Experts from the CIA, the Mossad and other agencies painstakingly combed through the rubble in the American Colony Hotel, examining everything they came across to determine how the attack had occurred and what explosives were used. Agents pored through employment files and background information on every hotel employee. They retrieved the logbooks that notated every delivery van and maintenance truck that had arrived in the past two weeks, and calls were made to confirm the vehicles were legitimate.
It didn't take long to piece together what had happened. The material the terrorists used was called Torpex, an abbreviation of the words torpedo explosive. More powerful than TNT, the same stuff was used in the 2008 bombing of Pakistan's Islamabad Marriott Hotel, where fifty-four people were killed. Some world leaders blamed al Qaeda for that act, although no group ever claimed credit for it.
This time around, the Mossad was aware that AQS had stockpiled Torpex somewhere in Syria, so it made sense that the group could have been responsible. Getting it inside the hotel compound had been simple. Video recordings showed the service gate opening at 5:47 p.m., just thirteen minutes before the dinner was to begin. At that time, the prime minister and his wife were already seated in the dining room and the American vice president's entourage was arriving at the hotel's front entrance.
A white delivery van from the hotel's liquor distributor sat idling at the gate. Secret Service agents spoke with the driver, checked his identification and looked underneath the vehicle with mirrors. A bomb-sniffing dog was led around the truck. They opened the rear doors, examined the contents, and closed them, and waved the van through. From records the investigators saw, everything was normal. The delivery occurred around the same time every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, and it was always the same van and the same driver. There was nothing unusual except that a state dinner was under way one floor above the loading dock. The agents could have turned the van away, but investigators later determined that the explosion would have had the same result if the driver had detonated his load at the gate instead of the dock. At that point, it made no difference.
As usual, a hotel security guard directed the driver to back his van down a ramp to a loading zone that connected to the hotel's vast storage rooms. From there, service elevators led to the kitchen and dining room one floor above. The dock camera showed the driver exit the van, shake hands with the guard and open the back doors of his truck. He took out a two-wheeled dolly, loaded five cases of wine, made a trip inside and repeated the process several times. At 6:13 p.m. he closed the doors, waved to the guard and got back into the truck.
At precisely that time, the video footage stopped. That was the moment that the explosion occurred, and the loading dock had been ground zero. Investigators looking at the almost completely demolished van found traces of Torpex. After reviewing the video, they at first thought the bottles of wine were filled with it, but that wasn't correct. Based on the evidence, they finally concluded that several hundred pounds of Torpex were concealed somewhere in the van. It was a material that bomb dogs wouldn't pick up unless they were specially trained for that specific chemical, and it had not been detected by visual inspection. It had most likely been hidden under the rear floor.
The liquor distributor's driver had been on the company payroll for two years. He was a Palestinian whose record of attendance and dedication to his customers had earned him commendations. His thrice-weekly route included the American Colony Hotel, and he had made deliveries there for months. He knew the dock supervisor and other employees – all of whom had perished – by name. There had been nothing to arouse suspicion. He was a perfect terrorist, imbedded so deeply into society that he had become part of its fabric.
CHAPTER FIVE
These were challenging times for Israel. Attempting to stabilize things, the Knesset quickly selected a new prime minister. After unprecedented calls for cooperation among its members – and a plea from Israel's allies to act quickly – the speaker called for a vote the day after the bombing. Daniel Shigon, a hawk who was a decorated military veteran, was elected with broad support from inside his own party and out.
Seventy-two years old, Shigon had spent his career in the military, beginning as a young officer in the 1967 Six-Day War and eventually reaching the rank of general. He had been an elected member of the Knesset for ten years. He was brave and steadfast, an outspoken hawk and a champion for the future of his beloved country. Even those whose beliefs differed from his knew him to be fair, honest and willing to listen to both sides before forming an opinion. Polls showed that Jewish citizens considered him the perfect man to guide Israel in these difficult times.
