The Illumination

by Karen Tintori

  Because of the pendant . . . the tzohar . . .

  As Hasan pried the final bits of ancient solder free, the illumination surging from within the pendant expanded, filling the tunnel like a widening floodlight.

  Natalie gasped when Hasan drew a small shimmering crystal from within the cracked orb. His fingers glowed orange as they clenched it against his palm, the light streaking in narrow rays from between his nearly luminous fingers.

  It emitted a radiance far richer than full daylight. It illuminated every crevice, every crumb of earth, every dust mote floating in the dank underground chamber. Staring as if hypnotized, Natalie could well imagine how the tzohar had illuminated the ark against the blackness of the sky and the sea during those forty days and forty nights of apocalyptic doom.

  Doom. The sense of it grew in her as the terrorist gripped God’s creative light in his palm. He was staring at it in dazed triumph. Sayyed stood dumbstruck.

  “Praise be to Allah, the most compassionate, the merciful one,” Hasan whispered, clamping the tzohar against his chest. She could barely catch his faint words. “With the weapons we can create from the ancient power of this holy stone there will be no nation on earth able to oppose us—none capable of stopping the rule of the khalifate.”

  He took a step toward Natalie. His indigo eyes seared into her like blue flames as he dangled the tzohar before her, taunting her.

  “Good-bye, Natalie Landau. Take a good look. This is the last glimpse of light you’ll ever see.”

  And on those words he scooped up the leather pouch from the table and strode off down the tunnel.

  She watched him and the brilliant light until they disappeared in the distance, leaving her alone with Sayyed, the two of them trapped in darkness so absolute they could see nothing.

  55

  Sayyed waited until he was sure Hasan had gone before he groped his way to the table and switched on the headlamp.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that he wanted you down here to guard me when I obviously can’t get away?” Her voice floated toward him in the dimness.

  “Shut your mouth or I’ll tape that, too.” Sayyed whirled toward the woman on the ground, scowling. Yet something in her words prickled at him. Hasan had insisted he wait with her until only a half hour before the C-4 would be detonated. Why?

  Relations between him and Hasan Sabouri had never been good. Even now, after all he’d accomplished, there hadn’t been a single word of praise. At least this time, Hasan had found no excuse to beat him.

  Whenever he was with the man, it was all he could do to hide his hatred. A hatred mixed with fear. The Bedouins had said it better than most. The evil eye can send a man to his grave and a camel to the cooking pot.

  Am I in my grave now? Sayyed’s armpits dampened.

  Natalie noted the subtle shift of emotions twitch across her guard’s face. Doubt. Anger. Fear.

  “He dislikes you, doesn’t he? He treats you like a dog.”

  Sayyed flinched at the truth. He could listen to no more. He grabbed up the tape.

  But even as he ripped a length of it, her words flew faster.

  “He’s moving up the time of the explosion, you know that, don’t you? You’re going to die down here right beside me. But neither one of us has to die. You can release me, and we can both live.”

  Hatred poured from his eyes. What if this bitch was right? He threw the roll of duct tape at her head. It glanced off and rolled away.

  “You’re going to die, sharmuta. Make no mistake about that. I plan to live.”

  He grabbed the headlamp from the table and ran, leaving her once more in absolute darkness.

  Natalie had lost all sense of time. But she knew the minute hand on her wristwatch was ticking.

  Her hands were bound behind her back. Useless. They couldn’t pull the fastenings from her ankles or feel how much progress she’d made in stretching the tape that bound her legs together.

  She ignored the thirst cleaving her tongue to the roof of her mouth and forced herself to continue flexing and stretching. First her ankles, then her hands. Resting the one, while she worked the other. Pointing her toes forward, pulling them back. Twisting them to the sides and then straining her wrists as far apart as the tape would allow, wriggling them, one forward, one back, slowly, ever so slowly, loosening the bonds.

