“Tonight, we have won, my brother. Tonight, we have repaid everything. Life for life. In an abundance. Your sons will never want for anything. Your wife will not be left destitute. And your life, squandered in such a useless manner, has been avenged. Rest, my brother. Rest in peace.”
Leonidas straightened his shoulders, started to turn, and then stopped. Perhaps he could make just one more call. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his personal BlackBerry. It wouldn’t matter now. Everything was in motion just as he planned. Except this call . . . the one he hadn’t planned. But the thought was so sweet.
He dialed the number.
“Good evening, my friend.”
“I have no more need of your services,” the voice said in reply.
“Yes, that is correct,” Leonidas said through the voice distorter. “You are out of business. Shin Bet knows of your plans. All of your plans. The Tent will be in place before you can act. And they will be coming for the women.”
Leonidas relished the slight intake of breath on the receiving end, and the final words he so long desired to say to Imam Moussa al-Sadr. “Burn in hell, you madman.”
Leonidas carried the framed picture to a small bag by the door, inserted it into a padded pocket inside the bag, pulled closed the zipper, and left his office, his home, his legacy.
“Can I help you, sir?” said the guard by the gate.
“No, sergeant, thank you. I’m just going for a short walk. It’s a bit windy, but a beautiful night.”
“Yes sir . . . good night, Mr. Shomsky.”
29
MONDAY, AUGUST 24 (CONTINUED)
5:08 a.m., Balata Camp, Nablus, West Bank
“How many are in place?”
“Three hundred . . . one hundred under the Haram, the rest in the two houses at the other end of the tunnel,” said Youssef. “They will be through the tunnel within minutes of the assault. There are another five hundred within a kilometer of the Haram. They will have to fight their way through.”
“Is that enough? Will we succeed?”
“Yes, Holy One, it is enough for what we hope to accomplish. But why don’t we strike now? Before the Israelis bring more troops . . . before the Tent arrives?”
Al-Sadr placed his hand on the commander’s massive arm, a gesture of endearment that was lost neither on Youssef nor on his master. Only al-Sadr knew the gesture was simply for effect. “Be patient. We want the Zionists to erect their sacrilege—it gives us just cause in the eyes of the world, and it rallies our brothers. It will stir the heart of Islam to outrage. The great mosque, the beautiful Dome, lying in ruins and these usurper Jews bury them beneath concrete and then try to steal the Haram from Islam? They have no right! This is insult . . . sacrilege. So, let them commit their abomination. Then we will attack with the ferocity of the wronged. We will destroy this sham of a temple and reclaim the Haram.”
“But, can we hold it?”
The old man walked over to a small window that looked out over the Balata camp. In the distance the barking of dogs mixed with the smell of charcoal cooking fires to fill the early morning air. “There is no need to hold it,” he whispered. “We only need to gain possession of the Haram, destroy the infidel’s tent, and claim it as the rightful domain of the Jordanian Waqf. When the Israelis counterattack, which they will—and they will succeed—we have legitimacy in the eyes of the world. And they look like the brutal oppressors they are. The future of Jerusalem, of al-Haram al-Sharif, will soon be out of Israel’s hands. The world court, world opinion will decide, will force Israel to make concessions for peace. The holy mountain will be restored to Islam. The Dome, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, will rise once more . . . and the Brotherhood will be united under one banner.”
Al-Sadr turned from the window to look at Youssef. The ambient light from the Balata camp filled the window, creating a shimmering, almost angelic glow behind the old man.
“The Brotherhood continues to sow seeds of revolution. Jordan will be next—that puppet king will lose both his throne and his head,” said al-Sadr, his voice rising like the tidal wave of chaos that was spreading over the Middle East. His right arm rose, punctuating every pledge. “And our Syrian president should not feel comfortable tonight. He, too, will soon feel the wrath of the unleashed unwashed. Syria, too, will drop into the waiting hands of the Brotherhood. And then the Jew will be surrounded with enemies once again—no more of this blasphemous peace with the Jews.”
