2:15 a.m.
Clasped to the poles by brass rings, the curtains of the Tent of Meeting now hung from all four of its sides. There were upright poles in heavy brass stands and, connected to the upright poles, the framing wood ran horizontally from pole to pole. It was from these horizontal rails at the top of the frame that the hides now hung down, obscuring the work being done inside the Tent itself as the Sanctuary was erected. The Tent was huge . . . one hundred and fifty feet on each side, seventy-five feet across its breadth.
The pace and demeanor of the priests and rabbis scurrying over the Mount elevated from hurried to frantic as more material was carried inside the enclosure to erect the inner Sanctuary—the Holy Place and, inside that, the Most Holy Place which, in the time of Moses, had been the home of the Ark of the Covenant.
Activity in the skies also became more frenetic, and much louder. Not long after construction of the Tent began, media helicopters flocked toward the Mount, their spotlights searching out visual images to send across the airways. They didn’t get close. Phalanxes of military helicopters hunted down every civilian craft that ventured near the Old City and drove them off into the distance—twice unleashing 50-caliber bursts in the vicinity of the more daring pilots. Now Israeli gunships hovered at the four corners of the platform, pairs of helicopters circled around the perimeter of the Old City, and individual choppers continued to flash across the top of the Temple Mount from random directions.
On a regular basis, the whine and thunder of fighter jets could also be heard crisscrossing the sky above.
The Humvee jumped the curb on a tight, curving street, drove across the grass of a small park, and came to a violent halt, its right front fender intimately close to a long wall of golden-hued Jerusalem stone that towered above their heads. Bohannon pulled on the flak jacket.
“Let’s go. Bohannon, you’re with me.” Fischoff pressed the shoulder mic. “Two-by-two, corporal. Through the gate. Then bear right, to the stairs.”
Fischoff squeezed through the right side door. Bohannon stood with the driver by the left fender, conscious of his empty hands as he watched the four soldiers cradle their Uzis in front of their chests.
“You okay?”
Tom looked down into the face of Sammy Rizzo. The wise guy was long gone.
“Scared,” said Tom, “but, yeah.”
“Remember when we were here last time?” said Rizzo. “Seems like a lifetime ago.”
Just south of the Jaffa Gate, the Citadel—commonly but inaccurately called David’s Tower—had been planted on the most exposed flank of Jerusalem since long before the time of Herod the Great. Every conqueror had added to this stronghold, which held a dominant view over the Old City—Herod built three massive towers; the Romans expanded and strengthened the walls; the Ottoman Turks added a soaring minaret. Was it only one month ago that Bohannon, Rizzo, Rodriguez, and Doc stood on the parapet of the Citadel, staring across the Old City to the Dome of the Rock and the Temple Mount? Yes, a lifetime ago.
“Weapons check,” whispered the sergeant, pulling Bohannon into the dangerous present.
Standing erect, Fischoff was smaller than Bohannon realized. Taut, sinuous muscles defined his arms and legs. The sergeant looked like the kind of guy who could eat nails for breakfast. He looked over his expanded squad and motioned the first two soldiers down along the ancient stone wall. Rizzo, his armored vest slipping and sliding with every step, jogged to keep up with the fast-moving corporal.
Halfway down the wall, the first group stopped. They were on a narrow lane, the Old City wall on their right. Bohannon could hear steady activity on the Hativat Yerushalayim, the main road to his left, traffic winding around the Old City even at this hour.
Fischoff led off at a trot, paused momentarily next to the first pair of soldiers, then moved again along the wall, stopping just short of a narrow wooden door. It was padlocked from the outside.
Fischoff’s driver stepped forward, reached into the right thigh pocket of his fatigue pants, and pulled out a stout, but compact, cutting tool. He wrapped the blades around the hasp of the rusty old lock, and squeezed.
