Forty minutes later, Fineman escorted Rodriguez back to the grotto’s entrance. He moved closer and Rodriguez was startled when the old man reached out his right hand and placed it with care against the left side of his neck, between Joe’s ear and his shoulder. Fineman closed his eyes. “May the Lord bless you and keep you,” the words whispered through the cavern, “may the Lord make his countenance shine upon you and be gracious to you, may the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace.”
Fineman’s dark eyes opened and searched the depths of Rodriguez. “Go with God, my son. Go with God.”
25
FRIDAY, AUGUST 21
Jerusalem
Kallie Nolan looked over at the clock on the table next to the sofa. Green numerals mocked her open eyes—4:44. This was no time to be awake.
But Kallie’s mind had been racing when she lay down on the sofa hours earlier. Tomorrow she presented her dissertation to the review board after two days of nonstop prep. And tonight, at dinner, Annie Bohannon had shared her faith. Kallie was still trying to get her head around Annie’s words, which stirred her soul and ruined her sleep. Could there be any truth in Annie’s faith?
With her roommates—and their furniture—long gone, it was a battle to convince Annie to accept Kallie’s bed while they stayed in the apartment. But after a couple of sweltering days wandering around Jerusalem’s refugee camps with her cameras, Annie was grateful and, so far, Kallie also had slept like a rock. Until tonight.
She rolled off the sofa and padded softly to the kitchen. Some of the orange-pineapple juice was left. Cool on her throat, the memory of the tropics rising in the sweet smell of pineapple, she walked over to the east-facing windows, her favorite in the apartment. She leaned against the window frame and pulled aside the white lace curtains, the ones her mother sent from the farm in Idaho. Off in the east, the walls of Jerusalem were bathed in a soft, golden glow, lit from below, shimmering at their ramparts. Minarets spiked the sky. Shadowed domes protected their treasures.
Her heart began to ache . . . again. I love this place. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She missed her roommates, dispersed by Israeli security when they locked down her apartment. She missed her work, leading tourists through the ancient history of Jerusalem. And she missed her studies—even the tedious days in the sun, gingerly brushing away the dust of centuries. Most of all, she grieved over the thought of leaving this city whose living spirit beat in time with her heart. Jerusalem was alive. And the flow of its life washed through her soul. Leaving would kill something inside her.
Even though her gaze was fixed on the distant walls, movement at the corner of her eye caused Kallie to glance down, to her left, into the bushes and shadows that bordered the parking lot off the Bar-Lev Road. Something had moved in the early morning black.
Then she saw it. A man in a black hood moved to the corner of the building. He waited, peeking around the corner, while three more black-clad, hooded men silently lined up behind him.
Kallie gripped the glass tightly in her right hand, the acidic juice turning bitter in her stomach. She knew who they were. And who they were after.
Icy fingers of fear gripped her spine, belied by her exterior calm. Kallie set the glass of juice on the windowsill. She pivoted on her toes and, pleading with her feet to fall softly on the floor, raced through the apartment and burst into her bedroom. Before her body settled on the edge of the bed, her right hand covered Annie’s mouth and she was whispering through the bandana holding Annie’s hair in place.
“They’re here . . . men with hoods . . . coming through the shadows.” Her whispers sounded like shouts to her own ears. Annie’s eruption into wakefulness sent shockwaves through the bed. When she saw recognition in Annie’s eyes, Kallie removed her hand. “We’ve got to get out of here. There’s a shelter in the basement—rocket shelter. We can lock the door from the inside.”
Annie slipped out of the bed, pulling the blue, cotton nightshirt tightly around her. Kallie stopped at the bedroom door. Listened. She pulled in a deep breath, crossed to the front door, looked over her shoulder at Annie, and, with calculated care, slipped open the deadbolt. Kallie pressed her ear to the opening around the doorjamb. Silence. Annie was at her side. Follow me, Kallie mouthed.
Holding her breath, she inched the door open. The hallway of the apartment building was dimly lit by two wall fixtures flanking either side of the elevator. Kallie hesitated in the doorway. Her apartment was on the fourth floor, in the southeast corner. The elevator was to her right, in the middle of the hallway. Fire stairs occupied the corners of the building, at the ends of the hallway. If they know where I live, they’ll know my apartment. They won’t take the elevator.