He took a step forward. “But my eyes, Youssef, are on the Saud . . . the fat, the arrogant Saud . . . how great will be their fall.”
9:35 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, Washington, DC
Jonathan Whitestone sat in the quiet and the dark of the Rose Garden, the velvety soft aroma soothing his nerves. Too much was happening, too quickly. The risk of taking a misstep was high, and a misstep could be cataclysmic.
Bill Cartwright entered the garden and walked down the path toward the president. The look on his face telegraphed his message.
“More bad news, Bill?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said the CIA director. “The Israelis are in possession of the Tent of Meeting. It appears that Joe Rodriguez uncovered some clues to its location. He found it in some place called Scorpion Pass, down by the southern end of the Dead Sea. Rodriguez didn’t have it long. Shin Bet had him covered like a blanket, and they closed in immediately. The Tent will soon be on its way to Jerusalem and the Israelis have locked down the city. My contact said Baruk has given the order that the Tent be assembled immediately . . . tonight . . . so the Jews can reestablish ritual sacrifice on the Mount and declare sovereignty over the entire Mount platform.”
Whitestone felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. “That would be a disaster. How good is your contact?”
“High up . . . on the inside of the Israeli government.”
The president rose and started back toward the White House, then turned to face Cartwright. “Bill, do we still have a black ops team in place in Israel?”
“Yes, Mr. President. They can be on the move with a phone call. I’ve had them on standby since yesterday.”
“Good.” Whitestone took a step toward the CIA director. “Put them in play.” Whitestone took a deep breath to try to calm his thumping heart. This was the biggest gamble of his presidency. “Bill, we have to do everything in our power to ensure that Tent does not remain in Israeli hands . . . or fall into the hands of the Muslims. Tell the team to take whatever steps they can to secure it or destroy it, before it can be assembled. Make it look like an accident.”
Cartwright’s eyes searched the president’s face. “Jon, I don’t know if we can get it done. And, if we do, Baruk . . . the Israelis . . . will go ballistic if they find out we were behind the destruction of the Tent.”
Whitestone put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Don’t I know it. This could be a political and diplomatic nightmare.” He sighed, and shook his head, trying to escape the weight that pressed down on his neck. “But anything is better than World War Three. Get the team moving. And let’s pray we’re making the right decision.”
5:22 a.m., Tel Aviv
Black against black, the Zodiac was invisible even though it was being thrown around by three-foot waves. The wind continued to build. The bursts were so violent, so low, the wind sucked water from the surface of the sea and drove the spray before it like a sandstorm in the desert. The waves rolled higher, but the Zodiac’s powerful, silent, electric engine pushed the bouncing inflatable intractably onward toward the freighter. Three black-clad, black-masked men watched the harbor launch pull away from the ship, its passenger climbing the gangway like a drunken sailor, and guided the Zodiac to the far side of the ship.
While attention was fixed on the ship’s sole, arriving passenger, the men in the Zodiac used magnetic moorings connected to long ropes to attach the inflatable to the freighter amidships, where the gunwale was low to the water. They hooked an assembled ladder to the side of the ship, then scrambled up,
over, and into the shadows before the next big wave could roll the top rail out of reach.
No one was on this side of the ship. One stayed in the shadows beneath an overhang to guard the boat. The other two moved forward, opened a door, and disappeared from sight.
Captain Longines was not entirely pleased with the half-now, half-later nature of the transaction, but Shomsky knew that the half Longines had already banked would keep this tug running for a year—without any supplemental income. Now secure in his cabin, Shomsky was certain the fortune that awaited Captain Longines would keep him safe throughout their voyage.
“You may desire to secure your belongings . . . that computer,” said the captain, pointing to Shomsky’s bags. “The sea, she is very angry tonight. We shall all be punished for our sins, monsieur. I think, none of us will escape her fury, eh?”
