"Get me the ambassador!" Shigon bellowed. Cowering, the aide rushed out and moments later the PM's phone rang. He snatched it from its cradle.
"Why the hell does Brian Sadler warrant special treatment?" he roared.
"And good morning to you, Mr. Prime Minister," the ambassador replied cordially. He'd been here five years and knew Shigon socially. He also had heard of the man's domineering, oppressive demeanor. "Brian Sadler is an American antiquities dealer. You may have heard of him; he's quite well-known."
"Everyone knows who he is! I want to know exactly what he's doing in my country that affords him special treatment."
The ambassador remained calm and kept his voice even. "There's nothing going on, I assure you. He's somewhat of a celebrity and that makes him more of a target in an unstable situation. I'd appreciate your cooperation in allowing him to return to his hotel, where he can be better protected."
The prime minister asked where Brian was staying and what day he was leaving Israel. When he was told Brian had no firm departure plans, he bellowed, "What exactly is he doing here, Mr. Ambassador? I asked you this before and now I want an answer. Is he still sightseeing, even though the entire country is on full military alert and the airport's been bombed? Israel isn't exactly the French Riviera these days. What's going on here, and who asked you to get him out of the Old City?"
The ambassador couldn't explain why Brian was still here because he didn't know. He told the prime minister it was Brian himself who had called and requested help in getting back to his hotel.
Shigon was furious. "You're telling me some American celebrity who rings up his embassy can demand that you call the prime minister? Do you think I'm an idiot? Answer my question! Who's this guy Sadler, and what's he up to?"
"He knows people in high places," the ambassador replied testily. He was getting tired of being berated. Either the PM was going to help or he wasn't. It was time, as Americans would say, to fish or cut bait. "I know you're busy, Mr. Prime Minister," he continued. "Are you going to honor my government's request or not?"
"Who does he know in high places?"
"President Harrison," the ambassador disclosed at last.
"How does he know him?"
"They were college roommates. They're best friends."
Shigon paused. He didn't want to appear weak, but now he had no choice. "Where is he?"
"He's in a gallery off the Via Dolorosa. It's owned by an Arab named Abdel Malouf."
Shigon knew the name. The man dealt in high-quality pieces and had a stellar reputation, just as Sadler did.
"Send your people to the Lion's Gate in twenty minutes," Shigon commanded. "The soldiers will allow him to pass through without interference. This is a major inconvenience, Ambassador, and I do not appreciate it. I have better things to do than babysit your president's friends. I am diverting soldiers from critical duties to accommodate you, and you will in turn do the same. I want this man out of Israel in twenty-four hours. If he does not leave voluntarily by the deadline, he will be arrested and detained until he can be deported. One more thing – if you're thinking of granting him asylum in the embassy, you should think again. I would consider that an act of aggression against our country and me personally, since I am the one ordering him to leave. Do not trifle with me, Ambassador Sheller. I am in no mood to play games. I have a country to run and a war to fight."
He slammed the phone down, lit a cigar and yelled for his aide-de-camp.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The handoff occurred without incident. Two Israeli soldiers, each holding one of Brian's arms, guided him to the front of a two-block-long line of people waiting to get out through the Lion's Gate. Just outside, a man in a coat and tie showed his diplomatic credentials to the officer in charge, and Brian was ushered through the checkpoint.
When they were in a sedan on the way to the hotel, the man dialed a number and handed Brian the phone, saying, "The ambassador wants to speak to you, sir."
Ambassador Sheller had never met Brian, but now wasn't the time to mince words. He told him about the call with the prime minister and explained that Shigon was livid. "You have twenty-four hours to leave Israel or face arrest," he continued. "My assistant is making your arrangements. She'll email an itinerary later today. You'll go from Haifa Airport to whichever destination in Europe she can book. You'll be responsible for paying the fare and booking your next flight from there."