Shigon's wife Karen was an American. They had met at university in London, married in 1964 and lived in Israel ever since. Their adult children were spread from New York to London to Tel Aviv. Despite her heritage, the new prime minister had no affection for the United States. He had observed how often America offered the carrot – defense and financial alliances – followed by the stick – demands for cooperation and peace with the Palestinians. The Jews had fought these same enemies for thousands of years and that war would continue until the last war on earth. While this prime minister was in charge, the USA wasn't going to bully Israel into doing something against its best interests.
His first act as commander-in-chief was to mobilize the armed forces and prepare for war. As in the 1967 battle, it wasn't Israel's plan to strike first, but the country must be prepared for anything. Shigon and his defense minister also advocated seizing the Temple Mount to retaliate against the Arabs, but the Knesset wisely vetoed that course of action. Tempers were short enough already between Palestinians and Jews; now wasn't the time to make a move that would only incite more anger. Instead, checkpoints were set up at the Old City's entrances. APCs were moved into place and armed soldiers interrogated every person and checked every vehicle seeking entry. The lines of people waiting to enter became snarled nightmares and snaked for blocks. Some hardy tourists waited it out, but most gave up, disappointed that they wouldn't see some of their religion's most important sites. That angered shopkeepers inside the walled city, who depended on tourism for much of their revenues.
Sporadic fights between soldiers and pedestrians broke out as tempers flared. An Arab man was shot to death at the Lion's Gate, the entry to the Muslim Quarter, when he pulled a long knife and unsuccessfully tried to stab a soldier who was wearing a bulletproof vest. A minor riot occurred and twenty people were arrested before it was quashed by soldiers with batons and pepper spray.
The increasing tension threw a kink into Brian and Nicole's plans. Always optimistic, he still held out slender hope they could visit some of the places they hadn't seen yet. "Tomorrow we were supposed to go to Tiberias and spend the night," he advised. "We were going to sail across the Sea of Galilee to Capernaum to see the very spot where Jesus preached. I've always wanted to go there –"
She interrupted, and this time she wasn't mincing words. "Seriously, Brian? Do you think it's safe to travel on the highways now, especially to Galilee? Did you see the same newscast I did this morning? Did you see the map of the Sea of Galilee that they showed? Syria's like five miles away and there's about to be a war! Tell me you're not still thinking we should take that trip."
As happened so often, Nicole tempered her husband’s enthusiasm with a reality check. The news this morning was alarming, as Israel prepared for its first full-scale conflict in fifty years.
The problem with going to the north was that the Golan Heights on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee was just five miles from Syria. The area was teeming with military activity; Syrian troops were taking up positions, and no one knew what might happen next. Syria could strike first, as could another of the Arab border nations. There was too much uncertainty and too much potential danger. There would be no sightseeing trip to Galilee this time. Anyway, he told her, there were a lot more important sites they hadn't visited in Jerusalem.
"We'll stay around here. Do you want to l
eave a day earlier than we planned."
"That's up to you, but if we can finish up early, I say let's get the hell out of Dodge."
"Let me work on it," he said as his phone rang. He mouthed, "It's Harry."
They chatted for a couple of minutes and then she saw Brian's face turn serious as he listened without responding. He said, "I don't have a problem doing that. We're going back early, FYI. I'm going to try to book us out on Saturday, but that gives me tomorrow and Friday to see what I can find out."
"What did he want?" she asked when the call was over.
"If we have time, he wants me to see Abdel again briefly and talk about his past. The CIA thinks he might have been involved with one of the jihadist organizations when he was young. Lots of Syrians did that – it was a noble thing to fight for freedom – but once al Qaeda and ISIS became what they are today, many of their followers wanted out." Harry had explained that quitting wasn't ever an option. Some who looked like they were no longer with AQS had become sleepers, and the CIA thought Malouf might be one of those.
"All he's asking is that I get him to discuss politics," Brian explained. "You can come with me – I'll offer to buy lunch tomorrow. It won't take much time out of our sightseeing agenda."