Rizzo and his group arrived at the sound of the dull snap. The corporal’s group crossed to the far side of the door and crouched against the wall, mimicking Fischoff’s group. Bohannon, crouching between the sergeant and his driver, could sense the eye contact between sergeant and corporal. The corporal’s hand reached out and opened the door as if a bolt of lightning was waiting to be loosed from the other side.
Fischoff glanced inside, left, along the angle of the open door. Inching it farther open, he tucked his head around for a glance in the opposite direction. They were in shadow, below the lights that illuminated the walls of old Jerusalem. Fischoff nodded his head forward. First the driver moved around Bohannon and the sergeant, slipped inside the door to its far side, and turned his body and his Uzi to cover their backs as they came through the wall. Then it was Rizzo, trailing his team. When Fischoff broke, he didn’t stop on the other side of the door as the others had but ran straight and low across the open space and ducked under the overhang of a portico.
Bohannon hesitated.
The ground in the open space, a courtyard in its distant past, was a honeycomb of sinkholes and raised edges, collapsing in some places, sticking up like ragged fingers in others.
The sergeant had raced across what looked like the top of an old wall, maybe twelve inches across, with gaping holes falling away intermittently on both sides. With others running up behind him, Bohannon was forced to move. He sucked in a desperate breath, focused his eyes on his feet, and ran. Fischoff was waiting. His scowl asked the question for him.
“Caught me by surprise,” said Bohannon, his voice barely a whisper. “Just a little intimidated by—”
“Let’s go,” Fischoff hissed. “Down,” he said to the corporal, pointing to the stairs, then spun on his heel and led Bohannon and the driver into the dark of the ancient Citadel.
“What’s your name?”
“Fischoff.”
Bohannon and the sergeant were pressed into a small alcove under the stairs leading to David’s Tower, catching their breath, looking for any movement and listening for any sound from above.
“No, your first name.”
“Sergeant.”
Their whispers traveled inches. Their eyes and ears stretched to unknown heights.
There were two towers lifting a hundred feet from the floor of the Citadel. The far tower was clearly a creation of the Crusaders, as square and solid as the Germanic knights who erected it after the second great European invasion. It was one of the corner battlements of the fortress, an integral part of the walls. Above them a second tower stretched into the sky. This one was also squat and square at the bottom, fastened to the wall of the Citadel by centuries of mortar and old stone. At the top of the wall’s first rampart, the tower left the security of the fortress wall and became a round minaret visible throughout the city. At its peak, the spiral flattened out again and supported a square room with balconies from which the imams would call the faithful to prayer.
Sergeant Fischoff looked up at the spiraling tower, then over toward the square Crusader tower. There was a ten- to twelve-foot gap between the square tower and the platform pinnacle of the Islamic minaret. Bohannon watched, perspiration spreading across his forehead, as the sergeant looked back and forth between the two towers. He appeared to be uncertain, choosing his route.
“If it were me,” Fischoff whispered to himself, “I’d be in the square tower . . . two men guarding the base . . . the rest at the top. Easier to defend. Easier to escape.”
The sergeant stiffened. He was getting ready. He turned his head to the driver. “Stay here. Make sure no one comes out of those towers except us . . . and the women.”
He met Bohannon’s eyes. “Stay close.”
Before Bohannon could respond, the sergeant bolted out of the stone alcove.
Rizzo expended every ounce of energy as
he struggled to keep pace with the Israeli soldiers darting ahead of him, one running past the other, taking point, while his partner mimicked his moves. A few dirty window panes, set high in the walls, filtered the orange, mercury-vapor lights washing the Old City walls, creating a heavy twilight into the corridor under the Citadel. The considerable layer of dust on the cobblestone floor muffled their steps but clogged their throats. Tourists weren’t permitted in these winding catacombs—storage rooms and stables for a thousand years—and it smelled like the stalls hadn’t been cleaned in that long. Even though there were no other footprints in the dust—at least from this direction—the soldiers paused at every opening, swept each room with their eyes and their Uzis, before swiftly moving on. Rizzo’s legs were cramping.