  If she could free her hands first, she could rip the tape from her feet. If she could free her feet first, she could get to that table, grab the tools. And use them to free her wrists.

  How long has it been? How much time is left?

  Where’s the tzohar now?

  And how do I stop those bombs?

  56

  Ahmad wasn’t at home when D’Amato arrived. He sat on the stoop trying to tune out the growing confusion percolating through the streets, then worked off his anxiety pacing in front of Ahmad’s small house on Hagai Street—better known here, closer to the Damascus Gate, as El-Wad.

  Was Ahmad at the mosque? D’Amato didn’t remember the time of afternoon prayers. Then he realized just how distracted his thinking had become. El-Wad was filled with men grumbling over the loss of power. They’d all be at the mosque instead if it was time for prayer.

  He was almost ready to give up and leave when he caught sight of Ahmad at last, rounding the corner, spotting him, coming forward with a smile of surprise.

  “All power is down—throughout the city, it appears.” Ahmad ushered D’Amato into his dim living room. The shades had been drawn against the strong afternoon sun, and the pleasant room with its high ceilings and white-washed walls was draped in semidarkness.

  “It is very bad. After all this time and planning, no one will be able to see the summit live on TV,” the Palestinian said, his face troubled.

  “If there is a summit.” D’Amato spoke quietly. His mind kept turning over the possibility that the power outage was no accident, that it was part of someone’s plan to disrupt the signing of the treaty. But whose?

  His host stared at him, then gestured for him to take a seat on the worn striped sofa. “You think the blackout signals a problem?”

  “You’ve got your ear to the ground, my friend. What have you heard?”

  Ahmad’s angular face grew increasingly troubled as he settled into a cane-backed chair. “I’ve heard some things.” He shrugged. “But didn’t give them much credence. Until now. We know there are some who oppose bin Khoury, oppose this accord. But most of us welcome it. It is time to coexist in peace.”

  “The Guardians of the Khalifah oppose it.”

  Ahmad snorted. “They oppose anything that smacks of democracy. Of freethinking, of choice. They would choose for you, for me, for everyone.” He cleared his throat. “May I offer you some tea? My stove is gas. I can still heat water. And there are figs and grapes in the kitchen—”

  “Thank you for your hospitality, but there’s no time.” D’Amato struggled to contain his impatience as his fear for Natalie forced him to risk offending his host. “I’m looking for a woman—an American. She’s in trouble, Ahmad. She’s carrying something the Guardians of the Khalifah covet. They’ll kill her for it—they may already have.”

  “Then I’m sorry for you. I know very little of the comings and goings of the Guardians of the Khalifah.”

  D’Amato studied his gaunt, intelligent face. “But you know something.”

  From outside, the shouting seemed to have increased. The streets were still flooded with people, with confusion. Horns blared, adding to the noise and chaos and D’Amato’s own agitation.

  Ahmad was strangely silent.

  “Tell me, Ahmad. Please. If you know anything that can lead me to the Guardians of the Khalifah, or if you’ve heard anything about the abduction of an American woman, I need you to tell me now.”

  She was almost there. She’d managed to stretch the tape enough to twist it into a figure eight.

  Hunched on the floor, her muscles aching, Natalie focused solely on extracting one foot from the bindi
ngs. She nearly wept as she finally pulled her right foot free.

  Scrabbling to her knees, she shuffled on them in the acrid blackness until she reached what she was looking for—the tunnel wall. Leaning against it for support, she maneuvered herself to a standing position.

  The table. She tried to envision how far away it sat. Hugging the wall with her right shoulder, she hobbled along in search of it, gasping when she finally bumped into it with her hip.

  She used her chin to drag the ice pick to the front edge of the table, then turned, bending her knees until she could grab it between her bound hands.

  Hurry, hurry.

  But it took several precious moments before she managed to wedge the pick between her palms without stabbing herself with its point. Her breath coming in ragged gulps, she scraped the pick repeatedly into the tape, pricking blindly at the woven threads, ignoring the pain whenever she overshot and scraped the sharp pick into her flesh.

