“And find those Americans.
“Maybe it’s a good thing we let the women come back after all.”
23
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 19
Tripoli, Lebanon
“The streets of Tripoli were purposely designed like this,” Rodriguez shouted as his shoulder once again was thrown against Bohannon’s side. “Narrow and winding to inhibit the progress of any invader.”
Their taxi driver executed a sudden, darting left turn, throwing Rodriguez against the car’s door. The taxi narrowly missed a vegetable cart and frightened two elderly women who were picking their way through the traffic hurtling in all directions through the intersection.
“The plan seems to be working,” Bohannon shouted back.
“It worked for the Mamelukes, too,” said Joe. “A lot of these streets and alleys are dead ends. The bazaars were all laid out in different directions, each ending at a crossroads. Passageways were tight and twisting. Anything to confuse an invader. Then they built homes and shops, raised above the streets and alleys, which allowed the citizens to defend themselves by throwing stones or hot oil from the windows and roofs. These people were tough to beat. Kind of like folks from Brooklyn.”
The windstorm created by the taxi’s headlong dash through the streets carried the scent of grilling meat, replaced almost immediately by the nauseating, sickly sweetness of rotting produce. From all sides their ears were assaulted by the incessant cacophony of car horns, street hawkers, bleating goats, and the normal morning tumult of Tripoli’s Old Town market.
Dark brown masonry walls rushed by on both sides, tight to the street. There were few windows in the walls—except for narrow firing slits that dominated the walls at each intersection—the preferred Lebanese home opening to a central courtyard.
The taxi burst out of Old Town onto al-Masaref Street, bore right onto relatively modern El Mina Road, raced past the shopping district, and rocketed around the El Mina circle.
Rodriguez was thrown forward by a sudden stop, thudding into the back of the front seat. “I hope you have insurance,” he shouted to Bohannon.
“Oh, yes, good sir,” replied the cab driver, smiling broadly as he looked over his shoulder at Rodriguez. “Much insurance. Enough to pay all funeral expenses.”
Rodriguez opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it as the driver accelerated again and swung his head and the taxi to the left. The shouts of a startled truck driver were jumbled in the turbulence of their wake.
“Will you please pay attention to—”
The taxi screeched to a halt in front of the Nada Center on Rahbat Street in the Nejmeh District, jumbling Rodriguez, Bohannon, exhaust fumes, and relief into a ball in the center of the cab’s rear seat.
“Delivery achieved, good sir,” chimed the driver, reaching his right hand over the back of the seat. “Fifteen thousand pounds.” He smiled angelically. “Or, ten dollars, American.”
Cheap. Rodriguez handed over the American greenback. I’d pay him ten times that amount just to be out of this cab in one piece.
The Nada Center tower, south of the Port of Tripoli and the Old Train Station, commanded a breathtaking view over the rooftops of the Old City, but Rodriguez didn’t bring Bohannon to Tripoli to sightsee. They came to meet Tariq Barkawi.
“If there is anyone in Tripoli who can give us information on the Dar al-Ilm it’s Barkawi,” said Rodriguez, leading the way through the main door. “He’s president of the Tripoli city council’s Historical Committee and a member of every important architectural, historic, and renovation group in the city. In Tripoli, he’s the king of historical preservation.”
And I hope he has some direction for us.
They got off the elevator on the seventh floor. Rodriguez rechecked the directions he’d been given at the hotel, turned to his left, and knocked on the door of a nondescript office, with no identifying markers, at the southeast corner of the building.
“Come in, Mr. Rodriguez,” an inflected English answered the knock. “It’s open.”
Barkawi had changed little since Rodriguez saw him last. An Omar Sharif look-alike, Barkawi was blessed with thick, jet-black hair, and a mustache to match, and the lean, but short, body of a long-distance runner. Barkawi’s eyes were also black, and they were shrouded within deeply set, cave-like openings that were kept in shadow by the jutting overhang of his heavy eyebrows. He dressed like a Wall Street banker and spoke with the whisper of a librarian.
They were fifteen minutes into the required pleasantries, the wariness Rodriguez remembered from their first meeting at a convention replaced by an unexpected eagerness and warmth, when Barkawi finally asked how he could help.
