At least that’s how it felt now, looking out over the electrified fence, past the armed guards, and beyond the fortified security barrier that separated his long driveway from the rest of the street. He knew the security was necessary, but it stole the serenity from his home.
Baruk was on the veranda, rubbing a cold glass of iced tea against his brow, captured by the velvet aroma of gardenia rising from his garden, when his wife, Shakirya, escorted his guests into the warm afternoon sun.
“Levi . . . Lukas.” He shook their hands. “Thank you for coming. Some iced tea?”
Baruk guided his guests to chairs under the trellis as his wife filled their glasses from the pitcher on the sideboard. “Thank you, Shakirya.”
Baruk sat across from the two men, measured their unease, and weighed his words. These were trustworthy, proven men of action, not politics.
“We are going to rebuild the Temple Mount,” Baruk announced, without preamble. “But I am determined that, unlike the aftermath of the ’67 war, Israel will not relinquish its sovereignty over the Mount. To ensure that sovereignty, Israel must allow no political vacuum for the Muslims to exploit. Our sovereignty over the Temple Mount must be clear and unquestioned.”
Evaluating the effect of his words, Baruk studied the men sitting in the dappled shade across from him. Clearly, they waited for instructions.
“There is only one thing that would ensure Israel’s control of the Temple Mount,” said Baruk. “The existence of the Temple in its rightful place atop Mount Moriah. But, should we attempt to begin construction of a new temple, the Arab states would never allow us the time to complete its construction. They would try to stop us. They would call for the world to stop us. We need another solution.”
Baruk held their gaze. No one flinched.
“I want you to find the Tabernacle Moses brought through the wilderness. I want you to bring it to Jerusalem, secretly, and be prepared to erect it atop the Temple Mount as soon as the reconstruction is complete.”
Baruk sat back in his chair, drank from his glass, and saw surprise register on the faces of Lukas Painter and Levi Sharp as they looked first at each other and then back at the prime minister.
Lukas Painter was director of Mossad, Israel’s relentless and feared international intelligence gathering force. Painter was as formidable as the organization he led. The gray stubble that covered his head gave accent to the chiseled cut of both his sculpted muscles and rock-hard jaw. Painter, a battle-scarred warrior, served four different prime ministers over the past fifteen years and still there was neither an ounce of doubt about his duty, nor an ounce of fat on his body.
Levi Sharp was director of Shin Bet, Israel’s internal security force, and the polar opposite of Painter. Sharp was recruited as a spook out of university and dispatched to Harvard where he earned his master’s in political science. During those summers, Sharp was an invited observer first at FBI headquarters in Washington and then at Interpol headquarters in Paris. Where Painter was larger than life, Sharp was nearly invisible. Slim, bland in appearance and dress, introspective by nature, and quiet by choice, Sharp tended to blend into the background. Only his eyes gave testimony to the Zionist zealot who flirted with fanaticism.
Baruk waited for their barrage of questions.
With a slight nod of his head, Sharp allowed Painter to ask the question. “You know where to start looking, don’t you?” asked Painter.
New York City
It was tough for Sammy Rizzo to find anyplace where he could be eye-to-eye with Kallie. Restaurants? He would need a kid’s booster seat. And forget going for a walk, or sitting on a park bench.
But Sammy was resourceful and determined. He would engage with Kallie on her own level, no matter what it took.
Plan. Adapt. Plan again. That was Sammy’s constant effort. New York City . . . Manhattan . . . was a tough enough place to survive. But for a little person who barely reached chest level on an average guy, New York was a challenge on the scale of Mount Everest. The only beneficial result of the Americans with Disabilities Act was that the city owned a fleet of kneeling buses, but even those were purchased not to help little people get on the bus but to make it easier to get wheelchairs onto the lift ramp.
Normally, these were annoyances that Sammy’s cultivated caustic personality would overcome and spit back in the face of the Big Apple. But now, with Kallie, all that had changed.