"Let's do it. I've never met a terrorist."
"And I doubt you're meeting one this time. This guy's as meek as a mouse. I don't get Harry’s concern, but I also will spend an hour if it might help our fight against al Qaeda."
He changed their return flight to Saturday, two days earlier than their original schedule. They had already planned to spend a couple of nights in London; now they would make it four. He explained that they'd head to the airport around 1 p.m., take the British Airways flight at 4:30 and arrive at Heathrow around nine.
"We'll go to the flat, have a nightcap, go to bed and be up for a fun Sunday in London!" he added with a smile.
"Sounds like a plan," she replied, relieved that they had a firm date to leave all this unrest that seemed to be everywhere she turned. She was looking forward to London and knew he was even more than she. She already knew what they would do when they got up that first morning. It had become a routine, one that she enjoyed almost as much as her husband. They'd stroll the streets, window-shop and take in the sights he loved in his favorite city. They'd end up having lunch at Dumpling Legends, a restaurant in Chinatown that was always her husband's first dining destination. Going there was a ritual, and although she wasn't crazy about the place or the food, she indulged her husband's wishes because he loved it.
After lunch, they'd go to Bijan Rarities, Brian's gallery in Old Bond Street, and visit with Cory Spencer, the manager. She'd piddle around while Brian did a little business. In their four days there, they would take in a show or two and try out new little restaurants and wine bars. While Brian spent mornings at Bijan, she'd stroll the city's quaint neighborhoods and verdant, serene parks. London was a relaxing place and she couldn't wait to get out of Israel before something else bad happened.
As hard as it was for Brian to admit, she was right about leaving early. He had been looking forward to tomorrow's trip to Tiberias and the north, an area so rich in early Christian history. He had arranged a trip across the Sea of Galilee on a boat that was similar to one Jesus might have taken. The voyage would have ended in Capernaum, one of the cities where He preached and taught.
It was nearly ten a.m. by the time they went to the patio for coffee and pastries. Consulting the dog-eared pages of the Fodor's guidebook he had lugged everywhere, Brian tossed out a proposed itinerary for the day. They'd start at the Shrine of the Book at the Israel Museum, where the original Dead Sea Scrolls were displayed. Going to Qumran, where the scrolls were found in 1947, had been tops on his list for this trip, but a road trip was off now. Visiting a museum wouldn't be the same as going to Qumran, he admitted, but it would be a substitute until the time when he could come back.
"After the museum, I have a surprise for lunch," he said. He'd found a place that sounded totally different than the norm, he added teasingly. She smiled; her husband was a master at finding special places and she enjoyed surprises.
"What about this afternoon?"
"I'd like to go back to the Temple Mount. There's a tunnel we can visit, way down underground where the ancient street level was. It has viaducts and cisterns and the guidebook says it runs below the Muslim Quarter for more than five hundred yards."
"I can't imagine why you of all people would want to see that," she quipped. "It totally sounds right down your alley, Indiana!"
They spent an hour in the dark, eerie rooms of the Shrine of the Book, seeing the largest collection of Dead Sea scrolls in the world. Back in the blazing sunlight, he hailed a cab and told the driver they wanted to go to the Notre Dame pilgrim center.
"What's that?" she asked. "I thought lunch was next."
"It is. Just wait."
They arrived at a large impressive building dating from the 1800s that stood opposite the Old City. Brian paid the driver and they walked to its entrance.
"This looks like a monastery," she said.
"It is. It's owned by the Vatican and it's called Notre Dame of Jerusalem Center. It's for Catholic pilgrims – a place for rest and repose, I guess – and its restaurant is famous for one of the best rooftop views in the city. Let's go!"
They took an elevator to the roof and stepped out onto a wide veranda dotted with dining tables shaded by umbrellas. The views in every direction were spectacular, but the most impressive was the southern vista overlooking the walls of the Old City. The Dome of the Rock shone splendidly and the scene was straight from a travelogue. They shot pictures and had a waiter take theirs too.