“We have a simple request,” said Rodriguez, glancing at Bohannon. “We would like you to tell us what you know of the Dar al-Ilm, the great library that was destroyed by the Crusader invaders.”
Barkawi’s desk was strategically situated at an angle, spanning the corner of his office, with vast windows filling the walls on both sides, giving Rodriguez and Bohannon a dazzling panorama of Tripoli’s old quarter—dozens of minarets reaching to the sky, some thin and elegant, others square and sturdy, along with the solid, squat brown walls of the city’s ancient citadel in the distant haze.
Leaning back into his chair, seeming to meld into the skyscape, Barkawi turned his shadowed eyes to Rodriguez. A thin smile pushed at the corners of his mouth.
“Tell you what I know of the Dar al-Ilm?” Barkawi’s whispered question carried the slightest edge. “Well, Mr. Rodriguez, that could take a minute . . . or it could consume the entire day. May I ask, please, why you seek information about the Dar al-Ilm? Your answer may help me formulate a more informed answer. When you contacted me you said you were researching the history of Jewish refugees in Tripoli during the Crusaders’ siege and needed help in uncovering historical records from that time. Is that your purpose?”
Joe and his brother-in-law had discussed, and argued about, this moment during most of their trip from New York City. Tom urged caution, arguing they should limit to a minimum any information they shared, with anybody. Rodriguez believed that being circumspect would only lead to dead ends and wasted time.
“My brother-in-law and I believe that a book, or a document, of some interest to us, may have been deposited in the Dar al-Ilm after the fall of Jerusalem. We know some writers at the time claimed the Dar al-Ilm contained nearly three million books, scrolls, and parchments. And we know it was completely destroyed, along with nearly all of Tripoli, when the Crusaders finally breached the city’s walls in 1109. So we also know that our search has a limited chance of success. But we believe if anyone might have information or insight into the great library, it would be you.”
The shadowed caves under Barkawi’s brows continued to point at Rodriguez, unsettling his calm veneer. “And, for this, you came all the way from New York to Tripoli? Not a phone call? Not an email? You both flew nearly halfway around the world to ask me that question? This book,” Barkawi said, leaning into his desk, “must be quite important.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it important,” Joe hedged. “It—”
“—must have something to do with the recent unpleasantness in Jerusalem,” Barkawi interrupted. “Something about a temple, hidden from the Crusaders, I think.”
“Look, Mr. Barkawi,” Bohannon butted in. “We don’t need—”
Joe reached out with his right arm and put a hand on his brother-in-law’s elbow.
“Yes, we do, Tom.” He tightened his grip on Bohannon’s elbow as he turned his attention back to Barkawi’s smiling face. “There was a man, a Jewish priest, named Abiathar. He, and his father before him, were the men behind the construction of the hidden Temple in Jerusalem, the one we discovered.”
“Now destroyed,” Barkawi whispered.
“Yes, now destroyed,” Rodriguez replied, “along with everything else that was in, or on, the Temple Mount. There is nothing left.”
“Still, you are h
ere.”
“Yes . . . and we need your help.” This was the moment of truth. “Just prior to the fall of Jerusalem to the Crusaders, Abiathar left the city and traveled north. Once before, when the Seljuk Turks invaded Jerusalem, Abiathar and his community of Jews fled to Tyre. But, this time, Abiathar traveled to Tripoli . . . a long distance . . . to escape the Crusaders. Why would he travel twice as far, add another two hundred kilometers to what was already dangerous travel, to come to Tripoli? What did Tripoli have that Tyre did not?”
Barkawi inclined his head toward Rodriguez and nodded in agreement. “The famous Dar al-Ilm . . . the House of Knowledge?”
“Yes . . . a library,” said Rodriguez. “One of the greatest libraries of the ancient world. And what would Abiathar bring to a library but a book. Or, he came here to look at a book, to do some research, to follow a trail.”
The light was behind Barkawi. Joe wished he could see the man’s eyes, judge Barkawi’s level of interest.
“So . . .” Barkawi spread his hands wide, “what is this book that is so important?”