"I'm not sure I can finish up that quickly –"
The ambassador interrupted. "Perhaps I didn't make myself completely clear. I don't know what you're doing here, Mr. Sadler. It's none of my business, but I can assure you that the prime minister is beginning to believe President Harrison sent you to Israel on some type of mission. You will finish up, sir, and you will be on a plane tomorrow evening. If not, you'll be detained and it will create an incident neither you, I nor President Harrison wants. This is not a request. Am I clear?"
"Absolutely."
The next morning it was raining lightly as Brian, Abdel and his driver, Mohammed, left the hotel. The early-morning traffic was light, just as they'd experienced three days earlier. Mohammed made a sharp right turn, his tires squealing as he swerved and then regained control. He spoke quietly to Abdel and then pulled to the curb. He waited a moment, screeched back into traffic and ran a red light at the next intersection, which created a firestorm of honking from drivers who'd barely avoided hitting his car.
"What's going on?" Brian asked. "Why's he driving like this?"
"He thinks he was being followed," Abdel answered. "He's just making sure everything is all right."
Alarmed, Brian asked why someone would be following him.
Abdel didn't reply.
"Abdel, tell me what's going on."
The Arab spoke to his driver, got a response and said, "Nothing is going on, Brian. It's not our problem. It has to do with his wife. They're getting a divorce and her parents are angry with him. His father-in-law is an influential man, he tells me. At any rate, everything is fine now. If there was someone following, he has managed to lose them."
From that point on, Mohammed drove normally, although Brian caught him checking his rearview mirror every few minutes. Once they were out of Jerusalem, he took the same route as the last time, turning north in Jericho on the border highway. This time he saw many more tanks and soldiers on both sides of the fence separating Israel from Jordan. The troops seemed calm, but it was clear that everyone was preparing for conflict.
Shaken by the driver's evasive driving earlier, Brian tried to settle back and relax. He was booked on a 6:15 p.m. flight to Istanbul, according to the email Ambassador Sheller's assistant had sent last evening. Since he was required to check in by four, an embassy driver would pick him up at the hotel at 2:30. If today's visit to the cave went as planned, he would be back in plenty of time to grab a bite of lunch before he left.
"How does al Qaeda fit into the struggle between Israel and the Arab nations?" Brian asked Abdel casually.
The rather simple question appeared to startle Abdel. He twitched, turned to face Brian and replied, "I'm not sure what you're asking. From what I hear on the news, al Qaeda is more interested in overthrowing the president of Syria than fighting the Jews. Why do you ask?"
"Everyone knows al Qaeda and ISIS are constantly waging war against someone. Since you're both an Arab and an Israeli citizen, I wondered if you had thoughts about whether they were involved in what's happening now."
"Al Qaeda hasn't the resources to mount a full-scale battle on its own and neither does ISIS," he responded, knowing that statement likely wasn't true. "Furthermore, neither group would be invited to join any aggressive move against Israel. They're terrorist organizations, pure and simple. This impending conflict is about disputed territory and the rights of Palestinians to free movement and land to build settlements. The Jews have been a thorn in the flesh of Syria, Iraq and Iran for years. Jordan and Egypt too, although the leaders of those nations put on a false fac
e for appearance's sake." He hesitated and then concluded a bit too casually, "All that is simply my opinion. Who am I to know what al Qaeda really is after? Why should I care? It means nothing to me."
Abdel fidgeted for a moment, wondering if now was the time to reveal his real concerns. He decided there was nothing to lose.
"As noble as AQS and ISIS may consider their goals, they have destroyed ancient monuments that have withstood everything that the centuries have tossed at them. It is appalling to watch them loot museums, bulldoze majestic ancient buildings and blow up mosques. Those acts are not Allah's will and I must stop them from stealing the treasure ..." He paused and glanced at his driver, who seemed to be listening intently.
Shaking his head, Abdel blurted, "I've said too much."
Brian processed the very telling comments as Mohammed contentedly kept his eyes on the road.
The rain had stopped and the sun was peeking from the clouds when Abdel at last passed the hood to the backseat. Brian put it on and rode in silence for considerably longer than the last time. It was hard to hear under the heavy cloth bag, but he could make out words as Mohammed and Abdel spoke now and then.
