The Illumination

by Karen Tintori

  She wouldn’t have the stamina to shower, or even to think about dinner, let alone to sit upright long enough to eat it. Dana’s thoughts were no longer centered on the Kurdish families she’d interviewed at length today, exploring the contrast between their present shaky circumstances and the horrors suffered at the hands of Saddam Hussein. All she could think about were cool cotton sheets and a long undisturbed sleep.

  Her new cameraman, Linc Sanchez, made a beeline for the liquor cabinet the instant they got back to the villa, but she trudged toward the stairway in a stupor. Cresting the landing, she fairly staggered down the hall. As she opened her door, she heard a soft clink on the wood floor and glanced down to see that her hamsa necklace had fallen from around her neck. The clasp must have come loose while I dozed in the car, she thought, stooping wearily to retrieve it.

  Clenching it in her hand, she stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind her—and only then did her dazed eyes focus on the chaos around her.

  Drawers out of the dresser. Her clothes and underwear and toiletries dumped across the floor. The bed stripped, cotton sheets lying like deflated white parachutes alongside the mattress. Pillowcases in shreds, feather stuffing layered everywhere.

  Ohmygod, Dana whispered, fumbling for her cell phone. She heard a small creak—the sound of the bathroom cupboard closing.

  Someone’s still here. In the bathroom. Run!

  She spun toward the door, adrenaline surging, her exhaustion evaporating. But as she seized the doorknob she felt strong hands grab her from behind and lift her into the air. In a split second, an unseen attacker had flung her across the room.

  4

  Paris

  “The plan is progressing according to schedule. By the time our enemies realize what is happening, the final battle will be upon their heads.”

  Iranian businessman Farshid Sabouri’s eyes glittered as he surveyed the three men in expensive suits gathered in the flat on the Avenue de la Bourdonnais overlooking the Eiffel Tower. On the streets below no one suspected that six stories above them four of the wealthiest, most powerful terrorists in the world were finalizing an unprecedented conflagration.

  “Insha’allah, from the river to the sea, Islam will again prevail,” Farshid added, as the other key leaders of the Guardians of the Khalifah listened raptly. “The invader in our midst will fall before the sword of Allah.”

  Siddiq Aziz, a clean-shaven man with manicured hands and diamond cuff links, leaned forward upon the low suede sofa. He was handsome enough to grace the pages of GQ, and his financial cunning exceeded his looks. “And Palestine will glory in the obliteration of the infidels,” the Saudi banker murmured.

  Stretched across the wall behind him, the golden-hued painting of Al-Haram al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary, caught the sunlight splashing through the window. Each of the men glanced involuntarily at the image of the sacred site.

  The ancient stones of Jerusalem seemed to glisten with a holy radiance that spilled from the golden sphere dominating the hilltop. The infidels called it the Dome of the Rock, but these men knew it as Qubbat as-Sakhrah. Each man in the apartment was acutely aware at that moment that with the sweetness of impending victory there would come a price.

  The Noble Sanctuary, Islam’s third holiest site, had towered over Jerusalem since the ninth khalif, ’Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan, oversaw its construction in A.D. 685. Byzantine craftsmen sent to ibn Marwan from Constantinople had built the octagonal shrine over the sacred Noble Rock. According to Islam, Allah had instructed Abraham to take his son, Ishmael, to the rock to sacrifice him, and from that same rock the prophet Muhammad had ascended through the center of the golden dome and on to heaven, accompanied by the angel Gabriel.

  The Noble Sanctuary had withstood centuries of war and turmoil, even defilement by the Crusaders who conquered it. Augustinian priests had converted the Qubbat as-Sakhrah—the Dome of the Rock—into a church. Crusader King Baldwin I took the Al-Aqsa Mosque as his palace, and later the Knights Templar had used it as their headquarters, believing the ruins of King Solomon’s Temple lay nearby.

  But soon, the terrorists knew, the magnificent gold foil–covered pinnacle above the Noble Sanctuary would stand no more.