Immediately Rodriguez felt a weight dragging down his spirits as well as his shoulders.
“We don’t know,” he admitted, feeling foolish and vulnerable, “but we believe Abiathar had some information that was very important: information that he wanted to preserve, to protect. Perhaps information about the hidden Temple that he wanted to ensure was not lost. Perhaps other messages.”
“Other messages?”
Across the desk, Barkawi rubbed the mustache on his upper lip with the index finger of his right hand, a large gold and ruby ring glinting in the sunlight. Interest and suspicion flashed across his face. Rodriguez felt like a smuggler at customs, guilty but not yet discovered. He shot a quick glance at Bohannon, wondering if their smoke-screen story would have the plausibility they desired. He leaned in toward Barkawi’s desk, closing the distance between himself and the Lebanese academic.
“Remember, I told you that Abiathar’s father was the one who began the construction of the hidden Temple? There were certain articles the Jews would need ready, prepared in advance, in order to complete a ritual sacrifice. We believe Abiathar’s father may have assembled some of those articles and intended to keep them hidden until the secret Temple was completed. We believe a clue to the location of those articles may be in the book Abiathar brought to the Dar al-Ilm.” He paused . . . waiting.
“Hah!” Barkawi exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “You are treasure hunters. Why didn’t you say so from the beginning?” He got out of his chair and came around the desk, stopping before Rodriguez and punching him playfully in the shoulder. “You had me worried for a moment. I thought your real purpose may have been to actually find an old book. So,” he smiled, lowering his voice, “I’m in for a third.”
Bohannon jumped out of his chair. “What?” His face turned red and he took a measured step toward Barkawi. “Who do you think you—”
“Fifteen percent,” Rodriguez interjected. “We have other partners. This is not a negotiation. That’s as far as we can go.”
“Done.”
“Okay,” said Rodriguez. “Tell us what you know.”
Barkawi eased himself up from the edge of the desk he was leaning against. “You are correct, the Dar al-Ilm was one of the greatest libraries of the ancient world,” he said. “It contained the accumulated wisdom of the Levant—scientists, philosophers, astronomers, doctors—yes, over three million manuscripts. Outside of Alexandria, perhaps the greatest collection of wisdom in the ancient world.
“The Europeans were butchers and brigands,” Barkawi lamented. “They reveled in the annihilation of Islamic culture almost as much as they rejoiced over the death of every Muslim martyr. But Tripoli was a stronghold that did not break easily. It took ten years of siege to finally breach the walls and take the city. During that time, many of the city’s treasures were smuggled out of Tripoli to safekeeping. There is a library in the city of Baakleen, on the southwestern slope of the Shouf Mountains, on the route to Damascus. The library was established a decade before the Crusaders arrived and it was small enough to be overlooked by the ravenous Europeans.”
Barkawi crossed his office and stood in front of a large map of Lebanon. “It’s still there today,” he said, pointing to a spot in the mountains southeast of Beirut. “It’s the national library of Lebanon. It’s possible your mysterious book may be waiting on the shelves of the Baakleen Library.”
Rodriguez shot a look at Tom, then turned again to Barkawi. “How would we get there?”
In spite of his well-cut suit and air of importance, Barkawi reminded Rodriguez of a fast-talker on the streets of Washington Heights. Perhaps it was the smirk with the hint of malevolence. Perhaps it was the attitude of one who thinks he knows more than you and is about to use that knowledge to your disadvantage. Joe knew he was being scammed.
“Oh, I don’t think ‘we’ will be going anywhere,” said Barkawi. “Because there is a second possibility that is just as likely as the Baakleen.” He twisted at the waist to look back at the map, his thumb tapping at a point in the desert, northeast of Lebanon. “Your book could also be here, at the Krak de Chevaliers, the greatest Crusader castle of the time. Before the Dar al-Ilm was obliterated, Bertrand, son of Raymond St. Gilles, commander of the Crusaders, ransacked the great library and carried away many of its treasures to the Crusader fortress. A library remains there to this day. Your book may also be gathering dust in this great castle.”
Joe looked at the point on the map that Barkawi was tapping and shook his head. “But . . . that’s in Syria.”