There were turns and more turns, some of which he took very quickly. It felt as though the driver was again making evasive moves. He drove onto a bumpy surface. After a few miles, he decelerated and stopped. As before, the driver rolled down his window and spoke in rapid Arabic. Moments later the car began moving again and Brian braced himself for the rough stones they would encounter in a moment.
But they didn't. For more than ten minutes the car drove on the same unpaved surface.
"Abdel, are we on a different road?" His voice was muffled under the hood and he didn't hear a response. He raised the hood slightly so he could speak. "Abdel?"
The hood was jerked roughly down. "Quiet!" a voice said – Mohammed's voice. And the word was in English.
What the hell's going on? Worried, he began to perspire under the hood and he sucked in gasps of stale air. Determined not to hyperventilate, he forced himself to calm down and not think about what might be happening. He sat with his hands folded in his lap for ten more minutes until the car stopped and the driver's door opened. No one spoke to him, so Brian took off the hood.
They were parked on the shoulder of a two-lane road. The terrain here was nothing like where they'd been before. The ruins of Beth Shean were nowhere in sight. Instead there were rocky, dusty fields on both sides of the road, mountains in the distance, and a highway sign ten feet away. Ominously, the words on it were in Arabic. Mohammed was urinating on the front wheel of the car and smoking a cigarette. Abdel sat in the front seat, a look of miserable resignation on his face.
"Abdel," he whispered, "where are we?"
"I'm sorry, Brian. The driver thought his father-in-law was following again. He said he had to get away. I'm sorry."
"Sorry? Sorry for what? Where are we?" Whatever was going on, Brian realized that Abdel was part of it. For an instant he considered running, but he had no idea where he was, and there was no place to hide. There wasn't even a grove of trees – just low desert scrub and dusty fields full of rocks extending for miles in every direction.
He got out of the car as Mohammed turned around, zipping his pants.
"You speak English, don't you? Where are we?"
Without answering, the driver looked down the road behind Brian, watching as an old Willys Jeep skidded to a stop across the road, throwing rocks everywhere. Two young Arabs got out, lifted automatic rifles from the backseat and slung them over their shoulders. One of them stuck a wad of bills in Mohammed's hand, patted him on the back and said something. The other man walked to Abdel's side of the car, opened the door and motioned him out. Mohammed started the Land Rover, made a U-turn and drove back the way they had come. He was anxious to connect with Jamel, his handler, and turn over the cellphone from this trip. This one was worth a lot more dollars.
One of the men turned to Brian. He appeared to be in his thirties, dark-complected with unruly black hair and a scruffy beard. He was dressed in dirty fatigues. Except for the AK-47 by his side, he looked like just another Arab student on an American or European university campus, and so did his driver.
"What is this?" Brian asked in as calm a voice as he could muster. He hoped this was something random – maybe a robbery by some guy who wanted money and who had gotten lucky nabbing an American. But it felt more ominous somehow. Whatever was happening here, it wasn't good, and he was getting more concerned by the minute.
"You insisted on seeing the treasure again, Mr. Sadler. That was fortunate for me, as I wanted to have a private conversation with you. I persuaded Abdel to let me have a few minutes." The man spoke decent English with a British accent, as did many Middle Easterners who had been educated in the United Kingdom.
He knows my name! "Where am I?"
"You are in Jordan. I know you are thinking of how to escape, but I don't recommend it. As much as you may regret being my guest, the alternative is far riskier. It would be very dangerous for an American to be here alone with everything going on just across the border. A war with the Jews is imminent and your impotent president is not respected by the Arab nations, as I'm sure you've heard. He may even have told you that himself. You and he are very close friends, is that not correct?"