  “In a very short time the world will once again call the city by its rightful name, Al-Quds. ‘Jerusalem’ will be no more,” Sabouri reminded them, sensing the emotions running through the room.

  The sacrifice would be steep, but temporary.

  The bin Laden family, powerful construction magnates who held the exclusive rights to repair the holy sites of Mecca and Medina, would rebuild a perfect replica. But first, every edifice of the Noble Sanctuary compound—the Dome of the Rock, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, the Dome of the Chain, the Dome of the Prophet, the Dome of the Miraj, the Dome of al-Nahawiah, the Dome of the Hebronite, Minbar of Burhan al-Din, the Golden Gate, Musalla Marwan, Ancient Aqsa, and the Islamic Museum, totaling one sixth of the walled city called Jerusalem—would be gone in a cataclysm of fire and thunder.

  And all of Islam would rise up in rage.

  The bombing had been in the planning for two years—fueled by the continued defilement of Arab holy lands by the West. The presence of the infidels had grown increasingly unbearable to the Shi’ah. Even the Sunni majority in Saudi Arabia resented the U.S. audacity in forcing the boots of its military upon Saudi Arabian soil. Defiling the land where Islam’s holiest shrines stood was bad enough, but America’s two arrogant and criminal invasions of Iraq, and the proliferation of their heretical Western culture, further enraged the faithful. But their greatest source of fury was the continued illegal existence of Israel.

  Now all of those outrages were about to be avenged by these men, the leaders of the Guardians of the Khalifah, dedicated to the return of the khalifate.

  There had been no khalif since the Ottoman Empire fell in 1924, dissolving into the Republic of Turkey. The khalif—the earthly successor to Muhammad and the Islamic head of state—was also known as the Prince of the Believers, a man who would unite all of Islam and bring all Muslims under his rule. Restoring the khalifate was the Guardians of the Khalifate’s ultimate goal.

  “We must meet the deadline.” Siddiq lit a cigarette and tossed his monogrammed lighter on the coffee table. “There are only six days left until the summit.”

  “We will meet this deadline, Siddiq.” Farshid Sabouri smiled. “Forty cylinders of C-4 explosives are already in the tunnel, and the last of the detonators will be secured tonight. Do you forget that it is my brother, Hasan, who has planned the entire operation? He has given me his assurance that his team has everything at the ready. That in six days the flames will outshine the sun.”

  At the mention of Hasan’s name, each of the men flinched, and Siddiq reflexively shielded his eyes. To cover the awkward moment, the Yemenite, Jalil Haddad, spoke up quickly. “And Hasan is sure the Israelis are none the wiser?”

  “Even were they to discover anything amiss they wouldn’t be able to stop us,” Sabouri sneered. “They will never find the tunnel in time. Everything will be in place when the president of the United States and the Secretary-General of the United Nations ascend the platform. And the world will be watching as they stand with smug, stupid smiles to witness the signing of the peace accord they think they’ve brokered.”

  The honeyed pastries, bowls of fruit, and pots of once steaming dark tea sat untouched on the glass-tiled coffee table.

  “And our Hamas brother, Mu’aayyad bin Khoury?” Wasif Al-Mehannadi, the Bahraini whose sister Fatima was married to Hasan, snorted. “The traitor who shook the hand of the Israeli prime minister and sold out his people?”

  There was a ripple of laughter.

  “That faithless cur and his followers will know nothing until he is engulfed by the flames.” Sabouri frowned suddenly at the shrill interruption of his cell phone and reached into his pocket.

  He recognized the number at once. Aslam Hameed. It was a call he had to take.

  Hameed’s words c
ame rapid-fire. Sabouri’s eyes brightened as he listened.

  When he pocketed the phone and turned back to the group, excitement thrummed through the voice of a man known throughout the Arab world for his legendary calm when everyone around him succumbed to turmoil.

  “Great good news.”

  The other leaders of the Guardians of the Khalifah tensed, watching him.

  “The Eye of Dawn has returned. It is a sign from Allah, as the mullahs declare: The Eye of Dawn shall be a beacon heralding the triumph of Islam.”

