the little man bounded down the stairs to the tarmac that he realized these were the ones who were sought.

  With the Lincoln Town Car in the lead, the four battered Land Rovers followed one behind another, made a U-turn and headed toward the south gate of the commercial aviation complex.

  Only when the convoy left the airport compound, on the road south, did the man pull his mobile phone from the pocket of his coveralls and—his heart beating faster than a spinning propeller blade—punch in the number he was given should this very circumstance become a reality.

  “Hello? Yes, this is Taurog. I work at the Baghdad airport. I was told to call you if—”

  “You have seen them?”

  “Yes. A Gulfstream landed not long ago. It was met by four Land Rovers … a group of photographers and film makers from National Geographic who arrived last month.”

  “How do you know it was the ones we seek?”

  Taurog wiped the sleeve of his shirt over his perspiring brow and tried to slow his heartbeat. “Two men and a woman, but it was the little one who convinced me. He came out last. Black hair, thick glasses, about 120 centimeters tall.”

  There was the sound of muted conversation in the background. “You have done well. You and your family will be rewarded. Thank yo—”

  “Wait!” Fear and excitement roiled around in his stomach as Taurog realized he was almost yelling. So close to reward, he would not fail now. “Naouri was with them, the chief historian of the Iraqi Antiquities Commission.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “She is very popular. Her photo is often in the newspaper or on television. Everyone in Baghdad knows Naouri and what she’s doing.” Taurog took a breath to slow his racing heart.

  “And what is she doing?” The voice was growing more agitated.

  “Babylon … she is trying to save Babylon. Since the fall of Saddam, the Babylon he built on the ruins has been ravaged by the poor, looting the city for its bricks. Naouri is trying to save what’s left of the ancient bricks from the looters. She wages a losing campaign. But,” said Taurog, “what is most important is that Naouri greeted the American woman as if they were old friends or sisters. Perhaps you should consider Babylon?”

  It looked like any other tobacco shop on the outskirts of Baghdad, not very prosperous and covered by desert dust and ancient smoke. The old man standing by the door folded up the cell phone as he leaned against the wall. Leader of the Iraqi division of the Muslim Brotherhood’s clandestine enforcers, the Special Apparatus, the old man had been told of the change in leadership but, still, was surprised when the call came from Saudi Arabia. Now it was his job to find the American team and stop them—at all costs.

  The four-vehicle convoy kicked up rooster tails as it sped down a highway covered with dry, tawny sand. Annie was in the front passenger seat of the leading Rover, trying to see out a front windshield that was half covered by a spider web of fractures.

  “You guys must be on a pretty tight budget, Mike,” she said to the driver. “Couldn’t the magazine afford to get you a few more respectable vehicles?”

  “Part of the plan,” said Mike Whalen. “These beat-up old Rovers are as important to us as our equipment. We don’t want new vehicles. We don’t want to look too prosperous. It’s like the Wild West out here. There’s no government, virtually no police. With four vehicles, we are noticeable, but we also appear formidable with the crew we’ve got. And for all the natives know, we could be a rogue military unit. Low profile is our middle name.”

  Whalen and his photo-video crew were a hand-picked bunch with a unique combination of skill sets.

  Whalen was an ex–Navy SEAL, a head short of six feet tall with a wild shock of curly, white-blond hair that seemed to be permanently windblown from the Harley in his garage at home. He had the compact build and fluid motion of a man who understood and was comfortable with his own strength. Whalen converted his military specialty, underwater photography of targets and defenses, into a keen eye for the drama of light and contrast. His crew of eight did include an Emmy-winning filmmaker and photographer, Leo Matkins, who couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag, but who could conjure up unforgettable broadcast images that stayed with viewers long after the TV was quieted for the night.

  But Matkins was an acceptable exemption because his two equipment handlers—Grant Bowman and Michael Papa—were both former Big Ten offensive linemen who ceaselessly argued the relative merits of Michigan and Ohio State. The vehicle wrangler and mechanic, Sal Molluzzo, was a Ranger master sergeant who did two tours in Afghanistan; the sound man was a long, lean Brit, James Leonard, who spent six years running terrorist surveillance for MI5; but Whalen’s two go-to guys were both ex-marines and former NYPD Anti-Terrorism Task Force veterans, Fred Atkins and Steve Vordenberg, who had become first-rate lighting techs, but whose main job was often to keep them all alive.

  Under the floorboards of the Land Rovers was enough firepower to keep away any roving band of Iraqi marauders, and the team was equipped with the Harris Falcon III handheld, multi-band radios, the AN/PRC-152 in use by most American and NATO armed forces.

  “Whalen, your team is about as low profile as a kick in the teeth,” said Annie. “But God knows these guys are the only way you could operate here and the other inhospitable places Geographic has sent you. I feel a lot more comfortable having them along.”

  “So who is the woman in the Lincoln?” Whalen asked.

  “An old friend,” Annie replied. “Latiffa Naouri, the chief historian of the Iraqi Antiquities Commission. We met on my assignment to the Valley of the Kings. We were both early in our careers, and Latiffa was educated in the States. We spent two weeks together and just connected. Latiffa always knew her caree
r in Egypt would be limited because she was a woman. Which is one of the reasons, I believe, that she jumped at the chance when the position here was offered.

  “But she had more than a career change reason to leave Egypt. Her father was a prominent Cairo University professor who campaigned openly for a more moderate Islam. But his enemies were powerful.

  “Most people don’t know that Egypt was the birthplace of Al Qaeda. Ayman al-Zawahiri, the mastermind of 9/11 and Bin Laden’s second-in-command, was the founder of Islamic Jihad in Egypt in 1980. In 1981, Islamic Jihad was behind the assassination of Egyptian President Anwar Sadat. Over the years, Islamic Jihad operated in the shadows, but it grew in size and power, finally evolving into Al Qaeda in 1998. At the beginning, al-Zawahiri was a Muslim Brotherhood activist in charge of the Brotherhood’s secret squads, the Special Apparatus. Latiffa’s father was murdered by the Special Apparatus because of his opposition to Islamic fundamentalism. And she is aware that her position here in Iraq would become tenuous if the power of the Islamic radicals continues to grow. I thought the Brotherhood was dangerous, but they look almost humane when stacked up against groups like ISIS. I didn’t have to tell her much before she was anxious to help.”

  “What kind of help can she give us?” asked Whalen.

  “Access to Babylon,” she said. “And the freedom to move about. There is some security, trying to keep the site from being looted, but they are not very effective. Naouri will make sure we have plenty of room to operate.”

  Whalen didn’t take his eyes off the thin ribbon of asphalt that was visible in the middle of the road, but Annie Bohannon could tell he was assessing her and the reasons she had arrived in Baghdad.

  “I’ll tell you about it when we get there,” said Annie.

  Following Annie’s instructions, the National Geographic crew avoided the hotels in Hillah and set up a tent camp out in the desert, in a dry riverbed that was once the Tigris River, ten miles southeast of Babylon. Whalen and his team erected a handful of black tents, two of which housed the resting Land Rovers. From a distance, they might look like a typical Bedouin camp. Except minus the goats and horses, and none of them wore the traditional dress of the desert wanderers. Annie hoped no prying eyes would get too close.