Newton’s Fire

by Will Adams

  ‘He was lying?’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe they rumbled him and were using him to feed us misinformation.’ He looked up from his notes. ‘He’s supposed to check in every other day, if he can; but we didn’t hear from him last night and he’s not answering his cell or his home phone. And, like I said, several of Kohen’s other suspected associates have also vanished.’

  ‘It’s them, then.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ He grimaced to indicate worse to come. ‘The thing is, Kohen isn’t a settler or a nationalist, the kind who might credibly want Jewish prisoners released. He’s an out-and-out Third Temple fanatic.’

  She slapped her hand on the list. ‘Then why these demands?’

  ‘A smokescreen, Prime Minister,’ said the Chief of the General Staff. ‘He wants us negotiating rather than sending in Special Forces.’

  ‘Yes. But if he wants the Dome down, why not just bring it down? We’re assuming it’s already rigged to blow, right? Why play for time?’

  ‘Maybe they’re waiting for the media to get there,’ suggested Foreign Affairs. ‘Prime time in America.’

  ‘Or maybe they’re hoping to spark some kind of popular uprising.’

  Intelligence had just received another memo. He scanned it and looked up. ‘Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘We’ve been running checks on all Kohen’s known associates. He has links to a group of American evangelists. They want a Third Temple for their own reasons, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  ‘Fucking rapture-heads,’ muttered Interior.

  ‘One of their go-betweens is an arms dealer called Vernon Croke. He has close ties to the CIA, so we can’t do anything about him; but we keep an eye on him all the same. The thing is, he was seen with a senior American counterterrorism officer during yesterday’s dirty bomb flap in London. And then he left City Airport on his private jet late last night. He’s due to land at Ben Gurion around dawn.’

  Silence fell around the room. No one here believed in coincidences, not on days like this. ‘That’s what Kohen’s waiting for,’ murmured the Prime Minister. ‘He’s waiting for Croke.’

  ‘Or for whatever he’s bringing,’ said the Foreign Secretary.

  ‘But what?’

  The Chief of the General Staff leaned forwards. ‘When those three on the Mount of Olives took out the generator buildings, they also brought down the Golden Gate. According to our soldiers in the valley, they hit it at least six times. Predator missiles are GPS controlled; they’re accurate to a metre. That is to say: they hit the Golden Gate because the Golden Gate was what they were aiming at.’

  The Prime Minister shook her head. ‘What’s your point?’ she asked.

  ‘The Golden Gate is the one prophesied by Elijah,’ said Interior. ‘That’s why the Arabs blocked it up five hundred years ago. That’s why they built a cemetery in front of it, to render unclean anyone passing through.’

  ‘Prophesied by Elijah?’ She looked utterly perplexed.

  Foreign Affairs coughed into his hand, a little embarrassed by her ignorance. ‘Prime Minister, Elijah prophesied that when he came, he’d enter Jerusalem by the Golden Gate.’

  ‘When he came? When who came?’

  ‘Prime Minister,’ said the Chief of the General Staff. ‘He was talking about the Messiah.’

  III

  At last the story broke. Red banners announcing an incident in Jerusalem’s Old City appeared at the foot of Croke’s TV screen. He turned up the volume. The first reports were ambiguous enough that he feared the assault had failed. Then a news camera arrived near the Temple Mount and it became obvious that it had succeeded to perfection.

  He’d already drafted his message to Grant, prodding him for the next set of passwords for the Rutherford amp; Small’s bank account. Now he sent it on its way.

  The TV reporter handed back to her studio. A harried-looking anchor attempted to make sense of the information pouring in. The Dome had been seized by up to thirty armed men. The Golden Gate was a smouldering ruin. Two Waqf guards were confirmed dead, and many more were grievously injured. There were reports of arrests on the Mount of Olives.

  Croke checked his inbox. Nothing. He wasn’t anxious, though. Seventy million was a fleabite to Grant’s friends, and they weren’t stupid. They knew he had the Ark in his hold; and while it might not fetch his full fee on the black market, it would still do him nicely.