They came to a fork in the corridor. The corporal peeked down both shafts of retreating stone walls, looked at his partner, tapped two fingers under his eyes, and then pointed to the right. Before Rizzo could blink, the soldier was gone and the corporal spun around to face Rizzo, only inches away. Rizzo’s eyes bulged as the corporal grabbed his shirt and yanked him nearer. “Close,” he whispered.
Fischoff selected the Crusader tower. Bohannon didn’t care. He figured they would be easy targets no matter which stairway they chose. Now much more deliberate, Fischoff placed his back against the stone wall just inside the tower’s entrance, then side-stepped his way along the wall, never taking his eyes off the highest point of the circular stairs as they rose out of his view. Bohannon followed suit, two feet behind the sergeant. Before the first step, Fischoff stopped and tipped the barrel of his machine gun down toward the stairs. Bohannon could easily detect the marks of boot prints on the steps—going up. He tensed, set his body, and was ready to run up the steps, but Fischoff’s burly right arm barred the way. The sergeant caught Bohannon’s eyes, his arm pressing harder into Tom’s chest. Bohannon got the message.
The sergeant removed his arm, then reached down to his holster, pulled out the automatic, turned the butt end around to Bohannon, and handed him the gun. Tom felt the cold metal in his hand, but he was now sweating so hard that the gun nearly slipped to the floor. He felt its weight—heavier than he expected. He felt its power, and blood began to beat through his temples. He looked up from his fascination with the weapon. Fischoff had his palm up, toward Bohannon. He tapped his chest and walked his fingers up the stairs. He held up his palm again, then pointed at Bohannon, pointed at Bohannon’s eyes, and reached around and touched his own back.
Watch his back.
Spit was impossible, breathing almost as difficult. Bohannon squeezed the nine millimeter in his palm and nodded his head. He was going to get up those stairs one way or another. If it had to be protecting the sergeant’s back, fine. But he was going up.
The sergeant swung his head, shoulders, and machine gun around, fixed the uppermost segment in his sight, and started up the stairs.
Rizzo and the corporal came to the last door in the corridor. The corporal pushed his back against the wall alongside the closed door and looked down at Rizzo, who had done the same. At the first four rooms they encountered, the doors were open, the corporal swept the room quickly, and Rizzo could swallow again. Now Rizzo’s heart was racing faster than when he’d been running to keep pace with the soldiers. He placed his hands against the wall for support, bit his lip, and waited for the corporal to try the door. Instead, the corporal held the Uzi against his chest with his right hand. With his left, he reached behind his back, unsnapped the cover on a small holster clipped to his utility belt, and pulled out a small, black automatic pistol. He handed it to Rizzo.
About time, kibbutznik! Rizzo hefted the gun in his hand. Now we’re talking. Let’s go.
The corporal reached down to his left and snapped the safety on the automatic forward. He pointed with his left hand, index finger straight out, thumb in the air.
Armed . . . got it! Rizzo nodded. He was surprised. His hands were steady. He felt calm . . . purposeful.
The corporal returned both hands to his Uzi and turned his attention to the door. He inched to his right, away from Rizzo, closer to the frame. Taking his palm, he placed it tenderly against the wood and pressed. It didn’t budge. The latch was on the far side of the door panel. The corporal glanced momentarily to his left, toward Rizzo.
Don’t worry about me, buster.
Tapping the wall with his knuckle, the corporal pointed down to the floor. Rizzo stayed put. The corporal moved to the other side of the door. It was a gamble. Rizzo knew the door opened in. He would get the first look into the room. He would be vulnerable. But the corporal would have the full room in view from his vantage point once he threw the door open. Rizzo raised the small automatic and held it with both hands.
Don’t kill the kibbutznik.
Bohannon followed the sergeant, his back against the wall, his head swinging back and forth, trying to look ahead and behind at the same time. The boot tracks on the steps kept rising above them. They were up four flights of the square tower, about halfway, when they heard the first gunshots.