Size wasn’t a problem when they first met—Kallie Nolan doing research in the library on Bryant Park for her master’s in archaeology and Sammy ensconced in his specially designed library office where everything was designed to bring him to eye level. That’s how they first met . . . on equal terms. Sammy possessing the knowledge and resourcefulness Kallie required.
Now, living on a level plane with Kallie was of utmost importance to Sammy. When they were alone together, he even shed the wise-cracking clown persona that had served him so well since his childhood.
Sammy pushed the plastic container of cheese, crackers, and fruit back across the small, green metal table in Kallie’s direction. They were sitting in glorious shade, under the trees along the pathway on the downtown side of Bryant Park, that rectangular oasis of green grass and mature trees that brings grace to Manhattan’s manic midtown. Though out of the sun, they were still oppressed by the summer’s heat and humidity. The bite of charcoal smoke invaded the shade from a street vendor’s food wagon and the voices of many tongues floated between the leaves.
Sammy was perched atop a low brick wall, in just the right relationship to Kallie, who was sitting on one of the park’s green, wooden slat chairs.
Kallie picked at the grapes as if they were petals on a daisy. “Sammy,” said Kallie as she plucked a plump, green orb, “tell me about us.”
Sammy nearly fell off the wall, frantically grabbing for the edge of the stone cap.
“What?” he croaked.
Kallie twiddled another grape. “Us. Tell me about us.” She tilted her head over her shoulder to bring Sammy within sight.
Sammy didn’t know whether to speak or to breathe. He didn’t think he could do both. Kallie shimmered in the dancing shadows of the tree’s shade, her bright yellow, sleeveless sundress rivaling its namesake. Her presence, her beauty, always overwhelmed him, dulling the barb in his tongue and bringing to rest a mind that moved with the frenetic pace of an Italian tarantella. He sat, stalled . . . unable to process his next thought. A burst of laughter floated across the broad, central lawn.
“Us? . . . Well, I thought we were friends,” said Sammy, trying to evade the question.
But Kallie threw a grape and hit him square in the chest of his new shirt, a proper blue, broadcloth, button-down topping a pair of clean, neatly pressed khakis. “Talk to me, Rizzo,” she demanded.
Truth . . . could he tell her the truth? What would happen then? Ooohh . . .
There was no escape.
Sammy ducked his head to avoid Kallie’s gaze. “I like you, I like you a lot. You’re very important to me, Kallie. But I’m not a fool. I’m not blind. I see how men look at you, then look at me, then look back at you with an unanswered question on their faces. What is she doing with him? How long? How long could you live like that—companion to a man who some people think belongs in a circus?”
“Look at me.”
He processed a long sigh, then forced his eyes to hers.
“You’re precious to me, Sammy Rizzo.” Her eyes searched his face. “You saved my life . . . yes, I knew it was you who threw your body on top of mine when the bullets were flying as we escaped from the kibbutz . . . and you rescued me from jail. You have comforted me, quietly, without demands, as I grieved the loss of my profession and my adopted country. You’ve treated me with respect and honor . . . rare among some of the other men I’ve known.”
“Then? . . .”
“I don’t know then,” said Kallie. “I only know now. Now, it’s a privilege for me to walk beside you. It’s a pleasure to spend time with
you. And I’m grateful that you trust me enough to allow me to see inside the jokester. But, Sammy . . . I don’t know if this, us, is going anywhere. Not because you’re short. But because I don’t know where I am. Or where I’m going.”
Kallie put her right hand on his.
“I don’t want to disappoint you or hurt you,” she said. “I don’t want you to expect something, hope for something, from me that I just can’t give right now. Please understand. My life came to a crashing halt. I was thrown out of my home without a moment to think about it. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now or what I’m going to do.”
Sammy could hear the pleading in her voice, the sincerity of her emotion.
“I want us to be friends a long time. Something else? I don’t know. But . . . but, this I do know. You are one of the finest men I’ve ever met, Sammy Rizzo—no matter what charade you play on the outside. I respect you, your courage, your heart. I don’t care about how tall you are, Sammy. I care about the size of your heart. I don’t want to wound that heart.”