  Live feed now appeared from East Jerusalem. Thousands of Muslims were marching on the Temple Mount. The reporter stopped several for their opinions. Most sounded angry beyond control, but others strove for calm, citing rumours of a threat to destroy the Dome at any attempt to storm it.

  He checked his inbox again, sighed. Looked like he’d have to give Grant a nudge. Every plane was, by law, fitted with GPS. Plug an aircraft’s registration number into a flight-tracking website, therefore, and you could follow its progress live. Grant would doubtless be following him right now, so a change of course was certain to get his attention. But even as he was about to give Craig Bray the order, the new passwords arrived. He typed them in, clenched a fist in quiet satisfaction when they worked, giving him irrevocable joint authority over the $70 million.

  So close now. So very, very close.

  FORTY-SIX

  I

  ‘So the Messiah is about to arrive on a plane from London,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I’m telling you that these people didn’t take down the Golden Gate on a whim,’ said the Chief of the General Staff. ‘Predator missiles are costly and hard to get hold of. To use so many on a single target …’

  ‘Let’s send up fighters,’ said Interior. ‘Let’s shoot them down before they land.’

  ‘What if he really is the Messiah?’ muttered Foreign Affairs.

  The Prime Minister silenced the snickering with a glare. ‘If Kohen and Croke are together on this, they’re bound to be in contact. What if they take the Dome down in revenge?’

  ‘And kill themselves in the process?’

  ‘If they have to.’ But the question made her think. ‘Kohen and his friends inside the Dome, they’ll want to get out alive, right?’

  ‘So one would imagine.’

  ‘Which means they’ll have to leave the Dome before they blow it.’ She slapped the table. ‘That’s what this list is for. We get the prisoners released; they say thank you and give themselves up. And then, while we’re escorting them away …’

  Silence greeted this analysis. It sounded too horribly plausible. ‘What do we do?’ asked Finance. But no one answered.

  Intelligence had left his seat to take a call. Now he returned. ‘Forgive me, Prime Minister,’ he said, holding out the phone.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. But we found a letter in Kohen’s house. A hospital appointment. This is his doctor now. He won’t tell me what the appointment was about. Patient confidentiality. But he says he’ll tell you, if you assure him it’s a matter of national security.’

  She nodded and took the phone. ‘This is the Prime Minister,’ she said. ‘This is a matter of extreme national security. Tell me about Kohen.’ She felt the blood draining as he talked, but she thanked him when he’d finished, passed back the phone. ‘Kohen’s dying,’ she announced flatly. ‘Two days ago, he found out he was dying.’

  ‘He’s Samson,’ murmured Foreign Affairs. ‘He’s bringing the temple down on himself.’

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Finance again.

  The Prime Minister glanced sharply at him. For all his reputation as a hawk, this crisis had exposed him as bewildered and feeble. If they survived tonight, she was going to need someone tougher. She turned to Foreign Affairs. ‘Misdirection works both ways,’ she said. ‘Have your people contact the foreign and interior ministries of everyone holding these prisoners. Plead with them. Haggle. Make offers. Brief reporters. Give interviews. We have to assume that Kohen will be monitoring your efforts, so do everything you can to convince him that
we’ve fallen for his plan.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

  ‘They’re waiting for this man Croke,’ she told Interior. ‘We need to delay his arrival. Stack him. Make him circle. Just buy us time.’

  He nodded and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll get on it now, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Nothing obvious. We don’t want them knowing we’re on to him.’

  ‘No, Prime Minister.’

  She turned to her Chief of the General Staff. ‘We can’t risk waiting,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to storm the Dome.’

  He gave a grimace. ‘It won’t be easy,’ he warned. ‘It’s surrounded by wide-open spaces. They have line of sight from doors and windows. They appear to be well-armed, well-trained, and they’re certain to be anticipating some kind of action.’

  ‘What if we drop in from above?’