  It worked. As soon as her hands were free, she fumbled for the small flashlight Sayyed had left behind, and a pale stream of light pierced the blackness. Now it was easier to strip the adhesive from her wrists and ankles. She nearly sobbed with joy when she was finally free. Grabbing a water bottle from under the table, she gulped it until she choked.

  How much time is left? She peered through the gloom at her watch. It was 2:30—the summit was set for 4:00. Ninety minutes to go. Unless the bombs went off before then . . .

  She seized the damaged pendant and wedged it into her pocket. Then she grabbed up the flashlight and the large hammer Hasan had used on the orb. Drawing a deep breath, she allowed herself to flex her aching shoulders for a quick moment; next, her cramped legs.

  Then she hobbled down the tunnel, trying to ignore the pins and needles tingling through her feet. She held the hammer ready, but met no one. Not even when the tunnel curved and dipped, widening as she climbed upward, her thighs aching. She saw no living soul, no trace of life, nor anything that might be a bomb.

  The pins and needles faded away. She started to run.

  She didn’t know how long she raced through the winding tunnel. At some point, the bare bulbs strung along the timbers began to flicker again—on and then off. She swung the beam of the flashlight upward. Was what she’d told Hasan true?

  The flickering had started the minute he’d smashed open the pendant. Could it be a coincidence that the lights became erratic then? She didn’t think so. The energy of the tzohar, which had been contained for thousands of years within its gold shell, was now loosed in a modern world, a world far different from the days of ancient Babylon.

  If solar flares could disrupt GPS and power grids, what might the tzohar do when its God-given energy encountered a manmade counterpart?

  But even as the question surged through her mind, her attention was diverted by a huge hole gaping in the ceiling. That’s one of them—one of the holes they drilled for the bombs.

  She froze where she stood, shining the flashlight up into the hole. But all she saw was dirt.

  How many other holes like this one had she passed farther back, when the beam was aimed at the floor?

  She had to get out of here fast—had to warn somebody. Somebody who knew a lot more than she did about finding and disabling bombs.

  Tumbling down the tunnel, she was oblivious to her cramped muscles. Adrenaline propelled her feet. Chest heaving, she finally reached the rough-hewn staircase she remembered descending—how many hours ago? Half sobbing, she tore up the steps. She was almost at the entrance.

  Almost free.

  57

  The lights in the elevator flickered. On and off. On again. The car jerked into motion, then the light went out, and the elevator stalled with a shudder.

  A groan went up as the eight occupants jostled against one another in the small space, their hope dying.

  It was stifling, and someone had eaten garlic for lunch. Warrick had never been claustrophobic in his life, but as the minutes ticked past he felt the anxiety building, tightening in his neck like an invisible noose slowly choking off his air.

  Suddenly the lights blazed back on again, and the car lurched upward. The doors slid open on the twentieth floor and everyone spilled out into the corridor in a rush, desperate to escape before the power died again.

  An instant later it did, and darkness clamped down on the corridor. Not even the exit signs glowed. But a man hurrying out of one of the guest rooms held a miniflashlight, and Warrick reached him in three strides.

  “I need this. National security.” He snatched the penlight, ignoring the man’s protest, and swung it upward until it showed him the exit sign. He charged up the stairs.

  The presidential suite was empty. The door ajar.

  Secret Service had hustled him down the stairs the moment the lights went out. Where the hell did they go?

  Warrick was startled at the shrill ring of his cell phone. He was more startled by the stream of words that rushed into his ear.

  He listened without saying a word. Then closed his phone.

  The plan had failed. Firefly was still out there, still in play.

  “I’m going out for a few minutes. Perhaps there is some information I can gather for you. It’s best if you stay here.”

  Ahmad rose from the striped couch and headed for the door. He pocketed his house key from the table in the hall and closed the door behind him.