Kallie stood up. “Friends. Can you accept that?”
Sammy looked at Kallie. “Sure,” he said, and his voice didn’t crack.
12
SUNDAY, AUGUST 9
Washington, DC
“You’re back . . . don’t you spend any time over at Langley?”
The bright afternoon sun flooded the Oval Office windows, washing Jonathan Whitestone’s back with warmth and causing Bill Cartwright to squint and turn his head to the side. “I don’t have any good news for you.”
“Why am I not surprised?” the president said absently. “When was the last time we had any good news, Bill?” Whitestone signed the last of the stack of documents and passed them to the aide waiting beside his desk, gesturing the young woman out of the Oval Office. Whitestone rose from behind the Resolute desk, walked across the carpet woven with the presidential seal, and fell into one of the facing sofas. “C’mon, Bill, sit down. This sounds like it may take awhile.”
The CIA director sat in the sofa facing the president and rested three manila folders on the table between them.
Whitestone liked Cartwright because he was a no-nonsense, pragmatic veteran of both business and government. Whitestone trusted Cartwright because the two had been prayer and accountability partners for two decades. Right now, Whitestone needed both Cartwright’s counsel and his integrity. The president could see dark days ahead and believed Cartwright was not going to dispel any of that darkness with his report.
“Baruk has decided to rebuild the Temple Mount,” Cartwright said.
Whitestone felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Even in the August heat and humidity, Whitestone kept his office air-conditioning to the minimum. He liked it warm . . . it kept his muscles from tightening any more than necessary in the pressure cooker of the Oval Office. Still, he felt a chill ripple across his shoulders and a half-breathed sigh escape his lips.
“Whose bright idea is this folly? Don’t tell me . . . Shomsky, right?”
“Seems like he’s convinced Baruk that this is the prime minister’s moment in history . . . his chance to make history,” Cartwright replied.
“His chance to stop history.”
“There’s more . . . they’re—”
“Wait—Shomsky doesn’t know about the raid, does he?”
“As far as we know, only Baruk, Orhlon, Painter, and Sharp know of the plans.”
Whitestone’s hands came up in front of him as if his fingers were asking a question. “Then what is Baruk doing? How can he pull a stunt like this when we’re already—”
“Mr. President . . . that’s not all,” said Cartwright. “They’re not going to let the Arabs come back to the Mount. In fact, they’re not going to allow anything to come back to the Mount. They plan to rebuild the platform in the name of safety and then allow it to remain empty.”
Whitestone felt confused. “What?” He pushed himself to the edge of the sofa. “What’s the point? Why rebuild the Mount and then enrage the Arabs by not allowing them to rebuild the Dome or the Al-Aqsa Mosque? That doesn’t make sense, Bill, not even for Shomsky. What are they planning? Baruk’s not stupid. He must know what he’s doing.”
“Yes, sir. The Israelis have a plan for the Mount. They’re just not making it public.”
The president held his breath and held his tongue. Oh, Lord . . . what?
“The Israelis are searching for the Tent of Meeting. They’re already planning an incursion into western Jordan to search Mount Nebo . . . the place where the book of Maccabees says Jeremiah buried the Ark and the Tent. If they can secure the Tent of Meeting, Baruk intends to erect the Tent on Temple Mount . . . I guess he figures he can get it up before any protests hit. With the Tent on the Mount, the Israelis, Baruk believes, will have a legitimate claim to sovereignty over Temple Mount.”
Whitestone settled back into the corner of the sofa. His silver hair was perfectly cut, his navy blue suit impeccable. But he felt panic fighting to emerge from his calm exterior.
“But, the Tent? Come on, Bill, how can we—how can anyone—believe that the Tent of Meeting still exists? There’s not been a mention of the Tent of Meeting in, what, two thousand years?”
“Three . . . three thousand,” said Cartwright.
“Right, three thousand years without a word. The existence of the Tent of Meeting is about as close to impossible as you can get. Even if Baruk and Shomsky have thrown themselves into this fool’s search, this is not something we seriously need to concern ourselves with. Right?”