  ‘That would mean helicopters. They’d be sure to hear them.’

  ‘The TV stations have been clamouring for us to let them put their choppers up,’ said Interior, pausing at the door. ‘We’ve told them no so far. If we gave them permission, would their noise cover ours?’

  ‘What if one of them broadcasts us doing the drop?’ asked Finance.

  ‘Then they’ll lose all future use of their testicles,’ said the Prime Minister curtly. She turned to General Staff. ‘Well? Could you make it work?’

  ‘This kind of operation,’ he said unhappily, ‘it takes precise intelligence. It takes planning. It takes training.’

  ‘I know it does. But we don’t have time. It’ll start getting light soon. Your men need to be in place before then.’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister. I’ll set it up now.’

  ‘Thank you. And General …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your best people. Your very best. Let them know that these fanatics want to start a war that could mean the end of Israel. Our nation’s survival depends upon them. So they have my authority to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes. If they see even a glimmer of an opportunity, any glimmer, they’re to take it.’

  He nodded soberly. ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘I’ll let them know.’

  II

  Walters found himself watching the flight-map obsessively. Finally they passed south of the Aegean and reached unbroken deep water. Croke nodded when he went to notify him. ‘Craig says we shouldn’t depressurize at thirty thousand,’ he said. ‘Too much stress. He says to wait until we’re on our descent.’

  ‘Won’t we be too close to the coast by then?’

  ‘Apparently not. We’ll be coming in over water. And it will still be dark enough. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Walters. But he was fuming as he left, angry at himself more than anything. It was clear to him now that Croke had been stringing him along. He’d never intended to get rid of Luke and Rachel. Why should he care if Walters went down for murder, after all? It would just mean one less salary to pay.

  Bollocks to that, thought Walters. Croke liked his faits accomplis — it was time to give him one.

  He made his way back to the cargo hold, found Kohen kneeling before the Ark, cleaning it with swabs of cotton wool dabbed in solvent. ‘Take a break,’ he told Kieran, who was on watch.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Kieran. ‘It’s pretty interesting, actually.’

  ‘I said take a break.’

  Kieran hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’

  Walters walked him to the door and closed it behind him, leaving himself alone with Kohen. He hadn’t come equipped for this, but there were abundant raw materials to hand. The shrink-wrap and other packaging materials from the pallets had been stuffed between the oak chests and the wall. He found a length of five feet or so of woven blue polythene strapping, tugged it to make sure it was fit for purpose. ‘How’s it coming along?’ he asked Kohen.

  ‘Nearly ready,’ nodded Kohen. ‘I’ve tested all the components. They each do precisely what they’re supposed to do. And the design itself … it’s brilliant. I honestly think it’s going to work.’

  ‘Is that right?’ asked Walters.

  ‘It’s been three hundred years,’ said Kohen. ‘So there’s no way to know for sure until we try it. But yes, I think so.’

  Walters wound the polythene strapping twice around each hand to give himself a good grip, while leaving enough free in between to do the grim business. He crossed his arms as he walked up behind Kohen, making a loop of it. ‘Why not try it now?’ he asked.

  ‘At thirty thousand feet?’ scoffed Kohen. ‘What if I’ve misread the plans? What if we hit turbulence? No, thanks. I vote we wait until we land. It won’t take long, after all. Just pour in the acid and-’

  Walters brought the loop of strapping down around Kohen’s throat and pulled it tight before he could cry out. Kohen dropped his swab and tried to claw his fingernails beneath it, but the garrotte was a cruel weapon: it didn’t allow for comebacks. And Kohen was far too late, too slow and too weak. Already he was struggling for air. His face turned hideous colours, he flapped his arms, he kicked. A wet patch appeared on the crotch of his trousers. His struggles weakened into spasms that became twitches and then even those stopped.

  Walters laid Kohen on his back. He pulled the blue strapping as tight around his neck as he could, then tied a knot in it, like a macabre string tie. He flapped out a tarpaulin, dragged Jay onto it, then folded it back over him so that he couldn’t be seen from the main cabin. Satisfied, he wiped his hands on his trousers then went to find a fresh length of strapping.