A chill gripped Shomsky’s heart at the captain’s choice of words but, as the door closed behind him, Shomsky dismissed Longines’s prophetic warning as the fanciful fears of an ignorant and superstitious thug. He was safe on this ship, finally safe after so many years of planning and executing his revenge. Lukas Painter was the commander who sentenced his twin, his only brother, to death in the sands of Libya. His country never acknowledged the loss or the sacrifice. Israel never admitted its complicity in his death—that one of his own soldiers, friendly fire, ripped apart Lieutenant Shomsky’s chest with a burst of automatic fire and then left him to die. It was as if Hillel Shomsky, 33rd Brigade, Red Raiders, never existed. He was never mourned. Never honored. Never buried. It had taken Chaim ten years to track down the members of the patrol, to finally extract the truth.
Now, at last, he was avenged. Painter had already paid. Now Israel would pay. And Shomsky was free.
There was a knock on the door. The captain with another warning?
Shomsky opened the door to his small room. He saw nothing. He peered out into the hallway. A hand clamped closed over his mouth and a forearm pressed into the back of his neck, cutting off his breath. He was lifted off his feet, pushed back into the room as a second figure, covered in black head-to-foot, entered and closed the door. Shomsky was quickly trussed and gagged, only his eyes able to move. The two looked about the room. One pointed to the computer console.
One of the black-clad men picked up the computer, the other picked up Shomsky’s considerable body and tilted it over his shoulder. They moved, without sound or hurry, into the short hallway, then aft. Shomsky couldn’t speak, or move, but his mind was screaming for help.
The crew was busy getting the freighter under way. They came to a halt. Shomsky was lowered, turned around, and pushed through an open door.
The men turned right and slipped through the shadows of the overhang. Near the end they stopped and lowered Shomsky to the deck. Without a wasted motion, they pulled him to a seated position. One pressed the computer console into his chest while another secured it to his body with the same immovable rope that bound his hands and feet.
Chaim Shomsky looked at the computer in his lap. Fitting. He thought of all the money that would rot and go unclaimed in those banks, of the diamonds that would now be lost in the silt of Tel Aviv harbor. Then he thought of Painter, executed on the slopes of Mount Nebo. He thought of what must be, or would be, occurring on the Temple Mount at any moment. He thought of his brother. Fitting. It was all fitting. Even this.
The two men picked him up, shoulders and ankles, and carried him to the side of the freighter. The ship was in a long, rolling arc, this side just past its apex and now falling back toward the blackness of the Mediterranean. Just as the gunwales kissed the top of the waves, the two men slipped Shomsky noiselessly into the churning sea. He began to sink immediately, the money, gold, and diamonds adding to the speed of his descent.
I’m coming.
7:17 a.m., The Negev
Belching diesel engines and the heavy grinding of low-geared trucks snapped Rodriguez out of an uncomfortable, fitful sleep. He was strapped into the front seat of an Israeli Defense Force off-road vehicle, an X-harness holding his body in place while his hands and feet were bound with metal shackles. He couldn’t locate an inch of his body that didn’t hurt.
Down through the cleft of the wadi, kicking up choking plumes of gritty sand, weaved an endless line of heavy transport trucks, some filled with soldiers, some filled with tools, some empty, awaiting their precious cargo. And the precious cargo was not Joe Rodriguez. He might get to ride along—to jail—but these trucks were reserved for the Tabernacle . . . the Tent That Moves. And it would be moving once again.
Rodriguez tried to find a comfortable position, but it was impossible. This was going to be a long day.
7:53 a.m., Jerusalem
Rizzo looked at the impossible-to-identify mound of steaming stuff on the flimsy paper plate, and then looked up at the jailer. “Hey, Abraham . . . where’s my blueberry pancakes, eh?”
The Israeli soldier on the other side of the bars reminded Rizzo of the ferret he once owned as a kid, a hand-me-down pet from his cousin Shaun who had a dozen of the furry rats running around his home. Long of nose, weak of eyes, jerky in his movements, all the soldier was missing was the brown fur. Rizzo was already planning how he was going to staple a fur coat to the soldier’s back if he ever got the chance.
“Eat it or don’t eat it,” said the ferret. “It makes no difference to me.” He put down on the floor, near the bars, two paper cups filled with water. “But you might be here a long time.”
Shut up, you jerk.