Cartwright held the president’s gaze. “The existence of the Tent is as close to impossible as keeping a secret Temple hidden under the mountain for over a thousand years. It’s about as close to impossible as a handwritten copy of the book of Jeremiah surviving for fifteen hundred years in a clay jar near the Dead Sea. Mr. President, who is to say what’s impossible if we are truly in the final season of God’s plan for mankind?”
A subtle twitch. It was deep inside his chest, to the left. Barely discernible. The president felt it, and knew he had felt it before. Too much stress. God, what am I doing? Whitestone felt tired, worn down to the marrow of his bones. But anger pulsed life into his body. Baruk had betrayed his trust.
“This is insane,” said Whitestone. “Forget the Tent. If Israel rebuilds the Temple Mount and forbids the Arabs from coming back, the Muslim nations will go berserk. Baruk is just asking for a war.”
“Yes, sir. And it couldn’t come at a worse time. Abu Gherazim has, indeed, been appointed foreign minister of the Palestinian Authority. He’s planning a major speech for next week, from Amman, with the Jordanian king at his side.”
“Great . . . we finally get a Muslim moderate leader who’s willing to speak out for peace, for compromise, for benevolent coexistence between Palestinian and Jew, and Baruk is ready to blow up any possibility for peace in the Middle East.” President Whitestone raised his piano-player fingers and rubbed above his top lip. “How did Gherazim manage to get himself appointed? That’s a bit of a shock, too.”
Bill Cartwright opened the top manila folder, extracted a photograph, and passed it to the president. “Seems like somebody found out about the family heritage Gherazim has worked so hard to hide.”
Whitestone had seen the photo before . . . two young men in black kaftans and turbans, gazing seriously into the lens, standing in front of an unidentified mosque. “I guess having a brother who was the founder of Hezbollah finally paid a dividend. Is Gherazim thinking of turning his name back to al-Sadr?”
“Not anytime soon,” said Cartwright. “I’m sure he’s going to be Abu Gherazim for the foreseeable future. He hates the memory and the legacy of his brother. Realistically, he remembers al-Sadr as a terrorist and murderer. I don’t see how he’s been able to walk that tightrope over there . . . he’s really a target for both sides . . . but, for now, he’s the only voice calling for the reformation of Islam from the inside out. We need Abu Gherazim, Jon. We need him
for any possibility of peace in the Middle East.”
Once again, the president felt the weight of the world settle on his shoulders. His shoulders, literally, were beginning to ache from the load.
The president looked up. “What do we do now?”
Cartwright opened the second manila folder, extracted another photograph, and passed it to the president. Whitestone looked at the picture of an etched, bronze mezuzah. “You think there’s something here?”
“It’s possible,” said Cartwright. “If the mezuzah and scroll led to the Third Temple, who’s to say they might not also lead to something else . . . something like the Tent of Meeting? The priest, Abiathar, was a resourceful man. Perhaps there are some clues here we could use. And we need something to get us out in front of the Israelis . . . either to convince them to abandon this reckless plan or to intervene in some other way. Like find the Tent first. That’s why we need all the help we can find.”
The president shook his head at the implied suggestion.
Whitestone turned the photo over, as if there might be a surprise clue on its reverse side. “Bring Bohannon and his team back into this? Why? Why do we need them, and why would they come? They’re civilians, Bill. Good grief, they almost got killed the last time. Why don’t we just leave them alone and see what we can find out on our own?”
Cartwright was shaking his head as he opened the third manila folder. This one contained several pages of paper containing what looked like a series of images, accompanied by a single sheet of paper. The CIA director passed the sheets with the images to the president.
“When I started thinking about Bohannon, there was something nagging at the back of my mind,” said Cartwright. “So I asked our boys in the satellite room to make a few passes over the New York City area. Without a direct threat, we don’t usually shoot visuals over the States, but we do get residual infrared. Our guys dialed in on the area around Bohannon’s home in Riverdale.”
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 9