  It was time for the girl.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  I

  Galia Michaeli had dreamed all her young life of being at the heart of a breaking news story. Now, in just her second week of work experience at the Tel Aviv studios, she was at the heart of the breaking story of the decade. And her main task had been made very clear to her three times already. It was to make coffee on request, and otherwise stay out of the way.

  The news channel had a generic email address, but no one ever used it. No one who mattered, at least. It was, however, one of Galia’s jobs to check it every morning, just in case. She did so now. It included another copy of the already notorious email from the Dome assailants. They’d obviously sent it to everyone they could think of. She opened the various attachments out of curiosity. Most were photographs that had already been shown on the news. And there was also the list of prisoners to be released. Without any great expectation, she checked this Word document to see if it had its Track Changes feature on, and whether she’d therefore be able to see earlier drafts. She sat up a little when she noticed a few minor changes in formatting. And then, as if by magic, a whole extra paragraph suddenly appeared.

  Our final demand: Aircraft registration number N12891F has now landed at Ben Gurion Airport. Its passengers and cargo are to be escorted by military convoy to the Golden Gate on the Temple Mount. Failure to comply will result in the immediate destruction of the Dome.

  Her mouth was dry as she copied the aircraft registration number into a search engine. The second result was for a flight-tracking website. She clicked on the link. A map of the eastern Mediterranean appeared, then a dotted line heading straight for Israel. Contrary to what the paragraph claimed, the aircraft hadn’t yet arrived at Ben Gurion.

  In fact, it wasn’t due to land for the best part of another hour.

  II

  Something was going on in the cargo hold. Rachel was sure of it. Something bad. The look on Walters’ face as he’d gone in there; the look on Kieran’s after he’d been turfed out; the way Kieran had gone to Pete, was now murmuring with him and casting worried looks at the door.

  She glanced at Luke. He nodded to let her know he’d seen it too.

  The door opened. Walters came out, trying to look casual, but failing. She took and squeezed Luke’s hand. His answering squeeze made her feel incomparably better. ‘No hesitation,’ he murmured.

  ‘No regrets,’ she agreed.

  Walters went to join Pete and Ki
eran. They held an intense conversation in low voices. Kieran shook his head angrily and walked off towards the cockpit, but Pete nodded. Walters passed him the taser and then they came over to Luke and Rachel.

  ‘Your friend Jakob wants a word,’ Walters told Rachel, nodding at the cargo bay.

  ‘With me?’ she asked.

  ‘He has a question about the Ark, apparently.’ He reached into his pocket for the handcuff keys. ‘Didn’t understand it myself, to be honest. But I’m sure he’ll explain.’

  ‘Maybe I should go,’ said Luke. ‘The Ark’s more my field than Rachel’s.’

  ‘He asked for her,’ said Walters. He inserted the key into the cuff, turned it and released her wrist. She threw a beseeching glance at Luke; this had to be their moment. It seemed he agreed. He lunged forwards and smashed his knee up into Pete’s crotch. Pete yowled and tried to fry him with the taser, but Luke anticipated him and slapped it against Walters instead. Walters screamed and fell to the ground, convulsing and clutching his chest. Pete tried to turn the taser on Luke, but he managed to hold him off long enough for Rachel to retrieve the dropped handcuff keys and release him. He instantly propelled himself from his seat, crunched his head up into Pete’s jaw, sent him sprawling. He wrested the taser from him as he went down, gave him a squirt. ‘The hold,’ he yelled at Rachel.

  She nodded and leapt over the white leather seat onto the carpet behind, heaved the door open. Luke was close behind, but Kieran had obviously heard the commotion for now he charged into the cabin and rugby-tackled Luke, took him down onto the carpet. Luke tried to taser him but Walters was already up again. He kicked the taser from Luke’s hand then laid into him with his boot, and Kieran and Pete quickly joined in.