  As excited murmuring ran through the gathered men, Sabouri’s eyes glistened with triumph. “Even now, my brothers, Aslam Hameed and his men are pursuing it. In six days’ time, the Eye of Dawn will be the light of Islam.”

  5

  Baghdad

  Dana hit the windowsill headfirst. Red spots and dark pain pulsed in her eyes as she slid to the floor.

  Get up. Get up.

  But her limbs refused to respond to the urgent command that seemed to come from far away.

  Somehow she pushed herself to a sitting position. It seemed to take forever, just as it seemed to take forever for the contents of her tote to clatter to the floor while she watched her attacker shake it.

  He was huge, a human tank. Dressed in dark pants and a brown shirt, his head swathed in a darker brown hijab. Watching him paw through the jumble of her things, tossing aside tampons, her notebook, her maps, and her sunscreen, she fought back the urge to vomit. Her head was roaring now, throbbing like it never had before.

  Dizzy with the pain, she forced herself to stare up, up, at the immense figure now moving toward her, towering over her, his face hidden.

  She could see only his eyes. Liquid, seething, driven eyes the color of ink.

  “Where is it?” he growled. “The Eye of Dawn.”

  “I don’t—know—What eye—?”

  Agony ripped through her cheek as he backhanded her, the metal setting on his ring tearing her skin.

  “Don’t lie to me, sharmuta! I know you have it—so where is it?”

  Tears streamed down Dana’s bleeding face as she scooted back toward the window. What . . . is he . . . talking about? He’s in the wrong room. If I can . . . just get to . . . my phone. . . .

  “Mis . . . take,” she gasped. “You’ve made a mistake. I . . . I don’t have anything you want—”

  He lunged toward her, and fear clogged the scream in her throat. His thick fingers closed around the hamsa necklace that had tumbled from her fingers and landed near her feet.

  “Like this!” He shoved the hamsa charm in her face, showing her the eye emblazoned in its cloisonné center. “The Eye! You have one like this—I want it! Now!”

  That pouch . . . the pendant, Dana thought in shock. That piece of . . . junk I sent Natalie? She tried to speak calmly, in the dulcet TV voice viewers had come to respect, but her words were a croak.

  “It’s gone. I . . . don’t have it anymore—”

  “Liar! Sharmuta!” He belted her again, cracking open her lower lip.

  Dana’s vision doubled. One of her teeth was lying against her tongue. She didn’t have the strength to spit it out. She had to get up, away, but she was too dizzy even to stand.

  She started to scream then, as loud as she could, screaming in terror, screaming for help.

  Her voice reverberated through the room like the shrieks of a scalded cat.

  Yusef’s fists clenched. The only thing he wanted to hear out of her was where she’d hidden the Eye. It wasn’t in this room, that he knew. Did she have an accomplice? She’d tell everything before he was done. Overwhelming pain was a great motivator. Soon she’d be begging for the chance to tell him where it was.

  He lifted her easily, as though she was a hollow mannequin, and threw her across the room. But she was slender and he overestimated his strength against her slightness. Instead of landing on the bed, she slammed into the dresser, her head hitting the sharp edge with a crack.

  Silence circled the room.

  Yusef hurried toward her. She wasn’t screaming. Wasn’t moving. She was out cold.

  Cold water will take care of that.

  But as he rounded the bed, he could see the impossible angle of her chin, and the blood pouring from her ear.

  She wasn’t going to be waking up.

  Fury and frustration surged through his chest. And so did a spurt of fear. The anger of Aslam Hameed will be uncontrollable. But it will pale in comparison to the fury of Hasan Sabouri.

  He broke into a sweat thinking of the powerful Iranian with the ice blue eyes. The evil eyes. Hasan Sabouri had killed his own mother, and countless others, with just his glance. What would happen when he learned of this failure to secure the Eye of Dawn?

  His stomach contracted. I let my zeal get in the way. How could I have been so careless?

  Still clenching the dead woman’s silver chain and its jeweled charm in his fist, Yusef fled the room as quietly as he’d entered it, leaving the tiny American journalist with her blood soaking the tangled strands of her blond hair.