“They’ll come up this side,” she whispered over her shoulder. “We need to get down the hallway, to the other fire stair.”
Kallie slipped out the door, feeling Annie at her back, easing the apartment door shut behind her. They ran to the right, down the hallway, hugging the wall. Kallie’s heart stalled as they approached the elevator and heard its motor running. She was about to break into a sprint when Annie grabbed her shoulder and brought her to a skidding halt.
Spinning on her heel, pleading on her lips, Kallie was stunned to see Annie pull the bandana off her head, wrap it around her right fist, and reach up to smash the bulb in one of the light fixtures. “Go,” Annie urged.
Dusky half-light engulfed them as they turned once more toward the fire stairs. Annie crushed the bulb in the second fixture as they ran down the now-darkened corridor. Kallie reached the fire door just as the hallway erupted. A shaft of light behind them split the dark and, at almost the same moment, they heard the crack of splitting wood.
Without pause, crouched down near the floor, Kallie grabbed the knob and pushed open the heavy fire door. “Now, while they’re distracted.” On hands and knees, Annie scrambled through the narrow opening and held the door ajar for Kallie.
Crouched on the landing of the stairs, Kallie’s heart slapped against her ribs and her gulping breath hissed through her teeth. Rocking on her haunches, she forced herself to wait, and listen. Silence filled the stairwell. Five flights to the basement. Kallie took a peek through the railing. No movement. Gingerly she padded down the stairs. Get to the basement. Swing away the wooden shelves hiding the entrance to the shelter. Safety.
Third floor. Kallie gripped the stair railing with both hands, pressing them in front of her as she pushed farther down the steps, trying to mix speed with stealth. Annie gave a clipped yip as she stumbled into Kallie’s back.
Forcing herself to stop between the third and second floor landings, a chill rippled over her skin. Her shirt was soaked with perspiration; her light fleece pants clung to her legs.
Above them, a muffled voice.
Kallie released the railing, planted her left hand against the concrete wall, and bounced down the steps two at a time. Now there was no stopping. Her eyes were riveted on the stairs beneath her feet, her ears straining above her, her hand rubbed raw by the rough concrete. They raced past the ground floor, descending into the growing gloom to the basement. More voices.
Annie’s hand was on Kallie’s shoulder, her fingers pressing into her flesh, pleading for speed.
They thudded onto the basement landing and Kallie threw her body against the door, spinning aside as Annie barreled through the opening.
Glancing upward, Kallie followed Annie through the door, hope beginning to kindle in her heart.
Hands, like iron clamps, grabbed her arms and held them fast. A scream started, and was snuffed out by a wadded cloth in her mouth. Something heavy shrouded her head. The iron hands slammed her body onto the cold floor. Wide, thick tape ripped around her wrists and ankles. She bucked, desperate for traction. Then a blow to her jaw, and the world went black.
Joe Rodriguez climbed into the battered, army-green Land Rover as the sky pinked over Jerusalem. Back in Washington Heights they would call this place Rent-a-Wreck. Here, at the intersec
tion of Salah ad Din Road and the Derech Shechem, across the road from three major hotels, David’s Vintage Autos reflected the city’s fundamental struggle between modern metropolis and ancient archaeological site. But it was open early, the still sleepy attendant asked few questions about a last-minute rental, and the engine and drive train, under the Land Rover’s battered shell, felt solid and sounded strong.
The night before, Rodriguez walked from Jeremiah’s Grotto, through the A Sa’ira Cemetery, along the Salah ad Din Road, clinging to the shadows and bypassing all of the large, tourist hotels. He wanted to be as invisible as possible. He found a small, nondescript bed-and-breakfast around the corner from the district court building, but was out the door before the coffee was warm.