"This may not have been our best lunch in Jerusalem," she said as they finished their bottle of wine, "but it absolutely is the most spectacular. I loved sitting out here with the ancient city laid out in front of us. Good job, honey!"
They walked across the street, entered the Christian Quarter through the New Gate and walked to the Temple Mount. Consulting the guidebook, he led them to a stairway tucked into an alcove. They paid a fee, hired a guide and walked down into a narrow complex called the Western Wall tunnel. Their guide explained that they were seeing original walls from the time of Herod that survived the destruction of the temple in AD 70. They saw streets built by the Romans that led to the Temple Mount two thousand years ago. Brian was enthused and Nicole had to admit it was very interesting and completely unexpected.
Forty-five minutes later they exited near the Via Dolorosa and stopped for a coffee. "I'd like to make one more trip to the Temple Mount," he told her. "I may never get here again and I want to take it all in once more." She was as excited as he, and soon they were standing on its broad platform a few hundred feet north of the Dome of the Rock. There were groups everywhere, wearing translation headphones and listening to guides explain everything. Nearby he heard a commanding voice speaking in English, explaining the features of the area where they stood.
He turned, nudged Nicole and whispered, "Do you know who that is?" She saw a handsome, distinguished-looking man with a shock of gray hair, speaking English to a group of people she presumed were Americans.
"No. Who is he?"
"That's C. R. Faulkner. He's a well-known Southern Baptist preacher."
Nicole nodded. "I've heard of him." Since he was somewhat of a celebrity himself, she was surprised to see how enthused Brian was to see the religious leader.
"He's been pastor of some of the biggest churches in the United States, including one in Dallas," he continued. "I've known of him since I was a kid. He preached in the Baptist church in Longview one time and my parents took me to see him. He was well-known even back then. Let's listen for a minute. I'll bet he knows Israel like the back of his hand."
They stood at the back of his group of maybe twenty-five people, mostly in their fifties. Faulkner was explaining his own theory about how the Third Temple might be rebuilt in the end times. From years of research a
nd more than fifty trips to Israel, he was saying, he had come to believe that the original temple once was on the exact spot where they were standing now.
"We're about three hundred feet north of the Dome of the Rock," he continued, turning their attention to a small canopied structure supported by four pillars. "I believe – as do many experts and scholars – that this is really where the Second Temple actually stood. This small building is Muslim – it's called the Dome of the Tablets. It's not mentioned much, but there are good reasons to believe the temple could have stood here."
Pausing for effect, he continued. "What would the big deal be if it were here instead of under the Dome of the Rock?"
Brian whispered, "It could be rebuilt without destroying one of Islam's most sacred sites."
Most of Reverend Faulkner's group came to the same conclusion, and he joked, "I'm glad you've been listening to me these past few days!" He directed them next to the southeastern corner of the Temple Mount, where he would explain about a building called Solomon's Stables. As the people walked away, Brian approached the pastor and introduced himself and Nicole.
"I'm glad you stopped me," Faulkner said, slapping Brian on the back and explaining that he was hosting a group from his church in Miami. "I'm a huge fan. You've brought so many ancient things to life and allowed people a glimpse into the past. I love all that, and since we're here on the Temple Mount, I hope it means a documentary about Israel!"
"You can count on it!" Nicole replied with a grin. "Neither danger, nor bombs, nor threat of war shall keep my husband from his appointed rounds!"
The pastor laughed heartily, wished them God's blessings for the rest of their trip and left to join his parishioners.
"It was nice meeting him," Nicole said as they strolled back, hand in hand.
"Even more than that, I'm glad I got to hear his ideas. If there ever ends up being a documentary about Israel, I should include Faulkner's comments about the location of the temple."
Temple: The Prophecy of the Hidden Treasure (Brian Sadler Archaeological Mysteries Book 7) Page 3