Bohannon ducked and looked up the stairs.
The sergeant was looking down. The shots came from below . . . then more of them. Tap-tap-tap . . . three more in succession. Then a burst of automatic fire. And the sergeant was racing up the stairs.
Fischoff was running like a man possessed, Bohannon right on his heels, running as fast as his legs could possibly pump. Fischoff was younger, in much better shape, and had the training, and soon he was half a flight ahead of Bohannon, taking the stairs two at a time like a hurdler reaching for the finish line. Without pausing for a moment, Fischoff burst onto the upper platform. Bohannon stumbled, looked up, and the sergeant was gone. Left or right? The muscles in his legs ready to ripsaw through his skin, Bohannon reached the platform to the sound of splitting wood.
There was one room at the top of the stairs, occupying half of the upper platform, its door to the left. Bohannon wrapped both hands around the gun’s grip and took two long strides toward the door as something crashed against a wall inside the room.
Bohannon leveled the gun, his finger off the trigger, and turned into the room. Fischoff was standing over a shattered table, a terrible look of despair on his face. Tom quickly scanned the room. There was a black backdrop against the far wall, with a design at its center—the Coptic cross with the lightning bolt slashing through on the diagonal. The sign of the Prophet’s Guard. In front of the backdrop were two chairs and two video cameras. A small satellite dish pointed out the only window.
Draped over the back of one of the chairs was a piece of cloth—blue cotton with a floral print. Bohannon knew what it was. A piece of Annie’s nightshirt. He had seen it too many times. It probably still had her smell. He stumbled toward the two chairs, reached down, and picked up the cloth. It was one of the sleeves and the bottom half of the torn fabric was stained, wet, sticky. A reddish-brown stain ran down the back of the chair.
Bohannon’s eyes went wide and a primordial scream boiled up from the depths.
“Oh . . . my God . . . oh, my . . .”
Blood from the cloth now stained his fingers as Bohannon squeezed the fabric.
“How could you! God . . . how could you!”
Bohannon wiped his hand on his pants, leveled the gun toward the black backdrop, and emptied half the clip into the sign of the amulet hanging on the wall.
As echoes of gunshots reverberated off the stone walls and through Tom’s head, Fischoff grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door.
“C’mon . . . they can’t be far ahead.”
The sergeant raced from the room, turned right, and was out the small door that led onto the tower’s rampart. Bohannon stumbled after him, only half aware of what he was doing.
When Fischoff reached the edge of the platform, he stopped and looked across the gap of open air, and then down toward the ground. “Look!” he shouted.
Bohannon closed his eyes. He couldn’t look down.
�
�They must have crossed to the other tower on those boards!”
With that declaration, and a slight pause, Fischoff hurled himself off the top of the square Crusader tower and onto the muezzin’s porch—the balcony from which Islam’s faithful were called to prayer—on the Muslim spire. Fischoff landed on the far platform with both boots, his body leaning forward, and stumbled two steps to the wall of the minaret.
Bohannon stood frozen in place, his eyes riveted on the open sky between this tower and the other—probably ten feet, but it looked like a hundred. Annie . . . Kallie . . . could they have gotten across? Impulsively, Bohannon looked over the edge and saw the planks, a long way down. His head started swimming, a current like cold electricity shivered through his muscles, his stomach felt like an airplane in turbulence. He gripped the balustrade. There were no bodies on the ground—yet.
“Move man! Jump!”
Only a heartbeat had passed. Fischoff hesitated for only a moment on the other side, then thrust himself through an opening on the porch and into the minaret’s interior.
Annie! The renewed thought of his wife suffering and bleeding somewhere restored the steel in Bohannon’s spine. He pushed two steps back, accelerated with all the strength he had gained in his high-intensity bike rides with Connor, and launched himself from the very edge of the balcony, arms flailing, legs racing into that place that had no bottom. Except way down there, ninety feet below.
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 37