Rucksack on the rear seat, his first stop was the back-street garage where Sam Reynolds had arranged for some extra supplies and special equipment to be waiting for Rodriguez. He put on a tan, cotton hat, with a wide, circular brim, and pulled it down tight, just over his eyes. He put on sunglasses even though the streets were still dusky and shadowed, and scrunched his tall frame deep into the Land Rover’s unforgiving front seat.
No one, other than Bohannon, should even know Rodriguez was in Jerusalem. But he wasn’t taking any chances. The Israelis and the Muslims both wanted what he was hunting. Only he knew where to look.
Rodriguez revved the engine to warm it, buckled up, and headed out onto Highway 60, south, into the desert.
Adaisseh, Lebanon
Small was a generous description for this town. Without the border crossing into Israel, Adaisseh would be a forgotten dot on the map. Bohannon rested his backpack on the dusty floor of the cramped, cinder-block bus station and scanned a map of the town that was pinned to the wall beside the door. The border crossing was only two streets away. He glanced out the door. Heat ripples shimmered above the asphalt street. An hour to kill, Bohannon crossed the street to a tiny café. Two small tables, shaded by a large awning, sat in front of the café’s window. He ordered tea and closed his eyes.
A barking dog startled Bohannon awake. His tea, untouched, sat on the table, the playground of several large, black flies. Bohannon rubbed his eyes, stretched his neck—then thought of his watch. Nine twenty-five. “Awwww . . . shoot!”
Bohannon jumped to his feet, pulled the wallet from his back pocket, and dropped his last Lebanese thousand-pound note—about sixty-six cents—onto the table and took off at a fast walk toward the crossing.
The travel shop, occupying the corner of a squat, one-story building across from the border crossing, wasn’t hard to find. As Bohannon crossed the street, he glanced at the border to his right. And a chill ran up his spine.
Large, thirty-foot-high guard towers flanked the entrance to the crossing at both ends. A razor-wire-topped fence stretched away from the entry into the distance, twenty feet high. A sand-bag labyrinth snaked from the road to the first gate, guarded front and back by heavily armed, helmeted soldiers who looked anything but welcoming. Leading away from the Lebanese entrance was a fence-lined run of concrete, ten feet wide and about a football field in length. Weeds sprouted through cracks at the edges of the concrete. At the other end of the crossing was an even more fortified Israeli outpost, barrels of machine guns poking from turrets in a reinforced concrete bunker.
Between the two armed camps and the two sets of fences stretching off into the distance, was a no-man’s land, a killing zone through which all travelers were forced to pass—carrying their luggage—before being scrutinized and interrogated by Lebanese or Israeli soldiers.
The border crossing was empty. But not the entrance.
In addition to the Lebanese soldiers, three men loitered in the shade of the sandbag wall. All three were looking directly at Bohannon, with no attempt at subterfuge, and now started to move in his direction.
Hoping not to look suspicious to the Lebanese border guards, Bohannon picked up his pace, ducked into the cooler shade of the travel shop and let his eyes adjust. At the back of the shop was a glass case on top of which sat an ancient cash register. Beside the cash register stood an ebony-colored man, about six-two, well muscled, wearing a loose, white cotton shirt and a look of animosity that matched the threatening aura of the crossing itself. Bohannon glanced at his watch. Nine thirty-five. He was late.
With a look over his shoulder, he crossed the weathered tile floor, pulled out his wallet, peeled away the two hundred-dollar bills from behind the wallet flap, and, looking into the ebony man’s eyes, laid the two bills on top of the glass cabinet.
Suddenly unsure of himself, realizing the risk he was about to take, afraid to say the wrong thing and blow the password, Bohannon stood mute, staring at the man. “Aaahh . . . can I get . . . I mean . . . aaahh . . . I want to get—I mean convert—these dollars into euros.” The man behind the counter had thick, red lips, a wide nose, and dark eyes that seemed to drill through Bohannon’s skull.
The man’s eyes broke away from Bohannon’s face, looked over his shoulder toward the door of the shop.
“You’re late,” he said, his eyes never leaving the door.
“Yes, I know,” Bohannon stammered, “but I fell asleep at the café while I was waiting and I—”
A black hand grabbed Bohannon’s wrist. A vision of years in a Lebanese prison flashed through his mind.