  D’Amato bit back the questions screaming in his head. He was familiar with the various ways by which his old friend chose to gather and share information. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back in the dimness of the living room to wait.

  An agonizing fifteen minutes passed, then another five. Impatience drove D’Amato out of the chair to pace the floor. He couldn’t erase the image of Natalie’s abandoned shoulder bag from his mind.

  He wheeled at the sound of the doorknob turning. From the entry Ahmad beckoned silently for D’Amato to follow him into the teeming street. Traffic was still in gridlock, worsened by those who’d abandoned their cars.

  In silence, quickly, they walked southeast on El-Wad. Away now, from the Damascus Gate. They were heading deeper into the Old City.

  58

  Warrick fought the crowd surging across the plaza flanking the Western Wall. Beneath a cloudless blue sky, this open area below the Temple Mount was in chaos. People were shouting, running, shoving, pressing their way back toward the narrow entrance. Panic rippled through the distraught, well-dressed crowd that a short time before had been ensconced within view of the platform where the peace accord would be signed.

  Their fright was as tangible as the varied accents and languages competing in the cacophony of voices.

  “There must be a bomb!”

  “Has the president been shot?”

  “It’s Iran—they’re attacking!”

  “No—bin Khoury’s been assassinated. The summit has been canceled!”

  “Why don’t the cell phones work? Everything’s down.”

  “They’ve attacked the communications networks. It’s only the beginning!”

  With each rumor that swirled as fact, the voices rose in escalating fear. Israeli soldiers were shouting, steering, directing the invited guests and dignitaries out, away from the security checkpoints and the steps leading up to the sacred site. There would be no summit on the Temple Mount this afternoon.

  Warrick scanned the frantic faces while he pressed on against the madness. As everyone else streamed toward him, he resisted the flow of bumping and shoving bodies and struggled through to the front. The afternoon was warm. Beneath his suit coat, his white shirt stuck to his back. But he had to get through. Without any means of communication, he had to know firsthand.

  Were Garrett, Rachmiel, bin Khoury, and the secretary-general up there somewhere? Were the soldiers evacuating everyone else while a private, abbreviated version of the summit took place in defiance of the terrorists? If there was a bomb, it could go off at any moment. But he was still too far away to see anything, to re
cognize anyone in this teeming crush of bodies. There was no sign of the Secret Service, of anyone else in the official U.S. delegation.

  “You must leave the area. Everyone. Now.” The Israeli Defense Forces soldiers patrolling the plaza were adamant, employing the sides of their Uzis to funnel people toward the stairs. Warrick managed to avoid them, burrowing himself toward the center of the throng. He kept plunging ahead, bucking the flow of disappointed, panicked, and confused humanity.

  “No farther. Go back!” A stern Israeli soldier blocked his path. She was tall, blond, sunburned, and determined.

  “I’m with President Garrett. I need to get through.” He flashed his Department of Defense credentials, but she was unimpressed.

  “Your president is not here. The summit is canceled. Our orders are to clear the area. That means everyone.”

  “If they’re not here, where are they? Do you know why the communications are down?”

  “The only thing I know is that everyone has to leave this area. And that includes you.”

  A second soldier joined her, his thin face dark with impatience. “What’s the problem here?”

  “That’s what I want to know.” Warrick directed his attention now to the man. “What’s going on? Where’s the American delegation?”

  “We have no authority to disclose that information, even if we knew.” The second soldier glared at him. “For your own safety, leave. Now.”

  It was useless. Warrick turned away. He’d done his best. But he wasn’t about to fight the Israeli army when chances were slim that he’d find Garrett or the others here anyway.

  That left Firefly.

  Time to shift his energies. He had one last chance.

  Natalie staggered up the last step and cautiously shoved open the door at the top of the stairs. She found herself in a windowless storage shed stacked high with rolled lengths of carpets. Otherwise it was empty. She swung the flashlight until it gleamed across a thin metal door. It was just wide enough to permit a small car to enter.