“Yes, I know,” said Barkawi. “And the two of you were just in Israel recently, weren’t you?” A greasy smile smeared across his face. “Did you know that no one with an Israeli visa on their passport, or with plans to travel to Israel, is allowed entrance into Syria? And the Baakleen is closed, except to academics . . . by appointment. It so happens that one of my cousins is in charge of making appointments at the Baakleen . . . and my uncle is secretary of visas and passports for the immigration department in Syria . . .”
Joe felt the hook. He knew what was coming.
“Perhaps my assistance will be worth more than fifteen percent after all,” said Barkawi.
Barkawi stood motionless at the large window, looking down into Rahbat Street as the taxi containing Rodriguez and Bohannon pulled into the uncontrolled mayhem of Tripoli traffic. The veneer of welcome disappeared as soon as they departed his office.
He pulled the acrid, Turkish cigarette from his full lips and flung it at the window toward the image of the taxi’s retreating taillights. His eyes were burning, black pits. He moved with measured malice, a jungle cat smelling blood. Ignoring the smoldering butt and the ash stain on the window, he turned back to his desk and opened a small drawer on the right side. From the drawer he pulled a mobile telephone.
“Salaam, Defender of the Faith,” he said, reverence scenting his words. “They are on their way . . . the tall one to Baakleen, the leader to Krak de Chevaliers. Yes, I arranged it all myself. The tall one will be under the knives of your black-clad messengers. And the leader—if he finds anything—it will soon be in our hands.”
Barkawi listened to the voice on the other end of the line as he pulled something else from the desk drawer . . . an amulet—a Coptic cross with a lightning bolt slashing across on the diagonal. “Yes, Holy One, we will not fail.”
“The Baakleen Library is a wild-goose chase,” said Rodriguez.
They were standing in a corner of the Tripoli bus station, attempting to avoid the maelstrom of bodies, odors, and raucous noises that swirled across the geometrically colored mosaic floor. “I’ve heard of that library. There was an ancient Baakleen Library, as Barkawi said, but it was destroyed by an earthquake centuries ago. The current Baakleen is the Lebanese national library. It’s housed in a former prison. But it wasn’t opened as a library until 1987. It’s not a bad library, but there’s no chance that any a
ncient documents from a thousand years ago are housed in the Baakleen. It’s just not possible. That’s not the Baakleen’s purpose.”
A gnawing sense of discomfort roiled in Joe’s stomach. Bohannon was trying to decipher the bus schedule from Tripoli to Syria. Joe put a hand on his arm.
“Tom . . . why would Barkawi point us to Baakleen?” he asked. Bohannon looked up.
“What?”
“Barkawi is as trustworthy as a picket-fence canoe.”
“What?”
Rodriguez squeezed Bohannon’s arm in frustrated urgency.
“Look, the guy would know the Baakleen. He knows what’s in there. And he knows sending one of us there is a waste of our time.”
The perplexity on Bohannon’s face vanished. “So why would he do it?”
“I don’t know. But I think we have to assume we’re in enemy territory here,” said Joe. “Maybe he has allegiances to people who don’t want us to succeed.”
“The Guard?”
Rodriguez shrugged.
“Maybe we should just get out of here,” said Bohannon.
Leaning against the wall of the bus station, Joe said, “Only one problem with that. He was right about the Krak. If the Crusaders plundered the Dar al-Ilm before destroying it, if Abiathar planted anything there—and it still exists—the most likely place to look would be that fortress. That was the Crusader stronghold, their storehouse for anything valuable.” Shutting out the riot of noise around them, Joe focused on his brother-in-law. “I think we need to go to the Krak.”
“But . . . if the Baakleen was a bum steer . . .”
“Then somebody could be waiting for us at either location. Going to that castle is a risk . . . if Barkawi is setting us up.”
“And,” said Bohannon, “Barkawi is as trustworthy as—what did you say, a picket-fence canoe? You’re weird, Joe. Okay, doesn’t matter. We’ve got to try. Look, we also need to check out Jeremiah’s Grotto in Jerusalem, right? So I’ll go to the fortress and you get to Jerusalem.”
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 22