“Settle down.” The voice was melodic, tinted with the traces of many accents. “I’ve been keeping watch for you. So have those guys across the street. Your buddy came through yesterday. He’s fine. And don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here and across the border.”
Relief swept through Bohannon, washing away the strength of his legs. His knees buckled. The hand held him steady.
“Easy.” The eyes once more swept toward the door. “Go over there and look at those tee shirts at the back of the shop.” The black man gave a flick of his head to the left. “Look at every shirt. When you’re done, make an about-face and walk through the door at the back of the shop. I’ll meet you there.”
Before Bohannon could move, the black man’s hand squeezed his wrist and picked his hand up from the counter. The man’s other hand swept up the two hundreds. “Overhead.”
Thirty-one . . . thirty-two . . . thirty-three . . . Bohannon found himself counting the brightly colored shirts hanging from the round, metal rack. . . . thirty-four . . . thirty-five . . . did I see that one before? He shook his head, forced himself not to look at the front door, and self-consciously marched through the back door and into a narrow, darkened alley. Bohannon pressed against the back wall of the building, trying to remain in what little shadow there was. What if he doesn’t come? What do I do next? He looked down the darkened alley to his right, the second floor of the buildings on either side extending over the street. Should I run?
“Quickly . . . they think you’re in the outhouse on the other side of the building.”
Without pause, the black man crossed the narrow alley and entered a large building, Bohannon on his heels—until he was blinded by the dark inside the warehouse.
“This way.”
Bohannon followed the voice as his eyes adjusted. Ten steps and the man stopped at a closed door.
“On the other side is an open square, but it’s not visible from the street. On the opposite side of the square is a portal with a door. Go through the door. Don’t stop for anything until you’re through that door. If someone calls out while you’re crossing the square, just keep going. Keep your eyes on the door and your head down. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“But . . . who are you . . . those men?”
The big, black man smiled. “I’ve been here a long time. They think I’m one of them. So, no sweat. And you can just think of me as Uncle Sam.”
Bohannon returned the smile. “Thanks, uncle. Take care of yourself.”
“Go. Don’t stop.”
And Bohannon was out the door.
Jerusalem
Flashing blue lights reflected off the leaves of the trees surro
unding the parking lot, turning them a deathly pale gray, as the taxi turned off the Bar-Lev Road into the lot surrounding the six-story apartment building. Half asleep in the back seat—drained by the heat, the emotional turmoil of his near-death experience in Syria, and the clandestine route required to return to Jerusalem—Tom Bohannon took little notice of the police presence at the far corner of the building.
When the taxi drew to a halt, Bohannon threw his backpack over one shoulder and was happy to find he had enough Israeli shekels in his wallet to pay the driver. Feeling the weight of the last few days, he shuffled to the apartment entrance, punched in the code for Kallie Nolan’s apartment, pushed through the solid glass security door, and waited for the elevator. I wonder if Joe’s here. If he’s heard anything from Doc or McDonough.
Thoughts sludged through Bohannon’s brain, slowed to a crawl by his numbing fatigue. He stepped out of the elevator into a darkened hallway, but stopped short. Policemen were gathered at the far end of the hall and one was kneeling at the doorway of an apartment, brushing powder against a splintered door frame.
Kallie’s?
The backpack fell to the carpet and Bohannon reached out for the wall to steady his legs. The same dread that triggered his instinct to run down the hallway clamped his feet to the floor. He took a staggering step forward and stumbled down the hall as a soldier stepped out of the shattered doorway and advanced toward him. A shout strangled in his throat.
“Mr. Bohannon?” asked the soldier.
Tom tore his eyes away from the door, hanging drunkenly from one hinge, and forced his gaze to the face of the soldier standing in front of him. The man raised his right hand and grasped Bohannon’s bicep. The muscles in Tom’s legs threatened to stop working.
“There’s no one here . . . but there’s no blood,” said the soldier, his grip growing firmer on Bohannon’s arm. “There was a forced entry last night . . . early this morning, perhaps. But we think your wife and Ms. Nolan got out of the apartment.”
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 28