This was not going well! He willed himself to remain composed and not show fear. He'd been in jams like this before. He'd even been kidnapped once. But this was something else. There was much more going on here. The man knew he and Harry were friends. And how could they be in Jordan? They had driven by the border crossings last Friday; he saw formal checkpoints with guards and gates on both sides. Even wearing the hood, he could tell there had been nothing but a brief stop, a short talk between the driver and someone, and more driving. They hadn't passed through a formal border crossing, that much was certain.
"What do you want?" he asked, trying to control the high-pitched tremor that wanted to creep into his voice.
"I told you already, Mr. Sadler. I want to talk to you. But we haven't been properly introduced. My name is Tariq. Some people call me the Hawk. It is what you Americans call ... a nickname. Correct? Do you know who I am?"
Brian nodded. He knew all too well. He and Harry had had many discussions about this man since the time a couple of years back when Tariq unsuccessfully attempted to assassinate the president and Vice President Marty Taylor. Since Tariq never allowed himself to be photographed, Brian wouldn't have recognized him.
"I know who you are. Everyone knows," Brian replied at last. That made Tariq break out in a wicked grin.
Tariq the Hawk was a carefully engineered killing machine created by Mohammad al-Joulani, a Syrian who had been head of the al Nusra Front. Many other youths in training were destined for suicide missions in the name of Allah, but not this one. Joulani took a personal interest in the boy, observing how dedicated and driven he was. He twisted and turned the boy's mind until Tariq was beholden to no one and loyal only to Joulani himself. He was a machine – a robot controlled by his mentor.
Tariq had a natural talent for bringing sympathizers to the cause of jihadism, and he had raised millions of dollars for al Qaeda and ISIS in only a few short years. With Joulani's blessing he established the Falcons of Islam, a subset of al Nusra that CNN termed "terrorism on steroids." Tariq's new organization wasn't simply into jihadism; his killers took contract jobs – assassinations, coups, suicide bombings and the like – working for anyone who could afford their exorbitant fees.
He forced his jihadists to follow him blindly: those who didn't faced the sword. As he grew in power and notoriety, Tariq's loyalty to Joulani ended. His mentor realized that when Tariq diverted fifty million dollars intended for al Nusra to his own account. Furious, Joulani ordered him killed. But it was too late. Like Frankenstein's monster, the killing machine he had created turned against its maker. Tariq repaid the years Joulani had invested in his development by executing him. Afterwards he combin
ed al Nusra with al Qaeda in Syria, seized control of the even more powerful terror organization, and became the poster child for jihadism.
Before Brian realized what was happening, Tariq gave a quick nod and the other man – the one who'd been Tariq's driver – came up from behind, grabbing Brian's neck roughly and clamping a rag over his mouth and nose. He struggled vainly, choking as he tried to suck in air. He became light-headed and dizzy and felt his knees give way. Through the fog, he noticed Abdel was doing nothing to help him.
As he slumped to the ground, misty thoughts of regret wafted through his brain like smoky tendrils. He'd let his greed, his lust for treasure and his reckless pursuit of adventure push away sensibility once again. But it had never been like this. He was in the hands of one of the world's most wanted men on the wrong side of the border in a country on the brink of war with Israel.
Those thoughts faded as a shroud of blackness swept over him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Through the haze in his mind he heard a familiar voice. Someone was jostling him, asking him to wake up. He opened first one eye, then the other. He was lying on a floor in a dark, empty room. A window high on one wall was so filthy that only a little light seeped through. Abdel was sitting cross-legged next to him. It took a moment to orient himself, but then he began to recall what had happened. He patted his pocket for his phone, but it was gone.
"Where are we? What happened back there?"
Abdel spoke in a whisper. "We're at an al Qaeda safe house in Dayr Abu Sa'id, Jordan. Mohammed took a back road to cross the border. We're only twenty miles from Beth Shean. That's the ancient city where I took you to see the treasure. I am sorry, Brian. I am sorry for betraying you. I truly wanted to help you, to show you the treasure and to produce a television show with you. And I needed your help to get my pieces out of Israel. You were my friend and you agreed. But instead of being a friend myself, I succumbed to fear. I'm afraid of the leader ..."
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