  6

  The White House

  Secretary of Defense Jackson Wright scowled as he barreled into the Oval Office. President Owen Garrett threw down his pen and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes.

  The commander-in-chief’s campaign-perfect mahogany hair was newly peppered with wiry gray that glinted in the sunlight from the windows behind him.

  Only two and a half years in office, and already Garrett was looking a decade older than his forty-nine years. Presidents aged quickly in this twenty-first century, marked as it was by worldwide terrorism, sectarian war, Islamic jihadism, and the Damocles’ sword of nuclear holocaust.

  “Bin Khoury hasn’t backed out of the agreement, has he?” Garrett asked without preliminaries. He had high hopes that this week’s historic visit to Jerusalem for the signing of an accord between Hamas leaders and Israel would be the first legacy of many in his presidency.

  But nothing of value came easy. Not only were Arab factions across the Islamic world staging violent protests, but the small Israeli right-wing extremist group, Shomrei Kotel—fixated on erecting the Third Temple—had now threatened to blow up the Dome of the Rock and clear the site for rebuilding.

  “Actually, we’ve got another situation, sir.” Wright’s mouth twisted in the unconscious grimace that had been mercilessly caricatured by comic impressionists on Saturday Night Live.

  “Warrick called in just before boarding his flight from Baghdad.” The President’s former law professor paused for a moment, knowing the impact his next words would have. “He has a bead on the whereabouts of Firefly.”

  Silence hung in the historic room. Even President Washington, gazing down from his portrait over the mantel, seemed to be holding his breath.

  Garrett slowly steepled his hands before him on the desk. Firefly. He hadn’t been briefed on Firefly until his second week in office, and the news of its existence had raised the hairs along his spine more than any other piece of classified data he’d been privy to since taking the oath.

  “What sort of a bead?”

  Without being asked, the Secretary of Defense drew up a chair and folded his bulky six-foot frame into it.

  “One credible enough that I’ve activated the means to retrieve it.”

  The NSU, Garrett thought. Only a handful of people in the government knew about the top-secret unit, which had been created by his predecessor. The stealth unit, independent of the CIA was charged with ensuring the security of the United States—at any cost.

  “Firefly is still in Iraq?” he asked. “It’s been there all along?”

  Wright nodded grimly. He could see the President’s agile mind racing. Not much showed in Owen Garrett’s controlled, intelligent face, but as one of his oldest friends and supporters, Wright recognized the subtle tightening of his broad knuckles and knew that the leader of the free world was experiencing the same surge of hope, fear, and trepidation as he.

  “What are
they doing to get possession of it?” Garrett demanded, his prominent slate-blue eyes scouring Wright’s face. “Because you know damn well the Mossad is doing the same or better.” He slammed his fist on the papers piled in front of him. “We thought we had a lock on it at the damned museum five years ago, before it managed to slip through our fingers. That cannot happen again.”

  “It won’t, Mr. President. This time we’re doing everything necessary.”

  Garrett leaned forward, a muscle twitching in his neck. “Like what?”

  Wright winced, then pushed himself to his feet and met the chief executive’s eyes.

  “I hope you’ll excuse me from answering that question, sir. It might be better if you don’t know the details.”

  7

  The Radiant Light of Heaven Church

  Pensacola, Florida

  On a normal Sunday morning, the Radiant Light of Heaven sanctuary vibrated with the energy of a thousand voices raised in praise. The Reverend Ken Mundy knew how to bring his flock surging to their feet. All eyes were fastened on his homely, heavily jowled face, supersized on the screen suspended from the vaulted ceiling. It was a face of sincerity, a face of passion, a face flush with the conviction that the End of Days was near.

  It was the same face, the same message, seen on videos every Sunday in the five Radiant Light of Heaven churches scattered throughout Florida, Georgia, Texas, and Michigan. He’d managed to gain an impressive following, despite the fact that the media had branded his church a cult and Mundy himself misguided. The entire mainstream Christian world had disavowed him, his message, and his tactics.