Rizzo turned to the cell on his right. After exhausting himself with screaming for a phone call, for the American ambassador, for his freedom—and pounding on the bars until his fists began to bleed—Bohannon had dropped into a fitful, moaning half-sleep that kept Rizzo up all night with concern. For the last few hours, Tom hadn’t moved a muscle.
Now, at the words of the ferret jailer, Bohannon was up again, poised on the edge of his bunk for another assault on the thick steel bars. Rizzo acted to circumvent Bohannon’s attack.
“Hey, Tom. Glad to see you’re awake. You’re just in time for this great breakfast. It’s some kind of hybrid—something between oatmeal and goat meal, I think. But it’s hot and there’s a lot of it. You should eat. We’re going to need our strength when we get out of here.”
It worked. Bohannon took his eyes off the bars and turned his head to look at Rizzo.
“I was just talking to Ferret Face. He said we’ll probably get sprung in a little while. So just sit—”
“I was awake,” said Bohannon. His voice had all the life of a mortuary. “I heard what he said. We’re not going anywhere.”
Bohannon lifted himself off the bunk and walked over to his steaming mound of mystery cereal. He picked up the plate in both hands and walked to the bars beside the cell door. Turning up the sides, he passed the plate through the bars and held it on the far side, his arms extending through the openings between the bars. Rizzo watched as Tom shifted the plate to his right hand, crooked his arm back against the bars and catapulted the plate and its contents into a splatter on the far, cinder-block wall.
“Let me out!” Bohannon screamed, his voice raspy from overuse. “I want my rights! I want to talk to the American embassy! Let me out of here!”
Without thinking, Rizzo took the plate in his hands and lifted it to throw at the wall. The mound of mystery cereal slipped off the paper plate; wilted his billowy, blue pants with a splosh; slid down his leg; and gathered into a pool on, in, and around his borrowed, child-sized leather boots. Rizzo looked down at the slop all over his leg and launched himself at the iron bars.
“Let me out!” Rizzo screamed in harmony with Bohannon. “Let me out of here you furry—”
“Let us out!” screamed Bohannon.
Both men beat their balled fists against the unforgiving iron bars.
5:30 p.m., The Negev
The first truck sounded like it was trying to give birth. Its engine roared and its gears ground and sc
reeched, its massive tires spinning divots into the soft, gritty pumice of the Negev.
Maybe we’re not going anywhere after all.
Rodriguez watched as the truck’s tires gained traction, and the heavily laden hauler began the long journey to Jerusalem.
9:34 p.m., Jerusalem
Major Avram Levin approached Rodriguez as he and his babysitters were the last to emerge from the troop-carrier.
“Good evening, Mr. Rodriguez . . . Major Levin.” He saluted as he spoke. “I’ve seen you many times, mostly through the lens of a surveillance camera. I’ve looked forward to this meeting, but I’ve got more pressing matters at the moment.”
Levin’s eyes were pulled toward the unloading trucks.
“What . . . did we inconvenience you the last time we were here?”
Levin turned back to Rodriguez. Another American with an attitude. “Do you know how many laws you’ve broken on this trip to Israel alone? Not to mention the mayhem that accompanied your previous visit. Our city is still trying to recover. So don’t give me any trouble, Mr. Rodriguez, or I’ll throw you into the same jail with Bohannon and Rizzo.”
“You arrested them? What are they in jail for?”
“For interfering with a police investigation . . . for immigration violations . . . for just getting in the way, as you are doing now. I don’t have time for a debate, Mr. Rodriguez.”
Levin looked across the Temple Mount at the caravan that continued to arrive atop the restored platform—a line of more than two dozen, heavy-duty, canvas-covered construction trucks with the orange “K” on a field of pale blue that symbolized Krupp Industries. It was not unlike many other deliveries of construction materials made to the Mount over the past months, though few deliveries had demanded six armored personnel carriers and two troop-carrier trucks as escort. The soldiers in the trucks and APCs jumped from their vehicles and joined those already on the ground, some forming a human wall around the flatbeds, others stepping up to help unload.
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 35
